III
There is no pleasanter market town in all the East Midlands than Winstead, with its cobbled square and broad High Street, its fine fifteenth-century Parish Church, Elizabethan Market Hall, and old gabled houses. It is not a market town and nothing else, for it manufactures gloves, hosiery, and lace in a discreet gentlemanly fashion; there is plenty of money in the town; the shops in the High Street have quite a metropolitan air; Munsey’s Café has an orchestra (piano, violin, and cello) and gives a thé dansant twice a week; and every ten minutes or so a bus comes into the market square from one or other of the numerous villages that regard Winstead as the centre of all things. It has one picture palace, and one small theatre, the Playhouse, which occasionally sandwiches a concert party in between two seasons of stock companies.
The Good Companions were at the Playhouse, and were doing better business there than they had done at Sandybay. The audiences were not wildly enthusiastic but they were fairly large and responsive every night, especially in the more expensive seats. Winstead‚ÅÝ‚Äîas they all told one another‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas proving a good ‚Äúdate.‚Äù All the players liked the town, with the exception of Jerry Jerningham, who hated the thought of playing in any place smaller than his native Birmingham and said that he was ‚Äúeating his hawt out in these little tawns.‚Äù Their lodgings were better than usual, they agreed; cleaner, more comfortable. They were fortunate in the weather, which was the best golden October brew, its sunshine as mellow as the old redbrick walls. Miss Trant, at home in such a place, enjoyed every hour there. Elsie discovered in the younger Mr.¬ÝLong, of Long and Passbury, estate agents and auctioneers in the High Street, a gentleman friend of her residential season at Cromer, two years before, and a friend ready to combine business with pleasure by taking her out in his two-seater. Susie pottered about, contentedly enough, though in secret she too sighed for cities and crowded streets; and if she was ever alone in her excursions, that was not the fault of her colleague, Inigo Jollifant. Mrs.¬ÝJoe, who was beginning to feel prosperous again, planned and began executing some vast knitting work, told her landlady all about George, and occasionally made a stately entrance into Munsey‚Äôs Caf√©. Joe himself strolled about in the sunshine with his pipe, listened to Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham‚Äôs reminiscences, and played snooker with Jimmy Nunn. Jimmy, in his search for a digestion, had discovered a little chemist, just at the back of the High Street, who was a very droll card and might be worked up into a new number and act.
These people, however, were not wanted by the police. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was convinced that he was, did not enjoy himself at Winstead. Everything conspired to rob him of his peace of mind. The very sunlight only lit up his face before the eyes of every passing policeman. On the very second day there he had had an alarming experience. He had decided that it was no use skulking in his lodgings, though he was very comfortable and quite at home there, and so went boldly out, in the full light of the afternoon, to explore the town.
At the corner, turning into the square, he ran into a police sergeant, a large, unpleasant-looking chap, went right into him, with a bump. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEllo, ‚Äôello!‚Äù the sergeant growled. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd gave him one startled glance, muttered something, and hurried away as fast as he could go without actually breaking into a run. He walked across the square, dodging between the buses, and then, slackening his pace, went down the High Street. There he met Jimmy Nunn, who was carrying a tiny parcel that only a chemist could have wrapped so neatly. Jimmy stopped him. ‚ÄúDid you ever hear of this stuff, Oakroyd?‚Äù he said, holding up his packet. ‚ÄúPepsinate, they call it.‚Äù And he kept Mr.¬ÝOakroyd there for five minutes listening to a description of Pepsinate, which had, it appeared, arrived at its final test, namely, a fight to a finish with Jimmy‚Äôs stomach. At the end of these five minutes, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd chanced to glance across the road. There, standing on the pavement and looking directly at him, was the large sergeant.
He hurriedly said goodbye to Jimmy, but this time took care not to appear as if he was running away, and merely sauntered along, stopping now and again to examine a shop window. The first time he ventured another glance across the road, the sergeant was still there and apparently still keeping an eye on him. The second time he glanced across, however, the sergeant was not to be seen. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd pushed back his cap in sheer relief and admitted that he was a fool to frighten himself in this fashion. He stood staring idly at the side window of a boot shop. After a moment or two, he was still staring but no longer idly. There was something blue moving above that pair of gent‚Äôs box calf. It was a reflection in the mirror at the back, and it was a reflection of a policeman‚Äôs uniform. The sergeant was just behind him. He stooped down, pretending to tie a lace, and cocked an eye at the pavement, waiting to see a pair of regulation blue trousers move past. They did not come. Suddenly, he lunged forward and hurried off, without a glance behind him. As he went, he thought he heard a deep voice saying ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre, half a minute!‚Äù A few yards farther on, he slipped across the road, between two cars, and was just about to break into a run when he caught sight of another policeman eyeing him severely. The place was full of policemen.
