Westmorland Alone Read online

  ‘Hey, hey! What do you think you’re doing? Hey!’

  A man raised a shovel to bar my way, but I dodged round him, only realising then what I had seen.

  It was my camera – buried in the weeds and the rubble. The Leica. I had at least managed to recover something from the crash.

  CHAPTER 16

  THE HANGING ROOM

  IT WAS GETTING ON for six o’clock by the time we left Appleby Station and drove directly to the other Appleby station, the police station – a journey of just a few minutes. Morley was delighted that I had recovered the camera, and his conversation with the signalman seemed to have filled him with renewed confidence and vigour, something to do with the thrill of talking about levers and signals, no doubt. The rain and the clouds had returned, but Morley’s curiosity and enthusiasm – as always – blazed on. He launched into song.

  A la porte du corps de garde,

  Pour tuer le temps,

  On fume, on jase, l’on regarde

  Passer les passants.

  ‘Miriam?’

  ‘Carmen,’ she said.

  ‘Correct!’ said Morley. ‘Poor old Bizet. Anyway, look at this! What do you think? Old gaol and courthouse, would you say, Miriam?’

  ‘Possibly, Father.’

  ‘Late 1800s, Sefton?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Morley,’ I said. ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Hipped roof, two storeys, centre doorway with rectangular fanlight.’

  ‘And some rather lovely quoins,’ said Miriam.

  ‘Indeed, lovely quoins,’ agreed Morley. He loved a lovely quoin. ‘Single-storey wing on either side, segmented-arched passageway in front, courtyard enclosed with low parapet wall. Four-square solid market-town Georgian. Very nice indeed, isn’t it? Very nice.’

  ‘For a place of imprisonment and punishment,’ I said sarcastically, and regretted it immediately. (Morley was not a great fan of sarcasm, ‘that unreal, cruel and transitory mirth, as the crackling of thorns under a pot’, as he puts it in Morley’s False and Unreasonable Arguments and Other Enemies of Reason (1924), a book consisting largely of arguments that are themselves false and unreasonable.)

  ‘Is there any reason why a place of imprisonment and punishment shouldn’t be architecturally interesting, Sefton?’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘Indeed, couldn’t we learn rather more about the formation and deformation of human history from a study of gaols and garrisons and fortifications than from a study of, I don’t know – say – palaces and pleasure houses?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Morley,’ I agreed.

  ‘Law courts, lunatic asylums – the great emblems of state power. One might write a rather interesting book, mightn’t one, analysing and describing the changing architecture of discipline and punishment?’

  ‘No. No one would be interested, Father,’ said Miriam. She helped Morley from the car and we all stood for a moment under a large umbrella, admiring Appleby’s own little emblem of state power.

  ‘Reminds me rather of a place in Bohemia I visited once, fortified town, most peculiar. And another place near Antwerp, deserted fort – name escapes me – but these sorts of places are literally littered across the European landscape, Sefton—’

  ‘Literally?’ said Miriam.

  ‘Literally,’ insisted Morley. ‘Littered like tombs and graveyards and burial pits, ready at any moment to be forced into service as human pens and charnel houses by some diseased state or diabolical despot. These buildings, Sefton, these temples of the state, are terrible evidence of mankind’s desperate need to protect itself from the imagined other, from the enemy, the felon, the outcast. This is what this building represents, Sefton, in this place, in this town, in this nation, in this Europe!’

  ‘Oh, please!’ said Miriam. ‘It’s a police station, Father. And we’re late.’

  We were interviewed in the station one by one: Miriam first, Morley, and then it was my turn.

  ‘You’re up in the hanging room,’ said Morley, when he was escorted back by a policeman, and I was being led away.

  ‘The hanging room?’

  ‘It’s where the executions used to be held, apparently. Absolutely fascinating – ask the chief inspector. Place of private hanging. At one time they’d have done it out in the open, of course, in the yard, I suppose. Represents a change in how society views the criminal, eh? Wouldn’t fancy it either way, would you?’

