The wife was reading it over my shoulder.
‘Some folks are all luck,’ she said.
The station yard was a dusty white triangle. Beyond it was another triangle, this one green, or at any rate yellowish, for the grass was all burnt by the sun. There were several shops around this green. One was a brick block of a building with a sign reading: ‘A. AINSTY: SHOEING AND GENERAL SMITHS (MOTORS REPAIRED)’. The double doors at the front were closed, an iron bar fixed across. A great heap of old horseshoes was stacked against one side wall, together with a bench seat from what might have been a carriage or motor-car propped on trestles.
A little way along from the smithy was a flimsy clapperboard shop, which was also closed and blank-looking. On the signboard was painted a word that had faded almost to nothing, and that I could not read. It was followed by the word ‘Provisions’, and then came another unreadable one for good measure. Before the shop stood a sort of wide step-ladder meant for displaying goods, but it was quite bare. There was also a cottage under a thatch that was laughably thick — put me in mind of a sheep that needed shearing. A tiny tin sign dangled from the front of it, reading ‘Post Office’, and it was hardly bigger than a post card. Fixed into the side wall was a posting-box, and I wouldn’t have fancied dropping a letter in there. It looked as if it hadn’t been emptied in years.
Scarborough seemed to have claimed the whole village. I thought of the way a school yard is cleared for a fight, and I thought again of the bicyclist. It was Friday evening. Could he be said to have arrived during the week- end? What exactly did the word ‘week-end’ mean?
Three dusty roads led away from the square. One went more or less the way the station master had indicated.
As we approached this one, I asked the wife:
‘When does a week-end begin?’
‘That’s just what I’m wondering,’ she said.
Chapter Ten
On the right side of the road were trees; on the left side a row of white, bent cottages which declined in the middle like a line of washing. Two old women stood before the houses, and looked like they belonged to them, for they too were old and bent. Then came high hedges in which many kinds of wildflower were entangled. These in turn gave way to fields of cut corn, and The Angel.
It was on the left side, a taller white-painted house than the others. A long trestle table had been placed before it, and three people sat there. It was like an exhibition of country life. At one end sat a man in late middle- age. His face was all colours: white and grey beard mingled with red and grey skin. His eyes were half-closed and he sipped ale from a pewter. In the centre sat a plump, brown woman surrounded by lemons. She was slicing them on a board with a great knife and squeezing them into a pail. A lad of about twelve years sat with his knees pressed up against the table end. At first I thought it was a small dog that was tied by a string to his chair, but on second glance it turned out to be a ferret or polecat. Behind the table, a bicycle — the machine belonging to the man who’d lately climbed down from the train — was propped against the front wall of the pub.
As we approached, the wife looked at the front of the inn and, giving a sort of gasp, said ‘wisteria’. She was trying to get a plant of that name to grow over the front of our terraced house at Thorpe-on-Ouse, outside York, but it would not take. This one had taken all right. Its black branches and purple flowers quite covered the windows on the upper left-hand side so that The Angel seemed to have a patched eye.
Touching my hat, I gave the three good evening, at which the man and the boy stirred a little, but only the woman went so far as to return the greeting.
‘Do you have rooms?’ I asked her, but my question was answered by the words painted in large black letters half under the wisteria: ‘The Angel Inn — Beers and Wines — Rooms for Travellers.’
‘Yes, dear,’ said the woman, shading her eyes against the low sun.
‘Do you have a room for two for tonight?’ put in the wife.
‘We do, love,’ said the woman — and yet she made no move.
‘Looks like most of the village has gone to Scarborough,’ I said.
‘Most has,’ she said.
Lydia was looking down at the ferret or polecat.
‘He’s very pretty,’ she said.
‘Don’t stroke ’im whatever yer do,’ said the lad.
Lydia stepped back.
I introduced myself to the woman — though not as a policeman. It would pay dividends, I had decided, to observe this village as an ordinary tripper.
One magpie sat on the roof of The Angel. It was black and white, like the inn, and looked made of leftovers from it.
Why did I think Lambert was innocent? Because he had fed the bird outside the police office. And I was in good company: the governor of Wandsworth gaol had thought the same.
The woman was at last rising, giving her name as ‘Mrs Handley’ and wiping her hands on her pinafore.
Lydia, still looking at the polecat, was saying to the boy:
‘He’d have my finger off, I suppose.’
‘He wouldn’t have your finger off,’ said the boy, evidently thinking hard. ‘It’d be left on…’
‘Would you like to follow me up?’ the woman was saying.
‘… Only it’d be danglin ’,’ the boy ran on.
The lad was also rising to his feet. Where his mother was tawny, he was a brighter brown. He seemed smallish for his age, but he had a great wave of black hair, which must have been oiled naturally, for he was not the sort of boy to be brilliantined. The kid reminded me of one of the over-thatched cottages. He wore a suit of rough purplish corduroy, and balanced what seemed like a very small cap on top of his great quantity of hair.
The sign above the front door read: ‘Mr P. Handley, licensed retailer of foreign wines, spirituous liquor, ales, porters and tobacco’. We stepped beneath it into the hot dimness of the inn’s tiny hallway. There was a door on either side. One said ‘Saloon’, the other ‘Public’.
‘Lovely wisteria,’ Lydia said, as we climbed the stairs.
The landlady smiled but it was the lad who answered.
‘Threatens to ’ave the ’ole front down, that does,’ he called up the staircase.
The lad, who’d seemed stand-offish at first, was now eager to be included in the conversation; he was certainly the brightest spark we’d struck so far in Adenwold. He carried my bag — he’d insisted on doing so, while his mother carried Lydia’s. The landlord himself had remained at the table outside with his ale.
The staircase walls were decorated with wallpaper — white with red roses — and this continued along the narrow landing and into the room we now entered, so that the whole of the interior of The Angel seemed to have a bad case of measles.
The room was small and buckled, with a single tab rug on a polished wooden floor. Beside the high bed stood a rickety washstand, a dresser, a cane chair and a small wardrobe. I whisked off my top-coat, and put my warrant card in the top left drawer of the dresser. There was one picture on the wall, showing two fish facing different directions, each marked ‘Pearch’ — the old-fashioned spelling. Between them were drawings of four hooks, and these were marked ‘Lob worm’, ‘Minnow’, ‘Brandling’ and ‘Marsh Worm’. The room was clean and light — this even though we were, so to say, inside the wisteria, for its purple flowers fluttered at the window.
Lydia complimented the woman on the prettiness of the room, and I gave the boy a penny for carting my bag up the stairs. I asked his name, and he answered, ‘Mervyn.’
‘Who’s the fellow on the bicycle?’ I enquired.
‘Him?’ he said. ‘He’s a bicyclist.’
I could see that he knew his answer to have been a little lacking, but before he could make any further remark his mother had bundled him out of the room. She turned about in the doorway, saying, ‘There’s a cold supper laid on in the saloon from just after nine. Yorkshire ham and salad — will that do you?’
‘Just the ticket,’ I said.
