Murder on the Flying Scotsman

by Carola Dunn

  ‘Did you talk to anyone else?’ Alec asked Miss Smythe-Pike.

  ‘Did we, darling?’

  ‘I had a word with the guard and a chap who was visiting his dog in the guard’s van. A very fine setter. That was while you . . . er . . .’

  ‘While I powdered my nose. A minute or two, no more. Then we strolled back to the others, not in any hurry – in fact we stopped to watch the sights of Newcastle passing the corridor window. The next thing we knew the train was braking.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten, Ju, I didn’t stay with you. I went onto . . .’

  ‘To powder your nose?’ she said lightly, but Alec saw her hand tighten on Raymond’s in a warning grip.

  He ignored or failed to recognize the warning. ‘No, to speak to Uncle Albert.’

  ‘You decided you could do with some funds after all?’ Alec asked casually, every sense alert.

  ‘Not a bit of it. I suddenly remembered I’d meant to ask him to do something for Aunt Julia. She’s kept house for Uncle Alistair forever, and all he’s left her is a measly hundred a year. I didn’t say anything the first time because Uncle Desmond and Harold between ’em had put the old chap in such a taking I was sure he’d refuse.’

  ‘Was he more amenable the second time?’

  ‘I don’t know if he would have been. I didn’t find out because when I opened the door he was lying down, asleep I assumed. Was he dead already?’

  Alec fixed on him the gaze that made crooks cringe and subordinates shiver. ‘If he wasn’t dead already, he died very shortly after you opened that door. Very shortly.’

  Raymond neither shivered nor cringed. Instead he looked sick. ‘I didn’t kill him, that helpless old man. It was bad enough having to do it, over there, when they were trying to do it to you. You were all right, you bird-men up above our heads. You couldn’t see, you can’t imagine . . .’ He buried his face in his hands.

  ‘It’s all right, darling.’ His fiancée put her arm around his shoulders. ‘Take a deep breath, that’s it. Hold it; now let it out slowly. Better? We really must ask Dr. Jagai to explain a bit more. Now tell Mr. Fletcher just what you saw.’

  ‘Not much.’ He looked up with a self-deprecating grimace. ‘Not enough to give me nightmares. In fact, nothing but his feet, up on the seat.’

  ‘At which end of the seat?’

  ‘The far end. I couldn’t have seen them at the near end, I only opened the door an inch or two and it opened the opposite side to where he was lying. The seat facing the engine, where he was sitting, Ju, remember? He sat over by the window, Chief Inspector, that’s why I looked that way.’

  ‘You would have seen if anyone had been with him?’

  ‘Oh yes, I think so, unless they had climbed into the rack.’

  ‘Did you notice a glass, a drinking tumbler?’

  ‘No. Why? He was poisoned?’

  Alec did not answer. ‘Did he have shoes on?’

  ‘Shoes?’ Raymond pondered, brow wrinkled. ‘I honestly don’t remember. I have a vague impression that he had a rug over his legs, one of those tartan traveling rugs.’

  ‘He had one earlier, when he was sitting up,’ said Miss Smythe-Pike. ‘You could be remembering that.’

  ‘Possibly. Sorry, can’t be sure.’

  ‘Was the window open?’

  ‘No, he’d never have stood for that. Thin-blooded he was after a life in the tropics, poor old chap, and terrified of draughts.’

  ‘Darling, are you certain the window was closed, or you just presuming it must have been?’

  Slower than his fiancée, Raymond caught on. ‘It was found open? Is that what made Miss Dalrymple suspect something amiss? I couldn’t swear to it either way. Now I come to think of it, I didn’t notice a blast of heat wafting in my face like the first time. But then, the whole train was frightfully overheated and I only opened the door an inch, because of his fear of draughts.’

  ‘And through that gap you saw his feet,’ said Alec. ‘What did you do next?’

  ‘I assumed he was sleeping. Since Aunt Julia’s plight is hardly urgent, I had no reason to disturb him. I closed the door sharpish and went to find Judith.’

  ‘Which of the others did you join?’

  She winced. ‘No one. We’d bagged four compartments at King’s Cross, between the lot of us, and everyone kept moving around. At that moment one was empty, so I went in there. But honestly, he wasn’t gone more than two minutes, Mr. Fletcher, if that long.’

  Her assertion was worthless, seeing she had already lied for him. The question was, had she lied because she knew or suspected he had killed the old man, or simply to protect him from police harassment?

