The Body on the Train

by Frances Brody

  If Gertrude found out that I had brought in her letters for examination without her permission, there would be two possible outcomes. I might be promoted to best and most loyal friend, or crossed off the Christmas card list.

  A stout constable limped in from the adjoining office. He tried not to smirk as he took the satin embroidered envelope. “Have the contents checked for fingerprints. Right away if it can be fitted in.”

  When the PC had left, Dad said, “Macintosh owes me a favour. But what is it you hope to find out?”

  “Whoever is sending them knows something about Benjie and what he has been up to.”

  “Which is?”

  “Not sure. He’s sinking a new pit on the grounds on the other side of the wood from the orphanage, which he has had demolished.”

  “A lot of industrialists are feeling the pinch. He’s fortunate to be expanding at a time like this.”

  “I want to know what he’s really up to. He has this air of the detached country gentleman. What matters are his collections, stamps, coins, and he’s so amiable.”

  “But?”

  “He had me followed today. I’m convinced Raynor the butler does Benjie’s dirty work.”

  Dad was prepared to agree. “Wealthy men often have loyal retainers, in the habit of doing their master’s bidding. But surely you don’t suspect someone you’ve known so long and who’s a pillar of the community? Didn’t he meet the King last year?”

  “He did, but he and Gertrude are short of cash. He won’t be able to ask His Majesty to invest in his schemes.”

  “All the same, it sounds like a bold enterprise. This might be the moment to do it, when everyone else is cutting back.”

  “The words bold enterprise and Benjie Brockman don’t fit together somehow. And I’m wondering who has a grudge against him, and why. I would like to know who is writing to him.”

  “Of course, if there are prints on these missives, they might be a person or persons unknown to us.”

  “I realise that, but with so little to go on I need all the help I can get.”

  “It seems an oblique way of investigating, but if you think it helps –”

  “I’m not sure what will help. It’s a blow that Stephen Walmsley has been charged. You see if I’m right, and the crimes are somehow linked –”

  “CID know what they’re doing, love.”

  “If CID and Scotland Yard knew what they were doing, I wouldn’t be here.”

  He gave one of his chuckles. “Be a feather in your cap if you come out ahead of Scotland Yard.”

  I decided not to tell Dad everything. At present he did not need to be alarmed by my having been fastened in the dark room. Certainly, I would not mention the incriminating items in the eaves of the house. He’d pass that on to CID, and swing the noose closer to Stephen.

  “Stephen Walmsley is convinced that Mrs. Farrar was expecting a visitor. If he was right and we could find out who, there might be more to go on.”

  “But don’t forget, Mrs. Farrar’s murder isn’t your case. Best not to try and ride two horses at once.”

  “Dad, I’m not planning to join the circus. I’m thinking there may be someone or something we haven’t thought of yet. Do you know when Mrs. Farrar’s body will be released for burial? It might be enlightening to see who turns up for her funeral.”

  Although he showed no great interest in my theory, Dad obligingly picked up the telephone. “I’ll find out.”

  While he made the call, I went to look through the window at the street below. A police van drove into the yard. A delivery boy went by on his bicycle. I listened to Dad’s end of the conversation, the pause, and his thanks.

  I went back and sat down.

  He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “The vicar of Holy Trinity, Rothwell is back at his post. He has arranged for the local undertaker to collect Mrs. Farrar’s body. They’ll let me know when a funeral is arranged, though you’ll probably hear that before I do. Anything else you want?”

  “Please check that they will send information to DC Yeats at Scotland Yard.”

  He asked for that to be done, and then put down the telephone. “All settled.”

  “Why is Mrs. Farrar being buried in Rothwell when she lived in Thorpefield? Ardsley church is nearer.”

  “Is that important?”

  “Probably not.”

  The telephone rang. Dad picked it up. “CS Hood.” He listened. “Put her through.” Dad placed his hand over the mouthpiece. “Mrs. Sugden.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Sugden. I’ll pass you over to Mrs. Shackleton.” He handed me the receiver.

