Murder on the Liverpool Express (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 17)

by Frank Howell Evans

  The policeman, who was on duty, was struggling, almost fighting with the Yorkshire Lord. There were a great many voices and the baroness was lying half-fainting in her chair.

  “What’s all this, then?”

  He was speaking to the lord, who now had the policeman by the throat with one hand and with the other was preventing him from drawing his nightstick. “Stop, move back! Halt or I will call in assistance and have you arrested and taken to jail.”

  The inspector’s blood was up. He spoke angrily, with all the force and dignity of an official, who sees a policeman disrespected.

  “It is entirely the fault of this ruffian of yours. He has behaved most brutally,” replied Lord Henderson, still holding him tight.

  “Let him go, sir. Your behaviour is inexcusable. What! You, a military officer of the highest rank, assaulting a policeman! You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  “He deserves a good thrashing, the beast!” the lord went on, as with one sharp turn of the wrist he threw the policeman aside and sent him nearly flying across the room, where, being free at last, he drew his nightstick and brandished it threateningly, from a distance.

  But Inspector Watkins intervened with uplifted hand and insisted upon an explanation.

  “It is just this,” replied Lord Henderson, speaking with fierceness, “that the lady there, she is ill, you can see that for yourself. She is suffering. She asked for a glass of water and this brute, refused to bring it.”

  “I cannot leave the room,” protested the policeman. “My orders are clear.”

  “So I was going to fetch the water for her,” the lord continued angrily, eying the policeman as though he would like to make another attempt at him, “and this fellow interfered.”

  “As is his duty,” said Inspector Watkins.

  “Then why didn’t he go himself or call someone? My word, sir, you are not to be complimented upon your policemen, nor your methods. I used to think that a police officer was courteous, especially to ladies.”

  The inspector looked a little disconcerted, but remembering what he knew about this particular lady, he stiffened and said severely, “I am responsible for my conduct to my superiors and not to you. And you appear to forget your position. You are detained, all of you,” he spoke to the whole room, “are under suspicion. A horrendous crime has been perpetrated by one of you!”

  “Do not be too sure of that,” interjected the irrepressible lord.

  “Who else could have done it? The train never stopped after leaving Leicester,” said the detective, allowing himself to be pulled into the argument.

  “Yes, it did,” corrected Lord Henderson, with a contemptuous laugh. “That shows how much you know.”

  The inspector looked unhappy. He was faced with a new fact affecting all his theories, if it was a fact and not mere an assertion. He had to verify it quickly. But he knew nothing was to be gained by prolonging the discussion in the presence of the whole party.

  “What I know or do not know is my business,” he said, with an indifference he did not feel. “I shall call upon you, Mr. Henderson, for your statement in due course.” He bowed stiffly. “Every one must be interrogated. I propose that we begin, Madam, with you.”

  The baroness gave a little start, shivered and turned very pale.

  “Can’t you see she is not up to it?” cried the lord, angrily. “She has not yet recovered. In the name of, I won’t say decency, for you here in London seem not to know the word, but common humanity, spare the lady, at least for the present.”

  “That is impossible, quite impossible. There are reasons why the lady should be talked to first. I trust, therefore, she will make an effort.”

  “I will try, if you demand it.” She rose from her chair and walked a few steps rather feebly, then stopped.

  “No, no, Baroness, do not go,” said Lord Henderson, hastily, as he moved to where she stood and gave her his hand. “This is sheer torture, sir and cannot be permitted.”

  “Stand aside!” cried Inspector Watkins. “I forbid you to approach that lady, to address her or talk with her. Policeman, advance, do your duty.”

  But the policeman, although his nightstick was still out, showed great reluctance to advance. He had no desire to try fighting again with this very strong person, who was, moreover, a lord.

  Meanwhile the lord held his ground and continued his conversation with the baroness, speaking in Tyke, thus exasperating Inspector Watkins, who did not understand the dialect.

