The Last Train to Scarborough (18 page)

'We're trying a little bit of
French cooking, Mr Stringer,' she said, indicating her slow-witted brother at
the range.

'Oh,' I said, 'what?'

'Scotch broth,' she said.

I heard a sniff from behind me,
and Theo Vaughan was there.

'There's nothing particularly
French about Scotch broth,' he said, nodding at me. There was no sign of shame
at his late behaviour in the Two Mariners. He had a glass in his hand, and was
making for one of the objects on the table - the beer barrel laid in for the
guests. The kitchen seemed to be open house for everyone, and Vaughan was now
filling his glass from the barrel tap.

'The Scotch broth is just the
starter,' Miss Rickerby said, then: 'I thought you didn't care for this beer,
Mr Vaughan.'

'Oh, a pint of the Two is fine
after a couple of the Four,' he said. 'Ask any beer man.'

'I suppose that, being that bit
more drunk, you just stop caring,' said Amanda Rickerby, grinning at me.

The fact was that our trip to the
pub had been nothing to do with the beer. Vaughan had wanted to take me out to
show me the cards  But why?

The range was set before a recess
that might once have been the fireplace. It was too big to fit in, and perhaps
accounted for the heat of the house. All the other fireplaces were small, after
all. Adam Rickerby stood at the range next to a stew pot. He was holding a
knife over an egg, and eyeing his sister with a look of panic.

'Gently now,' she said, with half
a glance in his direction.

The knife clattered down on the
egg, and all its innards dropped into the broth.

' That
weren't
right,' he said, as though it had all been his sister's fault, at which Amanda
Rickerby for once turned away from me, and gave her full attention to her
brother.

'It won't hurt to have the whole
egg in, Adam,' she said. 'It won't hurt at all.'

'I've to put salt? Pepper?'

'That's right. But go easy,
love.'

Vaughan was eyeing the lad with a
look of dislike.

'I'm off through,' he said, and
he went into the dining room, or so I supposed.

'It's the second course that's
the French dish,' said Amanda Rickerby, turning back towards me. 'I can't
pronounce it. Mr Fielding found the recipe in one of his books some weeks ago,
and we thought we'd try it tonight.'

She slid a bit of paper across
the table to me. At the top somebody had written 'Croquette de Boeuf'.

'That's French all right,' I
said.

'Can you go through Sunday
without a treat of some kind, Mr Stringer?' she enquired. 'Don't tell me: you go
to a Morning Service every Sabbath without fail?'

'That's not what I call a treat,'
I said.

'Nor me,' she said, and took from
behind the knife polisher the object she had hidden: a glass of red wine, and
she boldly took a sip, as if to say, 'There's nothing to be ashamed of in a
glass of wine.'

Her brother was removing a tin
tray from the oven, making the room even hotter. The stuff inside it was red
and lumpy - smelled all right though.

'Is it done, our lass?' he said,
holding it in the hot cloth and offering it towards his sister.

'It's beautiful, Adam,' she said.
'Mr Stringer,' she ran on, turning back to me, 'supper is about to be served.'

'I'll go into the dining room
then,' I said.

'Good
thinking
,'
she said. 'And do take a glass of beer with you.'

She indicated a line of glasses
on a shelf near the door. I took one and helped myself from the barrel.

'Shall I take one for Mr
Fielding?' I enquired.

'No,' said the brother, looking
up at me sharply as he put the meat into a serving dish, and then he added, in
a somewhat calmer tone, "E 'as wine.'

I thought how the house was that
fellow's life. He was master of all its little details.

Returning to the door of the
dining room I clashed with Howard Fielding, who held a wine glass and a bottle
of white wine, half full with a cork in it.

'Good evening again, Mr
Stringer,' he said, and he made his way towards the head of the table with his
twinkling sort of walk. He indicated that I should take the place to his right
side. Vaughan was already sitting to his left, looking sadly at his beer glass,
already empty in front of him. Miss Amanda Rickerby then entered holding her
wine glass and a black album, saying, 'We're all here then - no need to ring
the bell,' and sat down at the end of the table opposite to Mr Fielding.
Finally, Adam Rickerby came in with a big tray, and began distributing the soup
bowls. As he did so, Miss Rickerby eyed me in the most thrilling way. I must be
just her sort, I decided.

'Cedar-wood box after supper,
Howard?' Vaughan asked Fielding, without looking up from his empty glass.

'Perhaps Mr Stringer would care
to join us at the box?' said Fielding, pouring himself a glass of wine, and he
turning and looking his mysterious question at me, with head tilted, so I said,
'I'm sure I would, thanks,' and took a drink of my beer.

Everybody had the soup now, and I
was just about to fall to, when I saw Fielding close his eyes and sit forwards.
I thought for a fraction of time that he'd actually pegged out there and then,
but he was saying grace, and the final word of it was hardly out of his mouth
when I heard a terrible racket such as is made in a bath when the last of the
water goes down the plug. This was Theo Vaughan taking his first mouthful of
soup.

'What's in the cedar-wood box?' I
enquired, after Theo Vaughan's second mouthful, which was quite as loud as the
first had been.

'Cigars,' said Vaughan, and I
felt an ass, for what else could have been in it?

