Death on a Branch Line Page 4

  The back numbers were stowed underneath. I hauled out a bundle of Yorkshire Posts, and leafed backwards through them until I found the account, in the paper dated Thursday, 27 April, 1911.

  There was a woodcut of Hugh Lambert in the dock, and the name of the writer came to me in a flash. Stevenson. Hugh Lambert looked like Robert Louis Stevenson. The article was headed ‘The Moorby Murder – The Killing of Sir George Lambert’, then ‘The trial in summary by Our London Correspondent’. It began: ‘For the past week, the crowded court has listened closely to the sad and painful story of how a son perpetually at odds with his father finally resorted to murder.’

  The killing had occurred in the early evening of Wednesday, 8 November, 1909. Hugh Lambert had made off immediately afterwards, and had eventually been arrested in London after living for more than a year abroad. It had happened during a ‘rough rabbit shoot’ in the woods close to the Hall at Adenwold, family seat of the Lamberts. Present at the shoot were Sir George Lambert, his friend the Reverend Martin Ridley, parish priest of Adenwold, and Hugh Lambert. Two villagers had also been employed to ‘walk-up’ the rabbits, but these were not named.

  Hugh Lambert did not go in for country sports, and he described the shoot as ‘a debauch’, in which he had been forced to participate by his father. He had admitted that he had earlier quarrelled with his father, and that they were both drunk on the ginger liquor that his father habitually consumed before walking nightly through the coverts with his guns, of which he kept a good many. The three men on the shoot had become separated in the woods. Hugh Lambert’s account was that he had fallen down in a drunken swoon. When he returned to consciousness, an extra shotgun was beside him. He picked it up, and found that he was standing over his father’s body. A policeman called Anderson (‘Constable of the Three Adenwolds’) was just then walking through the woods with his spaniel. He had hailed Hugh, who had then run off, making his way to Paris and later Italy. The gun was later found to be one of Sir George Lambert’s, and to be covered with the finger marks of Hugh.

  I read that ‘The Reverend Martin Ridley, vicar of Adenwold, spoke as to the frequent disagreements between father and son’ while John Lambert – eldest son of Sir George – had spoken for the defence about his brother’s gentle disposition and kindly nature. These pieces of evidence, however, were not detailed in the report. John Lambert had been in London on business at the time of the killing.

  A doctor of Wandsworth Prison had given medical evidence that the prisoner was of sound mind – and the end of the article came as though the newspaper had suddenly realised it was running short of space. There was the heading ‘VERDICT’ in bold black type, and below it, ‘The jury’s verdict was guilty and the prisoner was sentenced to death.’

  I looked up from the Post as the reading room clock tolled six with a horrible clanging. It was not enough to wake the elderly sleeper, though, and when the clock reverted to ticking it did so (it seemed to me) with a kind of weary sulkiness.

  As I returned to the different heat of the railway station, a ‘down’ service trailed away north-east from Platform Eleven – half a dozen old six-wheeled rattlers. That would be the Scarborough excursion, taking Old Man Wright and his missus away. The train at the next platform was exceptionally short: just one carriage hooked up to a Class S. The train was a special. I walked towards it, and Hugh Lambert, the condemned man, was sitting in a corner seat of the carriage. I’d thought him long gone.

  He looked like a man in shock, which it seems to me that people in train compartments very frequently do, especially the ones sitting in the corner seats. The three Met men were in there, too.

  I moved to a position alongside the compartment, and one of the Met men stood up and turned his back to me, as if to block my view. Lambert kept his white face side-on. I did not believe that he had seen me. From somewhere a whistle blew, a shout went up and the S Class, barking furiously, dragged away this vision of death-in-waiting.

  The special was out from under the station roof, and was approaching the ‘down’ signal gantry, when the irregular thing occurred. What I at first thought of as a short white stick was poked out through one of the windows. It then fell and divided: white sheets of paper floating in the hot hair – some swooping under the moving carriage and into the path of its bogies, others carrying on a little way pressed against the carriage sides, others again descending directly to the sooty ballast between the tracks. I knew immediately what had happened. Lambert had risen to his feet, and posted his papers through the compartment window.

