Death on a Branch Line(68)

‘Has he told you who he thinks did the murder?’ I enquired.

‘He has not been good enough to do that,’ said Usher. ‘The limit of his contention is that his brother did not have the character to do it.’

I nodded.

‘What happened to the man Gifford? Why did the train not stop? Why were the wires cut?’

The two exchanged glances. They would ration their answers.

‘The wires are cut’, said the Chief, ‘because we cut ’em. Had to be done. They were newly connected to the telephone – this place and the station both.’

‘You see, the possibilities are three,’ said Usher. ‘One: John Lambert was merely making an idle threat. Two: he genuinely intends to pass on the scheme of mobilisation but hasn’t yet. Three: he has already done it. We have kept an eye on him here, and removed the danger of a telegram being sent that might direct the recipient to where the data is located. But Lambert has hinted that a message might be conveyed to some intermediary through no action on his part. It might be transmitted by default, do you understand?’



I did not.

‘Some bugger down in London might be primed,’ put in the Chief. ‘If you don’t hear from me by such and such a time on so and so date, give the package held in locker number one at Euston station to Mr X.’

‘Or the middleman might have been here in the village,’ said Usher.

‘If that happens, then three years of concentrated brainwork is lost,’ said Usher. ‘On top of that, our enemies may prefer to act quickly, directing an invasion force to those parts appearing from the plans to be less well protected.’

‘You’ll see now’, said the Chief, ‘why I was a little offhand with you at the do last night.’

I looked towards the French windows, which stood open. The heat of day was present, but the light of summer was quite missing.

‘We mean to lay hands on Lambert,’ said Usher. ‘A detachment of ordinary constables is coming here by motor from Malton.’

‘How were they summoned?’

‘Never you mind.’

‘John Lambert believed you meant to kill him,’ I said.

Usher nodded once.

‘It was my own favoured solution,’ he said. ‘It seemed to have the benefit of elegance.’

‘Only trouble being,’ said the Chief, ‘that if we’d put his lights out, then we wouldn’t know whether the documents had been passed on or not.’

‘And my instructions were to employ diplomacy in the first instance,’ said Usher.

I said, ‘Wouldn’t it have been worth reprieving Hugh Lambert to avoid all this bother?’

‘You’re the first person involved in this case to make such a suggestion, Detective Stringer,’ said Usher; and he evidently considered this answer enough, for he sat down again, saying, ‘That’s all, Stringer. In due course you will be required to sign a contract pursuant to a new Act of Parliament. It binds you to secrecy on pain of prosecution.’



‘Do you not want me to give a hand with the search?’ I asked, standing.

Usher shook his head, and I knew why. The constables would be kept in ignorance of the reason for the search, and he thought I might give it away. He wanted me kept well clear of all developments. He’d told me as much as he had in order to satisfy my curiosity, and so remove my need to solve the puzzle of John Lambert.

‘Right then,’ I said, ‘I’ll be off.’

I took the sporting cap out of my pocket, put it on my head and walked under the steady blue gaze of Usher towards the opened French windows.

‘Remember, Detective Sergeant Stringer,’ Usher called out as I left, ‘absolute secrecy.’

I stepped through the French windows, and a noise made me look to the right, where the wife crouched just beyond the last of the windows. As I approached her, she stood up and joined me just as though she’d been marketing in Coney Street, York.

‘You heard every word of that, I take it?’ I said.

‘All except the last words Usher spoke,’ she said. ‘But I think he was telling you again that the matter must not go beyond the four walls of that room.’

She turned and gave me a grin. But it didn’t last, for the silver-haired man in the white dust-coat now stepped between us.

‘Back inside with you two,’ he said, in a strong Yorkshire accent that I would never have expected.





Chapter Twenty-Seven


The room was in the eaves of the house. There was next to nothing in it besides a truckle bed, a locked cupboard, a table and a hairbrush that could have been a man’s or a woman’s. A photograph of a young woman stood on the tiny window-sill, and she must either have been the occupant of the room – when not in Scarborough – or the sweetheart of the occupant.