But something was not right. He squatted and looked again, and realised the grass had been disturbed in two lines. Standing up, he thought, yes; that was it; the angle of the flattened grass suggested someone had walked, or run, onto the railway and then back off again on to the road, perhaps to depart by motorcycle. But the trail leading on to the railway led directly to the signal.
Shaw walked to the railway track, keeping his distance from the trails in the grass so as not to disturb them.
As with all English railway lines, a protective wire fence had been built alongside to prevent livestock straying into danger. The line of disturbed grass ended in a clump of bushes near the signal. Shaw prodded the nearest fence post with his stick. The post wobbled and two of the lengths of wire connected to it sagged and fell to the ground, leaving a gap large enough, Shaw realised, for a man to climb through.
Not wishing to trespass, Shaw examined the signal on the other side of the fence. It was mounted on a wooden platform, chipped and scratched on the side nearest him. Dense shrubbery and high weeds surrounded its base.
Looking down at the railway line, he could see that some of the tall weeds by the signal had been disturbed, perhaps by the boots of the policemen who had just passed that way.
He wondered whether they too had noticed the tracks in the grass between the signal and the road; surely they must have? But when he looked back, through some trick of the light, these were not visible.
He realised that Fraser was no longer at his feet, and looked around for the little dog. There was no sign of him, so he called out his name sharply. Instantly, there came an excited barking in response, from a patch of undergrowth further along the track. Fraser was alternatively yelping and pulling at an object in the bushes.
‘What is it, boy, what have you found?’ asked Shaw excitedly.
Fraser soon dragged a sack from under a clump of weeds; Shaw recalled the man leaving the train had thrown or dropped something here; perhaps that was it? Consumed with curiosity, but thinking it was probably just some track-side refuse, Shaw prodded the opening of the sack and recoiled as a shock of peroxide blonde hair tumbled out.
‘Get back, Fraser, heel,’ he commanded, and the dog stood back obediently, his stubby tail wagging excitedly.
Shaw crouched down and, with a certain hesitation, gingerly opened the bag and looked inside. Inside was a blonde wig, some sort of dress and a pair of women’s high-heeled shoes. Close by, the fence sagged again where, Shaw surmised, somebody had climbed over to make the tracks on the grass back to the road.
Shaw thought for a moment. The policemen who had passed earlier had, presumably, missed this piece of evidence, which would have been invisible to anyone cursorily inspecting the sides of the track. He decided the best course of action was to walk back to Lower Addenham with the peculiar findings and present them to to the police.
Chapter Six
‘W e can’t keep him much longer sir,’ said McPherson to Ludd, as the pair sat down in the interview room deep within the bowels of Midchester police station. The morning sun shone weakly through the barred window high up in white-painted brick wall, illuminating the blue plume of smoke rising from McPherson’s first cigarette of the day.
‘You’re right that we haven’t got much to go on,’ said Ludd, ‘but until any news comes in of that fellow who robbed Cokeley five years back, then Goggins is the best we have to go on. We’ll give him one more try this morning to see what we can find out, and if we can’t charge him, we’ll let him go. By the way, has any news come in of…what did you say his name was?’
‘West, sir, Reginald West,’ said McPherson, consulting his notebook. ‘Convicted for robbery, did four years hard labour in Parkhurst then got transferred to Ipswich gaol for the last year of his sentence. Let out four weeks ago. I managed to get through on the telephone to his probation officer just this morning; he’s having some trouble finding an address for him but he’s promised to call me back.’
‘Trouble finding an address?’ snorted Ludd. ‘Doesn’t surprise me. Do-gooders, most of these probation officers, and most couldn’t find their you-know-what with both hands tied behind their back. Anyway, good work- let me know as soon as he gives you an address, and we’ll lift this West chap.’
‘Right sir,’ smiled McPherson. ‘Shall I get Goggins sent in here now?’
‘Yes, go on. He should have finished his breakfast by now. Maybe he’ll be in more of a mood to talk.’
McPherson grimaced and asked the constable outside to fetch Goggins from his cell.
