Murder Aboard the Flying Scotsman Read online

  Felicia stretched out her hand and shook Mr. Pierce’s amiably. Mr. Pierce smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  To Ginger and Basil, Felicia added, “And this is my good friend Miss Irene Dansby. Irene, this is my sister-in—”

  Taking pity on Felicia, Ginger stepped in. “I’m Mrs. Reed, and this is my husband, Mr. Reed.” Now that Ginger had remarried, it was an adjustment for all to get used to her new name and family status.

  Mr. Pierce said, “How do you do?”

  Felicia took aim at her friend. “You were in London, and you didn’t bother to visit?”

  “This was a quick trip to see the Opera,” Irene explained. “One night only. Otherwise, you know I would’ve rung you.”

  “I’m surprised we didn’t run into one another at Kings Cross,” Ginger said.

  Irene glanced at Mr. Pierce then answered, “It is a rather busy place.”

  Basil contributed to the conversation with a nod. “Indeed.”

  “I’m so glad to finally meet Felicia’s friend from York,” Ginger said. “She speaks of you often. Warmly, of course. You must join us.”

  Felicia jumped in. “Unless you’d rather be alone?”

  “There’s a pressing issue we need to discuss,” George Pierce said. “We’ll catch up with you in York . . . if that’s okay.”

  Felicia’s face dropped, but she recovered quickly. “Certainly.”

  “My diary is packed in my luggage,” Felicia said once she, Ginger and Basil were settled in at their table. “As soon as I get settled in York, I’m going to check. I just can’t believe I made an error as grave as this.”

  “It’s not so grave an error,” Ginger said. “It happens. Besides, my bet is on Miss Dansby. She did say she was a scatterbrain. How did you and Miss Dansby become acquainted?”

  “We’re childhood friends,” Felicia said, no longer able to rein in her annoyance. “We attended the same school in Chesterton.” Her gaze shot to the table where Miss Dansby and Mr. Pierce drank coffee then focused on something out of the window. “Are we slowing down? Are we at York already?”

  The loud screeching of the large metal wheels could be heard inside the dining car as the train came to an abrupt stop. Plates shifted along the tabletops and stopped at the lip around the edge. Diners were knocked about, some nearly losing their seats.

  “What’s happening?” Felicia yelped.

  The door to the dining car opened from the first-class side of the carriage, and a man dressed in a railway guard’s uniform entered. His eyes scanned the room, and when they found Basil, he headed straight to their table.

  “Chief Inspector Reed?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we saw your name on the passenger manifest, and well, there’s been a . . . uh . . . disturbance. Mr. Tippet, the engineer, has requested your assistance.

  Chapter Three

  My honeymoon is beginning to resemble my wedding day, the words snapped in Basil’s mind. Circumstances beyond his control were commandeering his plans for the day. All he wanted was to be alone with his bride. To hold hands, be alone amongst strangers, and to forget about work.

  He had, as the Americans loved to say, struck out. Felicia travelling the same day on the same train was pure bad luck. He couldn’t very well have asked her to sit elsewhere, could he? The last thing he needed was to make the household of women he’d only just moved in with have a reason to hold ill feelings against him. And, it seemed, Felicia had made a mistake with the date after all!

  And now, this “disturbance,” whatever it was. The diminutive railwayman looked distinctly distressed. Pale, with a slight tremble.

  Basil stood. “Your name, sir?”

  “Burgess. I’m head guard on this route. Please follow me.”

  As Basil knew she would, Ginger stepped in behind him.

  “Oh, I don’t think a lady should join us, sir.”

  “It’s quite all right.” He grinned at Ginger. As always, she was dazzlingly beautiful. “My wife isn’t like ordinary ladies.”

  Burgess stood on his toes to whisper in Basil’s ear. “All the same, sir. There’s been a death.”

  Basil reassured him. “She’ll be fine.”

  Ginger smiled in a way that made Basil long for her. If only this blasted train ride would end.

  “Felicia,” she said. “Do go and see that Mrs. Simms is all right.”

  Felicia wrinkled her nose in displeasure. “What about you?”

