Blood on the Tracks

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Don’t be down-hearted about it, Lestrade. Come and interview Mr and Mrs Hennessy, at the lodge; we may get news of your man down there.’

  A coarse-looking fellow in a bushy red beard sat sharing his tea with our friend of the evening before. His greasy waistcoat and corduroy trousers proclaimed him a manual worker. He rose to meet us with something of a defiant air; his wife was all affability.

  ‘Have you heard any news of the poor gentleman?’ she asked.

  ‘We may have some before long,’ answered Holmes. ‘Lestrade, you might arrest John Hennessy for stealing that porter’s cap you see on the dresser, the property of the Great Western Railway Company. Or, if you prefer an alternative charge, you might arrest him as Alexander Macready, alias Nathaniel Swithinbank.’ And while we stood there literally thunderstruck, he tore off the red beard from a chin marked with a scar on the left-hand side.

  ‘The case was difficult,’ he said to me afterwards, ‘only because we had no clue to the motive. Swithinbank’s debts would almost have swallowed up Macready’s legacy; it was necessary for the couple to disappear, and take up the claim under a fresh alias. This meant a duplication of personalities, but it was not really difficult. She had been an actress; he had really been a railway porter in his hard-up days. When he got out at Reading, and passed along the six-foot way to take his place in a third-class carriage, nobody marked the circumstance, because on the way from London he had changed into a porter’s clothes; he had the cap, no doubt, in his pocket. On the sill of the door he left open, he had made a little pile of suicide-messages, hoping that when it swung open these would be shaken out and flutter into the carriages behind.’

  ‘But why the visit to London? And, above all, why the visit to Baker Street?’

  ‘That is the most amusing part of the story; we should have seen through it at once. He wanted Nathaniel Swithinbank to disappear finally, beyond all hope of tracing him. And who would hope to trace him, when Mr Sherlock Holmes, who was travelling only two carriages behind, had given up the attempt? Their only fear was that I should find the case uninteresting; hence the random reference to a hiding-place among the reeds, which so intrigued you. Come to think of it, they nearly had Inspector Lestrade in the same train as well. I hear he has won golden opinions with his superiors by cornering his man so neatly. Sic vos non vobis, as Virgil said of the bees; only they tell us nowadays the lines are not by Virgil.’

  Murder on the 7.16

  Michael Innes

  The Edinburgh-born academic John Innes Mackintosh Stewart (1906–1994) chose the pen-name Michael Innes when he tried his hand at writing a detective novel set in Oxford, where he wrote Death at the President’s Lodgings (1936; known as Seven Suspects in the United States), which introduced the likeable and learned policeman John Appleby and made an immediate impression. Innes’ career as a crime writer lasted for half a century; Appleby earned a knighthood and, like Paul Beck senior and Dora Myrl, he had a son who followed in his footsteps. Under his own name, Innes also became a prolific author of mainstream novels, in addition to publishing non-fiction studies of authors as varied as James Joyce, Thomas Love Peacock, and Rudyard Kipling.

  An enjoyable and interesting posthumous book, Appleby Talks about Crime (2010), gathered eighteen previously uncollected stories, included a memoir by the author’s daughter, and reprinted an essay by Innes himself, in which he said of the stories, with characteristic modesty: ‘The social scene may be embalmed, in that baronets abound in their libraries and butlers peer out of every pantry. But Appleby himself ages, and in some respects perhaps even matures. He ages along with his creator, and like his creator ends up as a retired man who still a little meddles with the concerns of his green unknowing youth.’ Several of Innes’ mysteries feature rail travel; this one was included in an earlier collection, Appleby Talks Again (1956).

  Appleby looked at the railway carriage for a moment in silence. ‘You couldn’t call it rolling-stock,’ he said.

  This was true. The carriage stood not on wheels but on trestles. And it had other peculiarities. On the far side of the corridor all was in order; sliding doors, plenty of plate glass, and compartments with what appeared to be comfortably upholstered seats. But the corridor itself was simply a broad platform ending in air. Mechanically propelled contrivances could manœuvre on it easily. That, of course, was the idea.