  I swallowed hard. ‘No, Mr Morley,’ I said.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind coming with me, Mr Sefton,’ said the policeman.

  ‘We’ll see you back at the Tufton Arms, shall we?’ said Morley. ‘Much to discuss! Much to debate!’

  It was a long, narrow room with a single window looking out across the town. The chief inspector sat facing me with another policeman next to him taking notes. I took a deep breath. I had been interviewed before. I would be interviewed again. This was not – I told myself – something to worry about.

  ‘Stephen Sefton,’ said the chief inspector, when I sat down. ‘Stephen. Sefton.’

  ‘That’s me,’ I agreed.

  He had disassembled his pipe, which sat before him on the desk. During the course of our conversation he slowly and deliberately cleaned it, dislodging all the unpleasant pieces of coagulated tobacco, and put it back together.

  ‘Pretty handy in a fight, aren’t we, Mr Sefton?’

  ‘Am I?’ I said. I immediately started to worry.

  ‘You certainly put up a good show at the wrestling.’

  Ah, the wrestling. Not Marlborough Street.

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘You suppose?’ The chief inspector nodded and made a long face. ‘You suppose. Not sure, eh? It was a famous victory, Mr Sefton! A famous victory! There was big Gerald Taylor, undefeated for many years in these parts, champion at Grasmere, and yet you came sidling along, half his size, and floored him just like that. Very impressive. Very impressive.’

  I made no reply. He did something with a pipe cleaner.

  ‘How do you explain that, then, Mr Sefton?’

  ‘Beginner’s luck?’

  ‘Really? Beginner’s luck. Nothing to do at all with you being in Spain and fighting with the Republicans then? Hand to hand, was it?’

  ‘How do you know I was in Spain?’

  ‘We have our methods, Mr Sefton. It’s not only you and your friend Mr Morley who like to go around asking questions – it’s my job.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And let’s just say I had a feeling about you, when I met you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Not a good feeling.’

  I gulped nervously.

  ‘You see there are certain people, Mr Sefton, who seem to get … nervous around the police.’

  ‘Are there?’ I was doing my best to stay calm.

  ‘Yes, and when you’ve been in the job as long as me you learn to be able to identify them, and then you start to ask questions about them. That’s the nature of police work. Pre-emptive police work, I call it. Knowing who to look for, and what to look for.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And I just got that sense around you, Mr Sefton, that sense that you are … a little nervous, shall we say. Which is strange. Educated man, like yourself. Everything going for you. Assistant to a famous writer. So I just started wondering if there was anything you’d have to be nervous about. And …’ He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. ‘But I shouldn’t be doing all the talking, should I?’

  I was very happy for him to be doing all the talking.

  There was a long silence. If this room wasn’t the hanging room then it was certainly a place of great discomfort.

  ‘Well?’ said the chief inspector.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Is there anything you want to tell me about, Mr Sefton?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no.’

  ‘You might find it a relief to be able to tell someone about it.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I don’t know,
Mr Sefton.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything I want to tell you about.’ I didn’t even want to tell him that I didn’t want to tell him anything.

  ‘You see,’ said the chief inspector, looking very pleased with himself, having finally put his pipe back together, and leaning forward in his chair again. ‘You see, that’s what I thought you’d say. So I took the liberty of calling Scotland Yard, to see if we could find out anything about you. And lo and behold it seems you are a member of the Communist Party, is that right?’ The pipe was lit and resumed its rightful place back in his mouth.

  ‘Was a member,’ I said. ‘Which is not illegal, is it, as far as I’m aware?’

  ‘No, no, that’s not illegal at all. Not at all. It’s just what being a member of the Communist Party might … lead you into.’

  ‘I’m not aware that it led me into anything.’

  ‘Apart from going to Spain?’

  ‘I rather regret going to Spain,’ I said.

  ‘Regret it? Really? And why’s that?’

  ‘For a number of reasons.’

