Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  (See 2 nd May for Part 1) Harrison finds it hard to keep up the pace. Unlike the dog, who is more or less pulling him along. Surely the lad will turn off at Lock 9 and head into town. But no, he seems to be glued to the canalside. Although he glances back briefly, perhaps sensing someone’s on his tail, there’s no sign of recognition. But shortly afterwards, he comes to a halt, phone clamped to his ear. Harrison puts the brakes on. The dog looks up at him, wondering why the game has come to an abrupt stop.       “Are you Harrison?” The dog barks. Harrison jumps. Where has this man in a grey overcoat sprung from? He’s too breathless to reply.       “Well … are you?” Harrison doesn’t like his tone. Like he’s got some right to ask a stranger a question in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe not nowhere, but nowhere special.     “Who are you ?” he manages, finally, turning to check what the lad is up to. But he’s dis...

A wisp of smoke from the barge chimney, soon lost in the mist above. Frost-scarred windows. The boat’s name partly obscured by the rime. On the roof, a bike that’s seen better days, a stack of roughly-chopped logs, two solar panels, dead plants in red pots, coils of rope. The young man’s fleece is far too thin for the cold early morning. He shivers. But if you’d asked him, he’d have told you it wasn’t the temperature that was giving him the shakes. The sight had affected him much more than he could have imagined. After all, wasn’t he supposed to be a hard nut? And with his record, going to the police wasn’t an option. Hands deep in pockets, he crosses the old stone bridge and walks briskly away from the waterway. Every winter Harrison wonders why he stays on the barge. Even with the blackened stove roaring, it’s difficult to keep warm. But he knows perfectly well there are no other options. And the life has two great advantages. It’s cheap and … as long as speed is not a requirement … ...

(A walk around the south shore of the Upper Lake in the grounds of Bretton Hall, now Yorkshire Sculpture Park, takes in the 18th century shell grotto. Once inhabited by a hermit, this magical place had views of the house, an obelisk and Greek temple on the opposite banks. It was designed to entertain and amuse the guests of the estate’s wealthy owner, Sir Thomas Wentworth Blackett.  Walks in the Park during lockdown prompted this fictional story.) As she stood and waited, she reached out to run her fingers over the walls and ceiling. The movement of her arms seemed to prompt the slipping sun to catch the light from the soft waves on the lake and she spun around to see thousands of shimmering water nymphs dancing across the grotto. Her eyes followed their gliding shapes and the rippling streaks of silver which fell on to the pearlescent treasures above her head. Smiling at their magical ballet, she pointed her toes and stretched out her hands to join the dance. Her feet whirled in t...

It’s Cyril Johnston on the phone. Chairman of the Allotment Society. Very particular about not being a chair. I’m a person not a piece of bloody furniture. But the rest of the committee puts up with him, because nobody else wants the job.     “You’re needed, pronto, down at the allotments,” he says in his usual clipped tone.     “Why?” I ask. But his phone has gone dead. Unusual for Cyril. He usually chunters on and on. What a nuisance. I’m only just back in the house and had been looking forward to a leisurely breakfast in the garden. Prompted by Cyril’s use of the word pronto, I decide to take the bike rather than walk. Nosy neighbour 1, a relative newcomer to the village, tells me a man knocked on my door last night. Not someone she recognised. I thank her for the information and pedal away.   It’s a lovely, late June morning. The leafy back lane provides a handy shortcut.   The blue flashing lights catch my attention on the appro...

The last people to see Dr Crippen’s wife alive, were their friends Clara and Paul Martinetti, retired music-hall entertainers who were at the Crippen’s house on the night of 31 January 1910 for supper and a game of cards.  Cora Crippen knew the couple through her involvement with the Music Hall Ladies Guild of which she was Treasurer. The Crippen’s house was on Hilldrop Crescent, Holloway, less than half a mile from Holloway women’s prison. It is likely that Cora Crippen was murdered later that night or on the following morning.  Her husband, Dr Hawley Harvey Crippen, who was called Peter by his friends, was hanged at Pentonville in November 1910 for her murder. He had poisoned her and then removed her limbs and head and the bones from her body.  She was buried in the coal cellar of the house. The Crippens lived with a number of cats and, at the time of her death, a dog which she had recently purchased. ‘He is rather cute, don’t you think? Another hopeless boy to feed and...

Her second set, A Jazz Christmas , ended with even more applause than her first. She found herself wishing Lawrence had seen it. He was quite different to her usual taste in men but she liked his cheekiness and confidence. She would dress for lunch. She gathered up her music and went to the bar, had a single nightcap. She became conscious that a man was trying to catch her attention. Hoping he was not a fan, she beckoned him over. “Sorry to bother you, Miss Johnson, I have a message from Mr Foster.” He handed her an envelope saying, “No answer is required, Miss. Goodnight.” She looked at it for a full minute trying to guess what might be inside then, ripping the top open, she discovered it was a short note inviting her to his hotel after she finished for the night. She was not expecting that nor would she ever do such a thing after a short time of knowing anyone. As was her habit she would take a cab home. Putting her coat on, she went outside and immediately saw an orange light....

He lay on the bed in his custody cell wondering what possible, provable defence he would need. He had never met Valerie therefore his fingerprints could not have been anywhere on her. He certainly did not know what she looked like and he had never been in the bathroom, where it was alleged she had died. The house though was his as part of a new development site. He wondered how the police arrived and also how they knew where to go. He could not imagine it was coincidental. He ran through everything over and over again, then a wry smile crossed his face – Mitchell, of course. It had to be. He wanted the Heathrow site. The events of the last few days prior to his arrest clearly pointed him to the Housing Minister. He realised that Mitchell would be clean but that he was the murderer in absentia. His outlook was bleak. He, Robert Henry Bond, property developer of some repute, received a call from Edward Mitchell, Member of Parliament Surrey East. Mitchell knew Robert had sites all over th...

23 rd December 1965 He knew something was amiss as he approached the front door; water was leaking out and trickling down the steps like a small stream over rocks. He climbed t hem but, as he turned the key and opened the door, a deluge stormed out, caught him by surprise and took his legs from underneath him. He was momentarily dazed but recovered quickly enough to dodge a floating milk bottle coming straight at his head. He swore as he climbed back up the steps, but the deluge had abated so entrance to the house was easier. Once inside he stood and took in the scene before him. “Chaos, bloody chaos,” he said aloud. He’d left a light on when he went out that morning but assumed the water had put paid to the electricity supply. He made his way gingerly towards the kitchen to fetch the torch which he found in its usual drawer. Switching it on gave him the full picture of the damage. “Bloody hell, what a mess,” he said to himself as he shone the light at the ceiling, at which poin...