The Necropolis Railway (18 page)

'Mr Stanley,' said the saturated lady, 'have you ever heard "Brightly Dawns Our Wedding Day" by Mr Sullivan? Oh, it is a most excellent ditty with such a pretty tune. I heard it myself, performed at a Chappell Ballad Concert in St James's Church Hall.'

'What has this to do with extramural interment?' asked the man in the salt-and-pepper suit, looking straight ahead, and not at the high-spirited old lady.

'Mr Stanley, I hold St James's Church Hall to be the very place for the address. It is always packed to the rafters! Here you are rather out of the way. There you will be in the thick of things. Think of it, Mr Stanley - the address on interment following hard upon a zither recital or a pianoforte concert. People will naturally linger on after the one and more than likely flock in for a look at the other.'

Stanley said nothing to this but just slowly began to frown.

‘I
too have a question,' said the man in the salt-and-pepper suit. 'Shortly before the establishment of the Necropolis and the incorporation of your company, seven commercial cemeteries were created in the suburbs of London.'

"They are of a limited capacity,' said Mr Stanley wearily.

'They are Kensal Green,' said the man, 'West Norwood, Highgate, Nunhead, Abney Park and Brompton and Tower Hamlets, and between them they hold a good many dead. There followed legislation allowing the creation of further burial places in London, and of late the boroughs have been required to supply grave-sites too. You speak of the seventy thousand interred on top of one another in the two hundred square yards of St Martin-in-the-Fields, but no such horror can occur again, and nor need it, for the fact is that wholly adequate provision is now made within the boundaries of the city and the Necropolis is nothing but a vast anachronism.'

I had this fellow down as a rich sort of bloke who had nothing better to do with his time than go around putting a crimp into the dreams of others - and Stanley did not answer him back but merely said, in his ordinary voice: 'Are there any other questions?'

'Mr Stanley,' said the woman, 'when were you last at the cemetery?'

'Some four months ago,' said Stanley. 'Its picturesque beauties were at their height.'

'Did you see the Actor's Acre in bloom?' said the woman. 'I should love to have seen that. There is a part of the cemetery, sir,' she said, leaning over at an unnatural angle in order to address the man in the salt-and-pepper suit, 'reserved for entertainers of one sort or another. I have my name down for a plot there because I am a theatrical myself.'

‘
I
can see that perfectly well, madam,' said the man as he picked up his Derby hat and started walking towards the door.

I followed him out and down the stairs, leaving poor Mr Stanley to the theatrical lady.

I was back in my lodge ten minutes later feeling blue, too tired to think straight, and looking down at all the pretty doxies on Lower Marsh - one under every lamp now. I would go to work in the morning: I might as well get the boot before returning home. A train went over the viaduct and rattled my room, but did not bother the women, who were like the flowers that grow along the railway embankments. I lay back down on my bed and read, in the edition of
The
Railway
Magazine
that Dad had sent, of some notable railway journeys in Portugal that some bearded fellow had taken, but I put it aside almost immediately. It is a paper for boys, I thought, and I pushed that journal off my truckle bed because I had other business there for the minute.

Chapter Eighteen

Wednesday 9 December - Thursday 17 December

I turned up for work next day all ready to be stood down, but when I booked on, Mr Crook's eyebrows remained in place, and there was no trouble from him. The fires were going into the engines as normal, with the background of happy crashing and men whistling. As usual I walked past a hundred heads that were all looking the other way, and made straight for the Governor's office, which I was sure would on this occasion prove to be my place of execution. However, I came across him before I got there.

Coughing fearfully, he took me to Twenty-Nine and asked me to clean it.

I mumbled, 'I am very sorry to say, Mr Nightingale, that when I was on the ride out yesterday with Mr Hunt, some things passed between us that -'

But the Governor cut me off, saying, 'New trimmings are needed in all pots as well.'

As I worked on that engine, my head was spirtning from the complication of everything and the smell of the linseed rags, and that night I was fair on the rocks for a sleep, but after a while the work became a sort of tonic, and I don't believe that Twenty-Nine had ever looked better by the time I'd finished going at her.

I turned in without supper, and without replying to Smith. I wrote out my reply to that very vexing gentleman on the following day, the Friday, taking an age over setting down very little. Every word I could think of seemed highly dangerous. I cursed Smith for putting me to this, and I cursed the half-link for awaking all his suspicions of them in the first place. In the end I said nothing more than that I would be willing to meet him at his lodge if that was quite convenient, but leaving off time and date. Dad would have been horrified, for the usual compliments and pleasant touches were all left off. I was still set on going home, and with the decision made I felt easier: I had no doubt that I would never keep any appointment with Smith.

Things went on as usual at the shed until the Thursday of the following week, 17 December, when Crook, handing me the token, said,
‘I
was thinking of you today.' 'Good thoughts, I hope, Mr Crook.'

'Not especially,' he said, and took a long drink of tea. 'There's been an event,' he went on, his eyebrows jumping. 'An event touching on your arrival here.'

'Well
...'
I said, 'What?'

'It's not my place to tell you.'

I walked out of Crook's room fast and in a high state of anxiety. The first thing I saw was my handiwork on show for all to see, for there was Twenty-Nine, gleaming, in full steam at the front of the shed and looking somehow like the point of an arrow on a day of marvellous blueness. I saw a fellow inside her feeding the fire irons into their hole. It was Vincent, and he was getting ready for a ride, all right - he must have finally passed up to the half-link.