  ‘Kill anybody out there, while you were there?’

  ‘It was a war,’ I said. ‘And in a war people get hurt.’

  ‘And did you find you got a taste for hurting people, Mr Sefton?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘On the contrary.’

  I was terrified that at any moment he might start asking me about my whereabouts on the night a man was found beaten to death outside Marlborough Street Magistrates’ Court.

  ‘Can I just ask what this has to do with the train crash, or the death of Maisie Taylor?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me,’ said the chief inspector.

  ‘As far as I’m aware my membership of the Communist Party has nothing to do with the murder of Maisie Taylor, or the train crash.’

  ‘Well, that’s good then, isn’t it? Because if I were to find out that there were any connection between you … and the crash … and the death of Maisie Taylor, or if there were anything you knew about and had failed to tell me about, even though I had given you ample opportunity to speak to me about it, then I think you would understand that I would be very disappointed. And so would a court of law, should it come to that.’

  ‘Again, there’s nothing I can think of that might be of interest to you in your investigations.’

  ‘Quite sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s fine, then, Mr Sefton. Fine.’

  He leaned back again in his chair and dismissed the policeman who had been taking notes, who left the room. Only the two of us remained.

  ‘You might just want to think about it overnight – and then you could always come and see me in the morning, after you check out of your hotel.’

  ‘Check out?’

  ‘That’s right. As I explained to Mr Morley earlier, and as I pointed out to his charming daughter, and as I believe I may have already explained to you, I’m expecting all of you to be leaving Westmorland tomorrow. I’ve asked the hotel to let me know when you’re on your way.’

  ‘And if we’re not?’

  ‘If you’re not I’m afraid I shall be charging you all with obstructing a police investigation and you will find not only that you and your friends are not welcome in Westmorland, sir, you will find that you are not welcome in Lancashire, Yorkshire, Suffolk, Surrey, or indeed the Outer Hebrides – indeed everywhere on these islands where there’s a police station or a policeman. Policing is a family, you see, Mr Sefton. And if you upset one member of a family you upset them all. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Good. In which case, I think our business here is done. Thank you for your time.’

  As I came out of the hanging room and down the stone steps I tripped and nearly fell in the dark passage. I maintain what I said about the architecture of imprisonment and punishment: there is nothing good or noteworthy about it. I walked away from Appleby’s lovely Georgian police station as quickly as possible in the pouring rain, and across the bridge, past St Lawrence’s Church at the bottom of Boroughgate and up to the Tufton Arms. I needed a drink. As far as I was concerned we couldn’t get out of Westmorland fast enough.

  CHAPTER 17

  EJECTA, REJECTA, DEJECTA

  SITTING IN THE LOUNGE of the Tufton Arms was Nancy. As always she seemed perkish, alert, and yet also somehow menacing. With her big round eyes, her sleek hair and a dark grey mannish suit matched with a bright white shirt, she looked as though at any moment she might pounce, a cat waiting by a mouse hole. She glanced up as I entered.

  ‘Nancy,’ I said.

  ‘You,’ she replied, disappointed. A cat who had caught the wrong mouse. ‘Have you seen Miriam?’

  ‘No,’ I lied. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just because. I’ve been kicked out of my digs. I expect Jenkins had a hand in it.’

  ‘Jenkins? Isn’t he still helping police with their enquiries?’

  ‘Not any more. They released him this morning.’ Her perky good looks deserted her for a moment and her face turned bitter and scornful; the face she’d grow into, I thought, with age. ‘He’s off the hook and back at the dig – and absolutely furious.’

  The Tufton Arms

  ‘I never really thought he had anything to do with Maisie’s murder,’ I said.

  ‘Well,’ said Nancy. ‘Of course it doesn’t mean he had nothing to do with it. It just means there’s no evidence at the moment. Men like Jenkins. All men, in fact, they …’ She thought better of whatever she was about to say.

  ‘Anyway,’ I said.