  “This is not acceptable!” he cried. “Sergeant Jones, Policeman Noble!” and when his two trusty assistants came rushing in, he pointed furiously to the lord. “Seize him, remove him by force if necessary. He shall go to jail.”

  The noise attracted Poiret and more policemen and there were now six officials in all surrounding the lord, a sufficiently imposing force to overawe even the most recalcitrant bruiser.

  But now the lord seemed to see only the comic side of the situation and he burst out laughing.

  “What, all of you? How many more? Why not bring up the cavalry and artillery, horses, cannons and guns?” he asked, derisively. “All to prevent one man from offering his services to one weak woman! Gentlemen, my regards!”

  “Really, Barry, I fear you are going too far,” said his uncle the warden, who, however, had been manifestly enjoying the whole scene.

  “Indeed, yes. It is not necessary, I assure you,” added the baroness, with tears of gratitude in her big brown eyes. “I am touched, most thankful. You are a true soldier, a true gentleman and I shall never forget your kindness.” Then she put her hand in his, which was reward enough for any man.

  Poiret now addressed the lord with a calm but stern rebuke.

  “Monsieur, your conduct, it has been deplorable, well calculated to traverse and impede the justice. But Poiret, he is willing to believe that you were led away, not unnaturally, as a gallant gentleman, which it is the characteristic of the Englishman and that you will acknowledge your mistake and not repeat your error.”

  Mr. Jules Poiret was a grave, soft-voiced person, with a balding head, which he fought and an exquisite and expensive taste in clothes. He sought his ends by persuasion, not force and had little sympathy with the brusque methods of his more inflammable friend.

  “Oh, with all my heart, sir,” said Lord Henderson, cordially. “You saw how this has occurred. I did not begin it, nor was I the most to blame. But I was in the wrong, I admit. What do you wish me to do now?”

  “Please to give us your promise to abide by the inspector’s rules. They may be, how do you say, irksome, but we think them necessary and please not to hold any further conversations with your fellow companions.”

  “Certainly, certainly, sir, after I have said one word more to the lady.”

  “No, no,” tried Watkins, “I cannot permit…”

  But Lord Henderson, in spite of the warning finger held up by the inspector, insisted upon crying out to her, as she was being led into the other room, “Courage, dear lady, courage. Don’t let them bully you. You have nothing to fear.”

  Any further defiance of authority was now prevented by her removal from the waiting room.

  The scene, which had just ended had a rather disturbing effect on Inspector Watkins, who could hardly give his full attention to all the issues, old and new, that had now arisen in the investigation. But he had time to go over them at his leisure, because the interrogation of the lady was undertaken by Poiret.

  The latter had taken his seat at a small table. Just opposite was an officer, who was to write down question and answer. A little to one side, with the light full on the face, the witness was seated, bearing the scrutiny of four pairs of eyes, Poiret first and behind him, those of Inspector Watkins and their friend Captain Haven, who had only then wandered in after trying for twenty minutes to exchange his and Poiret’s train tickets for others of a later departure time.

  “Madame, Poiret, he trusts that you are well enough to answer a few questions?” began Poiret
, smiling.

  “I hope so. Indeed, I have no choice,” replied the baroness, bravely resigned.

  “They will refer principally to your maid, Madame.”

  “Ah!” said the baroness in a troubled voice, yet she bore the gaze of the four men without flinching.

  “Please to tell to Poiret a little more about her, if you please.”

  “Of course. Anything I know I will tell.” She spoke now with perfect composure. “But if I might ask, why?”

  “To tell to you frankly, Madame, you asked for her and Monsieur Watkins, he sent for her and…”

  “Yes?”

  “She cannot be found. She is not in the station.”

  The baroness all but jumped from her chair in her surprise. It was a surprise that seemed too spontaneous to be faked.

  “It cannot be. She would not dare to leave me here like this, all alone.”

  “Je suis desole, Madame, but she has dared. Most certainly she is not here.”

  “But what happened to her?”

