Murder At Deviation Junction Read Free Page A

reading a picture
paper - Household Words or some such. I caught sight of the question: 'A
lemon cake for Christmas?'
        The
man lifted his feet and rested them on the seat over opposite, at which Harry's
mouth opened wide. I knew what was coming, but could see no way of stopping it.
        'It's
not allowed!' said Harry, pointing at the boots.
        Lydia
shook her head, though she was almost laughing at the same time. The man
coloured up and - continuing with his note- making - took his feet off the
seat.
        'Don't
bother on our account,' I said to this clerk-on-the-move, who acknowledged me
once again with a nod.
        Harry
was now looking out of the window.
        'The
boy's quite right though, isn't he?' the woman was saying. 'Where would we be if
everyone put their boots on the seats?'
        She
looked at the man.
        'Where
would we be, Stephen?'
        'I'm
sure I don't know, Violet,' he said, hardly looking up from his scribbling.
        (She
did not look like a Violet - too pale.)
        'I
think it comes from his being a policeman's son,' said Lydia, at which the
clerk looked up over his glasses at me.
        'The
man two doors down from us in Wimbledon is on the force,' said the woman. 'He's
quite high up - an inspector, I think.'
        She
was pretty but, like her husband, small in scale - like a child playing at
being an adult. Whenever she spoke, she caused a commotion, or so she seemed to
think, for she rearranged herself afterwards, refolding the gloves that rested
on top of her basket and patting down her skirts.
        'He's
only been in the street for a year,' she went on. 'Well, we all have. But the
milkman for the area, who was known to give short measure ... he doesn't try it
in Lumley Road.'
        She
looked at us all.
        '...that's
because of the Inspector.'
        'James
is on the North Eastern Railway force,' said the wife, after a moment.
'Detective grade. He's going for his promotion on Christmas Eve.'
        And
because we were in company, she left off the words: 'He'd better get it as
well.'
        Lydia
had spent the past two years fretting about our futures - mine and hers both.
Would she end up at the kitchen sink? That was her leading anxiety. She was a
New Woman, forward thinking. There was to be a sex revolution, and you knew it
was coming by the speed at which Lydia went at her typewriting. Whenever Harry
slept, or was at school, she would be at the machine in the parlour by which
she got her living, writing letters for the Co-operative Movement or the
women's cause in general or the Co-operative Women's movement, which was a
frightening combination of the two. She got a little money by this, and now
she'd been offered a position in the Northern Division of the Co-operative
Movement: half-time secretary to Mrs Somebody-or-other. Three days a week, ten
bob a day. Very fair wages, all considered. Lydia was to give her answer by the
first week of the New Year, and she would only be able to say yes if I achieved
promotion to detective sergeant. That would be a big leap, for it would all but
double my pay, letting us take on a girl who could do the weekly wash and mind
Harry for the three days.
        My
interview was to be with the chief of the force himself, Captain Fairclough,
and it was fixed for twelve noon in the spot we were now leaving behind:
Middlesbrough, to which the headquarters of the North Eastern Railway Police
had lately removed, having been first at Newcastle.
        We
rolled through Redcar station, for we were semi-fast to Whitby, where we would
change for York. I caught a glimpse of the beach as we rocked through Redcar
station. It was snow- covered. A torn white flag planted in the sand flew the
word 'TEAS'.
        The
ladies in the compartment were developing a conversation.
        'Do
you wash at home?'
        'Some,'
the wife said, very cautiously. 'Only handkerchiefs and the like.'
        That
was a