Murder At Deviation Junction

    We began rolling past tall houses. The cornerstones of some did duty as telegraph poles, and the wires between were thick with snow. Too heavy a coating and they'd come down. Was the blackness I could make out beyond them the sea or the sky? We stopped against the station name: 'Saltburn'. It hung on chains, restless in the sea wind, and I imagined the sea as vertical beyond the houses, like a great wall.

    'Want a turn along the platform, son?' I said to Harry.

    'Don't be daft,' said the wife. 'He'll catch his death.'

    So I went out alone.

    As I stepped down, a gang of big, raggedy, snow-covered blokes climbed up. They carried long articles in sacks, and they were not Saltburn types at all. It was rum. There were more like them already aboard.

    Saltburn was a terminus - you left by the same direction you arrived. Beyond the buffer bars towered the Zetland Hotel, facing out to sea, which meant views in summer and a terrible battering from the wind come winter. I looked up. A bit of the fancy wooden edging of the platform canopy was coming away in the wind. I stared as it rocked back and forth, thinking: this might come down on the carriage roof at any moment.

    I heard the bell before I expected, and was back up in an instant. As I returned to the compartment, Stephen the clerk-on-the-move was coming the other way along the corridor. There was something in his hand, which he put behind his back somewhat as I looked on.

    He stepped into the compartment after me, and whatever had been in his hand was now gone. We rumbled backwards, then forwards again; more shouting from along the corridor. Skelton came; Brotton; Huntcliffe - a tiny spot, with no station, but we stopped there anyway. I looked to the left and saw only blackness. But I knew it to be the sea.

    Harry was asleep, and the ladies were nodding off too.

    The train went on its slow, jerky way for another minute, then came to rest again. At once the gleaming whiteness of snow began to build up against the window frames to the left. There was a sound far off like a war, but it was only the rumbling and booming of the sea. And still the shouts came from along the corridor.

    'Irregular, is it?' the man said after a space. 'To come to a stand here?'

    'Just a little,' I said, and I couldn't resist adding in an under- breath, 'We're not more than six foot off the cliff edge.'

    The clerk moved his boots in a way that made me think he didn't like that idea, so I added, 'Should be away shortly.'

    I ought to have introduced myself to the fellow, but something told me he didn't want that. The sharp scream of the train whistle came, and we rolled slowly on. Stephen the clerk said, 'There's some strange working on this line, I'll say that much.'

    The train motion sent the ladies' heads rocking, and Household Words slipped to the floor between them, but we hadn't made more than another half-mile before we stopped again. The banks of a cutting enclosed us on either side, and I was ready for the jerk of the applied brake, for something was certainly amiss. We creaked on past a lineside cottage that looked tumbledown, and with a badly smoking fire. Then came a high signal box followed by brighter lights rising to meet us, and we were into a station. There came more shouts, the sound of running boots along the platform.

    The Wimbledon woman was awake.

    'Where is this?' she said, just as we came to rest with the station sign conveniently filling our compartment window: Stone Farm.

    The snow was flying at the words as Harry said, 'It's like Christmas here.'

    He always woke up just as though he'd never been asleep.

    'Are we booked to stop here?' asked Lydia.

    'No,' I said, 'and not much ever is.'

    I'd suddenly had enough of the compartment, and all the uncertainty brought on by the weather.

    'I'm off for a scout about,' I said. 'See what's going on.'

    The rough-looking blokes were moving along the corridor.

    'We mustn't be stuck here for all hours,' said the wife. 'Harry wants his bed.'

    'Do not,' he said, but he said it quietly, which proved he did. The mysterious Stephen watched me go as I pulled the door closed behind me. The fellow hadn't put pen to paper since Saltburn.

Chapter Three

    I stepped down on to the platform into a blizzard - no other word for it. The rough blokes were streaming away along the platform towards the 'up' end - the direction of Whitby - and their sacks held shovels and lanterns. Snow gang, that's what they were. I saw the train guard come running towards me. He was heading the opposite way to the blokes.

    'Bad blockage is it?' I shouted to him.

    He was making for the signal box - he would telegraph from there.

    'Reckon not,' he said, still running. 'If it is, we'll work back to Saltburn.'

    In that case, the Company would have to put us up - perhaps at the Zetland Hotel. Lydia would like that.

    I turned to face the engine again, which was harder to do, since the snow blew from that direction. The engine driver and his fireman were holding a low conversation on the platform while a few feet beyond them stood a bloke in a waterproof cape. He would be the stationmaster. He was directing the snow gang to the site of the blockage, and they looked like a foreign army, trooping off in their long coats and no-shape hats. But I now saw that they were just ordinary railway blokes: men from every corner of the sheds at Middlesbrough and Saltburn who'd fancied a bit of overtime. I looked again towards the stationmaster. The cape threw me off a little, but there was something familiar about the man's brown bowleg snow-covered as it was.

    'Fighting King Snow,' said a voice at my ear. It was Stephen from the compartment. He stood there in his topcoat, blinking in the snow and holding out a travel flask. The canvas case dangled from his shoulder, and I knew it now for a camera case.

    I took a belt of the stuff in the flask.

    'Much obliged,' I said, handing it back.

    He poked his glasses to the top of his beak of a nose, and took another go on the flask. His hot little head looked stranger still when tipped back. I gave him my hand.

    'Stringer,' I said. 'Jim Stringer.'

    'Stephen Bowman,' he said. 'Call me Steve.'

    He was holding out a business card; I read it by the train light.

    'S. J. Bowman. Correspondent, The Railway Rover. Also author: Railways Queer and Quaint; Notes by Rocket: A Compendium; Holidays in the Homeland; &c.' The address given was not Wimbledon but 'Bouverie Street, Fleet Street, E.C.', which I took to be the address of the magazine.

    'We're running a special feature on the North Eastern company,' he said.

    I could think of no real answer, so I said, 'Why?'

    'We started one last year but it had to be called off.'

    It was no answer, of course.

    'I'm a detective on the Company force,' I said.

    We were making for a little open-fronted shelter that lay just beyond the 'down' end of the platform.

    'Your wife said you were a policeman,' he said, as we stepped under the wooden roof. 'How's the line, by the way?'

    'Be cleared soon, by all accounts.'

    The snow was finding its way through my boot soles, and I kept moving my toes, trying to recall them to