  “Ah, Madam, what? We hoped you might have been able to enlighten us.”

  “I cannot, sir, not in the least.”

  “Perhaps you sent her on to your hotel to warn your friends that you were detained? Maybe to fetch them to you in your trouble?”

  The trap was neatly set, but she was not deceived.

  “How could I? The murder happened after I saw her last.”

  “Madame, when was that?”

  “Last night, in Sheffield, as I have already told that gentleman.” She pointed to Inspector Watkins, who was obliged to nod his head in agreement.

  “Bon! No matter, she has gone away somewhere. It does not matter where, still it is strange and for your sake, Poiret, he hopes we can find her, if you wish us to find her?”

  Another little trap, which failed.

  “Sir, I hardly think she is worth keeping after this insolent desertion.”

  “Poiret agrees, Madame. She must be held to strict account for it. She must justify it and give her reasons. So we must find her for you.”

  “I am not at all that anxious to have her back, really,” the baroness said quickly. The remark did not give a good impression of her.

  “Bien! Madam, as to her description, will you tell to us what was her height, figure, colour of the eyes, hair?”

  “She was tall, above average, I would say. Slight, good figure, black hair and blue eyes.”

  “Pretty?”

  “That depends upon what you mean by “pretty.” Some people might think so, in her own class.”

  “How was she dressed?”

  “In plain dark dress, bonnet of straw and brown ribbons. I do not allow my maid to wear colours.”

  “Oui, Madame. And her name, age, place of birth?”

  “Coleen Loasby, thirty-two, born, I believe, in Leeds.”

  Poiret, when these particulars had been given, looked over his shoulder towards the inspector, but said nothing. It was quite unnecessary, for Inspector Watkins, who had been writing in his notebook, now rose and left the room. He called Sergeant Jones to him.

  “Here is the more detailed description of the lady’s maid. Have it copied and circulate it immediately. Give it to the station-master and to the policemen here. I have an idea, I must say it’s only an idea that this woman has not gone far. People, who are wanted, often hang about the place they would not stay if they were wise. Anyhow, ask everyone to be on the lookout for her and come back here.”

  Meanwhile, Poiret had continued his questioning.

  “And, where, Madame, did you obtain your maid?”

  “In Liverpool. I heard of her at an agency, when I was looking for a maid a month or two ago.”

  “Then she has not been long in your service?”

  “No, she came to me in December.”

  “Was she well recommended?”

  “Strongly. She had lived with good families.”

  “And with you, Madame, how did she behave?”

  “Irreproachable.”

  “Bien! Those are the questions about Mademoiselle Coleen Loasby. She is not far off, perhaps. When we have want of her we shall be able to lay the hands on her, Madame may rest assured.”

  “Pray take no trouble in the matter. I certainly will not keep her.”

  “Bien! Another small matter, Madame. You were,” he referred to the rough plan of the sleeper prepared by Inspector Watkins, ”in the compartment with the beds with the numbers 9 and 10?”

  “I think 9 was the number of my berth.”

  “C’est vrai ca. And next door to your compartment, do you know, who it was who was next door? In 7 and 8?”

  The baroness’s lip quivered and she was a prey to sudden emotion as she answered in a low voice, “It was, where, where…”

  “Calmez-vous, Madame,” said Poiret, reassuring her as he would a little child. “You need not say. It is no doubt very distressing to you. Yet, you know?”

  She bent her head slowly, but uttered no word.

  “This man, this poor victim of this horrible crime, did you notice him at all during the journey. Did you speak to him or he to you?”

  “No, not at all, no.”

  “Nor see him?”

  “Yes, I saw him, I believe, in the dining compartment with the rest, when we dined.”

  “Ah! C’est ca. He dined in the dining compartment. Was that the only occasion on which you saw him? You had never met him previously in Liverpool, where you reside?”

  “Whom do you mean? The murdered man?”

  “Who else, Madame?”

  “No, not that I’m aware of. At least I did not recognize him as a friend.”