  I dashed along to the end of Platform Ten, and down the slope into the black gravel. As I ran along the tracks, I could feel the weight of the gazes from the station upon me. Some loony, driven crackers by the heat, was trying to run to the sea-side! In the forbidden area under the great signal gantry, I began to collect up the papers. Some creaking of the mechanism above me told me to beware; I looked up and a signal fell with a great thud, so that I first thought it was going to drop all the way onto my head. I looked into the station, and a filthy goods engine was coming through it, pulling an eternity of empty, lime-washed cattle trucks. This again was irregular. The train ought to have been using the servants’ entrance so to speak, going around the outside of the station on its way north. At any rate, it was soon alongside me, and the endless shuddering wagons gave the spilt papers another mix-up, and a few more of them were carried away. I caught up another twenty or so papers from off, or in-between, the tracks. I had seen prison-issue paper, and this was not it, which made me think that Lambert must have written these notes before being arrested, and that he’d then been allowed to keep them. I tried to make out a bit of the writing, but it wasn’t easy. ‘It is the printer that I feel sorry for – the compositor,’ I read, and then again: ‘It comes down, like most things, to mathematics.’

  Standing on the tracks, oblivious to on-coming trains, I shuffled the papers and read: ‘He says that the work is Euclidian, and this he means as a commendation of it!’

  I had taken too long to puzzle out that word ‘Euclidian’. I looked at my silver watch: six fifteen. The wife would be waiting on the footbridge, with her bag packed for Scarborough.

  Chapter Eight

  I slept right through to Malton, with the wife reading on the seat over-opposite. After our change at Malton – which did smell of malt, as though the dizzying heat brought out the true character of the place – we were over-whelmed by fields. At Amotherby station, two wood pigeons cooed somewhere out of sight. At Barton, a man and a bicycle boarded.

  In-between were vast golden fields with the telegraph poles standing calmly in the corn, each with its regulation shadow made by the low sun. As we approached each station, the poles would move closer together, bringing the wires up to the signal boxes or small station houses.

  And it was that bloody hot …

  The harvest had already begun, and there were corn stooks in some fields, the bushels arranged in a cross – hundreds of crosses to a field, like an over-toppled crucifix or a mistake made over and over again. In one field, men were still hard at it, following the harvester which rolled forward like a moving factory. In another, men were going about some late hay-making: six fellows around a stack on a cart, tossing up the stuff with pitchforks. Up and up flew the hay, ascending always to the very top of the stack. It was like seeing the force of gravity reversed. Two ragged-looking horses had the next field to themselves, and the sun gave them a golden outline.

  We had practically the whole three-carriage train to ourselves. A couple of others had boarded at Malton, and the bicyclist from Barton was aboard somewhere. It was Friday evening, and most people who were going to do something for the week-end in this great swelter were already about it. I had not yet seen the train guard in order to ask for the stop at Adenwold.

  The wife was reading, going between the Yorkshire Post and the Freewoman, a paper taken on subscription by the place at which she worked part time: the Co-operative Women’s Guild, York
branch. It was all about the women’s struggle, and what was wrong with men.

  She’d said practically nothing since train time at York, when I had explained that, since Scarborough was full up, Adenwold might do just as well. She’d just sighed, and said, ‘I don’t want to go to Adenwold.’

  But she’d climbed up into the train all the same.

  She wore her new light, white dress with the wide belt and the short skirt that showed off her pretty new calfskin boots. It was one of two new summer dresses, and the second was in her bag. Her new, highly polished straw boater with the blue silk ribbon was beside her on the seat. It had been bought especially for Scarborough. Lydia had a very simple connection with the sun: it turned her brown in May, and that way she stayed until October. It made her dark eyes darker and brighter too; and the whites of them whiter.

  I’d decided that the full explanation of what I was about ought not to follow too closely on the news that we were not bound for Scarborough. I was ready for her response to the story of Hugh Lambert: ‘It’s too daft for words!’