  Mrs. Sugden sounded a little perturbed, and excited. “I said they should get a telephone.”

  “What is it?”

  “A call just came through from the steward at Moortown Golf Club for Jim Sykes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “An American golfer by the name of Espinosa claims to recognise the man from the train.”

  “How do you spell that name?”

  “E-s-p-i-n-o-s-a.”

  My hopes rose. I tried to flatten them, just in case. “Where does Mr. Espinosa know him from?”

  “France. Says they met at a golf course in Paris.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sugden.”

  Dad interrupted, “Tell her to ring the steward back and ask her to keep the man on the premises.”

  I ignored this instruction. The golfer had come all the way from America. He would be unlikely to leave before the Ryder Cup was played.

  “Mrs. Sugden, did you tell the steward that Mr. Sykes would come as soon as possible?”

  “I did, but Jim’s out and about on his investigations. He’s in Wakefield. He said he would make contact with Mr. Hood.”

  “Thanks. This is our best possibility so far. And did Philip give you a message?”

  “He did. I’ll be onto that business tomorrow.”

  We ended the call.

  “We have our first good lead, Dad. An American golfer claims to have met our unknown man.”

  “You deserve some luck, Kate. This might be the breakthrough.”

  Of course we both knew it might also be a dead end.

  “Dad, when were you going to tell me that Mr. Sykes is in Wakefield?”

  “Just as soon as you stopped giving me orders and let me get a word in. Since Sykes can’t keep in touch with you, he’s kept in touch with me.”

  “Where is he?”

  Dad took out a sheet of paper and began to write. “He’s based himself at the White Swan. I’ll send a note.”

  The White Swan is a pub near the railway station, better known as the Mucky Duck.

  I could imagine Sykes’s relief at having something definite to do. I envied him. By comparison, I was a woman chasing shadows.

  As Dad reached for an envelope, there was a tap on the door.

  It was the constable who had taken the poison pen letters, returning empty-handed. “Something a bit odd, sir.”

  “Oh?”

  “Only one set of prints, the same on the letters as on the wine glass. You’d think with letters there’d be the prints of the writer and the prints of the receiver, not to mention someone who picked up the envelope.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Wasn’t me, sir. It was Macintosh tested them.”

  Chris Macintosh was Wakefield’s fingerprint expert, a man with a reputation for accuracy.

  “Macintosh asks can he keep the letters, sir. He wants to check them against his records.”

  At the same time as I said no, Dad said yes.

  “Right-o, sir. I’ll tell him.” With that he was gone.

  Naturally, it was Dad the constable had listened to, not me.

  “Dad! They’re Gertrude’s letters. She doesn’t even know I brought them out of the house.”

  “Gertrude’s letters in every sense of the word, written by her, sent by her, opened and read by her.”

  “But they were to Benjie.”

  “Did you
see Benjie with them?”

  “No.”

  “Your friend Gertrude, is she all right? Might there be something the matter with her?”

  “I know you all treat Macintosh as the oracle, but he could be having a bad day.”

  “You’ll think of something to tell Gertrude.”

  “Oh yes, that’ll be easy. Gertrude, your confidential poison pen letters, that you probably wrote yourself to get my sympathy, are now in police files.”

  “Why would she want your sympathy?”

  I stood. “It’s a long story.”

  Something told me that the highly regarded fingerprint man was right. Why had she done it, and why shown me? Perhaps she wanted me to understand that she and Benjie were more sinned against than sinning, or that she felt under siege in her own community. “Dad, I have to return them. I don’t know what game she’s playing but it’s her game not mine.”

  “If I don’t let Macintosh do his little check, he’ll cotton on that it’s not a legitimate job and that would not look good.”

  He was right, and what harm could it do? If Gertrude asked me, I’d find some excuse to prevaricate.

  “Don’t let him keep them too long.” I picked up the note Dad had made of the golfer’s name. “I’ll take this to Mr. Sykes.”

