A Third Class Murder: a cozy 1930s mystery set in an English village

by Hugh Morrison

Blow me, he thought, it was true about the talking pictures; beautiful girls with blonde hair talking on and on in exotic American accents, with jazz music playing, or posh English women who said things like ‘terribly’ and ‘awfully’ all the time. Not like the girls down at Maisie’s, with their yokel voices. The best you got from them was ‘How’s you, my lover?’ in a Suffolk drawl.

  Thinking about it, that was what really decided it for him. No going straight for him. That was for losers. He decided that right there and then, as he nipped out of the picture house just in time to avoid having to stand for the national anthem.

  No waiting in the queue at the labour exchange in the rain for him, with all those stupid sods too downtrodden to care any more. He was going back to his old life of crime, and that was going to be his ticket to the world of blonde girls who said ‘terribly’ and ‘awfully’ and ‘frightfully’. He put his cap on and stomped down the stairs out into the street, slamming the door behind him.

  Lower Addenham village station was one of those little backwaters of the London and North Eastern Railway that seemed to have changed little since it was built in the 1850s. It was the only stop on the branch line from Great Netley, just four miles long including a turning loop, a vanity project financed by the Earl of Addenham to enable weekend guests to visit more easily from London.

  Traffic had always been light on the line and with advent of bicycles and then motor cars and buses, the number of passengers using the shuttle service each day had dwindled to single figures.

  Shaw bought his ticket from the little window in the combined waiting room and ticket office, and walked through the overly ornate Victorian Gothic doors onto the platform; Goggins followed slowly. His usual limp, Shaw had noticed, had become more pronounced on the five minute walk to the station.

  ‘Afternoon vicar, Mr Goggins,’ said Ned Allen, the station porter, touching his cap in a semi-salute in respect to the social status of the clergyman. ‘You’re a bit early gentlemen,’ he added, checking the tickets of the two men, ‘but we’ll be off in just a few minutes.’

  Shaw and Goggins sat down to wait on a bench, sandwiched between a row of milk crates and the station cat, asleep on one end of the seat.

  Shaw took out his pipe and tamped down the tobacco with his thumb, applied a match to the bowl and sat back contendedly. Even if his country parson’s stipend had stretched to running a motor car, he would not have been tempted to buy one; the train connected him with anywhere he wanted to go, and for local visits to parishioners, there was always his bicycle.

  The little shuttle train was standing at the station’s only platform, wisps of steam emerging from the underside of the little pannier-tank engine, as the driver and fireman tinkered about with oil cans and rags.

  At one time the line had used a bigger engine, three coaches and a brake van, but passenger numbers were now so few that the service was reduced to a single coach, with four compartments, all third class, with a guard’s section at the rear of the carriage.

  The locals nicknamed it the ‘toy train’ which was of course incorrect, thought Shaw, as it was of the standard gauge, but he could see why they did so. From a distance the little engine and its one carriage, set against the vast East Anglian skies, looked more like the type of narrow gauge train one might see in the foothills of Wales.

  The steam hissed and somebody cleared his throat. The guard stepped out of his small section at the rear of the train’s only carriage, and began opening the compartment doors, calling out ‘Great Netley service, all aboard please.’

  Goggins stood up and Shaw noticed a twinge of pain in his face for an instant. ‘If it’s all the same to you, vicar, I’ll go in the non-smoking compartment. My lungs is playing up today.’

  ‘My dear fellow,’ said Shaw, apologetically, ‘You should have mentioned it. Let me put this pipe out.’

  ‘No, no, you keep it lit, vicar,’ said Goggins. ‘Never waste a smoke if you’ve got one - you’ll remember that from the army, I expect. I’ll be seeing you,’ he added, as he stepped up awkwardly into one of the two compartments marked ‘non-smoking’ on the window. ‘Give my regards to Reverend Soames.’

  ‘I will do, Mr Goggins, and good day to you,’ said Shaw as he opened the door to the smoking compartment. The sounds of escaping steam from the engine increased in volume as he sat back in the seat nearest the door. Although the compartment was designed to seat ten persons, five on either side between the two doors with their pull-down windows, he had it to himself, and so puffed away on his pipe with happy abandon.