  “I’m going with Basil. As soon as I find out what’s happened, I’ll let you know.”

  Felicia sighed. “Very well. I suppose I should collect my things anyway.”

  Basil waited for Ginger to step in front of him then gently guided her by the small of her back. He loved that he could touch her in these little, intimate ways. If only they could get off this stifling train! Shuffling along the narrow corridor behind the wiry Burgess made him feel large and bulky. He didn’t mind short routes or even being underground on the tube system in London, but hours-long travel in a can of sardines made him feel short of breath.

  Burgess paused outside the door of the next carriage. “This is where the post is sorted and delivered.”

  “Chief Inspector Reed was just explaining how the post travelled by train through the country,” Ginger said. “Quite fascinating.”

  “Yes, well.” Mr. Burgess’ eyes locked onto Basil’s. “It’s rather gruesome, sir.” He nodded towards Ginger. “Are you quite sure?

  Ginger glanced at Basil with a look of amusement. Or was that irritation? She could hide her emotions when she wanted to. A skill, among many others, his new wife had learned whilst working for the British Secret Service during the Great War.

  His wife didn’t like to talk about her time there, or perhaps, she was forbidden to, but Basil did know that Ginger had seen many gruesome sights involving dead bodies. Not only in France but on the streets of London. She’d proved to be a rather good amateur sleuth in the short time Basil had known her, and had assisted him in quite a few tricky cases.

  Burgess knocked on the door, and it was opened by a bespectacled man with thinning hair. His trousers were held up by leather braces over a crumpled white shirt.

  “This is Mr. Doring,” Burgess said. “He’s head of operations for Royal Mail on this train.”

  “Hello, Mr. Doring,” Basil said, shaking the man’s hand.

  It was damp with nerves, and Doring quickly shoved it back into his pockets.

  “I’m Chief Inspector Reed, and this is my wife, Mrs. Reed. I understand there’s been a death.”

  “Yes. A very shocking and unfortunate situation.”

  “Do you suspect foul play? Perhaps the victim—a man is it?” After a nod in the affirmative, Basil continued, “Perhaps he suffered a heart attack. I understand there’s a lot of pressure to perform one’s duties quickly and accurately. Is it possible he couldn’t manage the stress?”

  Burgess and Doring exchanged glances. “He’s not one of ours,” Doring said.

  “Oh? Did the fellow lose his way?” Basil asked, pulling at his collar. He couldn’t blame the bloke for leaving in search of some air.

  “No, sir,” Doring said. “He came in from outside.”

  “Outside?” Ginger said. “Was he a stowaway?”

  “No, madam.”

  Basil had had enough of the riddles. “Show us the body, please.”

  Another look passed between the men. “It’s right there, on the floor.”

  Basil frowned. There was no man lying on the floor, dead or alive. He glared at the men. “It’s a criminal offence to waste the time of the police.”

  Ginger touched his elbow. “Basil. It looks like blood is coming from that mailbag.”

  The leather pouch had been opened, but it lay in a manner where the opening faced the other way. Basil squatted and peered inside. “Blimey!”

  Chapter Four

  Despite protestations from Mr. Burgess, Ginger bent low to v
iew the contents.

  Oh, mercy!

  Inside the letter bag, a gruesome, washed-out face with lifeless eyes stared back at her.

  “A decapitation.”

  A middle-aged man in an engineer’s uniform entered the carriage. His eyes locked on the letter bag on the wooden floor. “So, it’s true, eh?” He removed his cap and palmed his short-cropped oiled hair before returning it. “I was hopin’ it was a bad joke and was ready to sack someone for causin’ an unnecessary delay. The Flying Scotsman has a reputation for speed and timeliness.”

  “I’m London CID,” Basil said. “This is Yorkshire jurisdiction.”

  Mr. Tippet’s dark eyes were beseeching. “If you’d be so kind as to step in until the police arrive. I’ve sent an electric telegraph.”

  “Very well.” Basil turned to all the men in the space. “No one is to leave this carriage until I say.” Out of habit, Basil searched his pockets but came up empty. “Would any of you gentlemen have a notepad and pencil?”