A few moments later, the elderly saddler walked awkwardly into the room, his suit rumpled from being slept in and his shirt collar and tie absent. He sat down at the scarred table facing Ludd and McPherson.
‘Good morning Mr Goggins, I trust you slept well?’ Ludd offered the man a Wills Gold Flake cigarette from the packet on the table.
Goggins shook his head and pushed the packet away. ‘Can’t complain.’
‘Feeling a bit more like talking today?’ added McPherson.
‘You mean, do I feel like admitting to murdering Cokeley? If that’s what you mean then no. I was in a Boer camp for six weeks and those blighters never broke me so I’m not worried about you lot.’
‘Yes, we’ve had a look into your record in the South African War,’ said Ludd. ‘Chum of mine in the War Office read it out to me over the telephone yesterday evening. Quite impressive, I must say.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything? That was thirty year ago,’ grumbled Goggins.
Ludd consulted his notebook. ‘According to the official record, you led a break-out from a Boer prison camp on 27th April 1900 by overpowering a guard and killing him with his own bayonet, enabling you and six comrades to escape to the British lines. You were something of a hero, I’d say.’
Goggins looked at the floor. ‘Say what you like. I did my duty and that’s all there was to it.’
‘Exhibit A,’ said Ludd, opening a brown envelope beside him and removing the bayonet, lately taken from Cokeley’s body. He placed it on the table and pushed it towards Goggins.
‘One Mauser bayonet, 1895 pattern. Inscribed on the blade with the following words, “To Colour Sergeant Albert Goggins, Royal Suffolk Regiment, in grateful memory of his service. From His Pals. May 1900.” Yours, I take it?’
‘Of course it’s mine,’ said Goggins.
‘Just one thing, for the record, sir,’ said McPherson. ‘Why’s it a German bayonet? The Boer War wasn’t anything to do with Germany.’
Ludd opened his mouth to speak but Goggins interrupted.
‘The Boers weren’t soldiers, they were Dutch settlers, just a bunch of farmers. Had all kinds of weapons, whatever they could get. They liked the Mauser because it was accurate and they could pick us off like blasted crows on a farmer’s field’.
‘Why did your fellow soldiers engrave the thing for you?’ asked Ludd.
‘Thankful, I suppose. Took us two days to reach the British lines and that was the only weapon we had between us apart from sticks and stones. I used it to kill a few pheasants for us to eat. Ever tried raw pheasant?’
McPherson swallowed uncomfortably, the taste of his breakfast porridge still in his mouth.
‘So I suppose it was symbolic, like, that bayonet,’ continued Goggins. ‘When we got to Bloemfontein and got set up again with the regiment, it went missing from my billet. I reckoned someone must have stolen it, but a few days later the lads did a little presentation of it, all polished up and with that engraving on it they’d got done in a jeweller’s shop in the town.’
‘How did you kill him?’ said Ludd abruptly.
There was a pause and then Goggins replied. ‘Kill who?’
Ludd frowned. ‘The guard in the Boer prison camp.’
Goggins looked Ludd in the eye and spoke slowly. ‘I stabbed him through the heart.’
‘Interesting,’ said the Inspector. ‘That’s just how Cokeley was killed.’
Goggi
ns swallowed. ‘Well I didn’t have anything to do with it.’
‘We’ve heard there was a bit of bad feeling between you and Mr Cokeley, is that right?’ asked McPherson.
‘Who told you that?’
Ludd leaned forward. ‘Never you mind. What I want to know is, if you had nothing to do with it, who was it who used your little souvenir on Cokeley?’
‘It could have been anybody,’ said Goggins. I left it with a whole lot of other stuff for valuation in his shop. Anybody in there could have took it.’
‘What if we told you we found your fingerprints on it?’ asked McPherson.
‘What if you did?’ replied Goggins angrily. ‘That don’t prove anything.’
‘It so happens we didn’t find any prints on it, Mr Goggins,’ interjected Ludd. ‘Whoever did for Cokeley was careful and probably wore gloves or wiped everything, as we didn’t find any prints on the door handle of the train compartment either.’
McPherson looked at his watch and lit another cigarette. He leaned forward and pointed the smouldering tip at Goggins, who coughed.