  ‘If you see Miriam, can you tell her I’m here? I was hoping I might be able to catch her.’

  ‘I’ll certainly do my best. Where are you staying?’

  ‘Well.’ She laughed. She had that habit – shared only by the very confident and the terribly shy – of laughing at things that weren’t obviously or necessarily funny. ‘The thing is, I haven’t quite got that sorted yet. I was hoping maybe to talk to Miriam about it.’

  ‘You know we’re leaving tomorrow?’

  ‘No?’ She looked absolutely crestfallen – her features again crumpled. ‘Why?’

  ‘We have a book to write,’ I said, not entirely untruthfully, though even I realised that The County Guides: Westmorland was now far behind schedule. ‘If I see her tonight I’ll tell her you were looking for her.’ I had absolutely no intention of doing so.

  But I did think I should probably let Morley know that Jenkins had been released without charge, so I went upstairs and knocked on his door. He opened it quickly: he was always able to move swiftly and silently, like a tweedy ghoul or a brogue-footed deer in a forest. He glided and shimmered, in fact – like a Jeeves. This could be enormously disconcerting. He seemed to be expecting me.

  ‘Sefton! At last! Come in, come in, come in.’

  His room had been arranged, as always, perfectly to his liking. We could have been in any room in any hotel on any of our journeys: the whole country was his study, and his study was always the same. The window was wide open (‘Air, Sefton! Wild air! Fresh air! Thought-nestling air! A man needs air to think!’). The bed had been moved under the open window (‘Sleep should be a ventilation of body and of mind, Sefton! Not a clam-like closing up!’). And up against the wall stood a desk arrayed – from left to right – with a writing slope, a typewriter, a set of boxes and cabinets full of writing requisites, piles of paper, an expanding bookrest filled with reference works, the egg-timer, a tumbler and a jug of barley water. This was of no particular interest: this was the way it always was. There was something else, though, something urgent that he wanted to show me.

  ‘Look!’ he said, pointing with both hands to his little bedside table. ‘What do you think of those?’

  Those appeared to be two small piles of camel-coloured dirt, like two tiny crumbled pyramids set upon the glass-topped table.

  ‘Erm.’ Animal deposits? Sand? Soot? Some sort of fine powder? Paint? Human remains?

  ‘D
o they look the same to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Come on! Look carefully, Sefton! You haven’t looked properly at all! Go on, go on! Have a closer look.’

  I leaned over the table and looked down.

  ‘Closer!’ said Morley. ‘Inspect them! Interrogate them!’

  I wasn’t entirely sure how I was supposed to interrogate two small piles of similar-looking camel-coloured dirt, but anyway I knelt down and examined them at eye level. After a thorough inspection I confirmed that they did indeed appear to be … two small piles of similar-looking camel-coloured dirt.

  ‘You’re sure they look the same?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘OK. Good. Now have a quick sniff.’

  ‘A sniff?’

  ‘Don’t inhale though.’

  This was turning into a scene from one of Delaney’s Soho clubs.

  ‘Go on! Go on! Quick sniff, just.’

  I took a little sniff, first of one pile, then the other.

  ‘Smell the same?’ asked Morley.

  ‘Yes,’ I said hesitantly. They smelled to me – approximately – of absolutely nothing.

  ‘Good. Now, have a taste.’

  ‘A taste?’ Some sort of spices perhaps?

  ‘Yes, go ahead. Just dip your finger in.’

  ‘What is this stuff?’

  ‘Just … try it, Sefton. I’d be interested to know your opinion. Go on.’

  I dipped my finger in the pile of dust on the left.

  ‘Lick your finger first, man! You won’t get anything otherwise.’

  I licked my finger and dipped it again.

  ‘Good! Go on then. Taste it.’

  I tasted it.

  ‘It tastes like brown-coloured dirt,’ I said.

  ‘Good! Now try this one.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just try it.’

  I tried the other one.

  ‘It also tastes like brown-coloured dirt,’ I said.