The Last Train to Scarborough

alarm on behalf of the whole town. I'd meant to get shot of Tommy as soon as possible and head directly back to the house, but it was still only eleven, and the sight of him limping in the rain while carrying the two kit bags made me think I ought to find a gentler way to put him off.

We came out onto a wide road that curved down towards the Prom between two great walls. It was as though the real purpose of this road was to channel tons of water into the sea. Huge, rusted iron plates were set into the bricks, and they too seemed part of a secret drainage system. We followed it down, and when we hit the Prom the wind hit us. The sea was black and white and crazed, with the waves all smashing into each other, and exploding against the sea wall. A tram came up, and passed by with clanging bell, and it seemed to be floating along, such was the quantity of water swirling over the lines.

There was a refuge close to hand, however, in the shape of a very pretty little ale house. The name 'Mallinson's' was written in a curve on the window, going over lace curtains that blocked out the lower part of the glass. How thick was the glass of that window? Quarter of an inch, but once Tommy and I were inside, we found that it held off the German Sea very nicely.

It was a cosy little place – dainty for a pub, with lace curtains, upholstered chairs, tables covered with white cloths, and knick-knacks on the mantel-shelves of the two fireplaces. It was the sort of sea-side place that ought not to be open in winter, and ghostly somehow as a result, but there were a fair few in. The drill was that you were served ale from jugs by good- looking serving girls who toured the room carrying trays. I bought glasses of beer for Tommy and myself, and then left him to warm himself by the fire as I stood steaming in my great-coat while reading the Paradise witness statements, stopping only to look at the water falling against the windows, which was now coming more like silent waves than rain.

On the top-most piece of paper, someone had written the word 'Blackburn' and underlined it twice. The other papers, attached by a pin, were the statements. Everyone in Paradise sounded different – higher class – in their statements. All save Fielding.

Amanda Rickerby's was first. She said: I make it my business to see that my guests are not only well catered for in their ordinary wants, but also that they should be happy and really enjoy their time in Paradise. However, I can only go so far as regards the latter. Mr Blackburn seemed to me shy and reserved. He was perhaps rather low about something. He was what I call 'deep'.

He had apparently knocked on the door of the house at eight o'clock, and enquired about a room, having seen the advertisement for the house at what Amanda Rickerby called 'the engine hall' at Scarborough station. Miss Rickerby herself had answered the door to him. He had by her account 'preferred' the small room at the very top of the house: I think on account of the sea view from there, which is a particularly charming one, and you have the benefit even at night, the harbour being so prettily lit up. He had remained in the room until Adam Rickerby had rung the hand bell for supper at 'about eight- twenty or so'.

She said that he'd sat quietly at supper, gone for a walk with 'one of our residents, Mr Vaughan -1 think to a public house.' While sitting in the kitchen, she'd heard them return: They were admitted to the house by Mr Fielding, I believe, but I only heard them coming in. I did not see them. To the best of her knowledge, Vaughan and Fielding had then sat talking in the sitting room, and Ray Blackburn had gone up to his room at the top, which was now mine. She understood that he'd later brought his boots down to the kitchen, but she'd left the kitchen by then, and had gone to bed. She had not seen him again; she had nothing further to add.

Howard Fielding 'had found Mr Blackburn a very thoughtful and pleasant gentleman, but no conversationalist'. He went on: Having lately had a business connection with the North Eastern Railway, and having some knowledge of the Company, I tried to draw him out over supper on railway topics. We touched, as I remember, on locomotive boiler capacities, the role of the fireman as compared to that of the driver, and the railway speed records. But Mr Blackburn only responded to the degree compatible with ordinary politeness. After supper, at about nine-thirty, my friend and fellow resident, Mr Vaughan, then invited Mr Blackburn to take a stroll with him. I believe they walked to a public house. They returned to the boarding house perhaps forty- five minutes later -1 admitted them myself – and Mr Blackburn, looking perhaps rather out-of-sorts, went directly upstairs. Mr Vaughan and I then took a nightcap in the sitting room.

I thought: That's quaint – 'nightcap'.