  Through the open window he heard rapid footsteps and the voices of two men, both speaking with London accents.

  ‘Come on Joe, get a move on, the train’s about to leave!’ said one.

  ‘Alright, alright,’ replied the other, ‘we wouldn’t have had to rush if you’d get that company car I keep asking you to buy, Symie you old skinflint!’

  Shaw heard a door slam and then muffled voices as the two men continued their good-natured argument.

  He then observed a stout man move deftly across the platform towards the train, carrying an old brown Gladstone bag; he glimpsed the man’s face and realised it was Cokeley. For the second time that day, Shaw drew back into the shadows to avoid recognition, then muttered a prayer of contrition. It seemed however that Cokeley had not recognised him, and he walked on to the door of the neighbouring compartment, nearest to the guard’s section.

  Shaw now heard the guard’s voice. ‘I’ve kept the compartment free for you, Mr Cokeley, as usual.’

  Then Cokeley’s voice: ‘Thanks Bill. Here you are.’ There was a sound of clinking coins.

  ‘Thank you very much sir, and good day to you,’ replied the guard.

  Just then Shaw saw, briefly, a woman cross the platform. He had a glimpse of platinum blonde hair, dark glasses, a chiffon scarf and a figure of the type that men, even married clergyman, would definitely notice. An instant later and she was out of view, but he heard the guard admonishing her.

  ‘I’m sorry miss, but this compartment’s reserved.’

  Then Shaw heard Cokeley reply in a somewhat oily tone. ‘That’s alright Bill, there’s plenty of room. You step inside miss. Let me take your bag for you. That’s right. Have a seat next to me by the window, why don’t you?’

  The door then slammed and Shaw could hear nothing more except the shrill of the guard’s whistle and a responding blast of steam from the engine as it moved slowly out of the little station towards Great Netley.

  Shaw sat back and puffed happily on his pipe, admiring the scenery along the line, particularly the trees with their stippling of green buds waiting to burst forth into leaves. This was his favourite time of year, he thought, as new life came forth in its annual miracle, anticipating the greatest miracle of all which would soon be celebrated at Easter.

  The train picked up speed on a long straight stretch, the carriage beginning a rhythmic rattle which, on a longer journey, was likely to have lulled Shaw to sleep. This grew in volume until he noticed a strange sound - a cry, perhaps, from somewhere on the train. Dismissing it as some noise from the engine, his thoughts turned to the administrative challenges of the forthcoming Whitsun pageant.

  The train began to slow down and, with much hissing of steam, eventually came to a standstill. Shaw looked up, thinking this somewhat unusual, but remembering that this was where the train joined the main London to Norwich line; an express would probably be passing and the small local train was obliged to stop at a signal. Just then, he heard the sound of a compartment door slamming and a crunch of gravel from a heavy impact. He then heard a voice from the rear of the train - presumably that of the guard- calling out.

  ‘Hi, you, you can’t do that! Get back inside!’

  Shaw pulled down the window of the compartment door on his left, and looked out. He saw a figure in a dark suit and cloth cap, clutching what appeared to be a bag or bags, running first towards the engine and then left towards the signal on the side of
the track. The figure then dropped one of the bags which rolled down into some undergrowth. He paused for an instant, half-turned around to look for the bag, but then carried on running and disappeared into the clump of bushes in front of the signal post.

  Turning to look towards the rear of the train, Shaw saw the guard leaning out of the window of his section. He then heard a shout from the direction of the engine.

  ‘Everything alright, Bill?’

  ‘Just some darned fool jumping off the train,’ replied the guard. ‘Probably trying to dodge having his ticket checked at Netley.’

  ‘I thought I saw someone jump out,’ called the voice again from the direction of the engine, which Shaw assumed must be that of the driver. ‘Some folk will do anything to save a few pence.’

  Shaw heard a distant ‘clunk’ and looked up the line to his left to see the signal arm moving.

  ‘That’s us clear to go now Bill,’ called the driver. ‘We’d better get a move on or we’ll miss the slot at Netley.’

  ‘Carry on then,’ yelled the guard.

  The hissing of steam increased in volume again, and Shaw withdrew his head into the compartment, pulling up the window behind him.