  Raymond himself was very convincing. Alec saw three possibilities: He was telling the truth; or he was a brilliant actor; or he had murdered his great-uncle in one of his fits and honestly did not remember.

  Sighing, Alec studied the young couple, who gazed anxiously back, holding hands again. He liked them; he wished them well; but he could not take them off his list.

  CHAPTER 14

  ‘Don’t look too good for young Raymond, Chief,’ said Tom forebodingly.

  ‘No, but we’ve others to see yet.’ Alec consulted his watch. ‘Eleven-thirty, dammit. I hate to skimp on the initial interviews, but I do want to see them all and I can’t very well keep them up after midnight.’

  ‘Nor me, Chief.’ The sergeant failed to stifle an enormous yawn. Beneath the hairless dome, his broad face was lined with weariness.

  The week in Newcastle had been no picnic, and the sergeant wasn’t getting any younger. Mrs. Tring wouldn’t hesitate to give Alec what-for if he returned her husband to her in less than apple-pie order.

  As for Alec himself, energized by the hint of a threat to his daughter, he would have been prepared to work all night if it served any purpose.

  ‘Only three to go,’ he said.

  ‘You’re leaving the two young chaps to stew, eh? Jeremy Gillespie and Harold Bretton?’

  ‘Partly, and partly I’ve a feeling Smythe-Pike would take it amiss if he was left till last. If his temper is as uncertain as . . .’

  A bellow from the residents’ lounge cut him short. ‘Demme if I’m struggling to my feet for any demned whippersnapper of a flatfoot. Let him come here!’

  ‘It is,’ said Tom, grinning.

  ‘If Mahomet will not come to the mountain,’ Alec said philosophically, standing up as Piper reappeared, ‘then the mountain must needs go to Mahomet. All right, Ernie, we heard. We’re coming.’

  ‘He’s got the gout, Chief, and if you ask me, he’s been at the port all evening.’

  ‘Squiffy, is he?’

  ‘Plastered,’ said Piper. ‘Though the old fella don’t show it as bad as the other two. Mr. Gillespie’s been swigging whisky and Mr. Bretton’s on brandy and soda. Not much soda, neether.’

  ‘Oh hell! And they’ll have heads in the morning, I suppose. I can only hope it’s loosened their tongues. The rest have gone to bed?’

  ‘Yes, Chief.’

  ‘That’s something.’ Pushing open the door, he entered the lounge. ‘Good-evening, gentlemen. Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher, Scotland Yard.’

  ‘You a Scot, too?’ asked the sandy-haired, bleary-eyed man slouched in a chair by the fire. Presumably Jeremy Gillespie – in fact he looked more like his sister Kitty than Raymond, his brother. ‘These chaps are Sass . . . Sass . . . English. We Scots have to stick together.’

  ‘Scotland Yard, sir. The Metropolitan Police.’

  ‘Bloody Shcots,’ said the man leaning against the mantelpiece. Thinning, pomaded hair, beautifully tailored evening dress, he must be Harold Bretton, the would-be man-about-town. Taking a step forward, he waved his glass. ‘What’sh yours, Chief Inshpector?’ His drink sloshed over his hand and he prudently retreated to prop himself up again.

  ‘Not on duty, thank you, sir.’ He had no desire for a drink, but the ash-tray on the mantel shelf, full of cigarette ends, made him wish he could light up
his pipe.

  ‘Stop drivelling!’ No question of the identity of the purple-faced, stentorian gentleman with his leg raised on a footstool. Desmond Smythe-Pike looked every inch the hard-riding, hard-drinking squire. On the table at his elbow, beside a silver headed cane, stood an almost empty decanter. Between white hair, slightly disordered, and white cavalry mustache, his eyes were glazed, but his enunciation was unaffected. ‘You there, if you have the demned impertinence to insist on questioning me, at least get on with it.’

  Alec decided against asking the two younger men to wait elsewhere. They would only go and pass out Leaning on the back of a chair opposite the squire, he said, ‘Tell me about your interview with Albert McGowan, sir.’

  ‘The man was a demned traitor to his family and his race,’ trumpeted Smythe-Pike. ‘My wife’s own uncle leaving the family fortune to a native!’

  ‘You remonstrated with him?’

  ‘I lost my temper.’ He had the grace to look a bit sheepish. ‘Not quite the thing to shout at the old fella like that, I dare say, but it made my blood boil, him sitting there saying he’d do what he liked with his own, calm as you please.’

