The next day was bright and sunny, and very warm for the early hour. It was just seven-thirty in the morning but already the streets were bustling with ‘the Ailing’ who were roused at seven to begin their Cure.
The Foxes’ trunks and luggage had already been bound and corded and sent ahead to the railway station along with their bicycles and Atticus had only his big leather, investigations bag and thick, pewter-topped cane with him as he and Lucie stepped out into the morning to take the short walk across town.
Harrogate Central Station was a designated ‘floral’ station of the North Eastern Railway. The Foxes stepped onto the east-bound platform, already very warm under its delicate, cast-iron canopy and Atticus’s stomach fluttered at the heady mix of scents from the magnificent floral displays overlaying the lingering smells of oil, smoke and steam. To him, these were the smells of adventure, the precursors to an investigation and they were nothing short of wonderful.
The hands of the platform clock twitched from 7:54 to 7:55 precisely and they heard the shrill whistle of their own train as it appeared on the tracks of the station approach. It puffed slowly along the length of the platform and then, with a hiss of steam and a clatter of couplings, it drew gently to a halt.
The Station Master, resplendent in silk top hat and tailcoat, stood by a large, brass bell. He peered anxiously along the ranks of glossy, maroon-painted carriages, ready to announce the arrival of any esteemed visitors to the town. Atticus took Lucie’s arm and shepherded her through a wisp of steam and up into an empty first-class compartment.
They changed to an express train at the busy terminus station at York and duly settled into their seats for the long journey up the East Coast Main Line to the north.
As the train slowly gathered speed through the suburbs and outskirts of York Lucie pulled a copy of the The Queen newspaper from her handbag.
“Is there anything of interest in there, my dear?” Atticus asked, opening his own, much larger, bag and lifting out a travelling chess set with miniature pieces carved delicately in ivory and ebony.
“There’s an article on hospital nursing I am especially interested in,” she replied without looking up. “I know I’ve left the profession now, but I do like to keep abreast of new developments. They seem to happen so quickly these days.”
Atticus nodded and turned back to his chess set. He had a particular aversion to all things medical, especially if they involved any amount of blood or gore. In their profession of reuniting errant pets and straying spouses it was, thankfully, uncommon, but it was still very much an area he left to Lucie, who seemed to positively delight in it.
Atticus Fox believed very strongly in the need to keep his brain in first-rate order; it was the principal tool of his profession. In addition to drinking several large glasses of the iron-rich, Harrogate chalybeate water each day, he often played against himself at chess. By doing so, he fervently believed that he was training his mind to be completely objective and dispassionate in all respects. After all, that was what
he was obliged to do each time he switched between the ebony and the ivory.
As their train snaked its way inexorably northwards, the farms
and villages of the rural Vale of York began to give way to the
chimneys and manufactories of the industrial north-east of England, and a dramatic view of the bridges over the River Tyne eventually heralded their arrival into the City of Newcastle. Once there, they changed again onto the final leg of their journey: the Newcastle to Carlisle railway line, which, Atticus had promised, was to be spectacularly scenic.
Lucie reminded him sharply of this promise as she spotted her pocket-handkerchief with French perfume and held it delicately to her nose whilst the train skirted the foul open sewer that was the industrial River Tyne. Very soon, however, it began to gather speed over the gently-curving, iron bridge at Scotswood and the rows of mills and factories, along with their attendant slums, abruptly ceased. The stench faded, the vista opened out once again and the train began to climb imperceptibly into the rolling hills of south Northumberland.
It seemed no time at all before they came to the small but bustling, village station at Bardon Mill. Just beyond Hexham, this was the nearest point of the railway to their final destination of Shields Tower.