  Appleby swung himself up and peered through one of the compartments at what lay beyond. He saw nothing but a large white concave surface. ‘Monotonous view,’ he murmured. ‘Not for lovers of the picturesque.’

  The Producer laughed shortly. ‘You should see it when we’re shooting the damned thing. The diorama, you know. Project whole landscapes on that, we do. They hurtle past. And rock gently. It’s terrific.’ Realising that his enthusiasm was unseemly, he checked himself and frowned. ‘Well, you’d better view the body. Several of your people on the job already, I may say.’

  Appleby nodded and moved along the hypertrophied corridor. ‘What are you filming?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a thriller. I’ve no use for trains, if they’re not in a thriller—or for thrillers, if there isn’t a train.’ The Producer didn’t pause on this generalisation. ‘Just cast your mind back a bit, Sir John. Cast it back to September, 1955.’

  Appleby considered. ‘The tail end of a hot, dry summer.’

  ‘Quite so. But there was something else. Do you remember one of the evening papers running a series of short mystery stories, each called “Murder on the 7.16”?’

  ‘Yes. Oddly enough, I think I do.’

  ‘We’re filming one of them.’

  ‘In fact, this is the 7.16?’ Appleby, although accustomed to bizarre occasions, was looking at the Producer in some astonishment. ‘And perhaps you’re going to tell me that the murdered man is the fellow who wrote the story?’

  ‘Good lord, no!’ The Producer was rather shocked. ‘You don’t imagine, Sir John, we’d insist on having you along to investigate the death of anyone like that. This corpse is important. Or was important, I suppose I should say. Our ace director. Lemuel Whale.’

  ‘Fellow who does those utterly mad and freakish affairs?’

  ‘That’s him. Marvellous hand at putting across his own crazy vision of things. Brilliant—quite brilliant.’

  It seemed that Whale was in the habit of letting himself into the studios at all hours, and wandering round the sets. He got his inspiration that way. Or he got part of it that way and part of it from a flask of brandy. If he was feeling sociable, and the brandy was holding out, he would pay a visit to Ferrett, the night-watchman, before he left. They would have a drink together, and then Whale would clear out in his car.

  This time Ferrett hadn’t seen Whale—or not alive. That, at least, was his story. He had been aware that Whale was about, because quite early on this winter night he had seen lights going on here and there. But he hadn’t received a visit. And when there was still a light on in this studio at 4 a.m. he went to turn it off. He supposed Whale had just forgotten about it. Everything seemed quite in order—but nevertheless something had prompted him to climb up and take a look at the 7.16. He liked trains, anyway. Had done ever since he was a kid. Whale was in the end compartment, quite dead. He had been bludgeoned.

  Ferrett’s was an unsupported story—and at the best it must be said that he took his duties lightly. He might have to be questioned very closely. But at present Appleby wanted to ask him only one thing. ‘Just what was it that made you climb up and look through this so-called 7.16?’

  For a moment the man was silent. He looked stupid but not uneasy. ‘I tell you, I always liked them. The sound of them. The smell of them. Excited me ever since I was a nipper.’

  ‘But you’ve seen this affair in the studio often enough, haven’t you? And, after all, it’s not a train. There wasn’t any sound or smell here?’

  ‘There weren’t no sound. But
there was the smell, all right.’

  ‘Rubbish, Ferrett. If there was any smell, it was of Whale’s cursed brandy.’ It was the Producer who broke in. ‘This place makes talkies—not feelies or tasties or smellies. This train just doesn’t smell of train. And it never did.’

  Appleby shook his head. ‘As a matter of fact, you’re wrong. I’ve got a very keen nose, as it happens. And that compartment—the one in which Whale died—does, very faintly, smell of trains. I’m going to have another look.’ And Appleby returned to the compartment from which Whale’s body had just been removed. When he reappeared he was frowning. ‘At first one notices only the oceans of blood. Anything nasty happening to a scalp does that. But there’s something else. That split-new upholstery on one side is slightly soiled. What it suggests to me is somebody in an oily boiler-suit.’