‚ÄúA nice little place like this an‚Äô all! What do they want so monny for?‚Äù He asked himself angrily. ‚ÄúGurt idle nowts! Waste o‚Äô fowk‚Äôs brass, I calls it.‚Äù By this time, however, he had taken the first turning out of the High Street down a narrow side-street, and had come to another road full of shops. Here there were no policemen to be seen. Immensely relieved, he lit a pipe of Old Salt, and walked slowly along. A picture of a large steamer pulled him up. There was also a picture of a man standing in a cornfield, holding out his hands, and saying ‚ÄúCome to Canada.‚Äù He spent several minutes looking at these and other pictures and thinking about Lily and Canada. The shop was a Tourist and Shipping Agency, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, peeping in, could see a number of booklets spread out on the counter. He had examined some of those little books before, and they had a kindly trick of bringing Lily a bit nearer. Some of them might have a map that would show him just where she was. He went in and began turning over the booklets. Nobody bothered about him, and when he had looked them all over, he slipped two of the largest into his pocket and walked out. And there, looking straight at him, blocking up the whole pavement, was the sergeant.
“Well?” said the sergeant.
‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs up?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stammered, his heart thumping away.
“What do you want to run away for?” The sergeant sounded very fierce indeed.
‚ÄúNay, I weren‚Äôt running away,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
‚ÄúAnd what‚Äôs the idear ‚Äôaving this brogue?‚Äù the sergeant went on. There was a suggestion of good humour now beneath his fierceness. ‚ÄúWhat d‚Äôyou think you are now‚ÅÝ‚ÄîLancashire comedian?‚Äù
‚ÄúWhat do you mean?‚Äù asked Mr.¬ÝOakroyd desperately. ‚ÄúSorry, Sergeant, but I don‚Äôt foiler yer,‚Äù he added, more politely.
The sergeant stepped forward and looked at him so intently that his heart turned to water. It must, he thought be all up now. But the sergeant was beginning to look puzzled. “You’re either Jimmy Pearson,” he said finally, “or his twin brother.”
‚ÄúNay, I‚Äôm not. I knaw nowt about onny Parsons. I‚Äôm a‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm a‚ÅÝ‚Äîstranger here, Sergeant.‚Äù
“What’s your name?”
‚ÄúOa‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù he began, then recollected himself. ‚ÄúOglethorpe,‚Äù he announced boldly. ‚ÄúSam Oglethorpe. And I come from Wabley i‚Äô Yorkshire.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd you sound as if you do, Mister,‚Äù said the sergeant. ‚ÄúWell, you‚Äôre the very spit of a feller called Pearson that used to live here. When you give me that bump in the square, I said to myself. ‚ÄòThat‚Äôs Jimmy Pearson come back. I‚Äôll ‚Äôave a word with him.‚Äô Not too fond of us, Jimmy wasn‚Äôt‚ÅÝ‚Äîused to make a book now and again‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut we didn‚Äôt mind him. And the way you was dodging round was Jimmy all over.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd saw that it would not do to pretend he had never seen the sergeant before. ‚ÄúAfter I‚Äôd gi‚Äôen you such a bump at t‚Äôcorner there, I thowt I‚Äôd better keep out o‚Äô t‚Äôroad,‚Äù he said, with an appearance of great candour.
That was all right then. They were friendly enough when they parted, but the encounter had given Mr.¬ÝOakroyd such a shock that its surprisingly happy ending did nothing to quieten his fears. If anything, he was more uneasy than before. He had given the sergeant a wrong name, and trouble might come of that. He had another shock the following night during the performance, when he was at the top of the little ladder working the light. Jerry Jerningham had just kicked both legs in the air when Mr.¬ÝOakroyd noticed a policeman‚Äôs helmet bobbing about in the wings. He nearly fell off the ladder. They had found him. He was free to descend now but he stopped where he was, in the hope that the policeman might overlook him. The next moment, however, he was looking down on the policeman‚Äôs upturned face.
“Finished up there?”
‚ÄúAy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd reluctantly.
“Just come down a minute then,” said the policeman. At every step he expected to find the policeman grasping his collar. It was horrible.
