The Last Train to Scarborough (27 page)

The
engine simmered outside the Scarborough shed like a prize exhibit, freshly
cleaned and with not a whiff of steam coming from the injector overflow. The
tall fitter, who stood by it with the Shed Super alongside
him,
explained that he'd left the steam pressure from yesterday's
run to decline overnight and then, first thing in the morning, he'd replaced
the valve, having by a miracle had exactly the right part lying about in the
shed. Steam had then been raised again; the Super had telephoned through to
Control, who'd told the signalmen along the line to expect to see the engine
running back light to York very shortly, and meanwhile some lad had gone at the
engine with rape oil so that the boiler fairly gleamed.

'But
we can't take it back today,' I said.

The
Super had a white flower in his top pocket; the fitter had a mucky rag in his.
The fitter was twice the size of the Shed Super and half the thickness, but
they both now folded their arms and looked knives at me. Tommy was up on the
footplate. On the way over to the engine shed, I'd told him all about the
goings-on at Paradise and he'd accepted that he couldn't come into the house
himself but he still held out against finding a relief fireman and running back
to York on the J Class. He wanted to stay in Scarborough for as long as I did.

Suddenly,
I'd had enough of the pantomime; I decided to

get
down to cases with the two blokes.

'Look
here,' I said, 'the fact is, I'm a copper.'

'You
sure?
'
asked the Super, and I produced my warrant card from my suit-coat pocket.

He
inspected it closely, and the fitter had a good look as well.

'You're
not a fireman then?' the Shed Super enquired presently.

'I'm
on a bit of secret police work,' I said, returning the card to my pocket, 'or
at any rate, I
was.
If you want the chapter and verse, you can telephone through
to Chief Inspector Saul Weatherill at the York railway police office - and your
opposite number at York North Shed's in on it as well. Best thing is if you ask
them to send a new crew.'

'Here,'
shouted Tommy, who'd now climbed up onto the footplate, 'you've sorted out this
fire hole door!'

'Cylinder
oil!' the fitter called up, then he went back to eyeing me.

'Can
I have a read of your ledgers?' I asked the Shed Super.

He
looked dazed as I explained: 'I want to know how many times a Leeds bloke
called Ray Blackburn fired engines into Scarborough.'

'Name
rings a bell,' said the Shed Super.

But
it did more than that with the fitter.

'Blackburn?'
he said. 'He's dead.'

'He
is,' I said, 'but how do you know?'

'Scarborough Mercury
,' he said, as we turned and
entered the shed.

Scarborough
being a terminus, every engine that came in had to go on the turntable before
heading out, and the turntable was in the shed. The number, make and point of origin
of all the engines that came through would be recorded in a ledger, together
with the names of the crew, and those ledgers were kept in the Super's office,
which was in the back of the shed. We exchanged the falling rain for the
shouts, clanging and smoke smell as we made towards those ledgers. But it
turned out that the big fitter had all the vital entries in his head.

As
we stood in the Super's office, supping tea from metal cups, the fitter
explained that the name of any crew man who came into the shed more than half a
dozen times would get about, and Blackburn had been through on just about that
many occasions. He then related the fact I already knew: at the time of his
last turn, Blackburn had been running Leeds-York, and had volunteered to fire
his train on the extra leg to Scarborough, the York fireman booked for the job
having been ill. I'd assumed this Scarborough trip to be a one-off until the
sight of Les White had reminded me that very few railway men go into any
station just once.

In
fact, according to the fitter, Blackburn had done half a dozen
Leeds-Scarborough turns before his final run. These were always on a Saturday,
and they'd been Saturdays in the season when extra Scarborough trains were laid
on from all the main towns of Yorkshire. The ledgers - when the Super handed
them to me - confirmed the fitter's recollections, much to his own quiet
satisfaction: Blackburn had fired into Scarborough on the final two Saturdays
of August, and on all four in September. He hadn't worked into the town again
until Sunday, 19 October, which had proved his final trip. The other coppers
who'd investigated his disappearance must have known about these earlier trips,
but had evidently thought them of no account. Had the Chief known of them? If
so, why had he not told me? To my way of thinking, these earlier trips changed
the whole picture.

