Mr Campion's Fault (9 page)

T
o Dennis Ramsden it had always seemed unfair that a man should have to go to work in the dark, spend eight hours underground in the pitch-dark and then emerge when a shift ended only to find that the cruelty of winter had brought down its early dark curtain of night. Miners were a strange breed and their closed, tight-lipped communities, not to mention their capacity for large volumes of draught ale, had caused him many a professional problem, but even so he felt that their constant claims for higher wages might be justified. He had seen pit men hand over thin wage packets to their wives on pay days and each time had thought that it would take far more than that to get him underground. At least, though, they had pit-head baths now and the men no longer had to trudge or cycle through the village, their faces black and a fine mist of coal dust floating off their caps and coats, to the prospect of a tin bath in front of the fire and kettles of boiling water.

Ramsden had parked his car in the yard of the Shuttle Eye colliery facing the bath house building and lamp room where the miners collected and deposited their helmet lights and the heavy square batteries which hung from their thick leather belts. The old brass miners’ lamps once stored there were now being polished up and turned into bedside lights or ornaments for pubs, for which there seemed to be an insatiable market. Miners’ lamps were not, however, the only things going missing from local collieries.

Over the steering wheel of his Triumph Herald, Ramsden watched a steady stream of pink-faced, wet-headed men heading for the gates, some pushing bicycles, a few pulling on leather jackets and crash helmets, all of them carrying the empty ‘snap tins’ which had held their lunch and with empty thermos flasks tucked under their arms. The men strode past the few cars in the yard – cars were for management and they would leave later when the day’s paperwork was done and the night watchmen had clocked on – paying no attention to Ramsden, though his outline in the car was visible in the orange glow of the sodium yard lights.

The chief inspector was beginning to think he had somehow missed the man he had arranged to meet, or the man was deliberately snubbing him. It would not be the first time that Arthur Exley had played ducks and drakes with the police, and Ramsden knew that had he come to the rendezvous in uniform or in a marked police car, Exley would have been waiting with a picket line of union members to greet him, making the point that this pit yard, this colliery and these men were all part of
his
kingdom.

With a rueful smile, he allowed himself the thought that if he had arrived by police car it would have had to be one of the Force’s trusted Wolseleys rather than one of their blue-and-white Morris Minors. The Wolseley was too heavy to be picked up and rolled on to its roof by a gang of exuberant miners fuelled by Tetleys bitter after a Rugby League cup final – a fate which had befallen several of the more dainty Panda cars.

His reverie was snapped by the sharp rap of knuckles on his passenger-door window and then the door was pulled open and the car’s springs squeaked as a thick-set, meaty figure squeezed into the seat next to him, filling the car with the damp aroma of Lifebuoy soap.

‘Mr Ramsden.’

‘Mr Exley. Thank you for your time.’

‘Y’aven’t ’ad any of it yet,’ said Arthur Exley brusquely, pushing a damp strand of his thick black hair off his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘And I’ve not that much to spare tonight if truth were known. Got to get home, get me tea and then I’m out again for a meeting.’

‘Union business?’

‘Not tonight, it’s a band night. Sorting out what the lads’ll be playing for this damn silly play up at the posh school.’

Ramsden bridled at Exley’s pejorative description of the school where his son was a pupil, but he had a barb of his own in his ammunition locker.

‘Yes, I heard the band would be playing in support of the ruling classes. Ada Braithwaite’s boy has the main part, hasn’t he? I suppose that must have influenced your decision to help out the posh school.’

‘Ada’s a pit widow,’ said Exley with a politician’s smoothness, ‘and as such is entitled to, and deserves, the full support of the Denby Ash Brass Band, even if it does mean supporting an educational establishment which promotes and supports inequality and privilege.’

‘It has nothing to do with you setting your cap at Ada Braithwaite, then?’

Ramsden knew he would have thought twice before saying such a thing in public, especially if any of Exley’s union members were in earshot, as it would surely have provoked a physical reaction. Exley would never allow himself to appear in any way weak in front of his men and several years of hard, physical work had left him with muscles itching to be utilized.

‘That would be none of your business, Mr Ramsden,’ Exley said quietly, ‘unless you want to make it such.’

