Andrew Martin: Lost baggage porter

Sampson had been arraigned for the murder of the Camerons only, the evidence not being up to the mark regarding the killing of Lund, although the Chief had done his best to bring it about. Parkinson, the lost-luggage superintendent, had given evidence before the magistrates to show that Lund had found himself in the way of harm from the Sampson lot through his (Parkinson's) own actions. It was quite white of him, I thought, to make no bones of the fact that he'd spoken to Mr Five Pounds, the bent copper of Tower Street, who was now awaiting his own trial.

We were walking past the Independent Chapel now, and I saw Smith, the organist darting in, followed by the little fellow who was the organ blower. We were at the lowest level of Bay within another half-minute, directly outside the Bay Hotel.

'The Sunday dinners in there have a very good name, you know,' Dad was saying to the wife.

'A good name where?' said the wife.

'Why, here in Bay,' said Dad. I was the chief prosecution witness at the trial of ValentineSampson, although Roberts, the goods clerk, had run me close. His hands had been made small by the burning metal, like an old maid's and he had been brought to court every day from the infirmary at Armley Gaol.

Looking on from the police seats at the Assizes, I had generally avoided Sampson's eyes, but had snatched a few glances, as for example on the opening day, when he turned in the dock to face the falling sunlight, as though to take strength, and – later – as he smoothed his beard and shook the hands of his brief after the verdict we in the police seats had all been banking on was given.

We went down the steps to the beach, where the wife spread out a blanket, and Dad lowered the baby onto it. We all watched the sea, but little Harry was trying to raise himself and so, taking pity on the lad (I remembered being the only one not able to stand on Platform Four) I picked him up. As usual when I did this he looked set fair for a cry, so I put him down again sharpish, recalling as I did so that there had been one further eye-connection during the judge's summing up, when Sampson had smiled across to me, and made the sleeping sign: two hands together as in prayer, head rested against hands. He had done the same on the train to Dover.

From the Independent Chapel I could hear choir practice, and a hymn I knew: 'Now The Day is Ended', the sound sent out across the sea from the chapel door. I stood a while and listened, then turned sharply to my right – the wife was bringing the baby to me once again.