“They said you’d be the feller to tell me,” said the policeman amiably, indeed quite apologetically. “ ’Ave to ’ave a look around yer know. Council here’s very particular. Fire and all that. Won’t take a minute, but I’ve to ask a question or two.” And he pulled out a notebook and immediately looked grave and important.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd breathed again. ‚ÄúOwt I can tell you, I will, mate,‚Äù he said earnestly, with the air of a man who was ready to put out a fire with his own hands.
The worst of it was that you never knew when you were safe even for an hour. The most innocent things suddenly became sinister, menacing. Thus, on Saturday morning, his landlady, Mrs.¬ÝMason, whose husband was a porter at Long and Passbury‚Äôs, the auctioneers, told Mr.¬ÝOakroyd at breakfast-time that he must make sure of being in to tea. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs Milly‚Äôs birthday today,‚Äù she announced, ‚Äúand we‚Äôre having a bit of a spread and we want you to join us, if it‚Äôs not asking too much. And Milly‚Äôs young chap‚Äôs coming too. You‚Äôll like ‚Äôim, a bit of good company he is. Six o‚Äôclock we‚Äôre ‚Äôaving it becos that‚Äôs as soon as he can get here.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd liked nothing better than such festive occasions. Not only did he promise to be there but he arranged to get two tickets for the show that night for Milly and her young man, of whom he had heard vaguely but had never seen, as a birthday present. At half past five he was in the parlour, listening, with a show of interest for once, to the ponderous talk of Mr.¬ÝMason, a very slow and solemn man, not too fond of work. Mr.¬ÝMason seemed to think this was a suitable moment to discuss his attitude towards religion. ‚ÄúGive me a bit of ritchool,‚Äù he was saying, ‚ÄúI likes a bit of ritchool, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù when his daughter Milly, a big bouncing girl, who earned good money at the glove factory and had no respect for her father, blew in like a coloured and scented gale and told him to ‚Äúdry up about his old ritchool.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd wished her many happy returns and handed over the tickets. For this he was soundly kissed, for he was in favour with Milly, who liked to think she was in touch with theatrical life and had retailed Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs gossip to some profit during the week to the other girls at the glove factory. Then Mrs.¬ÝMason, crimson, shining, and unfamiliar in her best, bustled in and said that tea was ready when they were.
“Tom’s not ’ere yet,” said Milly. “We’ll wait. If he keeps us much longer, he’ll ’ear from me when ’e does come.”
“Don’t let ’im ’ear too much from you, Miss,” said her mother, delighted at such a spirit but not above giving a warning.
‚ÄúShe‚Äôll get ‚Äôer master yet in Tom,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMason observed ponderously. ‚ÄúOr if she don‚Äôt, then I‚Äôm surprised. ‚ÄôE‚Äôs big enough.‚Äù
Tom was big enough. He was nearly six foot, very straight, very broad in the shoulders. He had a red face, a small clipped moustache, a twinkling eye, and any amount of jaw. In his new grey suit, he looked both stalwart and trim, and he was the kind of young fellow that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd at any other time would have taken to at once, but now somehow he did not like the look of him. There was something unpleasant about the way in which he marched in, heavy on his feet.
“Comes in as if he’s going to lock us all up,” cried Milly, asking them all with her eyes to admire him.
‚ÄúWell, you be careful then, my girl,‚Äù said Tom with mock gruffness. And then he and Milly laughed, and Mr.¬ÝMason and Mrs.¬ÝMason laughed. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did not laugh; he only smiled vaguely; he was feeling rather uneasy. Tom had heard about him and the troupe, and was very pleased to meet him. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd said he was very pleased too, and tried to look pleased, especially after he had had his hand almost pulped. They went in to tea.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd brightened up at the sight of the tea. There was boiled ham; there was tinned salmon, with vinegar; there was even jam pasty; it was a proper knife-and-fork, company tea that Bruddersford itself would not have despised. It reminded him of old times at home. And then no sooner had they got sat down than Mr.¬ÝMason spoilt it all.
‚ÄúWell, Tom,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMason, ‚Äúarrested anybody lately? ‚ÄôE‚Äôs in the Force, Tom is,‚Äù he added, turning to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd nodded, and felt himself turning all colours. This was a nice mess he had landed himself into, having to eat all this tea right under a bobby‚Äôs nose. ‚ÄúBest thing tha can do, lad,‚Äù he told himself desperately, ‚Äúis to car quiet, say nowt.‚Äù And this was easy enough for a time, while Milly and her Tom were busy chaffing one another, but after that there was no escape for him. Grateful for the tickets and anxious to be polite, Tom insisted upon talking to him, asking him questions.
