Free Peril on the Royal Train by Edward Marston Page B

and – if at all possible – wreak havoc, people will pay heed to our point of view.’
    ‘It’s not people whom we have to convince,’ said Howie. ‘It’s the Caledonian and the North British and the Edinburgh to Glasgow and all the other companies who need convincing. We have to make them think that it’s too dangerous to run trains on a Sunday. That will mean a long and bitter campaign.’ His eyes glinted. ‘Are you with us, Ian Dalton?’
    ‘I’m with you every step of the way,’ promised the other.
     
     
    Victor Leeming was accustomed to seeing poverty and deprivation in the teeming rookeries of London. Even so, he was shocked by what he found in the Gorbals. Back-to-back tenements offered drab accommodation to families with what seemed like armies of children. The streets were alive with them, playing, arguing, threatening, fighting or learning how to steal. Stray cats and dogs abounded. Street vendors were getting short shrift from penniless housewives. The noise was deafening and the stench overpowering. Leeming was glad that he had a guide but it was John Mudie who was the more grateful. Venturing into the Gorbals was like stepping into a swamp for him. Whenever anyone brushed against him, his nervous laugh turned into a squeak of fear. Leeming saved him from physical assault and from the depredations of pickpockets. The sergeant fended off trouble at every turn.
    The address they had took them to a tenement on the corner of a lane. It was a larger building than the average and there was less filth on the pavement outside. A woman was sitting outside the door on a stool, dandling a baby on her knee. From a distance, she looked quite old. When they got closer, however, they saw that she was barely out of her twenties, with the remains of a dark prettiness. It was the rounded shoulders and air of weariness that added years to her. She looked up at them with dull eyes then nursed the baby as it began to cry.
    ‘It’s no’ the day for the rent,’ she said, rancorously.
    ‘We’re not here to collect anything,’ explained Mudie. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, we are but the only thing we’re after is information.’
    ‘We’re looking for Mr Lackey Paterson,’ said Leeming.
    ‘And who might ye be?’ she asked.
    ‘We’re acting on behalf of the Caledonian Railway.’
    ‘Ha!’ she said with contempt. ‘Dinna mention them to me.’
    ‘Why is that?’
    ‘I’m Lackey’s wife. It was the Caledonian as sacked him.’
    ‘That’s what we came to discuss, Mrs Paterson. Where can we find him?’
    ‘Your guess is as guid as mine.’
    ‘Does he have a job somewhere?’
    ‘If he does,’ she said with vehemence, ‘he’ll no be telling me about it. Lackey’s no’ ma mahn any more. He doesnae live wi’ me now. I’ve to bring the bairn up on ma own.’
    As if it heard what she said, the baby’s howl became so piteous that Mudie felt obliged to put a hand into his waistcoat pocket and take out a few coins. When he thrust them into her hand, he got no thanks. She simply glared at him.
    ‘Is your husband a violent man?’ asked Leeming.
    ‘I told ye. He’s no’ ma husband any more.’
    ‘Was he likely to get into fights when he was here?’
    ‘In a place like this, ye have to fight to get by,’ she said, ruefully. ‘Lackey was as ready wi’ his fists as any of ’em. I should know. I felt ’em often enough.’
    It accounted for the scar over one eye and for the strange lump on her temple. Mudie had to master the impulse to give her more money to assuage his feeling of guilt. The woman was poor, helpless and abandoned. It was a life of drudgery.
    Leeming probed. ‘Have you any idea – any idea at all – where your husband might be, Mrs Paterson? It’s very important that we find him.’
    She turned her head away. ‘What’s tha’ to me?’
    ‘We’re ready to pay for information,’ said Mudie, recklessly. He dug some more coins from his waistcoat pocket. ‘You must have some