Murder At Deviation Junction

on the carbolic, I made a face at the sting.

    'Hurts, does it?' said Albert, grinning. 'It's Christmas that brings it on, you know - scrapping, I mean. You should be here after hours on party nights. One minute it's 'Should Auld Acquaintance be Forgot', next thing they're braining each other with iron bars down in the siding.'

    'I can't believe the Reading Circle acts like that,' I said.

    'Them?' Albert replied. 'They're the worst of the bloody lot.'

    'I'm off to the Women's Co-operative Guild annual beano,' I said.

    'You'll need a drink,' said Albert. 'Two drinks - you're never going in that suit, are you?'

    'Why not?'

    'Because it looks like nothing on earth.'

    I did not want to be reminded of that.

    I asked Albert, 'Which floor are the riflemen on?'

    'Top,' he said, taking another pull on his beer. 'Nice drop of punch they've got up there.'

    I climbed the four flights to the top, where the room was packed. The Chief's team were in there, and the opposition. A shield was being passed around; everyone looked very happy, but only one side could have won it. A red-faced shootist came up to me, and said, 'We've finished top of the league table in number one district - fourteen points!'

    I moved away (for he looked minded to kiss me) and circled the room, keeping an eye out for the Chief, and not knowing what I would say when I saw him. I'd tell him about Pickering and how Moody had fled, and then about what had happened in the office. I would give him my side of it, but what was my side of it? I'd belted the man, and that was all about it. I'd had my reasons, but the Chief knew those of old. I moved over to the tall windows. They looked down on the Lost Luggage Office and the small siding that stood next to it. The snow was streaming quickly on to both, as if to say, 'Let's get a load down while no one's looking.' I knew a young fellow who'd worked in the Lost Luggage Office, and met a bad end. I turned towards a better sight: the long table in front of the window that held the big silver punchbowl. I pushed across to it and looked inside - the stuff was orange, and there were many fruits floating in it of a kind not normally seen in York.

    Somebody passed me a glass - the stuff was, or had been, hot - and then I saw the Chief, and so had to drink it. I downed the punch and things were different straightaway, which was just as well.

    The Chief held the shield in his arms, and was receiving congratulations from his fellows, which meant that his lonely practice of the morning had paid off.

    The Chief didn't seem surprised to see me, but then he was canned.

    'Can you shoot straight?' he said, coming up to me.

    'Probably not after drinking this stuff,' I said, showing him the empty glass.

    He passed me another one.

    'You've something to say to me,' he said, and it might have been a question or not.

    'I went to Pickering to see a man connected to the Travelling Club,' I said, 'but he made off while I waited in his house. Then, later on, there was a bit of set-to with Shillito. It came to blows. Well, on my part.'

    The Chief was giving me a queer look.

    'There's been bad blood between the two of us, as you know sir, and-'

    He continued with the queer look: he was making a decision - I could see him doing it. He would ignore what I'd said.

    'Why do you not shoot?' he said.

    It took me a while to adjust, but I eventually said, 'I always think I'll end in the army if I take it up.'

    'It's not a bad place for a young lad to be,' said the Chief.

    I began to say something, and he cut me off with 'When trouble comes, you must be master of your rifle.'

    He shot me the funny look again; then he gave me the road - moved off back into the crowd.

    What the hell had he meant? That Shillito would come after me with a gun, and that I ought to be ready? That the Travelling Club business would end in bullets fired? Or was he saying that, since I was done for as a copper, my only remaining hope was to take the King's Shilling?

    I would take another bloody drink, at any rate.

Chapter Eighteen

    The Ebor Hall was packed and very brightly lit. I'd have felt a little dizzy entering it even if I'd not had such a peculiar day and drunk the Rifle League's brain-dusters.

    I could not see the wife, but I could see her hand in almost everything. The holly that hung from the gas mantles and all about the stage - that was her doing; and the piano was not in its alcove but at the side of the stage - so she'd managed to get that shifted. A lady was playing it, and ladies were in fact doing everything, especially collecting up papers or passing out cups of tea by the gross. I knew what was happening: the spelling bee had just come to an end. Half the ladies were sitting on clusters of chairs under gas mantles and half were moving about. All the ladies were talking, and it was all to do with the Movement and its stores.

    'Have you seen the new York store? Plate glass and electric light to show off the loaves.'

    'There are better things in the old store, I think.'

    'We had a very nice visit to the warehouse ...'

    I caught sight of one of the ladies looking at my suit and at my bandaged hand; she turned to point me out to the woman sitting next to her, but she was talking fourteen to the dozen with a third woman. I walked on through the hall; half wanting to see the wife, half not. I could trust myself to speak; the only trouble was that I was not as concerned about my appearance as I knew I ought to be . . . and the only other problem was that my head seemed a long way from my shoulders. As I looked about, the piano came to a stop, and that somehow left me feeling as though every woman in the place was eyeing me, and not in a way I would have liked; but in fact they were all now facing the stage, where a very well-spoken woman was calling for quiet.

    She was bonny-looking, though fifty years old at least. I liked the way her grey hair set off her dark eyes. She was upper class, but a socialist - there were more of that sort about than you might have thought, and they were given to speech-making

    She was making a speech now.

    'Co-operation is not merely about buying goods at a community store, and then waiting for the dividend . . .'

    'I wonder if she takes cock?' said a man who was suddenly alongside me. He lurched as I turned to look at him. He was a sight drunker than me, and had evidently been given up as a bad job by whatever woman had brought him.

    'We must apply our principles of co-operation to every aspect of our existence . . .'

    'Your missus in this show?' asked the drunk.

    I nodded.

    'Mine 'n all. She knows the price of grate polish in every Co-op in Yorkshire, but I say, 'Buy the bloody grate polish; clean the bloody grate.''

    Behind him I saw another of the few men in the place, and after a moment of disbelief I realised that it was Wright, the police- office clerk. He must have a wife who was a Co-operator. He was coming up to me fast; and curious as usual.

    'What the heck are you doing here?'

    Before I could answer, he said, 'I've been hunting for you all afternoon. The man Bowman from London - he's been -'

    But the wife had stepped in between me and Wright, and was blocking him out.