Free Murder At Deviation Junction by Andrew Martin

Wright.
        'According
to the official it was nil-nil,' said Shillito, 'he himself having disallowed two
perfectly good goals scored by our own team.'
        Somebody
would be getting a letter about that. He was still in fits about it: you could
tell by the redness rising in his face as he at long last initialled my
notebook, returned it to me and swept out of the office with carefully folded
topcoat under his arm.
        When
he'd gone, I set about some flash reports.
        My
backlog included twelve reported losses, of which only two had come in from
York addresses, which was fine because regarding these I was required to pay a
visit to the complainant. Otherwise, a letter asking for more particulars was
required. Many of these went unanswered, and the more the better as far as the
Company was concerned, because then the matter could be dropped.
        When
Shillito had gone, Wright stepped over and placed a letter on my desk. He smelt
of oranges, which somehow didn't sit right with his ancient white face. He sat
back and looked on as I picked up the envelope.
        It
was addressed in a shocking hand, and the nib of the pen had flooded between
the words 'Stringer' and 'York Station Police Office.' The postmark was Whitby.
I looked back at Wright, who had now set about another bloody orange, the
clicking of his ancient jaw in rhythm with the ticking of the clock, and the
two together making the sound of a rocking chair. He watched me with eyes
fairly bulging.
        The
letter was one sheet of paper; and it came out backwards, so that I saw the
signature first, which was a long word, running across half the page. I turned
the leaf over: the address was set down as 'Shunters Cabin, Bog Hall Siding'.
It was Company paper, though of an old style. 'Dear Stringer of the Rly Police
York', the letter began. 'Mr Mackenzie, Yard Master (Nights) told me what you
were about, and I have set my mind to it, and there is one from the Club you
were asking after that I have heard of. That was Mr Moody. He was an old man
but I heard he went under a train somewear north in summer, and is dead. His
son I know is still living. He is in Pickering. He is a gentleman like his
farther and deals in chimbeny sweaping eqpt like his farther did to.'
        It
was signed: 'E. Handley'.
        It
was good of the fellow to go to the labour of writing.
        I
wouldn't need a gazetteer to find a man called Moody in a small place like
Pickering, but when would I get the chance to go there? It didn't matter. I
would go. Meanwhile, I had a telegram to get off: to Mr S. Bowman of The
Railway Rover, Bouverie Street, London E.
    ----

Chapter
Eight
        
        Once
again, I sat on a train shaking across the cliffs with Whitby behind me, heading
for Ironopolis. It was all Middlesbrough today, for I also had in my pocket two
written communications from the iron town. I had collected these from the
office before crossing the footbridge and boarding my train from Platform
Fourteen. I had read them as I crossed, with all the thunder of the morning
peak going on below: the first was from a Detective Sergeant Williams of the
Middlesbrough Railway Police, and it was in response to a telegram sent on my
behalf by Shillito: 'Confirm suspect Clegg can be brought here for questioning
or charge. Holding cell at your disposal.' That second sentence was by way of a
joke, perhaps. At any rate, this was Shillito arranging a second bout between
me and Clegg.
        The
other letter was more curious, and no less anxious-making. It was from the
secretary to the passenger traffic manager, Middlesbrough District. A search
had been made for the file requested: that concerning the subscribers to the
Cleveland Travelling Club, and 'It is very regrettable to have to relate that
the documents in question appear to be missing. It is possible that the Club
subscribers were, or are, registered with us as ordinary First Class Season
holders, but we have so