'Treat folk as gentle folk, and they behave according.'
'Daresay,' I said, though doubting it.
'One o'clock,' announced Lund. 'I'd best be off.'
At that very instant the bell-ringing practice broke off to let the hour bell strike one. Lund walked around the monument a little way, his valise over his shoulder.
'What's up with your eye?' he said, turning back.
'Nothing to speak of' I said.
He'd noticed such bruising as remained, and the wife hadn't.
He passed me his copy of the Evening Press, saying, 'Want a look?' I nodded at him; he went his way, and I turned to the second page of the paper. The article proper began: 'The shooting to death of John and Duncan Cameron, brothers, continues to agitate the minds of the York police.' Not the York railway police, I thought. It didn't seem to have been agitating Chief Inspector Weatherill's mind in the least. I read the article from top to bottom, and it was plain as daylight that there were no clues, and precious few conjectures from any quarter. I looked back towards the great cathedral where the same trippers – or perhaps another lot – were threading their way out. You'd have parties like that crisscrossing the city in all seasons; they'd check you for quite minutes on end, and there was nothing you could do to break through. I wondered how many more killings it would take before they stopped coming.
I put on my special glasses and rose to my feet.
Chapter Twelve
Quarter to six. I'd eaten a late dinner on the river, and the light was falling fast as I entered the Big Coach on Nessgate. The place was packed out, and there was a dancing class happening, not too daintily, on the second floor. When you walk into a pub you want a moment alone to get your bearings and settle, but Miles Hopkins hailed me immediately from a table in the corner. He sat with another fellow, whose back was to me but I could tell it wasn't the Blocker. Of that big bastard there was no sign. As I approached, I saw that a copy of the Evening Press was on the table, folded so that the latest report of the Camerons' death was uppermost, but the gent with his back to me was intent upon a different publication – a sporting paper. As Miles Hopkins looked up at me, I could read over the new bloke's shoulder: 'Gatwick Meeting; Capital Afternoon's Sport; Gossip from the Course.'
I touched my spectacles, to make sure they were in place. Miles tapped the other man's arm, and he stood up and turned about. Miles Hopkins stood too, saying, 'Sam, like you to meet Mr Allan Appleby.' It was all very mannerly and all very different from Layerthorpe. The new man stood, turned with hand held out, and I certainly did not recognise him from the pages of the Police Gazette. He was medium height and broad, although not as big as the Blocker, and more compressed. If the Blocker was an elephant then this one was a bull, and a distinguished-looking bull at that, with belted Norfolk coat, grey, bristly hair, a sharp grey beard, and regular face that was all-in-all the shape of a shield. He looked a little like the King himself, and would have looked still more like him had he been wearing the Homburg hat placed at his elbow. He was smoking a cigar. He had a strong grip, wore two rings to each hand, and it turned out he had the name to match:
'Valentine Sampson,' he said, in a deep voice, and with an accent that was… out of the way.
The teeming pub seemed to come to a halt as he gazed at me. He had peculiar eyes, between blue and brown, with the result… violet. The light seemed to be revolving inside them, winding you in towards him.
'Allan Appleby' I said.
Had he taken the name? It was hard to say, since the moment I uttered it, he was signalling to a barman for three more pints of Smith's.
We all sat down.
'Will you excuse me for five minutes, Allan?' Valentine Sampson said, as the drinks were delivered, and the coin paid over.
I glanced over at Miles Hopkins, who gave a humorous sort of shrug, and began with his customary finger fiddling, moving a sovereign between the long fingers of both hands, and gazing about the pub – taking in all the gaping pockets, as I supposed.
'Sam has an appointment with a layer in half an hour' he explained presently, 'and he's only just getting to grips with tomorrow's cards.'
At which Valentine Sampson looked up from his reading, and said:
'Don't fret, Allan, I'm a quick study.'
He spoke in a smooth, low rush – almost gentlemanly. I sipped beer, trying to slacken my nerves as Sampson turned again to the pages of his paper. I was glad that Sampson was due elsewhere before long – it might mean a short evening's work for me. At intervals, the fellow would make a mark with a pen, and slide the paper across to Miles Hopkins with a question or remark. 'What's your fancy?' he asked at one moment; at another, after some ferocious underlining of a horse's name, he observed: 'Be all right if I could get on after time.' He laughed at this, and Hopkins, smiled, still rolling the coin from finger to finger. Neither paid any attention to the murder report staring up from the Evening Press.
After ten minutes, the business of the betting programme was finished, and Valentine Sampson folded the paper into his pocket, turning towards me: 'You play the horses, Allan?'
'Not regular, like,' I said.
'Been at it since I was a nipper,' he said. 'But I'm kept back by want of knowledge – in sporting as in other matters.'
I didn't like this. Was he referring to his lack of knowledge of myself? He'd necked his beer very fast, and was raising his hand for another three. His requests seemed to cut through the crowds immediately, for the barman was at our table within a second of being summoned.
'These are on me,' I said, but the offer was ignored just as though not heard. Valentine Sampson paid up once more, before turning to me:
'Sorry for cutting to it directly, Allan,' he said, 'but Miles has told me you might have been able to put your hands on a goods yard pass.'
'I have it here,' I said, reaching into my pockets, and laying it out on the table. Sampson read out loud the name on the pass: 'Gordon Higgins', testing it out. Underneath, the words: 'Permit the bearer to walk over and along the Company's Railway at the Goods and Mineral Yard, York.' 'That's up to snuff,' said Valentine Sampson, after a moment. 'I'll not ask where it came from. Now… you've no employment just at present?' 'Nowt to speak of' I said. I picked up the pass, and returned it to my pocket, as Sampson said: 'Miles tells me you're from Halifax way.' 'Aye' I said. 'And that you had employment in a screw factory?' 'It didn't just make screws' I said. 'What else did it make?' asked Miles Hopkins, grinning. 'Nuts' I said. 'Nuts and… you know, bolts.' 'Metal factors' said Sampson, nodding. I looked over at Hopkins. He was moving the coin, looking about the pub. 'Miles let on you'd had some magazines away,' said Sampson. 'Railway Magazines,' I said, 'complete set of 'em…' 'Complete set of 'em?' said Sampson. 'Somebody's pride and joy they would have been. Well worth having away, Allan.' 'It was a complete set until the big sod pitched one into the fire.' Sampson shook his head, saying: 'Well, that blighter's not exactly a big reader, Allan.' 'A small reader' said Miles, 'that's what Mike is. Can he read at all, Sam?' 'Oh aye,' said Valentine Sampson; then, turning to me once again: 'You been inside, Allan?' 'No' I said, for I was not about to try inventing prison experiences.
The pair of them hadn't left off eyeballing, so I said:
'Don't mean to be, either.'
Sampson nodded.
'Liberty is sweet, Allan,' he said.
I'd been looking out for a change of front, but the two had continued quite friendly through this quiz. Now Sampson sat back and folded his arms, nodding towards Hopkins as he said: 'We've done a bit, Allan… Armley Gaol. Two years I was in that fucking barracks, and one thing kept me from going doolally, and that was meeting this gentleman here.'
He indicated Miles, who was looking all about, a half- smile on his lips from the compliments he was half-