The policeman left the threat hanging in the narrow space between their two faces. He knew via his son’s friendship with Ada’s boy Roderick that Exley had at least suggested the idea of courting to the widow without, so far, any sign of acceptance.

‘You’re quite right, Arthur – that’s none of my business. I wanted a word about things much less pleasant.’

‘The whereabouts of Haydon Bagley, mebbe? That’s what you’re in Denby for, isn’t it?’

Ramsden allowed himself a smile. ‘Word gets about fair sharpish round here.’

‘You’ve got to remember, Mr Ramsden, that Walter Bagley was a respected miner, a fine bandsman and a lifelong member of my union. Haydon Bagley’s disgrace shouldn’t rub off on him, and if I knew where that sly bugger was, I’d as likely be on ’im, smashin’ ’is face in until we got back the money he stole from the widows and orphans fund. Then I’d happily ring you up and tell thee which hospital he’d been taken to.’

‘I believe you would, Arthur, and I’d probably not blame you,’ Ramsden said equably. ‘I’m more than happy for folk to think I’m in Denby about Haydon Bagley, but I’m really here to see you.’

‘And what have I supposed to have done?’

‘Nowt, or nowt I know of. I’ve come seeking a bit of help.’

Ramsden sensed his passenger bridle in the adjacent car seat and had the distinct feeling that the temperature in the Triumph, already low since he had parked and turned off the heater, had taken a sudden fall.

‘Coppers want
my
help? Can’t say I saw that coming. Ge’rr’on wi’it, then, it’ll be a first,’ said Exley, settling back in his seat and folding his arms across his barrel chest.

Ramsden took a deep breath, for he agreed with the solid-framed miner: this was unchartered territory for the pair of them. Ironically, Ramsden knew he would have felt more comfortable if they had been trading insults in front of a picket line.

‘The deputy manager here at Shuttle Eye got in touch a little while back …’

‘Oh aye? What does
he
say I’ve done?’ growled Exley.

‘Nothing. Get this through your head, Arthur – nobody’s accusing you of anything.’

‘But summat’s up, that’s for sure.’

‘We think summat is. There’s a goodly chance that quantities of explosives are going walkabout from both Shuttle Eye and Caphouse, blasting charges and detonators.’

‘Hell’s bells!’ Exley breathed. ‘Them’s not firecrackers, you know.’

‘I know that, Arthur, and we don’t think it’s somebody making jumping jacks for next Bonfire Night.’

‘So who’d you reckon? IRA?’

‘There’s plenty who would point the finger that way. Only natural, given the troubles over there,’ said Ramsden resignedly, ‘but we’ve not a shred o’proof one way or t’other.’

‘But you’re saying it’s an inside job?’

Surprise and concern had been replaced by ripples of defensiveness and indignation in Exley’s voice. ‘Stands to reason, Arthur. We think only small amounts have gone missing but they may have gone missing over a period of time and now it’s noticeable.’

‘Could it be a case of sloppy book-keeping? Somebody just being careless with the paperwork?’

‘Like to think so, Arthur, but we can’t take the risk so we’ve got to face the fact that somebody who has direct access to the explosives has been nicking them. That means somebody on the blasting crews working underground.’

‘And that means one of my union members.’

‘Almost certainly.’

‘So what do you want then, Mr Ramsden? You want to set a union man to catch a union man?’

Ramsden took in another long breath. ‘That’s exactly what I want, Arthur.’

Roderick Braithwaite and his best friend Andrew Ramsden had allowed their imaginations to run riot on the subject of the status, approachability or employment of witches. How exactly did they earn a living, if indeed they did? Were they eligible for the dole if unemployed? Did they keep regular consulting hours or were they governed by phases of the moon?

Being far too grown-up, in their own objective opinion, to be frightened by myths involving spells, curses, being dive-bombed by low-flying broomsticks and the threat of being roped together and stewed in a cauldron, the boys had set out on their mission with firm strides and stout hearts. Roderick had even voiced aloud the thinking behind his courage, stating that a witch, however hungry, must surely be desperate to conform to that grimmest of fairy-story clichés given that boys were supposed to be made of ‘snips and snails and puppy dogs’ tails’. And to show that he had researched his decision thoroughly, he had discovered that ‘snips’ were supposedly tiny eels, which would make the stew of young boys quite unpalatable. His friend Andrew had admired his logic but suggested there were minor flaws in Roderick’s argument in that snails were consumed with enthusiasm in France and the staple diet of cockney Londoners was surely eel pie and mash, whatever that was. Andrew did admit that he could not think of a primitive culture, not even one as far south as London, where puppy dogs’ tails were regarded as a delicacy.