“Where did you say you came from?” said Tom.
‚ÄúLeeds,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
‚ÄúI thought you said it was Bruddersford the other day, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝMason.
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs all t‚Äôsame,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúYou can‚Äôt tell where one ends and t‚Äôother begins.‚Äù Nothing could be further from the truth, he knew, than this, but it might pass among these strangers. Indeed, strangers who actually visited the West Riding were inclined to take such views, seeing one endless town where natives could see half a dozen entirely different and warring communities.
‚ÄúWe don‚Äôt often get ‚Äôem from your part down here,‚Äù said Tom reflectively. ‚ÄúFunny thing, though, there‚Äôs another chap just come here who‚Äôs from your part, judging by your talk. Our sergeant was telling us about him. He was the very spit image of a little bookie that used to be here called Jimmy Pearson‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôve ‚Äôeard of him,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMason with great solemnity.
“So the sarge follered him round to have a word with him, and then it turns out it wasn’t the same feller.”
‚ÄúCase o‚Äô mistaken identity you‚Äôd call that in the Force, wouldn‚Äôt you?‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMason with even greater solemnity. ‚ÄúAr, I thought so. Mistaken identity, that‚Äôs what they‚Äôd call it, Ma.‚Äù
‚ÄúFancy!‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝMason. ‚ÄúLet me give you another cup of tea, Tom. Pass the stewed pears to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, Pa.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd this little feller came from Yorkshire the same as yourself,‚Äù said Tom, who was not the man to leave a tale half finished. ‚ÄúSame sort of name too. The sarge did say what it was. Og‚ÅÝ‚Äîsomething or other.‚Äù
‚ÄúIt ‚Äôud be Ogden,‚Äù announced Mr.¬ÝMason complacently. ‚ÄúKnow the name well. I‚Äôve sold at least two up in my time.‚Äù
‚ÄúNo, it wasn‚Äôt Ogden,‚Äù said Tom. Then he looked at Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúIt was longer than Ogden. A real Yorkshire sort of name, it was. I thought you might know the name. You might know the man. Our sergeant said it was a bit fishy the way this feller kept getting out of his way at first, but he thinks everything‚Äôs fishy, he does. That‚Äôs the way they get to be sergeants.‚Äù
“I don’t like a suspicious nature,” cried Milly. “Don’t you ever ’ave a suspicious nature, Tom, whatever you do.”
This seemed to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd a very sensible remark. He himself tried to convey the impression that he could not be bothered with anything at that moment but stewed pears and custard and brown bread and butter. But he was not to be left alone.
‚ÄúI was wondering if you might know this Og‚ÅÝ‚Äîsomething chap,‚Äù Tom said to him.
He shook his head. “I’ve not heard tell of another Yorkshire chap here, but there may be onny number of ’em for all I knaw.”
Mr.¬ÝMason had been ruminating and now he pronounced judgement. ‚ÄúTom won‚Äôt ‚Äôave a suspicious nature. Tom‚Äôll be too easygoing, that‚Äôll be his trouble.‚Äù
“No, it won’t,” cried Milly. “Will it, Tom?”
‚ÄúHe‚Äôll be there when he‚Äôs wanted,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝMason. ‚ÄúPass your cups up while it‚Äôs nice and hot.‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôve got eyes in my head,‚Äù said Tom, and as he said this his gaze wandered round the table and seemed to come to rest significantly on Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was so disturbed by it that the pear he was cutting with his spoon suddenly shot off his plate and landed among the lemon-cheese tarts.
‚ÄúEh, dear!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúLook what I‚Äôm doing.‚Äù
‚ÄúYou‚Äôll ‚Äôave to be given in charge, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMason waggishly. ‚ÄúHere‚Äôs a case for you, Tom. Damaging tarts with a pear.‚Äù
They laughed at this, and Mr.¬ÝMason, thus encouraged, immediately took charge of the conversation. ‚ÄúAnd joking apart, quite apart,‚Äù he began, just as if there were all manner of humorous diversions going forward elsewhere in the house, ‚Äúmentioning no names and intending no offence, I say it‚Äôs time there were a few more cases in this town. Yes, and in other towns, a lot of other towns. And I know what I‚Äôm talking about‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“No you don’t, Pa,” said his daughter. “Shut up.”