  With all the paper in the post office van, Ginger expected it was quite likely and was proven correct. Mr. Doring scrambled to gather the objects and handed them to Basil. The poor fellow trembled terribly.

  “Thank you, my good man. Now, if you will, please relay the sequence of events that led to this unfortunate situation.”

  Mr. Doring held thin arms against his chest. “Well, it’s such a shock, I’m not sure where to begin. It was just a normal workday. I started my shift in London and came directly to the post office van as did all the gentlemen present.”

  “I’ll need names after we’re finished here,” Basil said. “Continue on.”

  “The men were doing their usual business, sorting letters and the like. The letter bags ready to be dispatched were hung in the leather drop bags on the hooks just outside that door.”

  The post office van had a sliding exterior door, now closed.

  “Our bags are dropped, and the ones hanging on the exchange apparatus are delivered.”

  “Where do they land?” Ginger asked.

  Mr. Doring pointed to the floor of the carriage. “Right here. They land with a bang, and we close the door. It’s quite a racket with the whistle going throughout the operation.

  “And this is the pouch that was picked up?” Basil said.

  “One of two.” He pointed to one that was opened with letters exposed.

  “What town did it come from, precisely?” Ginger asked.

  “Doncaster. It’s the last drop before York.”

  Basil scribbled notes. “Does anyone here recognise the face?”

  Mr. Doring hesitated before answering. “Well, it’s hard to tell for sure, with all the blood and bloating, but it does look a bit like Oscar Wright.”

  “Textile tycoon?” Basil’s voice betrayed a slight note of shock. The uninitiated would likely not have noticed, but Ginger knew her husband well.

  “Are you acquainted?” Ginger asked.

  “Just nominally. He attended a party in London where I was a guest.”

  Ginger turned back to the supervisor. “Has a telegraph been sent to the medical examiner? In case this isn’t Mr. Wright’s head. We wouldn’t want to start a nasty rumour.”

  “Yes, madam,” Mr. Tippet said. “I requested a doctor as well.”

  “Has anything been touched or moved?” Basil asked.

  “I dragged the pouch away from the open door so we could close it,” Mr. Doring said. “Straightaway I could tell something wasn’t right. The shape and weight of it. I opened the straps, and when I saw what was inside, I fell on my ars—excuse me, madam, fell on my backside and scrambled away. It was a real shock, I’ll tell you.”

  “It hasn’t been moved or touched since then?” Basil asked.

  “No, sir.”

  Basil addressed the guard. “Mr. Burgess, is there a place these men could wait away from this unpleasantness? I’m sure they’d like to sit down.”

  “I’ll find a spot, sir.”

  “They’re not to mix with anyone else until they’ve given their statements. We’ll need to take fingerprints before we can release them.”

  A porter knocked and poked his head inside. Ginger noted how Basil stepped in front of the mailbag to conceal it. Once the porter’s gaze located the engineer he announced, “The police have arrived, sir.”

  “Show them in,” Mr. Tippet said.

  Shortly afterwards, a barrel-chested man joined Ginger, Basil, Mr. Doring, and Mr. Tippet. Ginger assumed he was the lead inspector and his two young uniformed companions were constables. A slender man, around Ginger’s age of thirty, set a black medical kit on the floor.

  “I’m Inspector Sullivan,” the large man said, his words were low and gravelly.

  Quite likely due to a cigarette habit, Ginger thought as she noted the nicotine-stained fingers of his right hand. He appeared to be out of breath.

  He motioned to the slimmer man. “This is Dr. Chapman, York’s medical examiner.”

  Basil responded to the introductions. “I’m Chief Inspector Reed of the Met. My wife and I are passengers. Mr. Tippet saw my name on the passenger list and asked if I would assist until you arrived.”

  “Thank you. If you wouldn’t mind bringing me up to speed, it would be much appreciated.”

  “Of course.”

  Inspector Sullivan’s gaze darted briefly to Ginger. “Your wife is welcome to go back to her seat.”

  “She’d prefer to stay if you don’t mind.”

