Murder At Deviation Junction

by Andrew Martin

  I boarded the last train of the evening for York with seconds to spare. Another man came into the compartment just as I had settled myself. He was a tall, pale man and wore a good, fur-trimmed topcoat. He leant over my outstretched legs and yanked down the leathern strap that controlled the window. He knew it was not quite correct behaviour on such a night, but he required the refreshment of the cold air. As he sat down, and as the train began drawing away out of the station, he eyed me, challenging me to speak out.

  But I made no objection.