“And mind your elbow,” said his wife. “Here, move that custard or he’ll have it over in a minute.”
‚ÄúThere‚Äôs people walking about the streets today,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMason continued, ‚Äúthat ought to be serving their time in gaol. Hundreds of ‚Äôem. We don‚Äôt know when we‚Äôre rubbing up against ‚Äôem. Isn‚Äôt that so, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd? You know that.‚Äù
‚ÄúAr d‚Äôyou mean?‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, startled.
‚ÄúTake no notice of ‚Äôim, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù said his hostess. ‚ÄúAnd make a good tea. You‚Äôre not eating anything.‚Äù
‚ÄúNo offence and only in a manner of speaking,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMason grandiosely. ‚ÄúMy meaning is that you‚Äôre a man who sees the world, you‚Äôre knocking about like meself, and you know it as well as I do. Wanted men, that‚Äôs wot they are, and walking about the streets today as free as me and you, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. If I‚Äôd my way‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“If you’d your way,” cried Milly, “we’d all be in a mess next minute. Running down the police like that! Now you tell him something, Tom.”
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right,‚Äù said her mother. ‚ÄúGive Tom a chance. And give Mr.¬ÝOakroyd a piece of sandwich cake. He‚Äôs eating nothing.‚Äù
“Well, I don’t say we can work miracles,” said Tom, though he said it with an air of a man who might manage one or two if he tried. “We can’t and it isn’t to be expected. But we know more than you people think we know. We can’t pick a needle out of a haystack. And we can’t afford to make mistakes.”
‚ÄúCourse you can‚Äôt, Tom,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝMason, who apparently had given this matter a great deal of thought. ‚ÄúPass your father‚Äôs cup, Milly.‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôve done nicely,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMason. ‚ÄúI want to listen.‚Äù
‚ÄúPut it this way, then,‚Äù Tom continued. ‚ÄúSupposing you‚Äôre wanted for something, Mr.¬ÝMason‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúDon‚Äôt take me, Tom. I‚Äôm too easy. Anybody knows where to find me in this town. I‚Äôm there at Long and Passbury‚Äôs, have been for twenty years. It‚Äôs money for nothing if it‚Äôs me you‚Äôre after. Take Mr.¬ÝOakroyd ‚Äôere. He‚Äôs on the move. Nobody knows anything about ‚Äôim.‚Äù
‚ÄúThere‚Äôs plenty knaws all about me,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd protested indignantly. What did this fool of a chap want to drag him in for! And why couldn‚Äôt they change the subject! Surely they had been at it long enough!
‚ÄúAll right,‚Äù said Tom, ‚Äúwe‚Äôll take Mr.¬ÝOakroyd here. He‚Äôs wanted. D‚Äôyou see?‚Äù He looked very fierce and suddenly pointed a finger at the unhappy Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre wanted. We‚Äôre after you.‚Äù The Mason family laughed heartily at this byplay.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had had enough of this. It might have been to his advantage to learn what happened when men were wanted, but he simply could not sit there any longer. ‚ÄúHalf a minute,‚Äù he cried, getting to his feet. ‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs time?‚Äù
‚ÄúOnly ten to,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝMason told him. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve ample time, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. You said this morning you wouldn‚Äôt have to set off until quarter past seven.‚Äù
‚ÄúAy, I didn‚Äôt knaw then,‚Äù he muttered. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve a right lot to do early on i‚Äô the‚Äëater. I mun be off, Mrs.¬ÝMason.‚Äù He departed to wash himself, leaving the others to rise from the table at their leisure.
Just as he was opening the front door, a heavy hand fell on the shoulder. He jumped. “Eh!” he gasped, and turned round. It was Tom, looking a policeman every inch of him.
‚ÄúLook out for us tonight, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù said Tom heartily. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôll hear us clapping. And thanks for the tickets.‚Äù
‚ÄúBy gow! you made me jump,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, and hurried away. He was determined that this Tom should not clap eyes on him again that night or any other night. He felt miserable. What with the salmon and the pears and the sandwich cake and all the shocks he had had, he felt queer inside.
“Good house tonight,” said Jimmy Nunn. “Winstead’s been a good date. I’m sorry to leave it.”
‚ÄúWell, you can have it for me,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd told him. ‚ÄúI reckon nowt o‚Äô t‚Äôplace.‚Äù
“Why, what’s wrong with it?”
“Iv’rything,” he replied bitterly, and went about his business.