The Body on the Train Page 3

  When I returned to the carriage, the American couple smiled a welcome and enquired whether I had enjoyed my supper. They had eaten an enormous lunch and looked forward to a light supper at the Queens Hotel.

  We talked of what they might see while they were in the area, as the golf tournament was not due to start for at least another month. I told them that they must visit the Yorkshire Dales. I named the place that is the nearest to heaven on earth that mere mortals will ever find. I told them about York and Harrogate, and the arcades and markets in Leeds and Bradford. They no longer struck me as dubious characters, but one never knows.

  While we were talking of what shops might interest Mrs. Loomis, I came up with a plan that would allow me to wander about the area surrounding Ardsley without arousing suspicion. My preference would have been to go in as what I am, a private investigator. Since Mr. Woodhead insisted on my being undercover, I would be a photographic journalist, writing about the district, creating for myself a licence to be curious.

  It was then that what niggled me earlier in the day came to mind. I remembered the newspaper article from last weekend, giving an account of a murder very close to the setting off point for the train that carried the unknown man.

  Chapter Five

  My dining room doubles as an office. Mrs. Sugden had taken off her apron. She and Sykes sat at the table. Mrs. Sugden keeps a pencil behind her ear and is never without her small leather-bound notebook.

  “Mr. Sykes, Mrs. Sugden, we are working for Scotland Yard.”

  I explained about the unidentified man, ignominiously treated as cargo, carried to King’s Cross on Friday night and into the early hours of Saturday. I placed his picture before them. “He was shot through the stomach.”

  Mrs. Sugden let out a sigh. “Poor fellow. There must have been an awful lot of blood.”

  Sykes, used to police briefings where no one speaks until the final full stop, glared at Mrs. Sugden.

  “We need to know who he is, who killed him and why he was put on that train. I know it’s late, so I’ll understand if you want to read the file tomorrow.”

  Sykes reached out for the papers.

  Mrs. Sugden put on her glasses. Sharing the document, they began to read the account of Scotland Yard’s investigation to date. Both are quick readers but Mrs. Sugden likes to linger on a detail here and there. A little friction emerged, regarding how soon to turn the page.

  I left them to it.

  We have a decorative cold scuttle, too elegant to use for coal. It is where we stuff old newspapers. I took out a bundle of papers, hoping that the pertinent pages hadn’t been used to light the fire.

  Fortunately, what I wanted was still there.

  By the time I went back into the dining room, Sykes and Mrs. Sugden had finished reading. Sykes produced Ordnance Survey maps. Had he stayed in the police force he should, with his ability, have risen through the ranks. That would have been my loss. He spread the map on the table. Once he had pointed out Ardsley, and the railway station, I placed the two rescued articles on the table, one from Saturday’s first edition:

  SHOPKEEPER FOUND DEAD

  Police were called to a shop in Thorpefield late Friday evening. The shopkeeper, whose name has not yet been released, had been fatally wounded. The death is being treated as suspicious. At present police are releasing no further details.

  The next article was on Monday, 4 March.

  SHOPKEEPER MURDERED FOR PALTRY TAKINGS

  Police have named the dead Thorpefield shopkeeper as Mrs. Helen Farrar of the Corner Shop, Silver Street, Thorpefield. She was found to have wounds to her head. The shop was ransacked and money taken from the cash register. A tin cash box had been broken open and emptied of its contents. Wakefield police are questioning Stephen Walmsley, aged 20, in connection with the murder and robbery. A worker at the local pit, he has lodged with Mrs. Farrar for some years. Police are appealing for witnesses. No one else is sought in connection with the death.

  Mr. Sykes and Mrs. Sugden each read them.

  Mrs. Sugden spoke first. “Isn’t Thorpefield where your old friend lives?”

  “Yes. And I do believe that it is time for me to pay her a visit.”

  I fished out my notebook, while Sykes measured the distance between Ardsley and Thorpefield with his finger and thumb. “The shop is a couple of miles from Ardsley station. The closest village is Rothwell.”

