Murder Aboard the Flying Scotsman

by Lee Strauss

  “Now, now,” Ginger said gently. “You don’t want to miss the train. The taxicab awaits us.”

  Ginger held her white-gloved hand in the air and waved Felicia off as the train chugged out of the station, and when she turned, she nearly bumped into Basil.

  “Oh mercy, Basil, you startled me.”

  “So sorry, my dear.” He took her by the arm and guided her through the station. “I met Mulgrew at the police station. He said you’d be here.”

  “Thank you for coming for me.”

  “Always my pleasure,” Basil said. Ginger felt her cheeks grow rosy at her new husband’s obvious affection, despite a very British effort to hold in his emotions.

  “So where to now?” Ginger asked. “The Wright house?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Basil said.

  They reached their borrowed motorcar, and Basil held the passenger door open for her. Once behind the wheel, he asked, “How’s Felicia?”

  Ginger tipped the rearview mirror her way and checked her reflection. Hat straight, the makeup highlighting green eyes unsmudged. Her lipstick could use another application, but she’d wait until she was alone to do that. She adjusted the tips of her red bob to reinforce the curls that rested against each cheek and swung the rearview mirror back.

  Basil smirked as he corrected the position for his perspective. “Are we ready?”

  Ginger smirked back. “Of course.”

  “It was Superintendent Morris’ idea to take Mr. Pierce and Miss Dansby into the police station for questioning. I hope she wasn’t too distressed,” Basil said.

  “She’s quite distraught about George,” Ginger said. “I hope she’s not implicated in any way herself.”

  “If they have anything on Pierce, they could very well arrest her for accessory. Even if she wasn’t involved in any way. If they can show she knew something and didn’t report it, she’d be an accessory after the fact.

  Ginger sighed. It was a terrible situation for Irene Dansby but also a heartbreak for poor Felicia.

  Unlike either the Dansby or Pierce homes, the Wright house was smack in the middle of the city behind York Minster: a massive Gothic Cathedral with vast stained-glass windows. It was an impressive three-storey brick house with a small but well-tended-to garden. A black wreath hung on the tall wooden door of the dead man’s home.

  Ginger eyed it soberly. “Sometimes I get so caught up in the puzzle of the crime, I forget about the grief suffered in its wake.”

  “Indeed,” Basil said. “There’s only a son, I’m told. Mrs. Wright passed away nearly twenty years ago.”

  Their knock on the door was answered by a diminutive, timid-looking maid. “Mr. Ronald Wright isn’t taking visitors, I’m afraid. You understand, I’m sure.”

  “I’m afraid this isn’t a sympathy visit.” Basil explained the reason for their call.

  “Oh dear. Very well, come in.”

  The maid disappeared. The house was well-kept, if outdated. In need of a woman’s touch, Ginger mused.

  “By first appearances, I shouldn’t think Mr. Wright was killed for money’s sake,” Basil said. “One would expect a millionaire tycoon to live rather extravagantly.

  Ginger concurred. “Perhaps he was miserly, hording his riches.”

  “Or lost his fortune somehow. I’ll ask Sullivan for an update on Mr. Wright’s financial affairs.”

  The maid returned. “Please follow me.”

  The Wright drawing room was very masculine with straight lines, dark wood, and not a floral likeness—real or in the design—to be seen. Mr. Ronald Wright, a man in his fifties with thinning salt-and-pepper hair cut short, and a matching moustache, rose to his feet. Politely, he shook hands.

  “I’m Chief Inspector Reed,” Basil said. “And this is my wife, Mrs. Reed. Our condolences on the loss of your father.”

  “Thank you. How may I help you?” Mr. Wright Junior had a suitable air of mourning—loose shoulders and sagging mouth—but something in his eyes made Ginger think that the man wasn’t quite so sorry his father was gone than he’d like people to believe.

  “I’d like to ask a few questions,” Basil said. “Just a matter of form.”

  Ginger and Basil had barely been seated on the dark leather settee when the maid returned with a tea tray.

  “That was fast,” Ginger said.

  The maid responded quietly. “I asked the cook to put the kettle on as soon as you arrived, madam.”

