Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

He knew that he must keep very still while he waited. He was crouched into an uncomfortable position to say the least of the matter and tried to maintain a good viewpoint of the illicit activities that were sure to unfold. He was ice cold from head to toe. In moments like this he tried to recall the scorching heat of India to warm his bones. Now he was back, returned to London and his curious profession of Private Detective which he found to be both intriguing and frustrating. He loathed and secretly admired Arthur Conan Doyle for creating the character of Sherlock Holmes. He was teased mercilessly by the delinquent youths outside his rooms who shouted, “Oi Sherlock!” at him on a daily basis, but admired Sherlock’s powers of deduction and his scientific techniques which he sometimes adopted to help with his cases. Of course, he also did not have the benefit of having a Dr Watson to assist him.  He was a man who was sorely alone both in his professional and private life....

It took him the best part of three days to reach London, sleeping out under the stars, the dog on guard. It was the first time he’d ever set foot in the capital. His friend Jonas had told him about the inn by the river, cheap but clean, wholesome food and wholesome ale, which was more than could be said for many a hostelry. There was a glimpse of the Thames from the attic bedroom window and he caught sight of a boat moving slowly upstream. Lying on the bed with only his boots removed, Ork re-read the letter, whilst Digger slept on the threadbare rug. The script was neat, the letters well-formed. There was the occasional word that Ork had difficulty with, but after a moment’s reflection he recalled the meaning. The pamphlet was in the pocket of his jacket. The staircase was steep and twisting, unlit, without a handrail. He felt his way to the bottom, before taking his seat in the dimly-lit snug. A tankard of porter was placed on his table, alongside a platter of bread, cheese...