  It puzzled me that neither Commander Woodhead nor his DC had mentioned this murder. “Surely it’s too much of a coincidence that on the same night, within an area of a few miles, there were two murders?”

  “I’d say so,” Sykes agreed.

  DC Yeats and I had arranged that I could contact Scotland Yard on the line from my father’s office at Wakefield Police HQ, but at this time of night that was not practical. Martin Yeats had said that his landlady did not allow telephone calls after 10 p.m., but that his room was on the ground floor, near the telephone. I took the risk.

  Perhaps my clever collaborator had expected a call. The operator came back to me quickly. “Connecting you now, caller.”

  We had agreed on first names for any such calls.

  “Martin, Kate here.”

  “Thought it might be.”

  “Does the name Mrs. Farrar ring any bells?”

  There was a long pause. “Yes, but no connection.”

  Even if Scotland Yard didn’t know the local geography, somebody should have pointed it out. Perhaps someone had, and any link had already been investigated and discarded. If so, I would be going over old ground.

  “Martin, would you be so kind as to arrange for me to visit Stephen Walmsley? He’s in Wakefield.”

  “Wakefield?”

  I did not want to say on an open line that Walmsley was a resident of His Majesty’s Prison. “Yes. George King is such a good host I hear.”

  “Ah, yes, so he is. How soon do you want to visit?”

  “Soonest possible, tomorrow?”

  “Will be in touch.”

  “Thank you.” I hung up.

  This was not an ideal way to communicate, but at this time of night it was preferable to finding a police station with a secure line to Scotland Yard and going through the rigmarole of an explanation before being told to ring back in the morning.

  Eager Martin Yeats would enjoy his journey back to Scotland Yard, and his latest task.

  I came back into the dining room and told them of my planned visit to Wakefield prison, to meet the man accused of murdering the shopkeeper. “DC Yeats says there’s no connection. The motive for the murder of Mrs. Farrar appears to be robbery, but that feels too neat.”

  Mrs. Sugden licked her pencil and made a note. Sykes stared at his fingernails. He hates it when a person licks an indelible pencil.

  Mrs. Sugden sometimes makes a little whooshing sound when she has a good idea. She did so now. “You say this man was put in a sack?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was there ash? Might he have been some sort of penitent?”

  Sykes held his tongue with difficulty. I never pooh-pooh Mrs. Sugden’s odd suggestions. She sometimes has an uncanny way of coming up with a useful line of enquiry, but to keep us on track I told them Mr. Woodhead’s suspicion that the man might be a foreign agitator.

  Mrs. Sugden pounced. “Mediterranean, probably a Catholic. That would tie in with sackcloth and ashes.”

  “Except there were no ashes,” Sykes said rather abruptly, “it was a sack, not sackcloth, and the man was shot.”

  “True, on the face of it,” Mrs. Sugden agreed. “But we’re not theologians.” She gave him a hard stare. “And there are lots of people who are anti-Catholic.”

  To shift the conversation, I told them of Commander Woodhead’s suspicions and DC Yeats’s guesswork.

  “One line of enquiry is that he was carrying cash to encourage another miners’ strike, and that he was murdered for his money. DC Yeats’s thought he might be an author, because of callouses on his thumb and finger.”r />
  Mrs. Sugden made a note. “Why would anyone murder an author?”

  Sykes hates it when Mrs. Sugden interrupts. “Even an author might occasionally have money.”

  Perhaps convening at this time of night was a mistake.

  Mrs. Sugden had not finished. “I read a story where a playwright murdered a man who knew that his original play in English wasn’t original at all. He’d translated it from the German without letting on.” She paused for a moment. “There’s a word for it.”

  “Whoever he was and whatever he did or didn’t do, someone must miss him.”

  Sykes pointed to his map, tapping Ardsley. “Anyone wanting to dispose of a body round here would be spoiled for choice. Within a five mile radius, you have disused mine workings, slag heaps, fields, reservoir, woods. Go a bit farther, there’s the river.”