I began running along the barrow boards, crossing a hundred yards of track in no time, and when I came close I saw the driver was Barney Rose. He was wearing a black armband and lounging against the handbrake reading the
Sportsman's
Daily.

'What's up?' I said.

'A. R. Wisdom is the new amateur billiard champion,' he said.

'No sporting matter too small to be missed,' said Vincent. Then he turned to me and said, 'We've got a special on.' He meant the funeral of a toff. "They've put you up, then,' I said.

He nodded, as if too full of happiness to do anything more.

'As from today, I'm a full half-link man.' He had a grin on him like a street knocker - I'd never seen his teeth before.

Then I realised what he'd said. 'Who's dead?' I asked.

Vincent smiled at me. He seemed to have no objection to my questioning this time, but he wasn't answering. Rose was saying to him, 'Have you heard of A. R. Wisdom?' Vincent was at the injectors, looking down from the cab, checking the flow from the exhaust before bringing in the cut off and sending the water into the boiler.

'Who's dead?' I asked again over the rushing of the water and the clanking of the pipe and Barney Rose saying,
'I
never have and that's for certain. All the same, there was a capital attendance at the game.' As he turned over a page I asked my question again, even though I knew very well by now what the answer would be.

Vincent leant down to turn off the injector, then stood up and looked at me. 'Mr Rowland Smith,' he said, sticking out his chin.
‘I
believe you were acquainted with the gentleman.'

I looked at him as hard as I could, and he did the same to me, but at the last moment I turned away because I fancied he was going to grin.

I thought: if I had replied to Smith earlier he might still be alive.

Rose took out his pipe, sneezed, and said: 'Brilliant innings by Bosanquet yesterday.' Then I heard the Governor walking up, or rather I heard the sound of his cough. He asked me to come down from Twenty-Nine, and I followed him out over the glittering tracks, with Rose and Vincent no doubt staring after us.

There was a newspaper under his arm, and he passed it to me folded in such a way that I had a choice of two articles:
'new ambassador to
A
merica
', I read, '
cordial speeches'
- that was the wrong one. The other was under a headline reading, '
in the coroners' courts
'. 'In the Camden Court,' I read, 'Mr Laurence Drew conducted an enquiry with reference to the death by fire
in his apartment of Mr Rowland
Hubert Smith, aged thirty-nine, of Grenville Mansions, Dartmouth Park
...'

So there were no letters after his name, and here was the proof. I continued to read:

Mr George Collins, a doorkeeper, said that he had noticed smoke pouring into the lobby at 7 p.m. on Friday 11th of December. On rushing upstairs he determined that the smoke was coming from the apartment of Mr Smith, which was to the rear of the building on the lower floor, but the smoke was too dense and the heat too great for him to enter. After raising the alarm within the building, Mr Collins was able swiftly to alert the fire brigade at Kentish Town, the apartment block being equipped with a telephone. The brigade turned out shortly after, at 7.30 p.m., and they succeeded in dousing the flames at 8.30 p.m., having run their hoses into the garden of the apartments and directed them through the windows of the flat. Mr Smith was found on the remains of his bed, horribly burnt, and quite dead.

Mr Collins stated that he had spoken a few words with the deceased on his arrival at the flat from his business. He had said that he was tired and in need of a good rest, but otherwise seemed to be in the best of spirits. Mr Collins also stated that Mr Smith was a prodigious smoker of cigarettes. He had never seen him without one in his hand. The coroner conjectured that he had lain down on his bed for a brief rest with a cigarette still in his hand, and that this had sadly caused the bed to catch alight. The jury returned a verdict of accidental death.

When I'd finished the article, I told the Governor of the letter I'd received and the one I'd posted two days later, which Smith would have received on the day of his death.

He nodded for a while, and said, "The police think the fire might have had a bit of help.'

'A bit of help from what?'

The Governor took a box of cigars from his pocket. 'A can of paraffin.'

'That's not in the paper.'

'They don't let on that they know that kind of thing. He was done in
’
he said, taking a cigar from the box. 'Will there be a police investigation?' 'There will if I can help it
’
he said.

We strolled over the barrow boards, further away from Twenty-Nine. We both looked about to see whether Vincent and Rose were watching us, but Rose had gone underneath and Vincent was at his fire. There were engines coming off-shed all about us, and I had the sensation of many other men turning around on their footplates to keep me in view for as long as possible.

'Smith told me he believed Henry Taylor was murdered,' said the Governor. He lit the cigar, and neither one of us spoke for quite a while. 'He had the idea that you were a bright spark
’
he said, blowing smoke.

‘I
was sent here to be his eyes and ears,' I said quite suddenly.

The Governor nodded once.

'Why didn't he tell me that's what he was about?' I said.

‘I
expect
...
Because then you would have
known.'

Crook the gatekeeper was prowling past us. The Governor smoked for a little while longer, looking across to Twenty-Nine, which was doing the same. 'As from this morning,' he said, 'Vincent is firing on the half-link. I couldn't keep him off any longer.'

'Why were you keeping him off to begin with, Mr Nightingale?'

'Because I didn't like him; I was obliged to give him a few firing turns, but I wanted him in the shed as much as possible where I could watch him.'

'He's Hunt's nephew, isn't he?'