Rose by Martin Cruz Smith Read Free Book Online

“Have you noticed this? Time-tables are the most reassuring information of modern life. Yet according to
The Observer
, same page, we read that five local people were run over in separate railroad accidents on Saturday night. Are these regularly scheduled executions?”
    “On Saturday night workers drink, and to find their way home they follow the tracks.”
    “Look at this, steamship notices that include free transport to Australia for female domestics. In what other nation would a ticket to a desert on the far side of the world be a lure?”
    “You’re not an admirer of England.” The idea pained Leveret, so that he almost stuttered.
    “Leveret, go away. Count the Bishop’s sheep, set mantraps, whatever you usually do, but leave me alone.”
    “Can I get you something?” the editor said. His speech was lengthened by the Lancashire “o” and shortened by a “g”: “soomthin’.”
    Blair pushed through the gate of the bar to study the photographs more closely. It was always educational to see what gas and steam could do to metal and brick. In one picture a building façade was sheared away like the front of a dollhouse, exposing a table and chairs set for tea. In another a locomotive had propelled itself like a rocket onto the roof of a brewery. Two pictures were labeled “Unfortunate Victims of the Hannay Pit Explosion.” The first was of the coal-mine yard. Standing figures were blurred while the bodies laid on the ground were in deathly focus. The other was of a long line of hearses drawn by horses with black plumes.
    The editor said, “Miners believe in a proper send-off. The
Illustrated London News
covered that one. Still the biggest disaster of the year so far. Intense interest. You must have read about it.”
    “No,” Blair said.
    “Everyone read about it.”
    “Do you have copies of that edition?”
    The man pulled out a drawer of newspapers hung on rods. “Most of the inquest nearly verbatim. Otherwise you have to wait for the official report of the mines inspector. You seem familiar.”
    Blair flipped through the newspapers. He had no interest in the explosion at the Hannay pit, but the editions that covered the accident, rescue attempts and inquiries into the disaster also covered the weeks after John Maypole disappeared.
    In the February 1 issue, for example: “There will be a meeting of the patrons of the Home for Single WomenWho Have Fallen for the First Time despite the absence of Rev. Maypole. It is thought that Rev. Maypole has been called away by urgent family affairs.”
    In the February 5 issue: “Rev. Chubb led prayers for the souls of parishioners who tragically lost their lives in the Hannay Pit Explosion. They are now with Christ. He also asked the congregation to pray for the safety of the curate, Rev. Maypole, who has not been heard from for two weeks.”
    And on February 23: “All Saints Parish Church 21–St. Helen’s 6. Marked by William Jaxon’s two tries, the victory was dedicated to the Rev. John Maypole.”
    The rest of the editorial columns were taken up with the disaster. An engraved illustration showed rescuers assembled around the base of a pit tower that was decorated at the top with a Lancashire rose.
    “Could I buy these?”
    “Oh, yes. We did special editions.”
    “I’ll pay for the gentleman,” Leveret said.
    “And a notebook, red ink, black ink and your best local map,” Blair said.
    “An ordnance survey map?”
    “Perfect.”
    The editor wrapped the purchases without taking his eyes off Blair. “The Hannay pit explosion was a major story. It’s things like that put Wigan on the map.”
    On the way out, Blair noticed among the books for sale one titled
“Nigger” Blair
, with a cover illustration of him shooting a gorilla. He had never worn a mustache and never seen a gorilla. They got his slouch hat right, though.
    New country was best seen from a high point. Blair scrambled through a trapdoor to the open top of the Parish Church tower,