  The Producer was impatient. ‘Nobody like that comes here. It just doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Unsolved mysteries seldom do.’ Appleby turned back to Ferrett. ‘What lights were on when you came in here?’

  ‘Only the line of lights in the 7.16 itself, sir. Not bright, they weren’t. But enough for me to—’

  Ferrett was interrupted by a shout from the centre of the studio. A man in shirt-sleeves was hurrying forward, gesticulating wrathfully. The Producer turned on him. ‘What the devil is wrong with you?’

  ‘It’s not merely Whale’s flaming head that’s suffering in this affair. It’s my projector too. Somebody’s taken a bleeding hammer to it. I call that beyond a joke.’

  Appleby nodded gravely. ‘This whole affair went beyond a joke, I agree. But I’ve a notion it certainly began in one.’

  There was a moment’s perplexed silence, and then another newcomer presented himself in the form of a uniformed sergeant of police. He walked straight up to Appleby. ‘A fellow called Slack,’ he murmured. ‘Railway linesman. Turned up at the local station in a great state. Says he reckons he did something pretty bad somewhere round about here last night.’

  Appleby nodded sombrely. ‘I’m afraid, poor devil, he’s right.’

  ‘You didn’t know,’ Appleby asked next day, ‘that there’s a real 7.16 p.m. from your nearest railway station?’

  The Producer shook his head. ‘Never travel on trains.’

  ‘Well, there is. And Slack was straying along the road, muttering that he’d missed it, when Whale stopped his car and picked him up. Whale was already a bit tight, and he supposed that Slack was very tight indeed. Actually Slack has queer fits—loses his memory, wanders off, and so on—and this was one of them. That was why he was still in his oil-soaked work-clothes, and still carrying the long-handled hammer-affair he goes about tapping things with. There just wasn’t any liquor in Slack at all. But Whale, in his own fuddled state, had no notion of what he was dealing with. And so he thought up his funny joke.’

  ‘He always was a damned freakish fool over such things.’ The Producer spoke energetically. ‘A funny joke with our 7.16?’

  ‘Precisely. It was the coincidence that put it in his head. He promised Slack to get him to his train at the next station. And then he drove him here. It was already dark, of course, and he found it enormous fun kidding this drunk—as he still thought him—that they were making it by the skin of their teeth. That sort of thing. No doubt there was a certain professional vanity involved. When he’d got Slack into that compartment, and turned on your gadget for setting scenery hurtling by, it was too amusing for words. Then he overreached himself.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘If the doctors who’ve seen Slack have got it straight, it was like this. Whale suddenly took on the part of a homicidal maniac. His idea was to make Slack jump from what Slack believed to be a fast-moving train. Only Slack didn’t jump. He struck.’ Appleby paused. ‘And you can imagine him afterwards—wandering in utter bewilderment and panic through this fantastic place. He had another fit of destruction—I suppose your diorama-gadget makes a noise that attracted him—and then he found a way out. He came to his senses—or part of them—early yesterday, and went straight to the police.’

  The Producer had brought out a handkerchief and was mopping his forehead. ‘Slack won’t be—?’

  ‘No, no. Nothing like that. His story must be true, because he couldn’t conceivably have invented it.’

  ‘A plea of insanity?’

  Appleby shook his head. ‘You don’t need to plead insanity if you defend yourself against a chap you have every reason to suppose insane. Whale’s will be death by misadventure.’

  The Producer drew a deep breath. ‘A ghastly business. But I’m glad it wasn’t a real murder.’

  Appleby smiled. ‘That’s only appropriate, I suppose. It wasn’t a real train.’

  The Coulman Handicap

  Michael Gilbert

  Michael Francis Gilbert (1912–2006) achieved great distinction as a crime writer without ever becoming a household name. That was partly due to his personal reticence—he was a practising solicitor, and during his career, professional rules prevented any form of perceived ‘advertising’ by lawyers. It was also, perhaps, attributable to his unwillingness to stick to a single formula, far less keep writing about a single series character; in fact, he created more than half a dozen noteworthy series detectives, including Patrick Petrella, who features in this story, collected in Young Petrella (1988), but published in the 1950s.