In
that little office, which was like something between an office and a coal
bunker, the fitter and the Shed Super had gone back to eyeing me with arms
folded, as if to say, 'Now what do you mean to do with this data?'

I
put them off, for I didn't quite know, as I told Tommy when we came out of the
shed. I would just keep it in mind when I went back to Paradise that someone in
the house might have had dealings with Blackburn before he pitched up on that
final Sunday.

It
was raining hard now and sea, town and sky seemed in the process of merging. We
came off the Scarborough railway lands by a new route that took us through a
black yard full of wagon bogies and out onto a street of biggish villas,
getting on for half of which were guest houses. The window sign 'Vacancies'
came up over and again, and I imagined dozens of lonely landladies watching
Tommy and me from behind their net curtains and hoping we'd turn in at the
gate. How did they last from back-end of one year to May of the next?

There
came the long scream of an engine whistle as we walked down the street, and it
sounded like a cry of alarm on behalf of the whole town. I'd meant to get shot
of Tommy as soon as possible and head directly back to the house, but it was
still only eleven, and the sight of him limping in the rain while carrying the
two kit bags made me think I ought to find a gentler way to put him off.

We
came out onto a wide road that curved down towards the Prom between two great
walls. It was as though the real purpose of this road was to channel tons of
water into the sea. Huge, rusted iron plates were set into the bricks, and they
too seemed part of a secret drainage system. We followed it down, and when we
hit the Prom the wind hit
us.
The sea was black and white and
crazed, with the waves all smashing into each other, and exploding against the
sea wall. A tram came up, and passed by with clanging bell, and it seemed to be
floating along, such was the quantity of water swirling over the lines.

There
was a refuge close to hand, however, in the shape of a very pretty little ale
house. The name 'Mallinson's' was written in a curve on the window, going over
lace curtains that blocked out the lower part of the glass. How thick was the
glass of that window? Quarter of an inch, but once Tommy and I were inside, we
found that it held off the German Sea very nicely.

It
was a cosy little place - dainty for a pub, with lace curtains, upholstered
chairs, tables covered with white cloths, and knick-knacks on the
mantel-shelves of the two fireplaces. It was the sort of sea-side place that
ought not to be open in winter, and ghostly somehow as a result, but there
were a fair few in. The drill was that you were served ale from jugs by good-
looking serving girls who toured the room carrying trays. I bought glasses of
beer for Tommy and myself, and then left him to warm himself by the fire as I
stood steaming in my great-coat while reading the Paradise witness statements,
stopping only to look at the water falling against the windows, which was now
coming more like silent waves than rain.

On
the top-most piece of paper, someone had written the word 'Blackburn' and
underlined it twice. The other papers, attached by a pin, were the statements.
Everyone in Paradise sounded different - higher class - in their statements.
All save Fielding.

Amanda Rickerby's was first. She said:
I make it my business to see
that my guests are not only well catered for in their ordinary wants, but also
that they should be happy and really enjoy their time in Paradise. However, I
can only go so far as regards the latter. Mr Blackburn seemed to me shy and
reserved. He was perhaps rather low about something. He was what I call 'deep'.

He
had apparently knocked on the door of the house at eight o'clock, and enquired
about a room, having seen the advertisement for the house at what Amanda
Rickerby called 'the engine hall' at Scarborough station. Miss Rickerby herself
had answered the door to him. He had by her account 'preferred' the small room
at the very top of the house:
I think on account of the sea
view from there, which is a particularly charming one, and you have the
benefit even at night, the harbour being so prettily lit up.
He
had remained in the room until Adam Rickerby had rung the hand bell for supper
at 'about eight- twenty or so'.

She
said that he'd sat quietly at supper, gone for a walk with 'one of our
residents, Mr Vaughan -1 think to a public house.' While sitting in the kitchen,
she'd heard them return:
They were admitted to the house by Mr Fielding, I
believe, but I only heard them coming in. I did not see them.
To
the best of her knowledge, Vaughan and Fielding had then sat talking in the
sitting room, and Ray Blackburn had gone up to his room at the top, which was
now mine. She understood that he'd later brought his boots down to the kitchen,
but she'd
left
the kitchen by then, and had gone to bed. She had not seen
him again; she had nothing further to add.

