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

by Frank Howell Evans

  Inspector Watkins readily agreed. “We will go together,” he said and to the baroness, “Please remain here, until we return. It may not be for long.”

  “And then?” asked the baroness, whose nervousness had if anything only increased.

  “Afterwards? Who knows?” was the reply, with a shrug of the shoulders.

  “What have we against her?” said Poiret, as soon as they were alone in the sleeper.

  “The bottle of sleeping liquid and the conductor’s condition. He was undoubtedly drugged,” answered the inspector. The discussion, which followed took the form of a dialogue between them, for Haven took no part in it except to mumble “I say!” once in a while.

  “Oui, mon ami, but why by the Baroness? How do we know that for certain?”

  “It is her bottle,” said Inspector Watkins.

  “But her story, it may be true. She misses it, because the maid has taken it.”

  “We have nothing whatever against the maid. We know nothing about her.”

  “Exactement! Except that she has disappeared. But that it also tells against her mistress. It is very vague, this case. Poiret, he does not yet see his way.”

  “But the fragment of lace, the broken beading, surely, Poiret, they belong to a woman and only one woman was in the carriage.”

  “So far as we know.”

  “But if these could be proved to be hers?”

  “Ah! If you could prove that, the case, it would be different, mon ami!”

  “Easy enough. I will have her searched, here in the station. There is a female police officer present.”

  “It is the strong measure. She is the respected baroness, after all.”

  “Baroness or not, women, who commit crimes must not expect to be handled with a soft hand.”

  “But suppose we are wrong? It may lead to unpleasantness. Poiret, he is anxious to avoid the complications.”

  As he spoke, he bent over and, taking his glasses from his pocket, examined the lace, which still fluttered, where it was caught in the open window.

  “It is the fine lace,” Poiret said appreciatively, “N’est-ce pas, Inspector Watkins? You may be more experienced in such matters.”

  Watkins looked at Poiret’s Savile Row tailored suit and expensive shoes and frowned. Poiret smiled back.

  “The finest, I should say so. The trimming of some underclothing, I should think. That should be sufficient, I think.”

  The inspector went back to see that the searching was undertaken without loss of time. The baroness protested, but vainly, against this new indignity. She was a prisoner, practically and friendless, because Lord Henderson was in the waiting room. She was plainly told by the policewoman that force would be used unless she submitted to it.

  Policewoman Baker, as the female officer was called, was a scowling, burly creature, with a motherly voice and a familiar manner that was most offensive. They had given her the torn lace and the beads as a guide, with very particular directions to see if they corresponded with any part of the lady’s clothing.

  She soon showed her aptitude.

  “Oho! What is this, my pretty girl? How comes so pretty a lady into the hands of Policewoman Baker? I will not harm you, my little one. Oh, no, no, I will not hurt you, dear.” She held out her fat claw and looked the other way. The baroness did not understand.

  “Madam?” went on the old hag in a half-threatening, half-coaxing whisper, as she came up quite close and fastened on her victim like a hyena.

  “You want money?”

  “What opinion you hold of me, dearie! But a small present, a little gift from one woman to another. Well, you’d better.” She held her hands out in front of the baroness’s face and anything seemed preferable than to be touched by this horrible woman.

  “Wait, wait!” cried the baroness, shivering all over and hastily opening her purse.

  “Oho! There it is,” said the policewoman in a thick syrupy voice. “Yes, more,” and she looked at the banknotes in the palm of her hand, while a covetous light came into her faded eyes at the joyous sight. “There is more, do you hear? Or do you want me to call them in and tell them that you tried to bribe poor, honest Policewoman Baker?”

  With trembling fingers the baroness emptied the contents of her purse in the ugly woman’s hands.

  “Nice! It is a misery what they pay me here. I have children. You will not tell them, you better not. No, no, no.”

  Thus muttering to herself, she hid the banknotes in her bosom. Then she showed the bit of lace and pressed it into the baroness’s hands.

  “Do you know this, my pretty one? Where does it come from? I was told to search for it on you.” With a quick gesture she lifted the edge of the baroness’s skirt then dropped it with a low, chuckling laugh.

  “Oho! You were right to pay me, pretty girl. You will remember Policewoman Baker, won’t you, my dear.”

  The baroness listened with dismay. She had put herself into the hands of this greedy woman.

  “And this, my dear? What have we here?”

  Policewoman Baker held up the broken bit of jet ornament for inspection and as the baroness leaned forward to examine it more closely, she gave it into her hand.

  “You recognize it, yes? Be careful, my pretty one! Beware! If anyone else was looking, this would’ve ruined you. I could not save you then. I will say nothing! Now give it me back. I must have it back.”

  The Baroness was turning the beads over and over in her open palm, with a disturbed, but hardly a terrified expression on her face.

  She knew it or thought she knew it. But how had it ended up there, in the possession of a corrupt London policewoman?

  “Give it me, quick!” There was a loud knock at the door. “They are coming. And remember,” policewoman Baker put her greasy finger on her lips, “not a word!”