Fielding's statement continued: At eleven-thirty, I took my boots downstairs to the kitchen for cleaning. Adam Rickerby is generally on hand to clean boots between eleven and midnight. After giving my boots to the boy, I returned to my room, passing Mr Blackburn on the stairs. He was taking his boots down. I said, 'Good night', and he merely grunted by way of reply. I never saw Mr Blackburn again.

I turned over the leaf, and came to the words: 'Adam Rickerby, co-proprietor of Paradise Guest House, saith…' and saw that the lad had been magically given the powers of speech by the Leeds coppers: Mr Blackburn was at all times a quiet gentleman. I noticed he was quiet when he first came into the house, and he continued in that way. Quiet, I mean. I cooked the supper on the evening in question, as I generally do in the winter time. It was a hot supper. Mr Blackburn ate all his food. He went for a drink with Mr Vaughan. These gentlemen came back at I don't know what time. At half past eleven or so I was cleaning the boots in the kitchen, and sitting with my sister. She was reading to me from the papers. I am not educated up to reading. Mr Fielding came in, late on, with his boots. Mr Blackburn came after with his. I cleaned the boots and went to bed. I sleep on the ground floor, in the room that used to be the wash room next to the scullery. I heard nothing in the night. On waking, at half past five, I did my early chores until six-thirty. No-one else was about. I then took Mr Fielding up his boots and early cup of tea. I returned to the kitchen, and collected Mr Blackburn's boots and tea. I took these up to his room with hot water. He was not there.

I turned over the page, and read, 'Theodore Vaughan, resident of Paradise Guest House, saith…And there were two pages for him as against one for everyone else: I found him a pleasant enough chap, rather thoughtful. Over supper, I formed the distinct idea that he was happy with his own company. But it is my custom of a Sunday evening to take a walk; I was putting my cape on in the hall when Mr Blackburn happened to come by. I asked whether he would like to come along with me, and he agreed. In the course of our strolling we passed the Two Mariners, a pleasant public house. I suggested that we take a glass of beer. Again, Mr Blackburn agreed. I can't recall our conversation in detail – something of Scarborough history, something of railways. We were back at the house soon after ten o'clock, less than an hour after our departure. Mr Fielding let us in, since I'd forgotten my key. Mr Blackburn then went up to his room, and I went into the sitting room, where I smoked a cigar and drank some sherry with Mr Fielding. I went up to bed not long after eleven. I believe that Mr Fielding went up later. I occupy the room directly beneath the one used by Mr Blackburn. At first I was busy about my own preparations for sleep and going between my room and the bathroom on the landing opposite, and so was not paying attention to the noises from overhead. I am led to believe that Mr Blackburn carried his boots downstairs before midnight, and there were perhaps some noises that indicated that activity, but I could not say for certain. I was very tired, and fell asleep shortly after.

That statement carried the date '7 November, 1913'

The second sheet was a second statement by Vaughan, dated 9 November: I would like to add to my earlier statement as follows: Having repaired to the public house called the Two Mariners with Mr Blackburn I presented for his inspection certain post cards of a nature rather 'saucy', as some might say. Not to mince words they showed young female persons in various states of what is known as deshabille…

This was all meant in fun, the statement ran on. Post cards of this sort are commonly seen in the sea-side towns and are by no means – as I understand it – outside the law. I happen to have come by a few cards of this sort having once been in the post card business. They are really just the 'old masters' brought up to date and I will quite often produce them in male company for a bit of a 'laugh' with the boys. However, Mr Blackburn made it clear to me that they were not his 'cup of tea', and so our conversation resumed its earlier course.

This was Vaughan in a corner. The coppers had put the screws on him, having discovered the cards and confronted him over them. I passed the papers over to Nugent, saying, 'Complicated shunting.'

'Eh?'

'Have a read,' I said, handing him the papers.

Who was lying? Was anyone? Vaughan's evidence had been the most interesting. You were limited about what you could say in a police statement; you were only supposed to speak about what you knew, and what might have a bearing on the crime. But Vaughan had tried to throw a bit of doubt on Fielding's evidence… And had he heard any noise from overhead when he was in his room, or not? Also, it was not quite clear whether Amanda Rickerby had been in the kitchen when