  Well, it was her fault that I’d get caught up in these tangles from time to time. She’d wanted me off the footplate and into the railway police, it being a more respectable sort of profession, but police work bored her, or at any rate my accounts of it did.

  ‘Is this oats or barley?’ said the wife, all of a sudden putting down her paper.

  I looked out at the wide, golden fields.

  ‘Well, it’s corn, at any rate,’ I said.

  ‘I know that,’ she said.

  She put the paper up again, but I knew I’d been forgiven.

  She was glad of a holiday of any sort, and the beauty of the scene beyond the window was winning her over. I fished in my bag for the beer bottle I knew was in there. I found it wrapped inside the blue and green sporting cap I’d bought for the week-end from Walton and Reed’s of York. At Adenwold I would wear it in place of my bowler. I thought the cap went well with my new blue twill summer suit, but the wife did not approve of Walton and Reed’s. She held that it had been all right as Walton’s, but had gone off with the arrival of Reed. Their rig-outs were now too raffish. But this cap had been marked down from five bob to two, and, as I’d explained to the wife, it was specially tailored so that it could be folded up very flat and placed in an inside coat pocket.

  ‘Good,’ she’d said. ‘You can put it in your pocket and keep it there.’

  There was a bit more rummaging – and a bit of a panic – until I could put my hands on the clasp knife with its bottle opener attachment. The stuff was warm as tea, but I’ll take my beer anyhow. I then fished out of my kitbag the book that Lydia had brought home for me a few weeks before: The Student’s Guide to Railway Law by M. E. Chapman, MA, LLD Cambridge – this in hopes that I might leave the railway police and train up as a solicitor. I read the familiar first sentence: ‘This book is intended to present in ordinary language, and as clearly as possible free from technical terms, a general view of the main features of the subject.’

  That was a laugh.

  I turned to the page about the Railway Fires Act, 1905. There were at least sixty-eight sections in that Act, and it was a sight too many. I put away the book, and took out the sheaf of papers that Hugh Lambert had dropped from the carriage window. There were about forty in all, not numbered, and I reckoned I was missing a dozen from the original bundle. The writing was tiny. I could make it out, but it was very hard going. I read:

  The fire was never sufficiently banked for her. The housemaid, who had been perfectly good at making fires, was all of a sudden deemed incompetent. Not that mother would ever tell her so, of course. Instead, she called Ponder or I in to put on more fuel while she sat shivering on a mild afternoon in her cardigan. I would have been eight or nine, not yet a schoolboy. The blanket was on her knees in the morning room in summer, and then still there in the summer.

  This was the time that Ponder and I became ‘my boys’, to be spoken of as such at every opportunity, and that certainly did alarm me. It was gushing, and that was not mother. Ponder knew it too, of course, and so he burrowed deeper into his books.

  I looked up.

  Who was ‘Ponder’? Must be the brother: John.

  I wondered whether the papers held one especially important bit of information; at the moment they seemed a sort of rag-bag of memories. I thought of the scene in the carriage, after Lambert had slipped the papers through the window. The guards would have come down hard upon him for that, but what could they do? You couldn’t hang a man twice.

  The wife was looking directly back at me.

  ‘What’s that?’ she said, indicating the bundle.

  ‘Just some papers.’

  ‘Work papers?’

  ‘I found them under the tracks, just under the north signal gantry.’

  ‘Hard up for reading matter, are you? Because you ought not to be …’

  She was referring to The Student’s Guide to Railway Law.

  She caught up her paper again, and I looked at the headings on the back page: ‘The Question of Non-Union Men – Demonstration in York’; ‘Insurance Bill – Friendly Societies Alienated’; ‘Plan for Reform of the House of Lords – Prime Minister to See The King’; ‘Ballot in Favour of a Strike’; ‘Riots in Liverpool’; ‘Giant Leeds Blaze – Firemen Run for Their Lives’; ‘The Moroccan Sensation – Reports of a Further Grave Incident’.

  ‘Mr Balfour’s gone on holiday,’ said the wife from behind the paper. ‘He left Victoria this morning for Gastein. When he returns to Britain, he’s off to Scotland to play golf.’