  The tea was poured, blown upon, and sipped carefully. Then Basil jumped right in.

  “When was the last time you saw your father alive?”

  “At the weekend. I always visit him at the weekend.”

  “How long has he been a resident at the nursing home?”

  “Coming up to two years now.”

  “Did you father have enemies?”

  Ronald Wright took a long sip of his tea. His clear blue eyes scanned the room as if he were deep in thought and trying to dredge up an answer. Ginger had the feeling there were plenty of enemies, and that Mr. Wright Junior was about to lie or make light of them.

  “Well, anyone in that level of management is bound to have dissenters. As owner of the largest textile mill in Yorkshire, my father made a few unpopular decisions. I suppose a loony might’ve gone off his rocker at some insignificant thing he didn’t happen to agree with. I mean, it’s clearly a loony, isn’t it? Who else would kill a man in such a ghastly fashion?”

  “Do you have any enemies, Mr. Wright?” Ginger asked.

  Ronald Wright appeared stunned by the insinuation.

  “I highly doubt someone would try to get to me by cutting off my father’s head, Mrs. Reed.”

  She most definitely needed to stick with Lady Gold. Rightly or wrongly, the title itself carried a lot of weight, and Ginger didn’t think Mr. Wright would be so rude and condescending to a Lady.

  “My wife has a point,” Basil said, and Ginger smiled at him appreciatively. “Indeed, it is not out of the realm of possibility that a person, a loony if you prefer, might lash out at you by attacking your father. I see it quite often in my line of work, the concept that a person can hurt their foe more deeply by hurting someone they love.”

  “Yes, very well,” Ronald consented in a huff. “I have my share of ‘enemies’ if you like. Associates who are unhappy with how I’ve conducted myself in business, but hardly a reason to kill my father. Besides, people who know me well enough to want to hurt me, realise I wasn’t close to my father.

  “Does your father still have a bedroom here?” Ginger asked. “Are his personal items in the house?”

  Ronald replied slowly, “Yes.”

  “Would you mind if we had a look?” Basil asked. “There could be a clue among his things that might lead us to a suspect.”

  “I suppose so. Just don’t shift things around. The housekeeper won’t like it.”

  Ronald Wright led them to a room at the back of the house. “This used to be his study, but once the steps got to be too much for him, we set his bedroom up here. Never bothered to set it back.”

  The interior of the house didn’t portray great wealth. Perhaps Mr. Wright had indeed made a few bad investments, or possibly, he was simply frugal by nature. Tall windows overlooked the back garden and, Ginger thought, would shed a nice amount of natural light during the daytime. Now that darkness had fallen, they were left to the overhead electric light fixture, which cast dim shadows. A single mattress was pressed up against a wall beside a simple bedside table with a gas lamp, unlit. A wardrobe had one door jutting open.

  “It doesn’t close properly,” Ronald said. “Loose latch. Never bothered to get it fixed.”

  Ronald lingered near the door, not trusting them to be left alone. Ginger wondered what he was afraid they’d find.

  Ginger opened the wayward door, expecting to find an assortment of men’s suits, perhaps a couple of pairs of leather shoes but instead, the only thing occupying the cupboard was an old-fashioned, heavy-looking safe, the kind locke
d with a key.

  Basil stood behind her and peered over her shoulder. “How interesting.” He spun around to face Ronald Wright. “Do you have a key to the safe?”

  Ronald shook his head. “Father never discussed his private affairs with me.”

  “Who do you think would have a key?” Ginger asked.

  “His solicitor, I suspect. He’s as old as the hills too. I’ll give him a ring, and hopefully, we can get it from him before he knocks off.”

  “Please ring the police station once you have it,” Basil asked. “I’ll get an officer to come to the house to keep an eye on Mr. Wright’s room.”

  “You don’t trust me not to open it, eh?”

  Basil stared him down. “No offence, Mr. Wright, but this is a murder investigation, and certain procedures must be followed. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to use your telephone.”

  Chapter 25

  Ginger and Basil waited for Constable Mulgrew to arrive before leaving Ronald Wright alone with his father’s safe.