  A few minutes later the train pulled into the small market town of Great Netley. Shaw knocked out his pipe into the little ashtray by the door and took down his briefcase from the luggage rack. Stepping out onto the platform he nodded to Goggins who climbed out awkwardly from the train, holding tightly to the open door to support himself. The two London businessmen stepped out of their compartment. Shaw then noticed that not all the compartment doors had opened. Cokeley’s was still closed.

  The guard was walking the short length of the train, calling out ‘Great Netley, all change, Great Netley, all change’ in a booming voice. Shaw smiled as it seemed a little theatrical for a single carriage train on a branch line. Perhaps, he thought, the man had missed his calling as an actor. Shaw closed the door of his compartment behind him and felt in his pocket for his ticket in order to present it at the gate.

  The guard glanced through the window of Cokeley’s compartment and opened the door. ‘Great Netley, all change! Come along now sir, wake up, wake up…Dear God!’

  The guard half stepped, half fell backwards out of the compartment, knocking into Shaw as he passed.

  ‘My dear fellow…’ Shaw instinctively began to apologise for being bumped into, in that peculiarly English way, when he looked through the open door into the compartment and saw Cokeley.

  Shaw only needed one glance at the man, who lay slumped in his seat with the handle of a knife protruding from his chest, to know that he would not be waking up again until Judgement Day.

  Chapter Three

  T he constable on point duty outside Great Netley station had acted quickly, instructing the station master to telephone for reinforcements and sealing off the platform, barring entry to the growing crowd of concerned onlookers and preventing anyone who had been on the train from leaving the station.

  Within fifteen minutes of receiving the telephone call, Detective Inspector George Ludd from Midchester central police station arrived, the tyres of his Morris Six screeching slightly as his sergeant, James McPherson, braked heavily.

  ‘Calm down, McPherson,’ said Ludd, leaning over to switch off the car’s electric bell. ‘Sounds like there’s been enough drama here for one day.’

  ‘Sorry sir,’ said the Scotsman breathlessly as the two men exited the car, ‘but a murder! That’s not something you get every day round these parts. I can’t remember the last time we had one.’

  ‘We don’t know it’s murder,’ admonished Ludd. ‘All we know is a man’s been found dead.’

  ‘Aye, but dead with a knife through the heart, the despatcher said.’

  ‘Keep an open mind,’ replied Ludd. ‘First rule of detection. Things aren’t always what they seem.’

  Ludd and McPherson were met at the door of the station by the station master, a police constable and a third man with a black bag and a stethoscope around his neck.

  Ludd nodded to the constable and introduced himself. ‘Inspector Ludd, Midchester CID. You the one that called it in?’

  The young officer saluted. ‘Yes sir, glad you could get here so quick.’

  ‘Got a name, lad?’ replied Ludd.

  ‘Yes sir. Jessop sir.’

  ‘Right then Jessop. We’ll take over from here. Go with the rest of this lot here.’ He pointed to the dozen or so officers arriving in the station forecourt in two black vans. ‘Seal all this area off. Don’t let anyone in or out of the station.’

  ‘You can’t do that, I’ve got the London train coming through in a minute!’ said a little man nearby.

  ‘And who are you?’ asked Ludd brusquely of the uniformed official.

  ‘Albert Perkins, station master,’ said the man, drawing himself up to his full height of five feet three inches. ‘I can’t close off the whole station as the London train’s coming through in three minutes. That would be against regulations’.

  ‘I think my regulations are bigger than your regulations, Mr Perkins,’ said Ludd wearily.

  ‘There’s no need to close the whole station anyway,’ said Perkins. ‘The, er, the deceased party is on platform three, that’s on its own down the end, nobody could have got on or off down there or we’d see ‘em come through.’

  ‘Alright then,’ said Ludd, ‘you can keep the rest of the place open but nobody comes in or out of platform three.’ He turned to the other man.

  ‘I’m assuming you’re a doctor,’

  ‘Dr Hall.’ replied the man, putting his stethoscope into his bag. ‘My practice is just opposite the station. One of the porters summoned me to tell me a man was injured on the train. But when I got there, well…it was too late.’