  Inspector Watkins waited till the door was opened and listened to the policewoman’s report. He frowned, when the woman took him on one side and briefly explained that the search had been fruitless.

  The inspector looked from one to the other, from the policewoman he had used in this unpleasant quest, to the woman, who had been searched. The baroness, to his surprise, did not complain. He had expected words of protest, of sufferings at the hand of the rough policewoman. She, however, took it very quietly. She was pale and her hands were trembling, but there was no indignation in her face.

  Again he took counsel with Poiret, while the baroness was kept waiting.

  “What next, Inspector Watkins?” asked Poiret. “What will you do?”

  “Let her go,” answered the inspector, briefly.

  “Mon Dieu,” said Poiret, frowning. “After all the suspicions?”

  “They are as strong as ever, stronger even and I think she is good for it, but I need more proof. I will let her go, under surveillance.”

  “Ah! You wish to shadow her?”

  “Precisely. By a good agent. Sergeant Jones, for instance. He is a specialist. One of the highly trained new breed of policemen.”

  “I say,” said Haven.

  “Do you agree, Poiret? Then, I will give the necessary orders that she is free to leave the station.”

  The baroness now had reason to change her opinion of London policemen. Politeness now replaced roughness. She was told, with many apologies, that her regretted but unavoidable detention was at an end. Not only was she allowed to leave, but she was escorted by both Inspector Watkins and Captain Haven outside, where a cab was waiting with her luggage, including the dressing-bag, which had been neatly repacked for her.

  But the little silver-topped bottle was not given back to her, nor the handkerchief. In her joy at her deliverance, she had not given them a second thought or maybe she did not wish to appear anxious to recover them.

  Nor did she notice that, as the cab drove away from Waterloo Station, it was followed at a discreet distance by a modest car. Both stopped outside the Marlborough Hotel. Its occupant, Sergeant Jones, kept the baroness in sight and, entering th
e hotel at her heels, waited till she had left the front desk and held a long conversation with the proprietor.

  With the departure of their most promising suspect the first stage in the inquiry had now ended. The results, which at first seemed promising, were now at best contradictory.

  Watkins reminded himself that he should not focus on the lady and exclude all others from the investigation. After all he told Poiret, the Baroness might have some accomplice among them.

  Then, striking his forehead, the inspector remembered that two of the travellers had given him clues, he had not yet examined. One was the significant hint from the Welshman that he could help the inquiry. The other was the lord’s sneering assertion that the train had stopped between Leicester and London.

  Laying these facts before Poiret and Haven, it was agreed that the Welshman’s offer seemed the most important and he was accordingly called in first.

  “Who are you, Monsieur?” asked Poiret, carelessly.

  “My name I have already given you, Patrick Stewart. I’m an officer belonging to the Liverpool police department.”

  The answer roused Poiret immediately to intense interest and he could not quite resist a glance of reproach at Inspector Watkins.

  “What?” cried Inspector Watkins, colouring deeply. “This is unheard of. Why in the name of God have you withheld this information until now?”

  “But, surely, you remember that I told you half an hour ago that I had something important to tell you.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. But why didn’t you say anything? Good Heavens!”

  “You were not so encouraging that I felt disposed to force on you what I knew you would have to hear sooner or later anyway.”

  “It is not done, sir! It shall not end here. Your superiors will hear about your conduct,” the inspector went on, hotly.

  “They will also hear and listen to my version of the story. I offered you fairly and at the first opportunity, all the information I had and you refused to accept it.”

  “You should have persisted. It was your duty. You are an officer of the law or at least that’s what you say you are.”

  “Call them, if you have doubts, in Liverpool, the police department and you will find that Patrick Stewart, your humble servant, travelled by the Liverpool express with their knowledge. And here are my credentials.”

  “Alright, alright!” said Watkins, wishing to end the matter. “What, in one word, have you to tell us?”

  “I can tell you, who the murdered man was.”

  “That’s all you have? We know that already.”

  “You have his name. I know his profession and his reason for being on the train, because I was instructed to follow him. That is why I’m here.”

  “Was he a known criminal?”

  “He was absconding from Liverpool, with valuables.”

  “A thief, then?”

  The Welshman waved his hand with a gesture of doubt.

  “Thief is a big word. In a sense it was his own property.”

  “I can’t believe this? Can you be more explicit and get on with it,” interrupted the inspector, testily.

  “I am, but if you keep asking me questions…”

  Poiret interjected.

  “Please to give us your story. We can interrogate you afterwards.”

  “The murdered man is Edward Sykes, of the firm of Mersey & Sykes, bankers, at Pembroke Place in Liverpool. It was an old bank, once of good repute, but lately it has fallen into difficulties. Its financial soundness was doubted in certain circles and the Bank of England was warned that a bankruptcy was imminent. So the matter was handed over to the police and I was ordered to make inquiries and to keep my eye on Sykes.” He waved his thumb in the direction of the train, where the body was. “Sykes was the only surviving partner. He was well known and liked in Liverpool, indeed, most, who heard about the trouble at the bank disbelieved it.”

  “Naturally,” echoed Poiret.

