inside coat pocket, holding it in reserve for later in the day. A vicar watched me at the dustbin, and I tipped my cap at him. I then walked out through the back gates of the Gardens into Marygate, where I entered St Olave's church for a bit of a kip on the back pew.
I was woken by the tower bell ringing eleven, and went out again into the bustling streets, trying to walk off cramp and dampness, and thinking of Allan Appleby, my other self, lying in his dark lodge over at Holgate, listening to the crashing of the trains over the great tangle of Holgate Junction. He might be getting up about now, thinking about taking a drink, putting on his glasses ... I lifted those very same from my pocket, settling them on my nose in Duncombe Street, opposite the West Door of the Minster, spying, as I did so, a prime candidate for the Police Gazette, although not in the 'Wanted' columns, but the 'Missing': it was Edwin Lund, sitting on the steps of the war memorial on the patch of green
that faced the Minster. I removed the glasses, and watched the fellow for a while.
The memorial was to those soldiers of the Yorkshire Hussars killed in the war with the Boers. It was like a church steeple standing on its own, and there were three steps around its base. Edwin Lund was sitting on the middle one, looking down at his boots, and looking blue - glummer even than the last time. As I approached, he lifted his head, and watched two carts going along Duncombe Street. His little valise was alongside him. He turned his head, saw me, and left off chewing for a second. I sat down near to him on the cold stone, and he rubbed his sleeve across his nose, which I took to be his 'Good morning.'
'Dinner break?' I said.
'Aye,' he said.
'You look done in,' I said, really meaning something else.
'Been on since six,' he said.
'What time will you book off?'
'Six again,' he said. 'Well, half past.'
There was a copy of the Press in his pocket - early edition.
'Long day, is that,' I said.
He nodded for a while, presently adding:
'I've put in for overtime.'
'Why?'
'Mother wants a linoleum.'
'Do you mind the work?' I asked him.
'Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might,' he said slowly, looking down at his boots.
Well, he'd told me he was chapel, and that lot were all Bible bangers. Besides the Minster, there were three churches in sight, and they had the look of giant tombs even in the brightness of the day, but still the carts and horse trams flowed on.
'How do you pass the time in the Lost Luggage Office’ I said '... at slack times, I mean?'
'Searching the Gospels.'
'Searching for what?'
'The light.'
A few pigeons came up, but Edwin Lund was screwing up the brown paper. The bread was gone.
'Do you read owt else, Edwin?'
'Oh aye’ he said, stuffing the paper into his valise. 'I read a good deal.'
'What though?'
'Lost books’ he said, and he might have laughed, only I couldn't make out his face, the monument being half in between us. If he was at twelve on a clock face, then I was at four. Ought I to have been speaking to him in the middle of the town, in full view of anyone passing? And if so, ought I to have been doing so as Allan Appleby or as Detective Stringer? I should've had it all calculated out, but I hadn't.
'By rights I shouldn't be speaking to you in a public place’ I said, 'since I'm a detective operating in secret, and you've supplied me with information. Do you want me to push off?'
I stood up, brushing down my trews.
'Sit down but round t'other side’ he said. 'We might be two strangers then.'
I sat down again, and this time if he was at twelve, I was at six, and while he faced out to the road, I faced the Masonic Hall and the backs of the buildings in Stonegate. Presently, Lund spoke up again:
'Operating in secret, you say? What's secret about it?'
'Well’ I said. 'That's one of the secrets.'
'Get over to the Garden Gate, did you?' he asked.
'I did’ I said, not sure how much
I was woken by the tower bell ringing eleven, and went out again into the bustling streets, trying to walk off cramp and dampness, and thinking of Allan Appleby, my other self, lying in his dark lodge over at Holgate, listening to the crashing of the trains over the great tangle of Holgate Junction. He might be getting up about now, thinking about taking a drink, putting on his glasses ... I lifted those very same from my pocket, settling them on my nose in Duncombe Street, opposite the West Door of the Minster, spying, as I did so, a prime candidate for the Police Gazette, although not in the 'Wanted' columns, but the 'Missing': it was Edwin Lund, sitting on the steps of the war memorial on the patch of green
that faced the Minster. I removed the glasses, and watched the fellow for a while.
The memorial was to those soldiers of the Yorkshire Hussars killed in the war with the Boers. It was like a church steeple standing on its own, and there were three steps around its base. Edwin Lund was sitting on the middle one, looking down at his boots, and looking blue - glummer even than the last time. As I approached, he lifted his head, and watched two carts going along Duncombe Street. His little valise was alongside him. He turned his head, saw me, and left off chewing for a second. I sat down near to him on the cold stone, and he rubbed his sleeve across his nose, which I took to be his 'Good morning.'
'Dinner break?' I said.
'Aye,' he said.
'You look done in,' I said, really meaning something else.
'Been on since six,' he said.
'What time will you book off?'
'Six again,' he said. 'Well, half past.'
There was a copy of the Press in his pocket - early edition.
'Long day, is that,' I said.
He nodded for a while, presently adding:
'I've put in for overtime.'
'Why?'
'Mother wants a linoleum.'
'Do you mind the work?' I asked him.
'Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might,' he said slowly, looking down at his boots.
Well, he'd told me he was chapel, and that lot were all Bible bangers. Besides the Minster, there were three churches in sight, and they had the look of giant tombs even in the brightness of the day, but still the carts and horse trams flowed on.
'How do you pass the time in the Lost Luggage Office’ I said '... at slack times, I mean?'
'Searching the Gospels.'
'Searching for what?'
'The light.'
A few pigeons came up, but Edwin Lund was screwing up the brown paper. The bread was gone.
'Do you read owt else, Edwin?'
'Oh aye’ he said, stuffing the paper into his valise. 'I read a good deal.'
'What though?'
'Lost books’ he said, and he might have laughed, only I couldn't make out his face, the monument being half in between us. If he was at twelve on a clock face, then I was at four. Ought I to have been speaking to him in the middle of the town, in full view of anyone passing? And if so, ought I to have been doing so as Allan Appleby or as Detective Stringer? I should've had it all calculated out, but I hadn't.
'By rights I shouldn't be speaking to you in a public place’ I said, 'since I'm a detective operating in secret, and you've supplied me with information. Do you want me to push off?'
I stood up, brushing down my trews.
'Sit down but round t'other side’ he said. 'We might be two strangers then.'
I sat down again, and this time if he was at twelve, I was at six, and while he faced out to the road, I faced the Masonic Hall and the backs of the buildings in Stonegate. Presently, Lund spoke up again:
'Operating in secret, you say? What's secret about it?'
'Well’ I said. 'That's one of the secrets.'
'Get over to the Garden Gate, did you?' he asked.
'I did’ I said, not sure how much
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