  ‘Didn’t shtay calm,’ Bretton put in sardonically. ‘Gave as good as he got, though going by volume my dear papa-in-law won by a nose.’

  Alec turned to face him. ‘But Mr. Smythe-Pike failed to win his point, didn’t he, sir, so you went back later, to try again.’

  ‘Who the devil told you that?’ Straightening, Bretton glared at Jeremy Gillespie.

  ‘Not me, ol’ man. Haven’ had my turn to blab to the coppers yet’.

  ‘I suppose when you do, you’ll admit you went to see him, after all that talk about not pestering a sick old man? I saw you coming out of his compartment.’

  Gillespie sat up. ‘Now wait a bit! I don’ care for your insin . . . insinu . . . your damn sly hints. I wasn’ coming out ’cause I didn’ go in ’cause I c’d see fr’m the door he was asleep.’

  ‘Or dead,’ said Bretton unpleasantly. ‘Turning to look back at your handiwork, were you?’

  ‘Asleep, ’ntil you came along ’n’ bumped him off in his sleep.’

  ‘Horsewhip both of you,’ roared Smythe-Pike.

  ‘Let’s have some facts here,’ Alec said sharply. ‘Mr. Gillespie, you went to speak to your great-uncle as soon as your parents left him?’

  ‘No, not at once.’ Gillespie stared at him with shocked though still befuddled concentration. ‘The mater said Uncle Albert was on the boil after the set-to with Uncle Desmond, so I waited a bit to let him cool down.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘How long?’ His eyes ceased to focus on the present. Alec hoped they were focussed on the past, but after his brief moment of lucidity the whisky took charge again. ‘How long? How long what?’

  ‘How long did you wait before going to see Albert McGowan.’

  Gillespie waved vaguely. ‘Oh, that. A while. “What’s the use of worrying?”’ he sang, ‘“It never was worth while, so pack up your troubles in your ol’ kit bag an’ smile, smile, smile.”’

  Alec gave up on him. ‘What about you, Mr. Bretton? You went to Mr. McGowan’s compartment after seeing Mr. Gillespie at the door?’

  ‘More or less.’ Leaving the support of the mantelpiece, he came over to Alec, his steps unsteady. ‘Actually, my dear chap,’ he said confidentially, breathing brandy fumes into Alec’s face as he clutched the back of the nearest chair to steady himself, ‘actually, my dear old chap, what does it really matter? He’s got something there, you know. What’s the use of worrying? Albert was an old man, a very old man, not in good health. He was going to die soon anyway. Give the old bastard a helping hand, what?’

  ‘Did you?’ Alec asked, through teeth gritted in disgust.

  ‘Me?’ Bretton asked with owlish dismay. ‘Me? Not me! My best bet was to change the miser’s mind. Grandfather, y’know. Wife’s grandfather, baby’s great-grandfather. Named the squalling brat for him, bound to turn the trick.’

  ‘Then why did you . . .’

  An ear-shattering snore interrupted him. Desmond Smythe-Pike had nodded off unnoticed. Now, having woken himself, he blinked, said thickly, ‘Bed,’ and fumbled for his cane.

  Resigned, Alec gestured at him. ‘Tom.’

  The big sergeant supported the big squire’s stumbling limp from the room. Alec surveyed the other two. Jeremy Gillespie was dozing more quietly, obeying his own injunction to ‘smile, smile, smile.’ After all, why shouldn’t he? As things stood, his father was heir to the McGowan fortune.

  ‘Ernie, can you manage him?’

  ‘Reckon so, Chief.’

  Harold Bretton was still upright. More or less. Alec was about to invite him to sit down and answer a few more questions when he said with querulous dignity, ‘Make it under my own steam!’ Groping his way from chair to chair, he headed for the door.

  As Bretton left, the landlord, Briggs, came through from the bar-parlour next door, long since closed to the public. ‘If you’re all done in here, sir,’ he said, ‘I’ll be closing up.’

  ‘Have you been listening in there?’ Alec asked, annoyed, as he moved towards the fireplace rubbing his cold hands. The remains of a coal fire flickered sullenly.

  ‘Not to say listening, sir. Couldn’t help overhearing the odd word. Didn’t get much out of those three, did you? Sozzled, the lot of ’em.’

  ‘How much did they actually drink?’