  ‘Cause of death?’ asked Ludd.

  ‘Not for me to say definitively, but likely to be the knife wound to the chest, most likely to the heart. Death would have been more or less instantaneous, poor devil.’

  ‘Right, thank you doctor, that will be all,’ said Ludd. ‘One of our doctors will deal with the rest. I expect there will need to be a post-mortem.’

  The doctor hurried away, pleased to be relieved of any further official duties.

  Ludd pushed through the small gaggle of onlookers on the main platform. He waved his warrant card at the constable on the platform gate who allowed him and McPherson to pass.

  Ludd looked at the little group of people standing around the open door of the train carriage, sighed, and realised his half day off to dig over the flower beds in his garden would probably have to be cancelled.

  Ludd and McPherson approached the carriage and looked into the compartment; the body had not been moved but had been covered with a railwayman’s overcoat.

  ‘Who put this on him?’ asked Ludd to the small group, with irritation in his voice.

  ‘I did,’ said a uniformed railwayman.

  ‘And you are…?’

  ‘Bill Watkins, I’m the guard. It didn’t seem right to leave Mr Cokeley there like that while we waited for you lot.’

  ‘Well it was right to leave him there like that,’ said Ludd. ‘You’ve disturbed a crime scene.’ He removed the coat gently and grimaced as he took in the man’s glassy stare and the large patch of drying blood spread over his shirt-front and waistcoat.

  ‘Here, you can have it back now,’ Ludd said as he bundled up the coat and handed it to Watkins, who recoiled slightly at the touch of the fabric.

  ‘Cokeley, you say?’ asked Ludd to Watkins. ‘Know him, did you?’

  ‘Yes sir, Charles Cokeley, runs the antiques shop in Lower Addenham. I know him alright. But the woman that was with him…’

  Ludd cut the man off. ‘Yes, yes, we’ll get to the rest of you in a minute.’

  A dapper man with a colourful tie pushed forward to the compartment door. ‘I say, chief, can we go now the cavalry’s here? Some of us have got business deals to attend to.’

  ‘And wh
o are you?’ asked Ludd. ‘Rockefeller?’

  The man did not share the joke. ‘My name’s Mr Symes and this is my business partner Mr Davis. We didn’t see anything so you might as well let us go.’

  There’s always one, thought Ludd, as he turned to reply to the businessman. ‘First of all, it’s Inspector. I’m not a Chief - yet. And second, I’ve got a business to run as well, and that’s finding out who did for this fellow before he does it to someone else. So be patient and I’ll get to you in good time.’

  Symes retreated back on to the platform and lit a cigarette, grumbling under his breath to Davis next to him.

  ‘Knife wound to the chest, that’s what the doctor said, wasn’t it McPherson?’ asked Ludd as he viewed the corpse.

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Wrong, sergeant. Have another look and tell me why.’

  McPherson stared down intently. ‘I give up sir. It’s a knife and it’s in his chest. What’s wrong about that?’

  Ludd tutted. ‘You fought in the war, didn’t you?’

  ‘No sir, I was still at school at the Armistice.’

  Ludd muttered under his breath something about policemen getting younger all the time.

  ‘Alright lad, fair enough. What’s wrong is, that’s not a knife, it’s a bayonet.’

  McPherson looked more closely. Ludd pointed to the handle of the weapon protruding from Cokeley’s chest. ‘See there, that’s the clip that fixes it to the rifle. It’s not one of ours though, I saw enough of those myself in the war. Looks like one of the old German ones.’

  ‘Should we pull it out for a better look, sir?’ asked McPherson, his voice taking on a slightly squeamish note.

  ‘Certainly not,’ replied Ludd. ‘We’ll leave that for the police doctor when he does his post-mortem.’

  Ludd searched the man’s pockets and pulled out a buff manila envelope.

  ‘Hello, what’s this…?’ Ludd read from a letter typewritten on a thin sheet of paper.

  ‘”Dear Mr Brown, we are pleased to confirm booking for double room for you and Mrs Brown on the 25th inst, and thank you for your advance of two pounds fifteen shillings, yours etc”. Signed, general manager the Seaview Grand, Brighton. What do you make of that, McPherson?’