  Dad gave one of his small groans. “You don’t want to go in the Mucky Duck.”

  “But I’m going to.”

  “They won’t let you in, unaccompanied female.”

  “Then I’ll just have to stand in the doorway and shout Sykes’s name.”

  Chapter Thirty

  I parked just beyond White Swan Yard. This is where my birth mother lives. Thanks to that fact, I had no difficulty in entering the Mucky Duck. The landlord recognised me as the woman who occasionally came to the out-sales counter to fetch her mam a jug of stout.

  Sykes was seated in the corner, with a group of railwaymen. He gave a wave and came over. “Slumming it, Mrs. Shackleton?”

  “All in a good cause.”

  We found a seat by the window. Pale sunshine gleamed on the beaten copper of the table top. He set down his pint glass. “Do you want a drink?”

  “No thanks. I need to get back, but I have news. An American visitor to the golf tournament, Mr. Espinosa, claims to recognise our man.” I handed him Dad’s note of the name.

  He tried to conceal his excitement, but failed. “Let’s hope this takes us somewhere.” He lowered his voice. “I’m beginning to think whoever put that body on the train was paid handsomely, or met with an accident afterwards.”

  “No luck with the rhubarb growers?”

  “None whatsoever. They’re so taciturn, they ought to be employed by the secret service, only they’d never report to their own side or any other. Oh and I’m losing count of how many pints bought for railwaymen who know nothing.”

  “Be sure to keep a note of expenses.” I stood. “I’m parked next to you. Wait with me while I order something at the bar.”

  “Let me do it for you.”

  It was tempting to let him, because I was already causing something of a stir simply by being there. But I would do this myself.

  “Jug of stout please, Fred.”

  “Right you are, Kate. Deposit on the jug.”

  “I know.”

  Sykes stared as the landlord pulled the drink.

  I took it and paid.

  Outside, we stopped by the entrance to the dingy yard. “Good luck, Mr. Sykes. It will be such a relief if this American golfer really does know our man.”

  “Do you want me to wait with you?”

  “No. It’s just a quick call. I’ll tell you another day.”

  “Mrs. Shackleton, you never cease to surprise me.”

  * * *

  A stone’s throw from the Mucky Duck and my birth mother’s house, a framer of pictures scratches a living, working from a narrow shop called Picture This.

  It was time to give him some business.

  The clapper sounded as I opened the creaking door.

  After a moment, Maurice Lewis shuffled in from the backroom. He wears carpet slippers, due to some unspecified problem with his feet.

  He cheered up at the sight of me, which cheered me too. We exchanged pleasantries and then I asked, “Mr. Lewis, might you do some framing for me quite quickly? I’m a house guest at a friend’s and would like to leave something for them, photographic portraits.”

  I took the pictures from my bag. He duly admired Gertrude and Benjie, and Gertrude with her horse.

  Raynor the butler looked exceedingly smart and, on paper, less like Dracula than in real life.

  A sign read that Mr. Lewis now developed and printed photographs. He saw me reading it. “I don’t suppose you’ll need that service, Mrs. Shackleton.”

  After my experience in the cellar, I decided that such a service was exactly what I needed. I wound on the film in my camera. “I’ll leave this with you, Mr. Lewis. Develop and print everything in a decent size, and frame the best.”

  He worries about money, not just his own lack of it but other people’s. “Are you sure? All of them?”

  “Yes.” This would be courtesy of Scotland Yard after all. “And have them sent to me at Thorpefield Manor, so include a delivery charge.” I took out my purse. “Here’s something on account.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  After emptying his wallet buying drinks for thirsty railwaymen who had nothing much to say, Sykes cheered inwardly at the news that someone at Moortown Golf Club might have information for him.

  He had come to only one conclusion during his stint investigating the intricacies of northern railways, while trying to solve the mystery of the body on the train. He took his hat off to the chaps who drew up timetables. It was no mean feat, ensuring trains didn’t bump into each other and that signals worked all the way along the line.

