The Return of Captain John Emmett

large tea urn at the station cafe, where he sat at a corner table, clutching a cup of tea while he waited for his train. Strong and sweet, it was bitter with tannin. He held it more to keep warm than to wake himself up. He'd brought The Times to read and Brabourne's Post-Guard. He was just rereading one of Hart's poems when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned round to find Charles standing there, with an identical copy of The Times under his arm, the brim of his hat puled down low, a dark paisley scarf round his neck and the rest of him swathed in a vast tweed coat that must have belonged to his grandfather.

'How the hel...?' Laurence began, but swiftly realised that he was neither particularly surprised nor unhappy to see Charles. Had he hoped for this when he'd left his message? His smile acknowledged the possibility.

'It's good to see you.'

'Wel, I wasn't having you setting out on a solitary encounter with Sergeant Tucker, old chap.'

'Oh God. You haven't brought a gun, have you?'

Theatricaly, Charles opened the front of his voluminous coat, reached into a deep poacher's pocket and brought out a short, thick truncheon with a leather loop. He placed the loop around his wrist and slapped the truncheon down against the palm of his hand a couple of times. Laurence frowned.

'It's a priest,' said Charles. 'For despatching fish. I've gone off fishing but found this in a cupboard; better than nothing, I thought. And less provocative than a gun. I do have one or two other useful things here.'

He reached into another pocket, brought out a hip flask, which he waved vaguely and then put away, and finaly dragged out a buff-coloured folded map.

'Birmingham,' he said, 'but I suppose you've got one already?'

Laurence smiled and shook his head.

'But you know where to find your man's drinking den?' Charles asked. 'It's a big place.'

'I know its name, according to his friend who told Leonard Byers. And I know it's a long shot,' he added, not that Charles had protested. 'It's not unreasonable to assume he'l be traceable from there.'

Charles raised an eyebrow. 'And you think his pals are going to tel you, just like that?'

'They might.'

Charles rummaged about in yet another pocket. This time he withdrew a thin, folded bundle of one-pound notes.

'Money?' Laurence looked puzzled.

'Quite right, old chap. Wel done. See your detective skils are coming on.'

'You can't give him money. Wel, it's very decent of you, of course, but I can't let you. I'd thought I might offer a very smal amount, but if Tucker is half the rogue he's said to be, it might make the situation more dangerous, not less, if he thinks we've got ful walets.'

'My guess is that Tucker may have had his finest hours as a soldier,' said Charles. 'Once home without any real power, he's probably no threat at al. His sort need war. Stil, I could be wrong. That's why I'm here.'

They walked down alongside two carriages of the train—handsome in its dark purple and cream. A gleaming peacetime train, Laurence thought, remembering the dinginess of trains in the war years. When they found an empty compartment, Charles struggled out of his coat and threw it up into the luggage rack. Laurence wondered briefly, and disloyaly, how Charles's plus fours would blend into a working-men's pub in Birmingham.

The whistle blew and the train puled out slowly, gathering momentum once it was clear of the first bend. They passed by the water tower, then under a viaduct and between high warehouse wals, al red brick and flaking painted advertisements. After a quarter of an hour they were carried over a bridge above an anonymous parade of shops. Then came row after row of terraces: narrow houses, their yards and washhouses a depressing patchwork of black and grey below the track. A solitary washing line bore dingy sheets that drooped heavily in the drizzle. The train had stil not taken on much speed. A canal ran alongside the line for a while but, beyond the weeds in the crevices of decaying brickwork, there was no vegetation anywhere.

Only as they moved outwards from the heart of the city did larger houses appear, comfortably set amid gardens and parks. On a summer's day the prospect might be quite fine. Laurence suddenly recaled a childhood smel of suburban lilac and sticky lime trees. He had once lived and played in places like these. They roared on, passing a long strip of potato fields marking the transition from urban to rural landscape. Most of the holdings were tidy dark patches but others appeared long abandoned. The train speeded up across level earth fields as north London was left behind. Near the line the bushes were blackened with soot while further away the few bare trees were so misshapen, presumably by the prevailing winds across the open terrain, that they were unidentifiable. A smal factory stood neatly to one side of the line at the edge of a smal town. He wondered what county he might be in: Hertfordshire? Bedfordshire? Rain and smuts soon obscured even the monotony of the view.

They sat in companionable silence. Above Charles's head was a cheerful print of the Lake District. A man, a woman and a terrier strode forward under a perpetualy blue sky with fluffy clouds. Charles was reading. Eventualy Laurence must have falen asleep because he was startled by the ticket inspector opening the door. Looking at his watch, he saw that they were halfway to Birmingham. The weather had improved slightly and they seemed to be passing through gentle hils. Laurence tilted his head to read the title of Charles's book: The Mysterious Affair at Styles. On the cover, three or four figures, dressed in their nightclothes, their faces iluminated by hand-held candles, peered into the darkness. Laurence smiled. No wonder Charles had a taste for intrigue.

Soon they had outrun the rain and the sky showed patches of brightness. The train passed some ruins on one side and a large signal box on the other. They were making proper speed now and occasional sparks shot past the window. As they entered a long tunnel, the train started to slow. Charles put down his book.

'Good?' asked Laurence.

'Quite excelent. Mrs Agatha Christie. You think you know who did it and then you think, no, that's what she means you to think, and then, of course, it's going to be someone quite different. Which it is but not the one you've thought. Wonderful stuff. Haven't you read it?'

Laurence shook his head. It seemed ages since he'd read a novel and even then it was mostly Hardy or Trolope, al favourites of his father.