by Adele Abbott
“Have you travelled on a steam train before, Jill?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’ll love it. Before you know it, you’ll be signing up for a season ticket.”
“I seriously doubt that. I do have a neighbour who is into trains in a big way. I’m sure he’d love this.”
Stanley and I chatted about nothing in particular for the next ten minutes, then I went through to the buffet car. I wanted to grab a word with Stephen Pearce, the replacement guard who had taken over after Thomas West had resigned.
There were several people waiting at the counter, and I didn’t think the other customers would appreciate my pushing in, so I joined the back of the queue.
“What can I get for you?” The young man looked and sounded harassed.
“Just a cup of tea, please.”
“Milk and sugar?”
“Yes, please. I take it this is your second trip on The Flyer?”
“Err—yes?”
“Sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Jill Gooder. I’m a P.I.”
“Oh, right. Mr Sidings mentioned you’d be on board today.”
“I assume you’re hoping this trip is less eventful than the last time?”
“You could say that.” He managed a smile.
“Did you see anything unusual on your first outing?”
“Nothing at all. I’d been thrown in at the deep-end, and had virtually no training, so it took me all of my time to keep pace with the orders. I didn’t even know where the additional stores were kept. The first I knew that anything had happened was when we arrived back at the station, and I heard that someone had been murdered.”
He handed me my tea. There was no possibility of quizzing him further because a queue had built up behind me.
“Okay. Thanks, Stephen.”
The noise level in the rear carriage was much higher, and it was all centred around one particular table where Thomas West was the focus of attention. A camera crew and numerous members of the press: photographers and reporters, were crowded around him. I walked over until I was close enough to hear what was being said.
“You must be nervous to be back aboard The Flyer, Thomas?” a male reporter with way too much ear hair shouted. “Aren’t you scared that it might happen again?”
“Terrified.” Thomas grinned; he certainly didn’t appear to be frightened.
“Is that why you quit, Mr West?” a female reporter asked. “Were you afraid you might become the next victim?”
“Partly that, but mainly I wanted to return to my first passion. You may not know this, but I’m actually an author. I had a book published many years ago. I’ve decided to return to writing, and I already have my new book outlined.”
“What’s it about, Thomas?”
“It’s a murder mystery. A sort of whodunit, I suppose. The story was inspired by recent events.”
“Do you have a publisher lined up?”
“Nothing has been signed yet, but there’s been a lot of interest.”
I’d heard enough of this publicity-seeking braggart, so I pushed past the press huddle, and made my way to the back of the carriage where I’d spotted a familiar face.
Barbara Hawthorne was seated at a table right next to the guard’s van.
“Thorny?”
“Hello there. Are you still investigating the murders?”
“Yes. I thought a trip aboard The Flyer might help.”
“I’m beginning to regret coming today. That horrible little man has already spoiled two trips for me, and now he seems intent on spoiling another. I can hardly hear myself think with that crowd of hyenas hovering around him.”
“I just overheard him say that he was writing a new book based on The Flyer murders.”
“How tacky. Unfortunately, it’s just the type of trash that publishers will lap up these days.”
“Mrs Hawthorne.” Stephen Pearce appeared behind me. “You left your bag in the buffet car.” He passed it to her.
“Thank you very much, young man.”
“No problem. I’d better get back to work.”
She turned to me. “I’d forget my head if it were loose.”
I tried the door to the guard’s van, but it was locked. “Do you always sit in this same seat?”
“I do. Every trip.”
“Did you see anyone go in or out of the guard’s van on the trip when Carol Strand was murdered?”
“Yes, the guard.” She pointed. “He knocked the wine out of my hand when he hurried past me.”
I looked up, expecting to see Stephen Pearce on his way back to the buffet car, but he’d already left the carriage. It wasn’t Pearce she’d been pointing to; it was Thomas West.
Bingo!
We were just about to pull into the station when a blood-curdling scream came from the far end of the carriage. I was the first to react; I rushed up the aisle, and past the press pack who were now starting to register what they’d heard.
“It must be another murder!” someone yelled.
“Quick! Check the toilet!”
I hurried through to the small section of corridor where the toilet was located, but I wasn’t the first one on the scene. Desmond Sidings was already standing outside the toilet door.
“Are you alright in there?” He hammered on the door.
The press had followed me, and were trying to push past.
“Stay back!” I barked at them.
“Hello?” Desmond banged on the door again.
“There’s no loo paper in here.” A meek voice came back. “Could you pass me some, please?”
Once we were back in the station, I skipped off the train, and hurried back to the car. The journey on The Flyer had proven to be worthwhile after all, even if it had meant sacrificing lunch. At long last, I had something to go on. Hopefully, tomorrow, I’d be able to put my hunch to the test.
***
When I got back to the house, Peter’s car was parked on the road.
