Death on a Branch Line(89)

I turned to the foreign pages and read the heading: ‘The New Franco-German Treaties’. They’d just been signed, or were just about to be. Germany would leave off hounding the French in Morocco, and in return would get Spanish Guinea with no objections. Taken all together, Germany had carried her point; or maybe the French had. Even the Times man didn’t seem to know. Underneath the report was something further about France. The heading read: ‘A Proposal For the Extension of State Control Over the Railways of France’.

I folded the paper and replaced it as the Chief returned with the drinks, and something about the way he put them down on the tables – a little carelessly, and with a slight spillage – told me we’d both end the day canned.



The War Office was just the other side of Downing Street – very handily placed for prime ministers wanting to start wars. The doors of it were guarded by ordinary coppers, who nodded at us as we went in. One of them gave me a particular look – not unfriendly – and I wondered whether he thought I was going in to collect a medal: a reward for all the sleepless nights.

The feature of Henderson-Richards’s office was a large and beautiful fireplace, which he was standing beside as we were shown in. There was a good blaze going, and he leant against the corner of the mantel-shelf watching it. He was a thin man with long hair that fell down over half his face like a grey curtain, and he wore the softest and lightest shoes, which made no noise as he walked towards us and shook our hands. He was not what I’d expected.

There were two seats ready for us before Henderson-Richards’s desk, and a single document on the desk. But he returned to the fireplace in order to address us.

‘I trust you gentlemen had a satisfactory journey down from Yorkshire?’

You’d have thought that Yorkshire was a foreign country, but he spoke pleasantly enough.

‘The broad-acred county …’ he said, smiling and lolling against the mantel-piece. ‘Quite a week-end you had of it, back in July, Detective Sergeant Stringer.’

He was still smiling, but I thought: He’s glad about what happened as well, and he has the confidence to show it.

‘You’ve read my report, sir?’ I asked him, which clashed with the Chief saying, ‘Detective Sergeant Stringer was a little overhasty in some of his actions, sir, but he is an excellent man as a general rule.’

We both continued to look forward – towards the desk of Henderson-Richards rather than towards the man himself, but I was thinking of the Chief as a sort of beer-smelling, tobacco-stained knight in shining armour.

Henderson-Richards now walked over, sat in his desk chair and addressed me directly, saying:

‘It doesn’t fall to everyone to save a man’s life, Detective Stringer.’

(Or to cause a death, I thought.)

‘Is there anything you’d like to ask me?’ he enquired.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘What’s become of Hardy?’

‘Didn’t you know?’ said Henderson-Richards. ‘Hardy is in Bootham, the York mental hospital.’

That was a turn-up. Still, his confession had been believed, and that was the main thing.

‘Will he be charged with any crime?’

‘Not fit,’ said Henderson-Richards, shaking his head.

‘What about the porter, Woodcock?’ I said. ‘Have the police laid hands on him?’

‘Woodcock!’ said Henderson-Richards, suddenly galvanised. ‘What a dark horse he was! What couldn’t he have achieved with a man he respected over him?’

He was evidently expecting an answer to this out-of-the-way question.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘what would he have achieved? What would have been the opportunities open to him? Station master of some hole-in-the-corner place?’

I was coming out pretty strongly for Woodcock. Well, he’d been straight enough in his own way.

A beat of silence; then I repeated my question: ‘Do you know his whereabouts?’

‘No,’ said Henderson-Richards.

‘As to Gifford …’ I said. ‘It was Cooper who … He’d somehow had sight of Gifford’s German documents, and he’d put two and two together and made …’

Henderson-Richards was giving me such a blank look that I quite feared for his health.

‘… five,’ I said.

Henderson-Richards was frowning, shaking his head.

‘Is he all right?’ I said. ‘Gifford, I mean?’

‘Quite,’ said Henderson-Richards.

He said it sharply. The upper classes said ‘Quite’ in that way when they meant shut up.

‘Cooper,’ I said. ‘Has he been disciplined for …’