have been agitating Chief Inspector Weatherill's mind in the least. I read the article from top to bottom, and it was plain as daylight that there were no clues, and precious few conjectures from any quarter. I looked back towards the great cathedral where the same trippers - or perhaps another lot - were threading their way out. You'd have parties like that crisscrossing the city in all seasons; they'd check you for quite minutes on end, and there was nothing you could do to break through. I wondered how many more killings it would take before they stopped coming.
I put on my special glasses and rose to my feet.
Chapter Twelve
Quarter to six. I'd eaten a late dinner on the river, and the light was falling fast as I entered the Big Coach on Nessgate. The place was packed out, and there was a dancing class happening, not too daintily, on the second floor. When you walk into a pub you want a moment alone to get your bearings and settle, but Miles Hopkins hailed me immediately from a table in the corner. He sat with another fellow, whose back was to me but I could tell it wasn't the Blocker. Of that big bastard there was no sign. As I approached, I saw that a copy of the Evening Press was on the table, folded so that the latest report of the Camerons' death was uppermost, but the gent with his back to me was intent upon a different publication - a sporting paper. As Miles Hopkins looked up at me, I could read over the new bloke's shoulder: 'Gatwick Meeting; Capital Afternoon's Sport; Gossip from the Course.'
I touched my spectacles, to make sure they were in place. Miles tapped the other man's arm, and he stood up and turned about. Miles Hopkins stood too, saying, 'Sam, like you to meet Mr Allan Appleby.' It was all very mannerly and all very different from Layerthorpe. The new man stood, turned with hand held out, and I certainly did not recognise him from the pages of the Police Gazette. He was medium height and broad, although not as big as the Blocker, and more compressed. If the Blocker was an elephant then this one was a bull, and a distinguished-looking bull at that, with belted Norfolk coat, grey, bristly hair, a sharp grey beard, and regular face that was all-in-all the shape of a shield. He looked a little like the King himself, and would have looked still more like him had he been wearing the Homburg hat placed at his elbow. He was smoking a cigar. He had a strong grip, wore two rings to each hand, and it turned out he had the name to match:
'Valentine Sampson,' he said, in a deep voice, and with an accent that was ... out of the way.
The teeming pub seemed to come to a halt as he gazed at me. He had peculiar eyes, between blue and brown, with the result . . . violet. The light seemed to be revolving inside them, winding you in towards him.
'Allan Appleby’ I said.
Had he taken the name? It was hard to say, since the moment I uttered it, he was signalling to a barman for three more pints of Smith's.
We all sat down.
'Will you excuse me for five minutes, Allan?' Valentine Sampson said, as the drinks were delivered, and the coin paid over.
I glanced over at Miles Hopkins, who gave a humorous sort of shrug, and began with his customary finger fiddling, moving a sovereign between the long fingers of both hands, and gazing about the pub - taking in all the gaping pockets, as I supposed.
'Sam has an appointment with a layer in half an hour’ he explained presently, 'and he's only just getting to grips with tomorrow's cards.'
At which Valentine Sampson looked up from his reading, and said:
'Don't fret, Allan, I'm a quick study.'
He spoke in a smooth, low rush - almost gentlemanly. I sipped beer, trying to slacken my nerves as Sampson turned again to the pages of his paper. I was glad that Sampson was due elsewhere before long - it might mean a short evening's work for me. At intervals, the fellow would make a mark with a pen, and slide the paper across to Miles Hopkins with a question or remark.
I put on my special glasses and rose to my feet.
Chapter Twelve
Quarter to six. I'd eaten a late dinner on the river, and the light was falling fast as I entered the Big Coach on Nessgate. The place was packed out, and there was a dancing class happening, not too daintily, on the second floor. When you walk into a pub you want a moment alone to get your bearings and settle, but Miles Hopkins hailed me immediately from a table in the corner. He sat with another fellow, whose back was to me but I could tell it wasn't the Blocker. Of that big bastard there was no sign. As I approached, I saw that a copy of the Evening Press was on the table, folded so that the latest report of the Camerons' death was uppermost, but the gent with his back to me was intent upon a different publication - a sporting paper. As Miles Hopkins looked up at me, I could read over the new bloke's shoulder: 'Gatwick Meeting; Capital Afternoon's Sport; Gossip from the Course.'
I touched my spectacles, to make sure they were in place. Miles tapped the other man's arm, and he stood up and turned about. Miles Hopkins stood too, saying, 'Sam, like you to meet Mr Allan Appleby.' It was all very mannerly and all very different from Layerthorpe. The new man stood, turned with hand held out, and I certainly did not recognise him from the pages of the Police Gazette. He was medium height and broad, although not as big as the Blocker, and more compressed. If the Blocker was an elephant then this one was a bull, and a distinguished-looking bull at that, with belted Norfolk coat, grey, bristly hair, a sharp grey beard, and regular face that was all-in-all the shape of a shield. He looked a little like the King himself, and would have looked still more like him had he been wearing the Homburg hat placed at his elbow. He was smoking a cigar. He had a strong grip, wore two rings to each hand, and it turned out he had the name to match:
'Valentine Sampson,' he said, in a deep voice, and with an accent that was ... out of the way.
The teeming pub seemed to come to a halt as he gazed at me. He had peculiar eyes, between blue and brown, with the result . . . violet. The light seemed to be revolving inside them, winding you in towards him.
'Allan Appleby’ I said.
Had he taken the name? It was hard to say, since the moment I uttered it, he was signalling to a barman for three more pints of Smith's.
We all sat down.
'Will you excuse me for five minutes, Allan?' Valentine Sampson said, as the drinks were delivered, and the coin paid over.
I glanced over at Miles Hopkins, who gave a humorous sort of shrug, and began with his customary finger fiddling, moving a sovereign between the long fingers of both hands, and gazing about the pub - taking in all the gaping pockets, as I supposed.
'Sam has an appointment with a layer in half an hour’ he explained presently, 'and he's only just getting to grips with tomorrow's cards.'
At which Valentine Sampson looked up from his reading, and said:
'Don't fret, Allan, I'm a quick study.'
He spoke in a smooth, low rush - almost gentlemanly. I sipped beer, trying to slacken my nerves as Sampson turned again to the pages of his paper. I was glad that Sampson was due elsewhere before long - it might mean a short evening's work for me. At intervals, the fellow would make a mark with a pen, and slide the paper across to Miles Hopkins with a question or remark.
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