Brighton

1934

1

August ended up in March on the Monday after Christmas. The guard had announced that the line through to Cambridge was now buried under drifted snow, with several sets of points that were frozen solid. The onward journey of the 4.45 out of Peterborough – he assured the disembarked passengers – would be continued in the morning. In the meantime they were all welcome to overnight in the waiting room, where the station staff would provide blankets, free sandwiches and cocoa. Alternatively, they could take up lodgings at the nearby March Railway Hotel, at a cost of just five-shillings and six-pence for the one night’s bed and breakfast.

August decided that an outlay of five-and-six was small price to pay in order to secure a warm and peaceful night’s sleep: he’d had so few of those of late he felt he could justify himself a little luxury. He duly pulled up the collar on his overcoat and with his head bowed against the oncoming wind and snow flurries he forged his way along the station approach road, suitcase in hand, heading for the March Railway Hotel.

After depositing his case in his allotted room, he took a leisurely hot bath, changed into dry clothes, and adjourned to the lounge bar. He settled himself in an armchair by the side of the open log fire and cheerfully munched his way through a round of boiled ham sandwiches, two pickled onions, and a wedge of mature Cheddar cheese, washed down with a half of best bitter. Thus sated he ordered a second half of bitter and occupied himself with cleaning, filling, lighting, and then puffing contentedly on his favourite, Black Billiard, pipe.

The hotel keeper-cum-landlord, Bob Frobisher, had returned to cleaning an assortment of glassware behind the bar when the half-glazed door to the street was pushed wide to admit a small, wild-haired, wide-eyed young boy. The lad was clearly hesitant about crossing the threshold: he remained in the doorway with the cold wind flooding round him, struggling to keep control of a rather bedraggled fox terrier that frisked frantically round his feet.

“Now, young Jack, you know you can’t come in ’ere with that …” Frobisher began, but his sentence was cut short by the boy:

“Newton’s lyin’ in the street, Mister Frobisher, sir – ’is body’s all spread on the road. An’ it’s covered in blood, sir,” he blurted out.

“Good God!” Frobisher gasped, “He can’t be. Are you sure?” and then he hurriedly threw down his bar towel, lifted the bar flap, moved under and through, and made for the doorway. As he passed in front of August, he continued towards the door but half turned and said “I think I could probably do with an ’and ’ere, sir, if you wouldn’t mind. Dead bodies is bloody ’eavy to shift.”

August rose rapidly from his fireside seat and followed the landlord into the street. As he emerged into the fresh air he found that the cold wind was now much more fierce and the snow falling much more heavily. Through the sheets of white flecks he saw the dark silhouette of the landlord squatted beside a disfigured form that lay sprawled on the roadway. Young Jack and his frisky fox terrier watched from the covered alleyway that ran beside the inn to the cellar yard.

August crossed the street and squatted beside Frobisher. He squinted his eyes against the driving snow and reached out to turn the prone figure’s head so as to study the face.

“So, is this Newton, like the boy said?” he asked.

“Fraid so, yes,” Frobisher answered.

“And how’d you know we’d find him dead?” August continued, “The boy only said he was lying in the road, covered in blood”.

“Well, it would have been a damned funny thing if he wasn’t dead,” Frobisher said, “seein’ as how I helped carry the coffin at his funeral last week!”