  “Do you suppose Dr. Chapman might have some news by now?” Ginger said as she slipped into the motorcar.”

  “Let’s head to the mortuary and find out?”

  The streets of York weren’t designed for motor vehicle traffic, and often, they had to pull over against the flat brick façade of terraced houses to make way for another motorcar to pass.

  “Do you think Ronald Wright might’ve killed his father?” Basil said after one particularly tight manoeuvre. “A crime of passion such as this is often committed by close relations.”

  Ginger nodded. “If this was the wife, the husband would be the prime suspect.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Speaking of wives, have you noticed the response we’re getting from people when you introduce me as your wife?” Ginger said. “I’m not being taken seriously, and neither are you for that matter?”

  “I have noticed. Shall we carry on with your Lady Gold persona?”

  “People seem to be more agreeable to that. I should continue to operate my private investigative business under that name. In fact, my cards say it—Lady Gold. Private Investigator. You wouldn’t mind, love, would you? I know we’ve mentioned it before in jest, but I’m asking seriously now. It wouldn’t be too misleading?”

  “I think it’s an acceptable plan. I’ll call you my associate from Lady Gold’s private investigative agency. And if people learn that you’re also my wife, so be it.”

  “Thank you, darling,” Ginger said with relief. “It’s rather late, in some regards, to begin with that on this case, but the next one.”

  Basil laughed. “You’re already on the next one? Let’s solve this one first, shall we?”

  Dr. Chapman greeted them at the hospital mortuary and led them to the body draped discreetly under a sheet on a white ceramic table. The head was on a second one, also covered.

  “What have you discovered, Dr. Chapman?” Basil asked.

  Dr. Chapman lowered the sheet. Ginger couldn’t help grimace at the grizzly stub of the man’s neck with severed veins, torn muscle and sinew, and chiselled bone exposed. Dr. Chapman lifted one shoulder to reveal the bluish-white flesh of the back. A single wound was apparent under the left shoulder blade.

  “Knife wound?” Ginger said.

  Dr. Chapman lowered the shoulder of the corpse down. “Indeed. This is what killed him. A direct stab to the heart. It explains the shortage of blood from the severed head. There was no pulse when the axe dropped. The victim was already dead.”

  “This is very perplexing,” Ginger said. “Why not just leave the man’s body alone once the deed was done? Why the big show with the head on the train?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Basil said. “This is more than simple revenge. It was a message to someone on the train.”

  “Yes, but who?” Ginger said. “Irene and George? Mr. Burgess or Mr. Doring? The other first-class passengers?”

  “That’s what we need to find out.”

  Chapter 26

  The evening meal was much overdue, and Ginger suggested they went back to the hotel before heading out. She wanted to change into a more suitable dress and reapply her makeup. Basil reclined on the bed, content to watch her.

  “Might it be a message for Lady Pennington?” Ginger asked as she ran a brush through her hair.

  “So far we’ve not been able to find any connection between the Pennington family in Edinburgh and the Wrights of York. They’ve met socially, but not often, and nothing incriminating.”

  “It’s so curious how Lady Pennington’s jewels and the plan to steal them happened on the same train as the delivery of Mr. Wright’s head.”

  “A Venn diagram of the robbery and the murder would find Miss Dansby and Mr. Pierce in the overlapping section, I’m afraid,” Basil said. “They were also at Lady Pennington’s opera.”

  Ginger sighed. “So true. But we mustn’t forget Mr. Burgess and Mr. Carney. They were involved in the attempted robbery.”

  “As was Miss Dansby and Mr. Pierce. I’m sorry, love, but it doesn’t look good for Felicia’s friends.”

  “Even if they did stab Mr. Oscar Wright, I just can’t imagine either one chopping off the man’s head. And even if they did—which, as I’ve said, I just can’t imagine—they were on the train when the head was deposited. They couldn’t have knocked Mr. Agar out and swapped the mailbags.”

  “There must be an accomplice then.”

  “Who?”

  Basil worked his lips and rubbed his chin. “Mr. Ronald Wright, perhaps?”