Howard Fielding 'had found Mr Blackburn a very thoughtful and pleasant
gentleman, but no conversationalist'. He went on:
Having lately had a business
connection with the North Eastern Railway, and having some knowledge of the
Company, I tried to draw him out over supper on railway topics. We touched, as
I remember, on locomotive boiler capacities, the role of the fireman as
compared to that of the driver, and the railway speed records. But Mr Blackburn
only responded to the degree compatible with ordinary politeness. After
supper, at about nine-thirty, my friend and fellow resident, Mr Vaughan, then
invited Mr Blackburn to take a stroll with him. I believe they walked to a
public house. They returned to the boarding house perhaps forty- five minutes
later -1 admitted them myself - and Mr Blackburn, looking perhaps rather
out-of-sorts, went directly upstairs. Mr Vaughan and I then took a nightcap in
the sitting room.

I
thought: That's quaint - 'nightcap'.

Fielding's
statement continued:
At eleven-thirty, I took my boots downstairs to the kitchen for cleaning. Adam
Rickerby is generally on hand to clean boots between eleven and midnight. After
giving my boots to the boy, I returned to my room, passing Mr Blackburn on the
stairs. He was taking his boots down. I said, 'Good night', and he merely
grunted by way of reply. I never saw Mr Blackburn again.

I turned over the leaf, and came to the words: 'Adam Rickerby,
co-proprietor of Paradise Guest House, saith...' and saw that the lad had been
magically given the powers of speech by the Leeds coppers:
Mr Blackburn was at all times a
quiet gentleman. I noticed he was quiet when he first came into the house, and
he continued in that way. Quiet, I mean. I cooked the supper on the evening in
question, as I generally do in the winter time. It was a hot supper. Mr
Blackburn ate all his food. He went for a drink with Mr Vaughan. These
gentlemen came back at I don't know what time. At half past eleven or so I was
cleaning the boots in the kitchen, and sitting with my sister. She was reading
to me from the papers. I am not educated up to reading. Mr Fielding came in,
late on, with his boots. Mr Blackburn came after with his. I cleaned the boots
and went to bed. I sleep on the ground floor, in the room that used to be the
wash room next to the scullery. I heard nothing in the night. On waking, at
half past five, I did my early chores until six-thirty. No-one else was about.
I then took Mr Fielding up his boots and early cup of tea. I returned to the
kitchen, and collected Mr Blackburn's boots and tea. I took these up to his
room with hot water. He was not there.

I turned over the page, and read, 'Theodore Vaughan, resident of
Paradise Guest House,
saith ..And
there were two pages for him as against
one for everyone else:
I found him a pleasant enough chap, rather thoughtful. Over supper, I formed
the distinct idea that he was happy with his own company. But it is my custom
of a Sunday evening to take a walk; I was putting my cape on in the hall when
Mr Blackburn happened to come by. I asked whether he would like to come along
with me, and he agreed. In the course of our strolling we passed the Two
Mariners, a pleasant public house. I suggested that we take a glass of beer.
Again, Mr Blackburn agreed. I can't recall our conversation in detail - something
of Scarborough history, something of railways. We were back at the house soon
after ten o'clock, less than an hour after our departure. Mr Fielding let us
in, since I'd forgotten my key. Mr Blackburn then went up to his room, and I
went into the sitting room, where I smoked a cigar and drank some sherry with
Mr Fielding. I went up to bed not long after eleven. I believe that Mr Fielding
went up later. I occupy the room directly beneath the one used by Mr Blackburn.
At first I was busy about my own preparations for sleep and going between my
room and the bathroom on the landing opposite, and so was not paying attention
to the noises from overhead. I am led to believe that Mr Blackburn carried his
boots downstairs before midnight, and there were perhaps some noises that
indicated that activity, but I could not say for certain. I was very tired, and
fell asleep shortly after.