“Look who’s back!” Jack said, as I joined the three of them in the lounge.
“I wasn’t expecting to find the whole gang here.”
“We had a late lunch at the Angler’s.” Kathy had a glass of wine in her hand. “It was delicious.”
“I had a cheese and pickle sandwich. Thanks for asking.”
“Pete’s Mum has the kids, so we thought we’d come back here to make an evening of it.”
“And drink my wine.”
“There’s plenty left, grumpy. Go and get yourself a glass.”
Kathy followed me into the kitchen, and pushed the door shut behind her.
“You didn’t tell me.” She was grinning like a demented Cheshire cat.
“Tell you what?”
“Wedding bells.”
“I’m not in the mood for your cryptic clues.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that you and Jack were getting married?”
“Because we’re not.”
“Come on, Jill. The secret’s out.”
“I’ve told you—we’re not getting married. Why would you think we are?”
“Because Jack has been dropping subtle hints all afternoon.”
“What kind of subtle hints?”
“Twice he came up to me, and whispered, ‘wedding ring’, and then winked.”
“Are you sure that’s what he said?”
“Yeah. He also said something else that I didn’t understand. He said: Jelly.”
“It must be the pills.”
“What pills?”
“Jack has been suffering with really bad hay fever. The doctor gave him some stronger pills. Did he have a drink in the pub?”
“Just a small glass of beer.”
“That would do it. The poor man wouldn’t know what he was saying. He didn’t mention pink elephants too, did he?”
“No. Why?”
“That’s when you know it’s really bad. When he starts talking about pink elephants.”
“Oh, sorry, I had n
o idea.”
“That’s okay. Would you ask Jack if he’ll come through to the kitchen?”
“Sure.”
“You didn’t mind me asking Kathy and Peter to come back here, did you?” Jack said.
“Of course not, but why did you mention the wedding ring thing to Kathy?”
“I was only teasing her. Peter didn’t hear.”
“You mustn’t do it again. She’s terrified that Peter will find out about it.”
“Okay. My lips are sealed.”
“They’d better not be.” I pulled him towards me, and gave him a kiss.
***
After Kathy and Peter had left, I slipped upstairs to make a phone call.
“Is that Thomas West?” I said, in my best American accent.
“Speaking?”
“My name is Lucinda Shell. I’m with the UK office of Channel TN6. We’ve seen the article on the train murders, and heard about your proposed book. We thought that would make an ideal feature for our viewers back in the States.”
“Really?”
“Definitely. I wondered if I might arrange an on-camera interview with you aboard the steam train. What’s it called?”
“The Washbridge Flyer, but I doubt the owners would allow us to film there. I think they’re rather fed up of me.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’m sure I’ll be able to get them to agree. The problem is that we need to do this quickly if we’re going to include it in this week’s program.”
“When did you have in mind?”
“Tomorrow morning if you can manage that?”
“Okay. What time?”
“I’ll text you with the details once I’ve cleared it with the train owner.”
“Okay, great. See you tomorrow, then.”
You most certainly will.
Chapter 25
It was Monday morning; Jack and I were in the kitchen.
“I don’t like this. Not one bit,” he said. “It sounds like you’re putting yourself in danger unnecessarily.”
“There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be perfectly safe.”
“Why don’t you just call Susan Shay, and tell her of your suspicions?”
“Because that woman couldn’t solve a murder if it was committed right in front of her.”
“I think you’re being a little unfair.”
“Will you do what I asked or not?”
“Do I have any choice?”
“Not unless you want to be exiled to the spare bedroom.”
“Tell me again what time you want me to call her.”
“At ten o’ clock. Tell her to get to the station at dead on ten-thirty.”
“She’s going to want to know why.”
“I’ve already told you what to say. That the Washbridge Flyer murderer will be there to make a full confession.”
“She’ll ask who it is.”
“And you’ll tell her the truth: that you don’t know.”
“You realise this makes me look stupid, I suppose?”
“Not in Sushi’s eyes, I’m sure. She’s still sweet on you.”
“You owe me big time for this.”
“I know, and I promise you’re really going to enjoy it when I pay my debt.”
***
When I arrived at the office, both Jules and Mrs V were at their desks. Mrs V looked rather crestfallen.
“Morning, everyone. Are you okay, Mrs V?”
“She’s upset at losing out in the dance final,” Jules answered for her.
“I’m fine,” Mrs V insisted. “Just a little disappointed by the result. I really felt that Armi and I had done enough to win, but we didn’t get even a single vote. I guess I must have been deluding myself.”
“You did great. You were by far the better couple. Jack should have voted for you.”
“That’s very kind of you to say, Jill, but you’re not an expert. The three judges all have lots of experience—they knew what they were doing.”
“There’ll be other competitions.”
“I’m not so sure. Maybe it’s time I hung up my dancing shoes.”