  “Oh, mercy.” Ginger said. Then changing the subject completely, she spun around displaying a silver lamé evening dress by Murielle’s of Glasgow. It had thin straps with a deep plunging backline, fine gold embroidery design and a wide gold hem that landed mid-shin. She wore a black brimless hat that allowed just a frame of red hair over her forehead and curled along her cheeks. A long strand of silver pearls and black T-strap sandals finished the outfit. She twirled for Basil’s benefit. “What do you think?”

  Basil swung his legs off the bed and bolted to his feet. “I think we’d better leave right this moment, or I might pull you to this bed and miss out on dinner all together.”

  Ginger laughed. “Clearly, it’s much too dangerous for us to stay in this room.”

  Boss barked as if he agreed.

  They decided on the ease and convenience of the hotel restaurant and took the same table they’d sat at the night before.

  “Look,” Ginger said. “We’re not the only ones to return. There’s Mr. Doring. And the Fishers.”

  “No Mr. Burgess or Mrs. Griffiths?”

  “I suppose we can’t be as lucky as that. Do you have more questions for any of them?”

  “I’m sure something shall come to me.”

  They ordered their meals along with a bottle of chardonnay.

  “I’m going to use the ladies,” Ginger said. “And stop to say hello to the Fishers on my way.”

  “Good idea,” Basil said. “I might do the same and have a chat with Mr. Doring at the bar.”

  “Hello, Mr. Fisher and Mrs. Fisher,” Ginger said with a big smile.

  “Good day, Mrs. Reed,” Mr. Fisher said.

  “I’m surprised to see you haven’t left York.” Ginger couldn’t think of a reason Inspector Sullivan would require them to stay another day. “Surely the police have said you’re free to go?”

  “Oh yes. But York is so lovely, isn’t?” Mrs. Fisher said. “We decided to spend a few days here now, rather than go all the way to Scotland.”

  And perhaps, stay to watch the drama they started unfold?

  “We didn’t want to spend this rather nice day on the train,” Mr. Fisher added. “And who knows if tomorrow shall be as pleasant.”

  “So true,” Ginger agreed. “The British weather is very unpredictable.”

  “And you?” Mrs. Fisher said. “You’re staying on?” There was another question underlying that one—how’s the case going?


  “Just for a little while longer,” Ginger answered, keeping her expression neutral. She had no intention of giving anything away. “By the way, I was wondering if you’ve seen Mrs. Griffiths?”

  “I imagine she’s gone home,” Mrs. Fisher said, her nose jutting into the air. “I believe she lives in the area. Strange one, isn’t she? I don’t mean to gossip, but that lady has been alone too long, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m sure I don’t,” Ginger replied.

  Mrs. Fisher was unruffled. “A busybody, is what I’m saying.” She tilted her head and stared up at Ginger. “Well, I’m certain you’ve formed your own opinions about us, haven’t you Mrs. Reed?”

  Ginger smiled. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your time here.”

  “And you too, Mrs. Reed.”

  Basil was already at their table when Ginger returned, and their food had arrived.

  “What do the Fishers know?” Basil asked as he cut into his steak and kidney pie.

  “They’ve decided to holiday in York instead of Edinburgh, though I think they’re curious to witness the outcome of this case.”

  Basil raised a dark brow. “A little too curious?”

  “Either one of them could’ve masqueraded as Mrs. Simms,” Ginger said. “And when I questioned her about Mrs. Simms, she mentioned how we were all going to be like her one day—old and in mourning. Perhaps she was having a hard time keeping her own secret.”

  “You think she was referring to herself as Mrs. Simms?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Ginger took a bite of her poached halibut in lemon sauce, and let out a soft hum of approval. “I asked what they knew about Mrs. Griffiths. All they know is that she lives around here.”

  “The address she reported doesn’t exist.”

  “It’s possible that someone wrote it down wrong.”

  “Or she’s purposely misleading us.” Basil sipped his wine. “Unfortunately, Sullivan didn’t have anything to hold her with, and it’s not a crime to make a mistake on your address.”

  “She’s an odd fish, isn’t she?” Ginger said.

  “Plenty of those type around.”