  Novels, plays, scripts, and non-fiction poured from Gilbert’s pen (prior to his retirement from the law, he wrote on the morning train to his office in Lincoln’s Inn), while there are few British crime writers of the last half-century who have written such accomplished short mysteries. Many of these first appeared in magazines that have long since vanished from the scene; happily, in recent years the critic and researcher John Cooper has gathered all Gilbert’s uncollected stories, as well as other material, in four volumes which amount to a treasure trove in which the author’s talent for the form is vividly displayed.

  The door of No. 35 Bond Road opened and a thick-set, middle-aged woman came out. She wore a long grey coat with a collar of alpaca wool buttoned to the neck, a light grey hat well forward on her head, and mid-grey gloves on her hands. Her sensible shoes, her stockings, and the large, fabric-covered suitcase, which she carried in her right hand, were brown.

  She paused for a moment on the step. Women of her age are often near-sighted, but there was nothing in her attitude to suggest this. She had bold, brown, somewhat protuberant eyes, set far apart in her strong face. They were not unlike the eyes of an intelligent horse.

  She looked carefully to left and to right. Bond Road was never a bustling thoroughfare. At twelve o’clock on that bright morning of early April it was almost empty. A roadman, sweeping the gutter; a grocer’s delivery boy, pushing his bicycle blindly, nose down in a comic; the postman, on his mid-morning round. All of them were well known to her. She waited to see if the postman had brought her anything, and then set off up the pavement.

  In the front parlour of No. 34, a lace curtain parted one inch and closed again. The man sitting on a chair in the bow window reached for the telephone which stood by his hand and dialled.

  He heard a click as the receiver was lifted at the other end and said, ‘She’s off. Going west.’ Then he replaced the receiver and lit himself a cigarette. The stubs in the tray beside the telephone suggested that he had been waiting for some time.

  At that moment no fewer than twenty-four people, in one way or another, were concentrating their attention on Bond Road and on Mrs Coulman, who lived at No. 35.

  ‘It’s a carrier service,’ said Superintendent Palance of S Division, who was in charge of the joint operation, ‘and it’s got to be stopped.’ Jimmy Palance was known throughout the Metropolitan Police Force as a fine organiser, a teetotaller, a man entirely lacking in any sense of humour, who worked with a Pawnbrokers’ List and the Holy Bible side by side
on his tidy desk.

  ‘The first problem of a thief who steals valuable and identifiable jewellery is to get rid of it. What does he do with it?’

  ‘Flogs it?’ suggested Superintendent Haxtell of Q Division.

  ‘No fence’ll touch it,’ said Superintendent Farmer of X Division. ‘Not while the heat’s on.’

  ‘Then he hides it,’ said Haxtell. ‘In a safe deposit, or a bank. Crooks do have bank accounts, you know.’

  ‘Or a cloakroom, or a left-luggage office.’

  ‘Or with a friend, or at an accommodation address.’

  ‘Or sealed up in a tin, under the third tree from the corner.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Superintendent Palance, raising his heavy black eyebrows, ‘there are a great number of possible hiding-places; I myself have listed twenty-seven distinct types. There may be more. The difficulty is that by the time the thief wishes to recover his loot, he is as often as not himself under observation.’

  Neither Haxtell nor Farmer questioned this statement. They knew well enough that it was true. A complicated system of informers almost always gave them the name of the perpetrator of any big and successful burglary. ‘All we then have to arrange is to watch the thief. If he goes near the stuff we will be able to lay hands on the man himself, and his cache, and his receiver.’

  ‘True,’ said Haxtell. ‘So what does he do?’

  ‘He gets in touch with Mrs Coulman. And informs her where he has placed the stuff. Gives her the key, or cloakroom ticket, and leaves the rest to her. It is not even necessary to give her the name of the receiver. She knows them all, and gets the best prices. She gets paid in cash, keeps a third, and hands over two-thirds to the author of the crime.’