  ‘Plenty. They weren’t faking it, believe you me. Nerves, it’d be, being suspected of murder. Was it one of them did it?’

  ‘I can’t discuss the case with you, Mr. Briggs, and you’re to hold your tongue about anything you overheard. I’m not quite ready to close up shop, but we’ll go back to your parlour if it’s more convenient.’

  ‘Might as well stay here, sir. You’ll turn off the lights when you go up?’

  ‘Yes. Before you go, bring three hot toddies, please, and take mugs of cocoa to the bobbies on the front door and back gate.’

  The landlord heaved a martyred sigh. ‘Right, sir,’ he said and stumped off.

  Tom arrived at the same time as the hot toddy. Sinking into a chair by the fire, he took a deep swig. ‘Aah! Ta, Chief, that hits the spot. Smythe-Pike’d forgotten his room number, but young Ernie’s memorized the lot, even their servants’, so I fetched his man to him.’

  ‘And had a word with the fellow, I hope?’

  ‘’Course, Chief. The squire’s gout’s real all right. He’d be strong enough but likely not agile enough, and more likely to hit the old chap over the head with his cane in a temper than hold a pillow over his face. The vally saw Miss Smythe-Pike and Raymond Gillespie with the nurse and the children, but he doesn’t know what time.’

  ‘We may have to get onto the guard and the ticket-inspector about times,’ Alec said. ‘At least we’ll need a train timetable, and to ask everyone whether they noticed passing through Durham and Newcastle. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to tracking down all the other passengers in search of alibis.’

  Ernie came back and, with him referring to his notes of the interviews, they discussed the other suspects. Finishing his toddy, Alec decided this exercise could not usefully proceed further without proper statements from Smythe-Pike, Bretton, and Jeremy Gillespie. Something someone had said niggled at his mind, but he could not pin it down. It would probably come to him at three o’clock in the morning.

  He was about to say it was time to turn in when they heard the front door opening and the constable on duty saying, ‘There’s a light on in the lounge still, Sarge.’

  Heavy footsteps in the hall, then a uniformed officer tapped on the open lounge door and came in, carrying a bundle wrapped in brown paper.

  ‘Sergeant Middlemiss, sir. Superintendent Halliday’s compliments, and here’s the missing pillow. Leastways, it looks like whit’s left o’ yon. The Gateshead police found it, right by the railway track, and it doesna look like anyone’s washing blown off a line.’

  �
�Gateshead? If he’d waited just a couple of minutes, it would have landed in the Tyne!’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  As Alec, Tom, and Piper crowded round, Middlemiss unwrapped the bundle. It contained a grubby, torn pillowcase with the limp remains of a pillow inside – striped ticking, also ripped, with a couple of handfuls of feathers.

  ‘What’s this?’ Alec grabbed the bottom of the pillow-case and lifted it so the dirty white cloth was spread out between him and Middlemiss.

  Amid the black smuts and general grime, to be expected of anything which had spent several hours close to the railway, were four long, brownish smears.

  ‘Ah!’ said Tom.

  ‘Turn it inside out.’

  Piper reached in for the pillow and Middlemiss turned the case inside out. Alec noted a laundry mark which would make the ownership easy to prove. Against the still-white inside of the pillow-case, the brown smears stood out clearly. Four of them, starting out roughly parallel, closing together as they grew fainter. The first and third started level with one another. The second was slightly longer, the fourth shorter and narrower.

  Alec curled the fingers of his left hand into a claw and held his hand just above the marks.

  ‘Blood!’ Piper exclaimed. ‘Good old Albert marked him, Chief. We’ve got ’im.’

  ‘I hope so. If it’s what it looks like, our chummy’s got scratches on him it’s going to be very difficult to explain away. Dr. Redlow will tell us if it’s human blood. With luck he might be able to check the blood group.’

  ‘What’s a blood group, sir?’ asked Sergeant Middlemiss, an interested observer of their, speculations.

  ‘Everyone has one of four different types of blood, Sergeant, some rarer than others. It’s quite a new discovery, which came in handy during the War as it makes blood transfusions safer. If we find a man – or woman – with scratches whose blood group matches this on the pillow-case, then it’s another bit of evidence, not conclusive but useful.’

  ‘Only thing is, Chief,’ rumbled Tom, ‘we’ve seen the lot of ’em ’cepting Madame Passkeyay and I haven’t seen a scratched face yet.’

  ‘Would you have noticed scratched hands? I don’t think I would.’