  Looking very much as if he did mind, the York inspector frowned. “All right, then. What do you know?”

  “The head was in the mail pouch dropped from Doncaster,” Basil replied. “Mr. Doring, the supervisor, was the first and only to see the face. He says it resembles Oscar Wright.”

  “Mr. Wright?” The medical examiner said. The doctor was young and intense in appearance with dark, oiled hair combed sharply to one side.

  “Do you know the man?” Basil asked.

  Inspector Sullivan answered for all of them. “Everyone who lives in York knows him.”

  Dr. Chapman mimicked what Ginger and Basil had done before him: squatted, looked into the bag, and grimaced. “Looks like Wright to me.” He shone a light into the victim’s eyes. “Vitreous humour is glazed over.”

  “What does that mean?” Inspector Sullivan said impatiently.

  “The vitreous humour is the clear gel between the lens and the retina of the eye. It’s gone opaque, which means the man’s been dead about eight hours.”

  Ginger checked her wristwatch. Twenty-five minutes past two. “He was killed around dawn.”

  “Let me have a look.” The inspector grunted as he knelt. “I recognise the scar above the left eyebrow. Took a right hook from a disgruntled employee about a decade ago. That’s him all right.”

  “I’ll take the head, along with the bag, to the lab,” Dr. Chapman said. “Maybe the killer left something behind.”

  “What about the Flying Scotsman,” the engineer asked. “We mustn’t hold up the tracks.”

  “Can we uncouple some of the carriages?”

  “There’s a siding about a mile north. Which carriages, sir?”

  Inspector Sullivan cast a glance at Basil before replying. “If I’m to understand correctly, only persons in the first class and the first-class dining carriages could’ve accessed the post office van. Second and third class are separated by a cattle truck.”

  “That’s correct, sir,” Mr. Tippet said.

  “Also, the luggage van,” Inspector Sullivan added.

  “The luggage van, sir?” Mr. Tippet said.

  Basil nodded. “In case the rest of the body has been packed away in another manner.”

  Chapter Five

  When on the move, the Flying Scotsman gave one the sensation of flight—like a low-flying swan—hooting, singing, chugging along past fields of grazing cattle, and through low valleys. There was no quicker way to travel, other than aeroplane, which wasn’t a form of travel easily acces
sible to the British, no matter their social standing. Although now, with the new Imperial Airways, continental trips were feasible for those with a steady stomach and a steadier bank account.

  Usually, train passengers were amiable, polite, and whether the loquacious sort or quiet, travel along the rails gave one a feeling of anticipation and, even though one sat and waited out the time, a sense of accomplishment.

  A carriage at a standstill was another matter altogether. Now the atmosphere was charged with frustration, discomfort, and hostility.

  The man and woman from two compartments back stood anxiously in the corridor, he with a cigarette dangling from chapped lips. They appeared to be in their late forties; she had soft full cheeks and an ample bosom, and he, a long face with sharp features and short limbs.

  “Why have we stopped? This is most certainly not York.” The woman’s voice carried along the carriage.

  “The steward said there’s a problem with the post office van,” the man replied. “At least we’re moving again, albeit at a snail’s pace.”

  Ginger whispered to Basil, “I overheard the porter calling them by the name of Fisher.”

  The carriage jerked causing Mrs. Fisher to shriek. “Sydney, what’s happening?”

  Basil answered for the beleaguered husband. “Unfortunately, this carriage along with a few others is being uncoupled from the rest of the train.”

  Two businessmen had joined them, the taller one also lighting up. “Did I hear you say we’re being sidelined?” He released blue smoke into the air.

  Ginger would’ve opened a corridor window had it not been so cold out.

  The man continued to protest. “We’re first class! If anyone should continue, it should be us.”

  His companion commiserated. “I certainly agree. As soon as we reach Edinburgh, I’m writing a letter of complaint.

  Basil whispered in Ginger’s ear. “I’m going to check about something. I’ll be back shortly.”

  The aggravation growing from the small crowd was palpable, and Ginger felt she should perhaps explain. “The matter in the post office van is complicated. There is a good reason that these particular carriages must be delayed.”