‘Here’s what I think happened,’ said the Scotsman. ‘I think you paid some tart to keep Cokeley distracted in that compartment, and at some point during the train journey you climbed out of your compartment along the outside of the train, got into Cokeley’s, stabbed him and took his money. Tossed it somewhere along the line to pick up later, then got back in to your own compartment.’
‘Rubbish,’ snorted Goggins. ‘Climbing along moving trains? Who do you think I am, Buster Keaton? And what are you on about paying some tart?’
McPherson leaned forward. ‘An attractive blonde woman was seen getting into Cokeley’s compartment but when the train arrived at Great Netley, there was no sign of her. I reckon you and her could have been in it together.’
Goggins simply shook his head in disbelief.
Ludd sighed. ‘I’ll admit my sergeant has something of a fertile imagination,’ he said, ‘but theoretically it’s possible. We’re trying to eliminate you from our enquiries.’
‘I’ll help you then,’ said Goggins. ‘I’m 62 years old. My lungs is packed up and I’ve got a bad arm. That train gets up to 30 or 40 miles per hour and sways about like a drunken sailor. If you think I could manage what you say, good luck proving it.’
McPherson seemed annoyed. ‘We can always get a doctor to examine you.’
‘Well why don’t you, then? And while he’s here he can examine this!’ Goggins grabbed the bayonet and before McPherson or Ludd could stop him, he plunged the blade into his tweed-clad right leg.
Both the detectives inhaled sharply, expecting a surge of blood from a horrific injury; but none came.
Goggins smiled and rapped the side of his leg with his knuckles, looking up with an amused expression at the two amazed policemen. ‘That’s another little war souvenir I got. Cork leg. So if you think a man with one leg can clamber about a moving train, good luck to yer, but I reckon any judge would laugh that out of court.’
After Goggins had been released and sent home (in a squad car summoned by a somewhat guilty-feeling Inspector Ludd), the two detectives sat drinking tea at their desks in Midchester police station.
‘Look, McPherson,’ said the Inspector, dipping a biscuit into his tea, ‘I know you Scots are a romantic lot but try to keep the fantasies under control. It looks unprofessional.’
‘Fantasies, sir?’ replied McPherson.
‘That stuff about Goggins climbing about a moving train like Harold Lloyd.’
‘It’s no’ a fantasy sir. Alright, Goggins probably could’nae do it, but somebody could. It’s a possibility.’
‘So’s Ipswich Town winning the Football Association Cup, but it’s not blooming likely, is it?’
‘I wouldn’t know sir. I follow Partick Thistle myself. If Goggins didn’t do it, who did?’
‘I’m not ruling out Goggins just yet,’ replied Ludd. ‘But we haven’t got enough to go on to keep him here. My money’s on this being a double act with that mystery blonde and whoever it was jumped off the train.’
The telephone on Ludd’s desk rang and he answered it with his name then listened in silence. After a few moments he replied.
‘Yes, keep him there, I’d like a word with him.’
After replacing the receiver, he swallowed the last of his tea quickly and strode to the row of pegs by the door to put on his hat and raincoat.
‘That was one of the lads searching the line at Lower Addenham,’ said Ludd. ‘Seems that vicar’s found something interesting and that I ought to have a look.’
‘Vicar?’ said McPherson, with a puzzled expression.
‘Don’t look so ignorant,’ replied Ludd. ‘They call them ministers in your part of the world.’
‘I know what a vicar is sir, but what’s he got to do with us?’
‘He was on the train. Not a suspect, if I know my job, but he knows the local area and people and I think he could be useful. I’ll get on to it while you keep on trying to track down West.’
Just then the telephone on McPherson’s desk rang. He put down his cup and saucer and lifted the receiver. ‘Detective Sergeant McPherson,’ he said quickly. ‘Yes, good, what’s the address?’
He began to scribble quickly on his pad with an indelible pencil. After the call was ended, he turned to Ludd with a smile. ‘That was the probation officer. They’ve got an address for West.’
‘Right,’ said Ludd, jamming his bowler hat onto his head. ‘You pick him up while I speak to this vicar. Take a couple of lads with you, he could cut up rough.’