Poor old Mrs V. She had so wanted to win, and she would have done if Grandma hadn’t cheated.
Cheats? They make my blood boil.
What? Paintball? That wasn’t the same thing at all. Ten-pin bowling? Completely different.
Anyway, moving on.
My office was still Winkyless. I’d searched high and low, but he was nowhere to be seen. The food that I’d put out for him on Friday was still in the bowl. He must have been away all weekend. Maybe he was paying his brother, Socks, a visit. He did stay over there from time to time, but it would have been nice if he’d thought to mention it to me.
***
Although we’d been on the train together the previous day, it was unlikely that West would remember or recognise me. He’d been much too caught up with entertaining the press pack to have noticed my brief appearance. But, just to be on the safe side, I’d put my hair up, and picked out a grey suit that I hadn’t worn for almost five years.
What? Of course it still fit. Just about.
If this was going to work, my timing would have to be spot on.
As arranged, I met Thomas West at the station at ten o’clock. He was obviously keen because he was already there when I arrived.
“Mr West? Lucinda Shell. I’m so pleased you agreed to do this.”
“My pleasure.” He glanced around. “Where are the cameras?”
“The crew have got caught in traffic. They should be here in about thirty minutes. I thought you and I could run through a few things so we’re ready to roll when they arrive. How does that sound?”
“Sounds good.”
“Super. Why don’t we get on board the train, and we can talk there?” I led the way onto the platform.
“You’re sure it’s okay to do the interview on the train?”
“Absolutely. I cleared it with Mr Sidings myself.” I opened one of the doors in the rear carriage, and gestured that he should climb on board. “Shall we?” I pointed to the table in the centre of the carriage.
“How long will this feature be?” he asked, once we were seated.
“Thirty minutes. Well, twenty-six, to be precise. We’re going to give over the whole show to this story. Our viewers love a mystery. What I’m particularly interested in is the book you’re planning to publish. I believe it will be based on The Flyer murders. Does it have a title yet?”
“Nothing set in stone, but I was thinking: Death On The Flyer.”
“Brilliant! I like it. Would it be possible to talk me through the plot?”
“It’s only in the outline stage at the moment.”
“That’s okay. I’m excited to hear what you have in mind.”
And off he went. He spent the next twenty-odd minutes rambling on about his book. He talked about the characters, the plot, the clever twists and turns. Somehow, I managed to look as though I gave even the smallest of monkeys.
After what seemed like an age, it was time to put the next part of my plan into action.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Thomas, but I wonder if we could go through to the corridor where the murders took place?”
“Err—sure—I guess so. The first two murders happened in the first carriage.”
“What about the second woman who was killed? Where was her body found?”
“Near to the toilet in this carriage.”
“Excellent. Let’s take a look, shall we?” I stood up. “Through here?”
“Yes.”
“So, this is where it happened? Is that right?”
He nodded.
I opened the toilet door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind me. “What was the name of the woman who was found in this carriage?”
“Strand. Carol Strand.”
I cast the ‘doppelganger’ spell, and opened the door.
West took several steps backwards until he was up against the wall of the carriage.
>
“No! You’re dead!” He was as white as a sheet, which was hardly surprising because he now found himself face-to-face with Carol Strand.
“Why did you kill me?”
“Leave me alone!”
“I hadn’t done anything to you. You didn’t even know me. Why did you do it?”
“I’m sorry!” His legs gave way, and he slid down to the floor.
I glanced out of the window, and much to my relief, Sushi and three police officers were walking down the platform. I waited a few moments until I heard the carriage door open, and then took another step closer to West.
“Please, leave me alone! Please!”
“Only if you tell me why you did it. Why did you kill me?”
“I’m sorry. I only did it for the book.”
“You killed me for a book?”
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
Just then, Sushi came through to the corridor.
“What’s going on in here?”
“This gentleman wishes to confess to the murder of Carol Strand, don’t you?”
Sushi looked down at the miserable figure of Thomas West. “Is this true, Sir?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you everything, but make her go away.” He pointed at me.
“I think you’d better get off the train, Gooder, but don’t leave the station because you and I need to talk.”
I disembarked, and took a seat on a bench on the platform. Ten minutes later, West was led away in handcuffs by the uniformed officers. Sushi joined me on the bench.
“Did you get your confession?” I asked.
“He’s admitted to the murder of Carol Strand, but not the first two murders. I’m not sure if he’ll ever see the inside of a prison. The man is clearly deranged. He kept rambling on about seeing Carol Strand’s ghost.”
“Poor man.”
“What I’d like to know is how come you knew he was going to confess?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then why did you get Jack to ask me to be here at ten-thirty?”
“Okay. I thought that once I confronted West with my suspicions that he might cave in, so I wanted you to be around if he did.”
“What suspicions?”
“That this was all about a stupid book.”
