Murder At Deviation Junction

roaring shout. Looking down, I saw a trap pulled by two horses and containing two muffled-up men come racing around the side of the house, along the drive and through the gate. It turned left into the road and flew, at full gallop, along the snowy road.

    The maid came back a long while later.

    'The master's not in,' she said.

    'He was, though, wasn't he?' I said. 'I mean, he was in until he bloody left. He was in when I arrived.'

    'He's been called away sudden,' she said.

    She was quite bonny, but a good blocker.

    'I am here on important police business. When is he coming back?'

    She said nothing.

    'Does he mean to return today?'

    'He didn't leave word.'

    We walked out into a corridor, where a manservant stood; he was closing a door behind him, but he didn't do it soon enough to stop me seeing that there was a world of whiteness inside this house as well as outside - white sheets over every article of furniture. He knew that I'd seen; and I could tell that he'd been told I was a copper. You can always tell when people know that.

    'Does Mr Moody plan to remove?' I asked him.

    'I think so, sir,' he said. 'We've all been given notice.'

    I could feel the agitation of the maid without even giving her a glance.

    'Since when?'

    'A week since.'

    The maid stepped in.

    'You'd best talk to the master about that.'

    The man said, 'If you leave a telegraphic address ...'

    I wrote out the telegraphic address and the telephone number of the York police office, and gave it to the man, who was the more amiable of the two; or the more scared. The dogs and the two servants watched me go and, as I ambled along by the frozen stream, I turned and saw the two of them closing the great gates. I thought they were speaking to each other, but the frozen snow took away the sound.

    Back in the high street, I saw that even the town hotel was called the White Swan, which seemed to be so in keeping with the whiteness of the place as to be ridiculous. I felt a powerful fancy for a pint of John Smith's, but I'd given my word to the wife, so I tramped on towards the station as afternoon changed to evening. All I was doing was sinking ever further into a kind of despairing dream; and all I had so far proved was that the Mystery of the Travelling Club certainly was a mystery. That house of Moody's was the sort of place in which a wealthy man saw out his days. It was the final prize for a lifetime of toil or luck. He ought not to be haring away from it at such a great rate in terrible weather on account of questions about his father. And who had been riding with him? Was the second fellow just the coachman? Or was he another member of the Travelling Club?

    We stopped at the little town of Malton on the way back, making only a small disturbance in my tangled dreams.

Chapter Seventeen

    Shillito was writing carefully. Baker and Crawford were in, and Crawford was reading a paper, evidently a comic paper, for he was saying to Baker, 'Here's a good one. What is the relation of the doorstep to the doormat?'

    Shillito said, 'You and I must have words, Detective Stringer.'

    'A step farther,' said Crawford. 'Do you see?'

    But Baker had lost interest; all eyes were now on Shillito and me.

    'I particularly wanted you in this afternoon,' said Shillito. 'You're still a good deal behind on your paperwork, and Davitt was seen earlier on at the bookstall.'

    'He boarded the Pickering train,' I said, leaving off the 'sir', but looking at my boots, which I knew took away the force of leaving it off. 'I decided to have it out with him. I boarded the train, and asked to see his ticket.'

    'And?'

    'He showed me it.'

    'He had a ticket?'

    'He did.'

    'And not just any old ticket? Not a last year's bicycle ticket for Poppleton with the date altered and destination disguised?'

    Poppleton was the nearest station to York in any direction. A bicycle ticket for that stop was known to be the cheapest available at the York booking office.

    'No,' I said. 'He had a valid ticket.'

    'Davitt?' said Shillito, and his voice rose to such a pitch of disbelief that it sounded almost like a girl's. It worked on me like an electric jar, and I suddenly knew I could no longer be either the doorstep or the doormat. Well, I don't recall the moment, but only afterwards, with Shillito lying on the floor next to his desk, and skin split across my knuckles. He was looking up at me from just next to the ash pan of the stove, which somebody had half pulled out, and that was the best bit: the puzzlement on his face, the newness of the look that I saw there.

    I picked up my topcoat and hat, and walked out of the office with my handkerchief over my hand. I was in search of a bottle of carbolic, and a pint of beer, but I didn't walk fast, and Shillito didn't come after me, or didn't see me in the crowds, for the station was like one colossal club now. It was five o'clock, rush hour, but there was something more. It was 16 December, and Christmas had started. There was all sorts going off in York: concerts and parties and plays, which all meant more top hats for the men and fancy bonnets for the women, fur collars and meeting off trains and kissing and laughing. I was not part of it. I had blood on my shirt, which had somehow flown there from my hand, and I was out of a job or as good as. But I had paid Shillito out, and that made up for it.

    In the booking hall, the Salvation Army played and the decorated tree finally looked right. I walked on - out into the latest snowfall. I walked over the bridge that crosses the lines joining the old and new stations; even the old station looked picturesque, with its lamps all lit, and snowflakes flickering down over the crippled wagons kept there. I cut down Queen Street, heading for the Institute, where there was tinsel over the doorway, and paper chains in the corridors. I followed one of these past the reading room and the bars until I came to the caretaker's office. He was in there as usual, smoking by the hot stove. He was called Albert, and he was the idlest bugger that stepped.

    'Now I know you've a bottle of carbolic in here, Albert,' I said.

    He pointed with his pipe towards a cabinet, taking in my hand as he did so.

    'What's up?'

    'I clocked Shillito,' I said.

    'Get away,' he said, but he wasn't really interested.

    Albert had a nice set-up. Cleaning equipment arranged in a barricade all around him, and very seldom touched. A broken basket chair by the stove to sit on and a pint pot placed underneath that he filled up from the Institute bar—regular like.

    'I've just nicely sat down,' he said. 'We've half a dozen dinners here tonight if we've one. Every function room to be swept and fire made - no two seating arrangements the same, and all to be set out by Muggins here - Passenger Clerks we've got coming in, Railway Reading Circle, League of Riflemen, Angling Club. I don't know why they don't just form the Society for Making Work for Caretakers, and have done - You crowned Shillito, did you say? He's a big lad, twice your size.'

    There was an ambulance box in the cabinet. I took out the carbolic, and a roll of bandage. As I splashed