Paul Temple and the Curzon Case. Francis Durbridge

      ‘And whom did you think was whistling it?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      That was all Paul could elicit from Master John Draper. It almost seemed like a wasted evening. Paul didn’t return to the subject until the Elk and his charge were leaving for the last train to Dulworth Bay.

      ‘Tell me, John,’ he said on the hotel steps, ‘have you ever heard of anyone called Curzon?’

      ‘No,’ said the boy, ‘I’m certain I haven’t.’

      ‘Never mind. It was kind of you to come. I’ve enjoyed meeting you. Civic civicismus, Mr Elkington.’

      ‘Such a pleasure to discuss old times—’

      The fishing fleet was coming into Whitby harbour. Paul and Steve walked along the jetty and watched the boats tying up amid the flurry of excited seagulls and the busy preparations for unloading the catch. It was a cool, dry evening and the light from either the moon or the harbour electricity was sharply clear.

      ‘Impressive,’ said Paul. ‘I envy you a childhood spent among fishing fleets and countryside like this.’ It was a comment which Paul made whenever he ventured north with his wife, because it always seemed to please her so inordinately. She had been extremely anxious that Yorkshire should meet with Paul Temple’s approval.

      ‘It seems,’ she said wistfully, ‘a very long time ago.’

      Paul nodded. ‘What did you make of young Draper?’

      ‘Clever,’ said Steve. ‘Too clever by half. He knew exactly how to get round you. All that talk about the police…’

      Paul was silent for a moment while they walked to the headland. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. He did seem to think that Elkington was a fool as well.’

      Steve smiled to herself. ‘Whereas you treated the Elk like a man of dignity and position.’

      ‘Well, I always hated Latin at school.’

      When they got back to the hotel Paul applied his mind to reviewing Dr Stern’s book on crime. He sat at a table by the window making notes while Steve prepared for bed. He looked across at the quayside and watched the occasional movements of the boats, wondering whether to write a showy piece of invective or a considered essay on understanding the criminal’s mind. He wondered who those sheep on the moors had belonged to and why the editor wanted the book reviewed anyway. He poured himself a large whisky and glanced through the index.

      ‘Coincidence,’ he said to Steve.

      ‘Eh?’ She was sitting up in bed, looking elegant in mauve silk pyjamas. ‘What’s a coincidence?’

      ‘Dr Stern doesn’t mention coincidence. You see, he knows nothing about crime. How many criminals would the law apprehend if it weren’t for luck, chance and coincidence? Take the Great Train Robbery—’

      ‘Are you doing that review?’ asked Steve in dismay. ‘But you haven’t read the book yet!’

      ‘I’d only make myself irritable and give the book a panning. I thought I might be generous and welcome this work as a tentative first step towards a more responsible attitude—’

      ‘You pompous fraud,’ said Steve.

      They were interrupted by the strident ring of a telephone. Paul found the instrument on a chair beneath Steve’s dressing-gown. It rang again. ‘Hello?’ said Paul. He looked at his watch and saw that it was nearly eleven o’clock.

      ‘Mr Temple? Hello, this is Ian Elkington. I’m sorry if I woke you—’

      ‘That’s all right,’ Paul said, ‘I was only working.’

      ‘Oh. I’m sorry, but the fact is that I’ve lost young Draper.’

      ‘Lost him? Wasn’t that rather difficult?’

      ‘No— no, you don’t understand. I mean the boy has vanished. We were in the train, walking through the corridor just north of Dulworth Bay, and suddenly I realised he’d gone. We were in the tunnel and the train was rattling rather. Draper was only a few yards ahead of me and at first I thought he’d nipped into the toilet. But he seems to have disappeared.’

       Chapter Three

      The Whitby to Scarborough train ran along the coast and probably qualified as the most beautiful stretch of track in England. The North Sea stretched away like an immobile sheet of blue on one side, while the inland view was of distant moors and forestry, sudden valleys with neatly arranged farms and a perilous hillside into which the railway lines were cut. They went through places like Burniston and Cloughton and Ravenscar, evocative places which suggested an England before the arrival of railways. There had been a furore of protest when the line had been built, and another a century later when someone had tried to close the line down.

      The train chugged slowly through the scene, giving Paul and Steve ample time for leisured contemplation. Steve leaned forward occasionally to point out Farmer Hattersby’s barn on the skyline and the village where old Mrs Stark had lived.

      ‘We’re just coming into the tunnel now, I think,’ said Steve. ‘This cliff ahead of us…’

      The train curled round and into the face of the cliff, plunging the carriage in darkness. The noise of the engine and the wheels on the track seemed aggressively loud, but that wasn’t the noise which Paul was listening to. He could hear somebody coming along the train corridor whistling tunelessly to himself. The whistling came nearer, stopped by their doors, and then came into the carriage.

      ‘This is where John Draper disappeared,’ said Steve.

      ‘Quite,’ murmured Paul.

      The newcomer seemed to have sat in the corner of the carriage and was whistling an absent-minded version of Loch Lomond. Paul leaned across and placed a reassuring hand on Steve’s knee. She gasped in alarm.

      ‘It’s all right, darling,’ he said with a laugh, ‘it’s only your husband.’ But he waited apprehensively, all his reflexes at the ready for whatever might happen in the fateful tunnel.

      But nothing happened. Two minutes later the train chugged harmlessly into sunshine and Paul found himself staring at an elderly man with a quizzical smile and a deaf aid. The man looked a little startled himself to see Paul Temple.

      ‘My goodness,’ he said with that slightly overpitched tone of the very deaf, ‘it’s Mr Temple and his wife. Well— well.’ He raised a hand to silence Paul while he adjusted his deaf aid. ‘There, now you can speak. I’m afraid I’m a little hard of hearing.’

      ‘How do you know—?’ Paul began.

      ‘I expect you’re wondering how I know your name. By the way, I’m Dr Lawrence Stuart. I’m in practice in Dulworth Bay. We’re all of us agog to see you in action. Local gossip has it that you’ll solve the case in forty-eight hours.’ He laughed. ‘I think they’re hoping you’ll pin all three disappearances on me.’

      ‘Lucky for you we’re only here for a holiday,’ said Paul. ‘I promised Inspector Morgan he could pin the disappearances on the villain without interference from me.’

      Dr Stuart chuckled happily. ‘Yes, I heard about your little pretext. I gather Mrs Temple was brought up in the North Riding? Wonderful place to spend your childhood, don’t you think, Mr Temple?’ He looked out of the window for the wide arc of Dulworth Bay to bear witness to his enthusiasm. The grey overhanging cliffs seemed by an optical illusion to be leaning into the distant sea. ‘This rock face below us is worth a tourist’s visit, Mr Temple,’ he continued ironically. ‘This is where we had the air disaster three weeks ago. You must have read about it. All the passengers were killed and we’ve been plagued by sightseers ever