  Mr Balfour was not in government. Therefore he was unable to do anything to bring about women’s suffrage, not that he would if he could. The Women’s Movement had no time for Mr Balfour, but their principal hatred was directed at Mr Asquith who, being the prime minister, could do something about votes for women but didn’t seem inclined to. ‘Today,’ the wife was saying as she lowered the paper, ‘Harry asked me, “Why have the Germans sent a panther to Agadir?”’

  Harry was our boy. He was nigh-on seven years old, and a lovely lad, but the reason the wife had been looking forward to this week-end most particularly was that her friend Lillian Backhouse had agreed to take him in until Monday dinner-time.

  ‘He thought it was a real panther?’ I enquired.

  ‘I told him it was a boat, of course.’

  ‘A gunboat, I hope you said.’

  The wife looked out of the window, watching the rolling fields, and keeping silence. Then she said, ‘What do you think I told him? That it was a flipping canoe?’

  ‘Well, I hope you told him all about the Moroccan crisis,’ I said.

  ‘What I can’t make out’, said the wife, who did not keep up with the foreign news, ‘is why Agadir?’

  ‘Because it’s a port in Morocco, and this is all the Moroccan Crisis.’

  ‘So you keep saying.’

  ‘It’s the second Moroccan Crisis as a matter of fact.’

  ‘When was the last one?’

  ‘About five years since.’

  The wife frowned.

  ‘It crops up periodically,’ I said, taking a pull on my beer. ‘You see, the French and the Spanish run Morocco. We let them do that …’

  ‘That’s not like us.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing there – just sand and terrific heat. But Germany’s always wanted to get a leg in as well.’

  ‘Are there soldiers on this boat, then?’

  ‘There’s believed to be a brass band on it, I know that.’

  ‘And are they threatening to strike up?’ the wife said, picking up the paper again.

  We stopped at Slingsby in order for nothing to happen. A lad porter was cleaning the waiting-room windows, and signs running half-way along the platform read: ‘Do Not Alight Here’. I called to the lad and asked if he wouldn’t mind nipping along to the guard’s van to ask for the Adenwold stop. He said he would do, and disappeared from view.

  We rolled on,
and I might have slept again. I looked out just as the great dark sail of a windmill came close to the compartment window, and we were into a tunnel of trees. Two screams on the whistle as we ran through the woods; then the carriage gave a jolt as an application of the brake came, and we were going slowly through a clearing. In the centre of it stood a great steam saw with stacks of logs near by. Around the saw, the trees had been felled at all angles, and it looked as though they’d collapsed into a dead faint at the sight of the machine. The dark wood came in on us again as we closed on the station.

  ‘Adenwold,’ I said to the wife as a platform came into view.

  Chapter Nine

  We’d come in amid a slow hurricane of dust. I opened the door of the compartment, and we climbed down. The place was not as I had expected: somebody had picked up the village of my imagination, turned it around, removed some houses, added a lot of trees and made the air hotter, thicker and more orange-coloured. For a moment, the two of us stood still on the platform, watching a single cloud from the locomotive unwind through the stagnant air. There wasn’t much to Adenwold, or to the little station. There was no station canopy, and even though it was eight o’clock at night I had to shield my eyes against the glare of the low sun.

  I was about to make my itinerary of this silent place when a door crashed open in the next carriage along. A man in a green sporting suit climbed down. It was the fellow who’d boarded at Barton. He immediately faced about, and took his bicycle down. He’d carried it with him in the compartment. The bell clanged as with an effort the man set the machine on the platform boards, and when the handlebar became entangled with the leathern valise he carried, no porter came to his aid.

  The train began to move off, each of its three carriages complaining in a different manner. No-one gave it the ‘right-away’ – it had arrived and now left of its own accord. As the guard’s van clattered past, I craned to see if there was anyone in there, but could make no-one out. Our tickets had not been checked; no-one had prevented the bicyclist from carrying his machine in the compartment instead of placing it in the guard’s van … and yet there had to be a guard riding up somewhere, and the bicyclist must have asked him for the stop at Adenwold.