  “I made it my business to place the banker under surveillance, to learn his habits, see who his friends were, places he visited. Soon I knew everything I wished to know, although not all. But one thing I discovered, I think it important to inform you of it immediately. He was on intimate terms with Baroness Bluemayne.”

  “Baroness Bluemayne? Do you mean the lady, who was a passenger in the sleeper?”

  “Beyond doubt!”

  Poiret and Watkins looked at each other. Watkins quickly turned over the sheets on which the baroness’s statement was recorded.

  She had denied she knew the murdered man and here was evidence that they were on intimate terms.

  “He was at her house on the day we left Liverpool. It was in the evening, at sunset. The baroness has an apartment in Roscoe Street and when he left her he returned to Pembroke Street, entered the bank, stayed half an hour, then came out with some luggage, called a cab and was driven straight to the railway station.”

  “And you followed him?”

  “Of course. When I saw him walk straight to the sleeper and ask the conductor for 7 and 8, I knew that he had made plans to flee Liverpool. When Baroness Bluemayne arrived, I concluded that she knew what he was doing and that possibly they were eloping together.”

  “Why did you not arrest him?”

  “I had no authority. The bank is not bankrupt, yet. These were suspicions, nothing more, at the time. I decided on the spur of the moment the only one course to take and that was to embark in the same train and stick close to my man.”

  “You informed your superiors, I suppose?” asked Watkins.

  “Pardon me, sir,” said the Welshman, annoyed, “but have you any right to inquire into my conduct towards my superiors? In all that affects the murder I will help you, but in all other matters it is between me and them.”

  “Keep your shirt on! They will tell us if you won’t. And you had better be careful, lest you obstruct justice. Speak out, my man, what did you intend to do?”

  “To act according to circumstances. That is if my suspicions were confirmed.”

  “What suspicions?”

  “That Sykes was carrying off a large sum in cash, as in effect he was.”

  “You know that for a fact? How?”

  “I saw it with my own eyes. I looked into his compartment one time and saw him counting the banknotes.”

  Again Poiret and Watkins looked at each other significantly. They had at last the motive for the crime.

  “You would have been justified to arrest him.”

  “Exactly. I was going to, directly after we arrived in London. I would seek the assistance of your police and take him into custody. But fate interjected.”

  There was a pause, a long pause.

  Captain Haven said, “So the motive for the murder is clear, money and the involvement of the baroness is now indisputable.”

  But Poiret didn’t listen to him as he thought there was more to be got out of the Welshman, who had already proved so useful an ally.

  “One word more, Monsieur,” said Poiret to Stewart. “During the journey, did you have the conversation with Monsieur Sykes?”

  “None. He kept very much to himself.”

  “You saw him, I suppose, in the restaurant?”

  “Yes, in the dining compartment in Leicester.”

  “But you did not speak to him?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Did he have any suspicion, as to who you were?”

  “Why should he? He didn’t know me. I had taken pains he should never see me, when I was following him in Liverpool.”

  “Did he speak to any of the passengers?”

  “Very little. To the Baroness, once or twice and to her maid.”

  “Bien sur, the maid! Did you notice her at all? She has not been seen. She has disappeared. It is strange.”

  “Run away, maybe?” suggested Stewart, with a sly smile.

  “Well, at least she is not here with her mistress. Can you offer any explanation of that?” asked Watkins.

  �
�Maybe she was afraid. The baroness and she were very good friends, it seemed. On better, more familiar terms, than is usual between mistress and maid.”

  “The maid, she knows something?”

  “Ah, sir, it is only an idea. But I’ll give it to you for what it’s worth.”

  “The maid, what was she like?”

  “Tall, good-looking, not too reserved. She made other friends, the conductor and Lord Henderson. I saw him speaking to her. Actually I spoke to her myself.”

  “What is it that can have become of her?” asked Poiret to no one in particular.

  It was followed by silence.

  “Would you like me to go search for her? I know what she looks like. That is, if you have no more questions to ask and no wish to detain me further?”

  “We will consider your offer and let you know in a moment, if you will wait outside,” replied Watkins, curtly.

  When they were alone they deliberated his offer. It was a good offer as he did know her appearance and he was in possession of all the facts.

  “But can he be trusted, though?” queried the inspector. “How do we know he has told us the truth? What guarantee have we? What if he killed Sykes himself?”

  “All these are the possibilities, bien sur, but, pardonnez-moi, mon ami, how do you say, a little far-fetched, eh?” said Poiret. “Why not use the services offered by this man? If he deceives us, it will not be hard to trace him for the able policemen of Scotland Yard, no?”

  “I say, why don’t you let him go and send someone with him?” suggested Haven, his first practical contribution to the investigation.

  “Congratulation, mon ami!” cried Poiret.

  Watkins nodded and called in Stewart and told him, “We will accept your services. You can begin your search immediately. In what direction do you propose to begin?”

  “Where has her mistress gone?”

  “Who says she’s gone?”

  “At least, she is no longer with us out there. Have you arrested her or what?”

  “No, we let her go, but we have our eye on her. She has gone to her hotel, the Marlborough, on Pall Mall Street.”