  Knowing the area, I had already thought of that. “You’re right, but the villages are heavily populated. As well as mines and farms, there’s a mill, a school—lots of children who’ll wander the fields and woods. Perhaps whoever did it wanted to give himself time to be clear of the area.”

  Mrs. Sugden frowned. “What happened to the man’s clothes?”

  It was a good question, and one of many. If we could find the man’s clothes, we might find his killer.

  It was getting late. My niece Harriet would be back from the second showing at the cinema very soon. “Let’s all sleep on it. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Sugden decided that it was a good idea to make cocoa. Sykes preferred a drop of whisky, and so did I.

  Mrs. Sugden went into the kitchen.

  Sykes pointed to the page that listed some of the people who had been told about the body, and presumably the commander’s suspicions. “Your cousin is on this list.”

  “Yes. James isn’t the only person on the list who works in government. A friend’s husband is on there, too. Benjamin Brockman, a mine owner.” Benjie Brockman’s name was near the top of the list. “I’ve known Gertrude Brockman for years. We first met at riding school when we were eleven.”

  “Isn’t Mr. Brockman something to do with the county bigwigs?”

  “He’s deputy to the Lord Lieutenant of the County.”

  “That’s where you’re going to invite yourself to stay!”

  “Yes, though given that I’m undercover, I’ll have to hope that Gertrude or Benjie will be indiscreet and confide in me.”

  “Will Mr. Brockman have told his wife?”

  “It would be useful if he has. Commander Woodhead is keen that I don’t barge in, saying that I’m investigating because Scotland Yard and CID have hit a brick wall.”

  “Because there’s nervousness about another miners’ strike?”

  “That was the impression the commander gave me.”

  Sykes scratched his head. “Then with respect, Mrs. Shackleton, you may not be the best person to be there.”

  “How so?”

  “If there’s a need to infiltrate, it would take some horny-handed son of the soil to gain the workers’ confidence.”

  “That would rule out all three of us, you, me and Mrs. Sugden. Shall I tender our resignation?”

  He gave a small chuckle. “Where do we start?”

  “Railway staff have been questioned, but if you want to go in there as LNER’s visiting security inspector, I’m sure that can be arranged.”

  He pulled a disagreeable face. Knowing Sykes, this meant he was already considering something more devious than dressing up as a railway inspector.

  “Do we have the usual expenses budget?”

  “Yes. But bribery and corruption? You shock me, Mr. Sykes.”

  He laughed. “Shock the unshockable Shackleton? I don’t think so, but there is a possibility I’ll find a porter with a loose tongue and an empty pocket who likes a drink.”

  “That sounds like as good a start as any.”

  He caught the uncertainty in my voice. “You have another idea?”

  Sykes is an avid supporter of cricket. He once explained how slippery ground might delay play. I felt we were on such slippery ground now, and said so.

  “I’m used to slippery approaches, Mrs. Shackleton.”

  My next idea seemed as unlikely as some of Mrs. Sugden’s notions. I mentioned my fellow passengers on the train, Mr. and Mrs. Loomis, here for the Ryder Cup. “It might just be that they are friendly Americans, but they did seem over-curious. It set me wondering if the Ryder Cup really is the main purpose of their visit.”

  Sykes looked suddenly cheerful. He always does when I become suspicious. “You’re thinking that they could be Russians who learned to speak English in America.”

  “It’s more to do with a possible golf connection. The dead man has callouses on his thumb and fingers—my father has the same, from playing golf.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “Dad complains of pains in his joints. I’ve made poultices for his knee and elbow. The victim had swellings to his knee and elbow. DC Yeats thought he had been fit and active.”

  “A revolutionary who might take time off to watch the golf tournament?”

  “You’ve heard about it?”

  “The papers are full of it. Will you ask Mr. Hood to call at the golf course?”

  “I won’t ask Dad. I’m asking you.”

  “Should be interesting. I won’t pass as a golfer.”

  “You’d pass as yourself.”