  “If he was among your friends…”

  “Excuse me, that he certainly was not,” interrupted the baroness, vehemently.

  “If he was your acquaintance, he would have made himself known to you?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And he did not do so? He never spoke to you, nor you to him?”

  “I never saw him, the occupant of that compartment, except on that one occasion. I kept a good deal in my compartment during the journey.”

  “Alone, Madame? It must have been very dull for you,” said Poiret, pleasantly.

  “I was not always alone,” said the baroness, hesitatingly and with a slight flush. “I had friends in the carriage.”

  “Oh, Madame, oh, ca la!” The exclamation was long-drawn and rather significant. “Who Madame? You may as well tell to us, as we should certainly find out.”

  “I have no wish to withhold the information,” she replied, now turning bright red. “Why should I?”

  “And this friend, he was…?”

  “Lord Barry Henderson,” she said and added quickly, “and his uncle. They came and sat with me occasionally. Sometimes one, sometimes the other.”

  “During the day?”

  “Of course, during the day.” Her eyes flashed furiously, as though the question was another slight.

  “Have you known them long?”

  “The lord I met in Bath last winter. It was he, who introduced me to his uncle.”

  “Very good. The lord, he knows you and takes the interest in you. That, it explains his strange, unjustified conduct we saw earlier.”

  “I don’t think it was either strange or unjustified,” interrupted the baroness, hotly. “He, sir, is a gentleman.”

  “Of course, but we will pass on. You are not the good sleeper, Madame?”

  “Indeed no, I sleep badly, as usually.”

  “Then you would be easily disturbed. Last night, did you hear anything strange in the carriage, more particularly in the compartment adjoining yours?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Not the sound of voices raised high, not the noise of the struggle?”

  “No, sir.”

  “C’est curieux! Poiret, he cannot comprehend it. We know for certain from the appearance of the body, that there was the fight. Yet you, who is the bad sleeper, with only the
thin wood between you and the encounter, you, Madame, hear nothing, absolutely nothing. C’est extraordinaire ca!”

  “I was asleep. I must have been asleep.”

  “The light sleeper, he would certainly be awakened. How can you explain that, Madame?” The question was blandly put, but Poiret’s incredulity verged on insolence.

  “Easy, I had taken some sleeping medicine. I always do, on a journey. I am obliged to keep some with me, on purpose.”

  “Then this, Madame, it is yours?” And Poiret, with an air of undisguised triumph, produced the small glass vial, which Inspector Watkins had picked up in the sleeper near the conductor’s seat.

  The baroness, with a quick gesture, put out her hand to take it.

  “Non, Madame! Please to look as closely as you like and say if it is yours.”

  “Of course it is mine. Where did you get it? From my berth?”

  “No, Madame, not from your berth.”

  “But, where, then?”

  “Pardonnez-moi, we shall not tell to you, not yet.”

  “I missed it last night,” the baroness went on, slightly confused.

  “After you had taken your dose?”

  “No, before.”

  “It smells very heavy.”

  “I need a heavy dose. I have a toothache. Sir, really, I need not tell you all my ailments.”

  “And the maid, she had taken it?”

  “I think so. She must have taken it out of the bag for some reason.”

  “And then kept it?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Bien!”

  When Poiret had brought the interrogation of the baroness to a climatic end by producing the small glass bottle, he looked round at his friends, satisfied. Both Inspector Watkins and Captain Haven nodded their heads approvingly. Then they stood up and in a corner they put their heads together in a whispered conference.

  “Well done, Poiret!” said the inspector. “You have been most skilful. It is a clear case.”

  “I say! No doubt,” said Haven, who was a courageous, but rather unintelligent person, believing that to take anybody and everybody into custody was always the safest and simplest course to find a perpetrator. “I think she ought to be arrested immediately.”

  “We might, indeed we have the need of more evidence, more definite evidence, perhaps?” Poiret was musing over the facts as he knew them. “Poiret, he would like to look at the carriage.”