Murder At Deviation Junction

life. Bowman was at his flask again. With head tipped back, he resembled a spectacle-wearing bird. Having despatched the snow gang, the stationmaster was staring along the platform at me.

    'I know this fellow,' I said to Bowman, nodding in the direction of the man. 'His name's Crystal.'

    'Know him from where?' said Bowman.

    'Grosmont.'

    'Never heard of it.'

    'You wouldn't do, living in Wimbledon. It's not ten miles from here - a little way inland from Whitby.'

    ''Twixt Moor and Sea',' Bowman said, prodding his glasses up his nose.

    Crystal was approaching through the blizzard. The brim of his bowler was loaded with snow.

    'Had my railway start as a lad porter there,' I said. 'This chap was my governor.'

    As Crystal walked up, I felt sorry for him. He'd had hopes of becoming an assistant stationmaster at Newcastle, only to fetch up in a place that was a comedown even from Grosmont. Here was his allowance in life: the single line, the one small station, half a slice of moon and the black sea rolling away three fields off. The only point of interest was the passing loop that ran around behind the station building. Twelve mineral wagons waited there, loaded with ironstone and snow. They were illuminated by four lamp standards.

    'Interesting fellow, is he?' said Bowman, now with notebook in hand. 'Think there's a paragraph in him?'

    'A short one, maybe,' I said.

    'I might write him up,' said Bowman. 'Life of a stationmaster at Sleepy Hollow - you know the sort of thing.'

    'I wouldn't say that to him,' I said.

    'Give me a line on the fellow,' said Bowman, as Crystal continued to approach. 'Sum him up in a sentence.'

    'You could say he was a stickler for duty and detail,' I said, 'with working timetable and appendixes always to hand.'

    'Appendices,^, said Bowman.

    'Or you could say he was a complete bloody pill,' I added in an under-breath.

    Crystal was now standing directly before us.

    'You do know you're on trespass here, don't you?' he said.

    His head was smaller than before. Or was it just that his moustache was bigger? Anyone could grow a bigger moustache.

    'How do, Mr Crystal,' I said, and then he clicked.

    'Stringer,' he said. 'What the blinking heck are you doing here?'

    I recalled that Crystal was a regular at chapel - never gave a proper curse.

    'Spot of business took me up to Middlesbrough,' I said. That I had failed in my business up there would have come as no surprise to him. Crystal had been down on me from the moment we'd met.

    'I thought you'd gone south to learn footplate work.'

    'I had a few adventures in that line, aye.'

    'But you were found not up to standard, let me guess.'

    The snow fell slantwise between us.

    'I'm with the North Eastern Railway Police just now,' I said. 'Detective grade. This is Mr Bowman,' I added. 'Journalist with The Railway Rover.'

    Crystal turned to Bowman. 'You're a journalist and he's a detective, but what I want here is another twenty snow gangers.'

    'How's the line?' Bowman asked, and he nodded towards the snowy shadows of the 'up' end, into which the gangers had marched.

    'Blocked right to Loftus,' said Crystal. 'Has been this past two hours.'

    It was worse than the guard said, then. Or was this just Crystal being his miserable self?

    'Important to have a good man in place here,' said Bowman, looking all about the station. He was trying to butter Crystal up for some reason.

    Crystal nodded back at him, saying, 'The marshalling yard gives a deal of trouble - or would do to a chap lacking experience,' and he waved his hand over towards the abandoned mineral train.

    Marshalling yard! It was nothing but a passing loop with siding attached. Over Crystal's shoulder, beyond the 'up' end of the platform, I could see the white bank that led up to the black edge of the woods overlooking that end of the station. It was lit up by the danger lamp of the signal standing at the foot of it. As I looked on, two of the gangers seemed to be fired out of those woods and began scrambling down the bank.

    'Takes the worst of the weather, does this place,' Crystal was saying.

    Under the red display, the two gangers tumbled fast down the incline, creating an explosion of snow.

    'Quick judgment,' Crystal was saying. 'That's the leading requirement of a man in my place ...'

    The first two had gained the 'up' end of the platform now, and here they started to run. Behind and above them, four more men came out of the woods, though at a slower pace than the first four; and these four slow men were carrying a cricket bag between them (that was my first thought, at any event) which they kept level as they came down the bank, boots first, in a controlled slide.

    Crystal was saying, 'And of course, the rule book only gets you so far . . .'

    The first of the running blokes was level with us now.

    'Mr Crystal,' he panted, 'you've to send . . . You've to get . . . You've to get a wire ...'

    The bloke was out of puff, couldn't get the words out. Crystal, about ready to blow up at this impertinence, was turning slowly towards him. The cricket bag was no cricket bag, but a horse blanket, and it was coming up fast behind Crystal like a dark wave.

    The four men spread it before the stationmaster's boots, under the rushing snow: cricket stumps threaded through black broadcloth. That's what the body looked like. The suit coat was open, and beneath it was a yellowish stuff like pasteboard - the flesh of the man himself. There was no head, but then I saw the skull, resting by the waist. One of the blokes picked it up, set it down on the blanket at the top of the suit coat, and then stepped back to look, as if he'd just finished a jigsaw. The skull seemed too small: just a topknot, a tiny, dinted stone - something to be going on with until a more impressive object was found.

    We all kept silence.

    Mr Crystal's arms were tightly folded. I could not recall him standing like that before, but I knew what he was thinking: paperwork. He stared down at the body as the snow fell.

    Paperwork by the armful.

    Presently, one of the blokes said, 'Seen better days, that lad has.'

    Crystal turned towards the nearest bloke:

    'Why d'you bring it to me?'

    'You're the governor, en't you?' said another of the blokes.

    'Was it discovered inside station bounds?'

    One of the four who'd carried the blanket jerked his thumb in the direction of 'up':

    'Wayside cabin over yonder. Stowed under a load of stuff, he was.'

    'What stuff?'

    'Fire irons, coal, sacking - general railway articles.'

    Crystal flashed into rage.

    'That cabin's disused. It's for the old line that was taken up. What were you doing in there?'

    'Tommy Granger -' said the spokesman, pointing to one of his fellows. 'He was hunting up a shovel.'

    'Why did he not have his own shovel?'

    'That doesn't matter,' I put in.

    'Every man was specifically instructed to fetch his own shovel,' Crystal was saying, as I held up my warrant card in the view of everyone.

    'Very likely a felony's been committed,' I said. 'I'll take charge.'

    'A felony?' said Crystal. Then: 'You'll bloody not take charge' - and he'd cursed. He coloured up immediately, but carried on speaking. 'As stationmaster it falls to me to investigate all the circumstances, and make