  “Anything is worth a try. But if Commander Woodhead believes our unknown man was here with Russian gold, he must have intelligence to that effect.”

  “I’m sure he has, but there was no offer to share it.”

  “Then I’ll visit the golf club. Given all the secrecy, am I allowed to share the picture?”

  “Probably not, but go ahead. We have to do this our way.”

  “Extra copies from my discreet printer friend?”

  “Indeed.”

  What Mr. Woodhead didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. If we succeeded, he would not dare rap my knuckles. If we failed—but I wouldn’t think about that possibility.

  * * *

  Sykes left before Harriet arrived home from the cinema. She went to bed, blissfully unaware that we were once more on a case. Mrs. Sugden let the dog out for his last stroll about the wood, and then retired for the night. I sat at the dining room table, making a few notes. Jotting down thoughts helped me to keep those thoughts from spinning around in my head.

  Finally, I took out my writing case and penned a letter to Gertrude Brockman. She knows I am a keen snapper and that I had an article in the Amateur Photographer. It would not surprise her to know that I intended to take photographs and write an article about Rothwell and the surrounding districts. After all, the place is rich in history. It even has the remains of what some call a castle, where the kings of old came to stay while gathering taxes and hunting wild boar to extinction.

  I warmed to the idea, telling Gertrude that it would be lovely to come and stay with her, if she could put me up for a few days.

  If this letter caught the first collection, it ought to be with Gertrude by tomorrow afternoon. Mad as it was at this hour, so long after midnight had struck, I put on my coat and walked to the nearest post box, on the lane. Although I tried to be quiet, Sergeant Dog heard the door open and came to accompany me.

  As we were on our way back, a motorbike overtook us. Ours is a quiet street. It is unusual to hear any sound at all after 10 p.m. The motorbike stopped by my neighbour’s gate. He shone a light on the street number, and then turned away. I caught up with him as he was entering my gate, calmed the dog, and followed the man onto the path. I recognised the police motorbike and that he was a despatch rider. By some instinct, and my reassurance, Sergeant Dog decided hostilities were not in order.

  “Hello, can I help you? I’m Mrs. Shackleton.”

  “Evening, madam—or should I say morning? I have something for you. You need to sign for it.”

  We went into the hall.
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br />   The envelope he handed me contained a permit signed by the Prison Governor, allowing me entry to His Majesty’s Prison at Wakefield, to visit Prisoner 87513, Stephen Walmsley, at 11 a.m. later that morning.

  Chapter Six

  Philip Goodchild met me at Wakefield railway station. He has tufts of light brown hair that turn gold in summer. He still lives next door to my parents’ house, with his widowed mother. Philip was always shy, the kind of person easily dismissed as lacking by those who did not know him. When I telephoned and said I would like him to drive me to the prison, he expressed no surprise. He knows the way. He knows his way everywhere. Not only is he the best mechanic in the West Riding, he carries maps in his head. Once having completed a route, he never forgets.

  As children, we simply took him for who he was. If anyone ever asked his name, he would say, “Philip and it is not an F, it is a Ph, which is a chemical symbol and stands in for F in certain words, such as phantom and philanthropy.”

  He ought to have been a professor. Instead, he learned everything about the maintenance of motor vehicles.

  We were travelling in a van he had repaired for a grocer.

  “I have to make sure the van is running right before I deliver it back. I call this a test drive. I do it every time. My customers expect it.”

  Through my father, Philip has repaired the vehicles of police and prison staff. If he had a proper business, he could easily find himself contracted to repair official motors.

  We drew up by the prison gates.

  Philip cut the engine. “You are allowed to get out. I am not permitted to stay here. This area is in the vicinity of the prison. Civilians cannot park here. I will take the van somewhere else. When I have done that, I will come back and stand by that street lamp. I will watch for you to come out.”

  “I’ll look for you, and come across to the street lamp.” It is best to accept what Philip says. He thinks everything through and makes a plan. I guessed that he had discussed this with his mother. To suggest some other arrangement would upset him. “Thank you, PH.”