  Other than that, it had been a waste of time. He felt like a man trapped in a carriage, pushed onto a sidings and left to wait for a coupling that would never materialise.

  In spite of raised hopes and suppressed excitement, he drove back to Leeds at his usual cautious speed, rehearsing questions, imagining a successful outcome, warning himself against expecting too much.

  A name, that was all he needed. Not too much to ask.

  Once more, he drove into the golf club car park. This time he paid no attention to the other motors but went straight to the clubhouse. Of course, Mr. Espinosa may be on the course, or back at his hotel. Sykes hoped not. He had waited long enough.

  He liked this bar, this clubroom. It might even be worth learning to play golf in order to come in here for a pint.

  A young steward took his coat.

  “I’m Jim Sykes, here to see Mr. Braithwaite.”

  “He’s expecting you, sir.” He signalled to the steward who was seated at a table with an attractive woman, dark-haired and vibrant. She could be a film star.

  Jack Braithwaite rose and came across.

  Sykes offered his hand. “Thank you for coming back to me, Mr. Braithwaite. You have some information. A Mr. Espinosa?”

  “Yes, Mr. Sykes. Mrs. Espinosa is the person who has information for you. Mr. Espinosa is on the course. Come and meet his lady wife.”

  The steward introduced them. “And what will you have to drink, Mr. Sykes?”

  “Pint of bitter please. May I get you something, Mrs. Espinosa?”

  The steward intervened. “Leave that to me, Mr. Sykes. This is on the house.”

  As Sykes sat down, he began to think that he had the best job in the world. The woman was smiling at him. “It is so nice to meet a British policeman. I think you are wonderful.”

  “Thank you.” Sykes did not trouble to correct her. “Are you enjoying your stay, Mrs. Espinosa?”

  “We are having the most interesting time. You see, we decided to make a real vacation of this. We started in Spain, came all the way up through France, visiting courses, and then to Paris. Don’t ask me the name of the course, I
’ve forgotten.”

  Sykes spoke quietly. “And where did you meet the gentleman whose sketch you saw?”

  She was quick on the uptake. This was a public place and she was talking confidentially to a policeman. She lowered her voice. “Why at the course in Paris. Mr. Sykes, would it be impertinent if I gave you a tip?”

  Usually quick on the uptake, Sykes did not quite follow her meaning.

  She laughed and made a “money” gesture with thumb and fingers. “Not that kind of tip.”

  Sykes smiled. “Then yes, by all means please do.”

  “If you are looking to find a gentleman and you have a picture—not that this happens very often, I’m sure. This is such a law-abiding country. Not a single person in this golf club feels the need to carry a gun.”

  “No I don’t suppose they do.”

  “Well then, here is my tip. Show the picture to a lady. If the case is reversed and you are looking for a lady, show the picture to a gentleman.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “You see my husband, he thought I might be right but he could not be sure. We were with our friends, the Diegels. Mrs. Diegel is of the same mind as I. She is back at the hotel now, but she would say just as I do that this is the man we met in Paris. He gave my husband his card.”

  A cocktail glass was placed before Mrs. Espinosa. Sykes’s beer was carefully set on a small beermat.

  “Cheers!” Mrs. Espinosa raised her glass.

  “Cheers!” Sykes said, “And do you have the gentleman’s card?”

  “I do, and I shall be sorry to part with it but I will remember his name. When you find him, please give him our warm regards. He has done nothing wrong, I hope.”

  “We have no reason to believe that, Mrs. Espinosa.” He looked at the business card, expensive, embossed and, most importantly, with a name: Harry Aspinall. Under the name was an address of a chateau in Bordeaux.

  “He said if we ever came to France, we must look him up. He would show us over his vineyard. I don’t suppose we shall ever see his vineyard. Of course he might arrive here, and then I could introduce you.”

  “He expects to be at the tournament?”

  “Yes, we’re looking out for him.”

  Sykes took out his notebook. “It would be helpful if you could tell me everything you remember, Mrs. Espinosa.”