‘I don’t know,’ replied the wife, ‘but that’s what makes it all so exciting.’
It was one of the things that made it exciting to the wife.
Presently, she went back to The Freewoman, and I looked at Hugh Lambert’s papers again, but I kept striking bits of bad handwriting, or bits I’d already read.
The wife said she’d like a look, so I passed the bundle over. ‘I never went well on a horse,’ she read out loud. ‘Ponder did, but he simply refused…’
‘Who’s Ponder?’ asked the wife.
‘The brother, John,’ I said, ‘on account of his studious ways, I suppose.’
‘… Ponder did, but he simply refused,’ she repeated. ‘However, he would ride out with father and I if father had been especially bold with the brandy, which would make him liable to violence. He saved me from countless thrashings, just by riding in-between us, playing the part of a mounted policeman…’
And she read on from there in silence.
‘What we have here,’ she said, when she eventually put the bundle aside, ‘is impressions.’
‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘It’s literature, worst luck, written only for his own satisfaction.’
‘But then why do you suppose he gave it you?’
‘Well, it’s all in there, I suppose, in a roundabout way.’
‘What do you make of him?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t understand him at all.’
‘Do you know why, Jim Stringer?’ she said, and after giving me a strange look for a while, she went back to looking over the sheets of paper.
‘Who’d want the verdict to stand?’ I asked her a little while later (my silver watch gave ten to four). ‘… Or, to put it another way, who’d have wanted Sir George dead in the first place?’
‘The pheasants of Adenwold, I should think,’ said the wife, still reading Hugh Lambert’s papers.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Come eight twenty-five by my silver watch, Lydia was standing by the door of our room in her best blue cotton dress. It was set off to a T by the high black belt, and the white fancy blouse that showed through at her neck and shoulders. She carried her little leathern bag that was half-bag, half-purse.
‘Look alive,’ she said, as I did up my bootlaces. ‘And remember that it is not fashionable to be intoxicated.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ I muttered, following her through the door.
I had her railway ticket in my inside pocket, but I knew I’d have a job to get her on the train, especially since I meant to go to the party myself. This would strike her as unfair. No self-respecting woman Co-Operator would stand for it.
We’d both slept a little in the early evening; then I’d lain on the bed making notes in my pocket book of the week-end’s events so far. Later, I’d kept station outside the pub with a pint in my hand watching for any sign of the Chief, but he’d not pitched up. Did he mean to stay at the Hall? And would he be at the beano? Would Usher be there?
I could have done with more than just one pint to set me up, but I supposed that a glass of wine would be put in my hand directly I stepped under the Chinese lanterns. You got wine directly on arrival at the Christmas party given by the Archbishop of York for the whole village of Thorpe-on-Ouse. There was no messing about there — the Archbishop was certainly going to be drinking, and he didn’t want to stand out.
Along the lane leading down from The Angel, a doorway in the low, bent houses stood open and one of the old ladies stood by it, as though presenting the place for inspection. Lydia, walking ahead, gave her good evening but received no response. I tried the same, with the same results. She might be near-blind. She looked as though she could see, but only very far-off things. I then overtook the wife, and stood with arms folded in the station yard. She walked towards me shaking her head.
I indicated the station.
‘You’re off in there,’ I said. ‘The 8.35 is an “up”. It’ll take you to Pilmoor, and you’ll change there for York.’
‘That’s what you think,’ she said, standing before me on the dusty stones.
It was a good thing the village was empty, because we were all set for a scrap.
‘Here’s the return half of your ticket to York,’ I said.
‘What do you think I am? A consignment of goods?’
I could hear the beat of the approaching train.
‘There’s been a bad business here. A man is waiting to hang for it, but I don’t think he’s the guilty party. Gifford was nearly done in because of what he knew. There’s a man at the Hall threatened with death if he spills the beans. It’s no…’
‘Well, you’re not about to spill the beans,’ the wife cut in. ‘You don’t know anything.’
‘It’s not me I’m worried about.’
‘I’d have thought you might want a bit of moral support when you see that man Usher again.’
The beat of the train was loud now. It was approaching at a lick.
‘Harry will want to see you anyway,’ I said.
‘You know perfectly well that he’ll be having a lovely time with Lillian Backhouse and all her kids. She’ll have given them lemonade today, and they’ll all have gone swimming in the river.’
‘But you told her not to take them swimming in the river.’
‘But I know perfectly well that she will do, and that Harry loves going.’
‘Why did you tell her not to take him, then?’
‘Because it’s dangerous.’
The 8.35 was bustling through the woods, dragging its banner of smoke.
‘For once in my life I’ve been invited to a party at a grand house,’ said the wife, ‘and if you think I’m going to climb up into a filthy third-class carriage and ride to Pilborough with some lecherous old man eyeing me from the corner seat…’
‘It’s Pil moor, and there won’t be any lecherous old man.’
‘There will be. There always is. Ask any woman.’
‘It’s coming too fast,’ I said, turning.
The two of us looked up at the station, and the train was there, rattling and thundering; each coach was itself for a small second, and then… a shocking silence. It had run right through.
I ran across the yard, and onto the ‘up’ platform.
Woodcock the porter was on his high perch, turning and laughing. The signalman, Eddie, laughed back at him from his balcony. They hadn’t bargained on the train not stopping. Station master Hardy was in his doorway; he retreated into it, back towards the little soldiers, as I approached, asking, ‘Did you have a traffic notice about that?’
He shook his head like a little boy.
‘The lines are down,’ he said, ‘and no-one’s come by.’
‘Then the driver’s had orders from…’
‘Oh, from Pilmoor, most likely,’ Hardy said.
‘It was to stop anyone leaving,’ I said.
‘But no-one wanted to leave,’ he said, and he indicated the empty platform.
The 8.35 had left a smoky tang in the air. I looked up at the signals. Woodcock and Eddie were both smoking, looking down with the remains of smiles on their faces. Were they on the inside or the outside of events? Where had they been in the afternoon? Slacking in the village? The urge was suddenly strong on me to see whether John Lambert was still living, and to try my luck again with the Chief.
I walked through the wicket and back into the station yard where the wife stood waiting.
‘More mysteries?’ she said, as I approached, and she didn’t wait for an answer, but just said, ‘Come on, we’ll be late.’