Nervous frivolity aside, they had resolved to call on Ivy Neal, Denby Ash’s local (and possibly only) witch with a business proposition. It was a proposition to which they had given serious consideration and it was one which, by their boyish logic, she could not conceivably refuse. They had not, however, counted on the obstinacy of adults in general and witches in particular.

‘We should have brought a torch,’ said Andrew, his voice muffled by the thick woollen scarf wrapped around his neck and mouth against the rain.

‘Don’t be daft. It’s only just across the Green – you can see her caravan from here,’ chided Roderick, then he sniffed loudly. ‘Fancy a bag of chips on the way back? My treat.’

They were standing opposite the church of St James the Great at the bottom of Oaker Hill where it joined Pinfold Lane and curved around what the residents of Denby Ash called the Green, a lozenge-shaped piece of rough grazing that had been known to previous generations as the Pinfold, a secure area where straying animals were penned or ‘pinned’ until reclaimed by their owners on payment of a fine to the local pinder. About the size of one of Ash Grange’s rugby fields, the Green was best known to the boys as the site for the annual visit of the ‘Feast’, a travelling funfair which had once boasted a dancing bear on a chain but nowadays brought the delights of toffee apples, candy floss, rickety roundabouts seemingly powered by loud pop music, and the opportunity to win a goldfish or a cuddly toy by means of air rifle shooting or the throwing of round hoops over square objects, or darts at playing cards.

At his friend’s offer, Andrew turned his head towards the nearest building, the rectangular redbrick shed known to all despite the absence of signage as Willy Elliff’s Fish Shop, and he too sniffed loudly.

‘He’s started frying,’ Andrew confirmed. ‘I’ll get some chips for the bus home if he does bits.’

‘’Course he does,’ said his friend and founder of the feast to come.

The very mention of ‘bits’ pricked a nerve in Roderick, for he remembered his mother’s furious edict that he should never be seen in Willy Elliff’s ordering ‘bits’ – the crunchy scraps or excess batter from the fish which floated to the surface of the deep fryers and which would be skimmed off and sold for tuppence rather than the sixpence charged for a bag of chips. ‘Asking for bits instead of proper chips makes it look like we can’t make ends meet,’ the formidable Ada Braithwaite had told her son. It was clearly a stigma to be avoided, and a stigma which the various members of the Elliff family serving behind their chrome-and-Formica counter were maliciously keen to propagate. A bag of chips
with
bits was, however, perfectly acceptable so long as Willy Elliff, who was notoriously keen when it came to his profit margins, did not charge extra.

Their supper arrangements settled, the boys stepped off the road and on to the Green towards the only habited dwelling in Denby Ash not illuminated by the yellow glare of the street lights. Even so, the domed outline of a small caravan was clearly visible at the far end of the field where, the boys knew, the Oaker Beck formed a natural boundary with the pitch-dark Denby Wood.

They squelched through the cold wet grass and mud with determined steps, hands in pockets to hug their winter coats closer, using the glow from a light behind a red curtain at one of the caravan’s windows as a homing beacon.

Close to, the caravan loomed like an ancient earthwork or prehistoric barrow; silent except for the rain bouncing off its metal roof. It was with some trepidation that Roderick placed one foot on the two metal-framed steps, raised a fist and rapped on the door set off-centre towards the rear end of the vehicle.

When there was no response, Roderick knocked again and said ‘Hello?’ in a voice which came out a higher pitch than he had planned.

Now there was a response, of sorts. The red curtain at the window to the left of the door definitely twitched, the boys heard a distinct creak of movements from inside the van and then more lights came on, illuminating the bulbous front end.

‘Come in, then, if tha’s coming, and put t’wood in t’hole to keep rain out.’

The voice was of indeterminate age and sex but had undoubted authority and the boys did as they were instructed, climbing into the caravan and pulling the door closed behind them.