‘Should we draw arms, sir?’ answered McPherson enthusiastically.
‘Where do you think we are, Chicago?’ said Ludd, raising his eyebrows. ‘Just pick him up and be careful about it. If he is our killer he might not worry too much about doing it again.’
McPherson grabbed his hat and coat and the two men walked rapidly down the stairs towards the motor pool.
Chapter Seven
I n the site office of Symes and Davis, Symes was showing a young couple one of the company’s glossy brochures.
‘And this, sir, is the piece de resistance (he pronounced it in the English way) of the whole blooming lot: the Hollywood Mexican Moderne Villa,’ said Symes, smoothing the brochure out on his desk. ‘Four bedrooms, two reception rooms, bathroom, downstairs cloakroom, garage, finished in Alpine White stucco with tiled roof and detailing in Acapulco Green.’
The young couple looked at each other doubtfully.
‘What’s Acapulco?’ asked the man. ‘Is that like asbestos?’
Symes paused before replying. He wasn’t quite sure what Acapulco was either.
‘It’s the very latest in roofing, that’s for sure,’ he said brightly.
The man twirled his hat in his hands. ‘It’s a little pricey, especially for something a long way from the station.’
Symes shrugged. ‘There’s a lot of demand for this type of property nowadays. The housing market’s booming, prices will only be going up, so it’s best to buy now.’
The young man frowned. ‘But we’re in a slump. Worst slump ever, the papers are saying. How can house prices be going up?’
‘Economics, sir, economics,’ said Symes, blandly. ‘If I were to explain it all to you, by the time I’d finished the prices would have gone up even more, so, what say we put your name down for this lovely residence? Nothing to pay until September. Plenty of time to change your minds.’ He held out a fountain pen.
‘We’ll have a think about it,’ said the man. ‘I need to be getting back to the office,’ he added, and stood up. ‘Come along, Muriel,’ he said to his wife.
‘What is there to think about?’ said Symes, beginning to lose patience. ‘There’s a queue of people a mile long waiting to move into places like this.’
The man walked to the door, his wife following meekly. ‘As I said, we’ll think about it and let you know. Good day.’
‘Wait a minute, you haven’t looke
d at the Anne Hathaway Jacobethan De Luxe yet…’
Symes was cut off in mid-patter by the slamming of the office door as the potential customers left.
‘Well done Symesie, another unsatisfied customer,’ chuckled Davis, who had been sitting at his desk smoking and idly admiring the figure of Miss Frobisher, who as usual was sitting at the reception desk polishing her nails.
‘I can’t understand it,’ said Davis. ‘What is it with these people? They’ve got the chance to live in the home of their dreams for only fifty quid down, and they’re not interested.’
‘Maybe they’ve got tight-fisted employers, and haven’t got fifty quid to spare,’ said Miss Frobisher dryly, while she filed down a particularly tough bit of fingernail.
Symes bridled at this remark. ‘You don’t exactly have onerous duties here so I think we pay you enough.’
‘Oh I don’t mind the pay,’ said Miss Frobisher archly. ‘it’s the extra-curricular duties I’m expected to carry out that I object to.’
Davis looked over at Symes, whose face was flushed with embarrassment. ‘Extra-cu-what? What’s she on about?’
‘Never you mind,’ said Symes decisively, clapping his hands together then rubbing them. ‘Let’s not be downhearted. Now that Cokeley’s gone we can get that access road built, and the sales will start rolling in.’
‘Cokeley?’ asked Miss Frobisher. ‘That poor old chap who got killed on the train yesterday? I don’t think that’s anything to celebrate. Ooh, gives me the creeps,’ she said with a shudder.
‘His wife’s bound to sell up now,’ continued Symes enthusiastically. ‘Well, stands to reason, she’ll need the money, won’t she? I told you the problem would get solved one way or another. How about we do a press release to the local paper announcing the new access road?’
Davis looked at Symes and Miss Frobisher and frowned. ‘Steady on Symsie. We don’t want to go spreading it around that we had something to gain from old Cokeley snuffing it.’
A Third Class Murder: a cozy 1930s mystery set in an English village Page 6