I flashed a look at Amanda
Rickerby. She was still eyeing me, an amused expression on her face. She was
turning the pages of the black album while sipping her soup. Every so often she
would exchange a muttered word with her brother, but she hardly left off
staring at me throughout the meal, and I felt that she was a temptress in
league with the naked bicyclist.

'Mainly Shorts, I'm afraid, Mr
Stringer,' said Fielding. 'We've smoked the last of the Coronas from
Christmas.'

'Well, even a short cigar is
longer than a cigarette,' I said.

'Diplomatically spoken,' said
Fielding, which made me feel rather a fool.

Fielding and Vaughan both being
cigar smokers, the stub in the top room might have belonged to either of them
just as easily as to Blackburn. It was plain that Fielding thought himself
superior to Vaughan, but the two seemed to jog along together pretty well in
spite of the failure of the business they'd worked in, and in spite of
Vaughan's dealing in improper post cards. Fielding's private means must be
greater than Vaughan's, for his clothes were not only cleaner but of better
quality. His linen cuffs were a
bit
out at the
edge, but it was only decent cloth that would fray like that, and the cuff
links looked to me to be made of good gold.

I glanced over at Amanda
Rickerby. She met my gaze, I looked away quickly; looked back again more slowly
to see her smiling.

'This is the guest book for last
year, Mr Stringer,' she said, indicating the black album before her.

Was the name of Blackburn in
there, and was she teasing me by keeping it from me?

'I put ticks next to the ones I
want back, crosses against the ones I don't,' she said.

And she suddenly turned to
Fielding.

'Do you remember Mr Armstrong, Mr
Fielding?'

Fielding smiled and nodded.

'He was a very strange . . .
well, I was about to say gentleman,' Amanda Rickerby continued. 'He collected seaweed,
Mr Stringer. It was his hobby. It was left all over the room to dry. He needed
pails of fresh water to clean it - and then he had the nerve to complain about
Mrs Dawson's cooking. But Mr Fielding took him in hand.'

Fielding nodded graciously again,
saying, 'I merely pointed out that sole a la Normande was
supposed
to contain fish. He collected seaweed but did not eat fish - slightly
paradoxical, I thought.'

'Howard didn't care for him at
all,' Vaughan put in, addressing me. 'He drank beer from the neck of the
bottle.'

'He was rather a vulgar young
fellow,' Fielding explained. 'He was from Macclesfield. The North Bay of this
town would have been more to his liking ... You'd have thought that a man
interested in marine biology would have had more decorum.'

7 wouldn't,' said Amanda
Rickerby. 'I'm putting a cross by his name.'

And she did so, before turning
the page.

'Mr and Mrs Bailey,' she said,
looking towards Fielding again,'... from Hertfordshire.'

'Rather a pleasant couple, I seem
to remember,' said Fielding.

Miss Rickerby made no answer to
that but looked down at the book and came over very sad, it seemed to me. I
wanted to help her, bring her back to smiling, but after a couple of minutes I
was aware of Adam Rickerby standing over me and saying, 'Yer've done, 'ave
yer?'

I hadn't quite but I gave him my
bowl and he took it away along with all the others. Only after he'd left the
room did I think:
Ought I to have eaten that?
Perhaps Blackburn had been poisoned?
The soup had seemed quite tasty
anyhow, if nothing to write home about. The meat, when it came in, was the
cause for a little more in the way of excitement.

'Croquette de boeuf cooked to a
turn, Miss R,' said Fielding, when he'd taken his first mouthful, and she
seemed to come round from a stupor or a dream.

'I only superintended,' she said.
'It was Adam who cooked it really.'

But there seemed no question of
complimenting Adam Rickerby.

'Beef
patty
,
I call it,' said Vaughan, who'd already eaten half of his.

'Oh come now, Vaughan,' said
Fielding. 'What about the delicious dressing?'

'Beef patty,' repeated Vaughan,
'with
tomato sauce.
Perfectly good though,' he
added.

'Certainly is,' I said, trying to
direct my remark to both Amanda Rickerby and her brother.'... Goes down very
nicely.'

But there was something in it I
didn't care for, some spice, and the taste of it somehow made me think the
dining room fire too hot. Had I been poisoned? No. It took hours to notice if
you had been, and what could possibly be the
reason
?
About half a minute after, Vaughan pushed his empty plate away and fell to
sucking bits of the meat out of his moustache while eyeing me. The meal ended
for all shortly after, when Adam Rickerby stood up and reclaimed all the
plates. There would be no dessert, evidently. Pudding was for summer only,
together with all other good things.

'Will you be joining us for a
smoke, Adam?' I enquired, as he approached the door with the pile of plates.

Fact was, I felt a bit sorry for
the bloke. His sister was kindly towards him in her speech and expressions, but
never lifted a finger to help him in his duties.

'I've t'plates to clear,' he
said, the words coming with a fine spray of spittle.

'After that, then?'

'Then, I've t'plates to
wash!

I gave it up, and he left the
room. Fielding was good enough to wait until he was through the door before
leaning towards me and saying, 'The boy is weak in the head, Mr Stringer. An
injury to the brain sustained when he was fourteen.'

'He does very well considering,'
I said. 'I knew there must have been something of the kind. What happened?'

Silence for an interval; and they
all gave me the tale together, as though they'd rehearsed the telling of it.

'My brother was straight down the
mine from school,' began Miss Rickerby.