Free Murder At Deviation Junction by Andrew Martin Page A

many of these listed that we would need the names of
the parties in order to be able to provide confirmation.'
        My
telegram to Stephen Bowman of The Railway Rover, Bouverie Street, London
E., had so far gone unanswered.
        Sandsend
came and went, then Staithes, the train crossing over the mighty cliff-gaps by means
of the towering viaducts. To the folk below, our engine driver must seem more
like an aviator. After the long darkness of the Grinkle Tunnel, the mine
workings began to appear once more. We slowed on to the Kilton Viaduct, passing
the whirling gauge that was meant to warn of high winds. I looked down towards
the Flat Scar mine: the sea beyond was grey, the sky white. Two men were on the
jetty of the little harbour, standing thoughtful-like. But there were no ships.
In the fields and on the grey slag piles around the mine, the snow remained,
though worn away by footsteps, hooves and machinery here and there. It was as
though it had overstayed its welcome, the novelty having worn off, and I
thought of the pub in York that had started out as the Bay Horse and had
gradually become the Grey Horse owing to the quantity of smuts on the
sign.
        There
was no train ascending the zigzag line this time. Instead, one man toiled up
the bank towards the viaduct. A dog walked alongside him, and he seemed to have
an extra, bright white arm, but it was the neck of a shot goose, carried on his
shoulder. I looked to my left and saw the Rectory smoking.
        We
came into Middlesbrough station dead on time at midday. I hung about on the
platform watching some of the gentry climb down from First; all the porters in
Middlesbrough were attending those select carriages, offering to carry even the
smallest of black leather valises or just holding open doors. One fellow in a
silk topper climbed down with a cigar in his hand, and I could have sworn he
was about to give it to a porter to hold as he put on his gloves; or perhaps he
would content himself with putting it out on the little bloke's cap. But what
became of the cigar I never saw because, looking to my right at that moment, I
saw the word 'Police' painted in white on a green door.
        The
Middlesbrough police office was much homelier than the York one. It was long
and narrow like the railway carriages that were forever pulling up alongside.
The crackling of a good fire mingled pleasantly with the ticking of a good
clock, and the men worked at desks behind wooden screens - a very snug-looking
arrangement. Even the constables had desks, for two of the men working wore
that uniform. There were two others in plain dress, and one of these came
towards me with hand extended.
        'Detective
Sergeant Williams?' I said.
        'Ralph,'
he said, nodding, 'Ralph Williams.'
        He
was a pleasant, restful-looking sort of man, with sleepy eyes and sleepy
moustache.
        'Where's
that hardened villain Clegg, then?' he enquired, grinning. 'We have a very
comfortable cell waiting for him.' And he pointed towards a stout door at the
end of the room, indicating at the same time an old fellow surrounded not by a
wooden screen but by a barricade of filing cabinets. I knew him straightaway
for the Middlesbrough equivalent of Wright, the chief clerk.
        'Clegg's
known to this office, is he?' I said, removing my cap.
        Ralph
Williams smiled slowly. 'Well, I can't say he is.'
        'I'm
expecting to run into him come opening time at the Cape of Good Hope,' I said.
        'The
Cape?' he said, thoughtfully. 'An ironman, is he?'
        'Aye,'
I said. 'Works at Hudson's.'
        'You'll
be wanting a constable to go with you,' he said, which was exactly what I'd
been hoping he wouldn't say. 'I think we have a man spare, if you'll hold on a
moment.'
        But
before he could turn around and call to one of the uniformed men, I heard
myself say, 'No bother. I'm sure I'll manage.'
        'You'll
have your whistle about you, I