Murder on the Flying Scotsman

by Carola Dunn

  ‘Generous?’ said Daisy, taken aback.

  ‘Generous, and don’t you let them tell you otherwise. I’ll never find another position that pays as well,’ Weekes continued, with regret and a hint of disgruntlement. ‘Only he couldn’t abide his family, that ignored him all those years then came fawning around when they heard he was well off after all. You’re right, miss, it was one of them did it.’

  But which one? Daisy was rather surprised that none of them had popped in to see her since the discovery of Albert McGowan’s death. Did they realize they must all be under suspicion? Were they closing ranks, or wildly swapping accusations?

  She decided it was time to put her thoughts in order so as to be ready to explain the situation to the Berwick police – in such a way as to persuade them to send for Alec.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Flying Scotsman made a brief, unscheduled stop at Tweedmouth station.

  Belinda lost interest in the game of draughts. ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t concentrate,’ she said miserably.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Dr. Jagai assured her in the gentle voice Daisy was sure would bring patients flocking to him once he had his own practice.

  ‘But you haven’t had your revenge properly yet, though you’re winning by miles.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll have another chance to play later. Here, let me help you pack up the set. You don’t want to lose any pieces.’

  Through the open compartment door and the opposite corridor window, Daisy saw the guard in confab with the station master. No doubt he was explaining the ruination of the LNER timetable. If he had any sense, he would also ask for the Berwick police to be telephoned with advance warning of their coming.

  Ought she to suggest it? Before she had made up her mind, the guard strode back to the train, blew his whistle and waved his flag, and swung aboard.

  Slowly the train moved off again. Clattering over the points, it puffed at a snail’s pace around a bend, and rumbled across the railway’s Royal Border Bridge high above the Tweed estuary. Downstream stood the old stone bridge with its multitude of low arches. On the far side, beyond the riverside embankment, the red-tiled, pinkish brown stone houses of Berwick spread up the hillside, presided over by a tall clock tower.

  ‘What a pretty town,’ said Daisy. ‘Look, Belinda, wouldn’t it be nice to walk along the river wall?’

  Belinda slipped across to sit beside her. ‘What’s going to happen now?’ she asked, sounding apprehensive.

  Daisy took her cold little hand. ‘Nothing too frightful, darling. I expect the policemen will want to ask you exactly what you saw, but I’ll be right there beside you.’ Just let them try to stop her!

  ‘I wish Daddy was here.’

  ‘I’ll do my very best to get him here, I promise.’

  ‘S’pose he’s awfully busy?’

  ‘No matter how busy he is, I’m sure he’ll come as soon as he finds out that you’re here.’

  ‘Yes, I ’spect so.’ Belinda hesitated. ‘Miss Dalrymple, can lawyers put people in prison?’

  ‘Lawyers are part of the legal system, like policemen,’ Daisy said reassuringly. ‘But don’t worry about it, we don’t have to rely on Mr. McGowan’s lawyer. Even if your daddy can’t come, the Berwick police will . . . Ah, here we are already.’

  Belinda read the station sign. ‘Berwick-on-Tweed. But it’s pronounced Berrick, isn’t it? Sometimes people think you understand words when you don’t really.’

  ‘Remember Durham,’ said Dr. Jagai.

  ‘English spelling is frightfully erratic,’ Daisy agreed. She paused as a heavy tread was heard in the corridor. ‘This must be the police, I imagine.’

  The brawny guard appeared in the doorway. Then he moved aside and pointed. ‘That’s the lady which stopped my train, Superintendent, sir,’ he said to the blue-uniformed police officer at his side, ‘and them there’s the deceased gentleman’s vally and the foreign doctor.’

  The officer nodded his thanks. In spite of the uniform, he looked like a prosperous farmer, solidly built with a ruddy face, bluff and hearty. Daisy could imagine him leaning on a five-barred gate, a muddy-booted foot on the lowest bar, directing the shrewdness in his china blue eyes at a prize bull – instead of at her.

  ‘Superintendent Halliday, head of Berwick police, ma’am. I understand you are the person who claims that the old gentleman’s death was not natural?’

  ‘That’s right, Mr. Halliday. I’ll be glad to give you my reasons, though . . .’

  ‘Beg pardon, Superintendent, sir,’ the guard interrupted, ‘but I’ve got a train full of passengers ’specting to arrive in Edinburgh any minute now and what the company’s going to say I don’t like to think.’

  ‘Then don’t think,’ said Halliday sharply. ‘You must see I can’t let you proceed until I know what’s going on.’

  ‘It’s not like it was any ordin’ry train. This here’s the Flying Scotsman express, always on time to the minute.’

  ‘Not quite always.’ The policeman stepped into the compartment and shoved the door closed behind him, right in the persistent guard’s face. ‘You were saying, ma’am?’

  ‘I was going to say, it was Mr. Weekes who drew my attention to the suspicious circumstances.’

  The manservant shrank back as the Superintendent’s scrutiny turned upon him. ‘You go ahead, miss,’ he bleated.

  ‘Right-oh. My name’s Dalrymple, by the way, Daisy Dalrymple.’ She decided to keep the Honourable up her sleeve in case of need. ‘Won’t you sit down, Mr. Halliday?’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Dalrymple, but I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it short as you can. The other passengers will be up in arms.’ He winced as a stentorian roar came from the corridor.

  Recognizing Desmond Smythe-Pike’s bellow, Daisy said sympathetically, ‘I’m afraid that’s one of those you’ll have to ask to stay to help with your enquiries. I’ll be as quick as I can. For a start, Mr. McGowan . . .’

  ‘The deceased?’

  ‘Yes. He was dyspeptic. His medicine was on the stool by the window, and he’d not have lain down where he couldn’t reach it easily, nor flat on his back, as he was found. He carried his own pillow with him, which has disappeared. And the window was wide open. Mr. McGowan lived most of his life in India. He liked it hot and he was terrified of draughts.’

  ‘It’s true, sir,’ Weekes put in anxiously. ‘Every word Miss says.’

  ‘What is more,’ Daisy continued, ‘not only are his relatives angry with him, they all might hope to gain financially by his death. And they are all on this train!’

  Superintendent Halliday was sceptical. ‘All?’

  ‘Well, lots of them. There must be at least a dozen if you count the children.’

  ‘Might I enquire how you . . .’ He cocked an ear to the increasing clamour in the corridor. ‘No, it’ll have to wait. One more question, for now. Just what do you imagine was the method of . . .’

  Daisy interrupted firmly, ‘I see no need to go into that in front of my young friend, Superintendent. We have come up with a plausible possibility, as I’m sure Dr. Jagai and Mr. Weekes will confirm.’ The two men nodded. ‘You may pursue the subject with them elsewhere, but first I have a point to make and a request for your assistance.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Dalrymple?’ Halliday sounded resigned, but he looked amused, and even a trifle admiring.

  Reminded of her friend Tom Tring, Alec’s sergeant, Daisy was emboldened. ‘The thing is, we have no idea whether Albert McGowan died in Yorkshire, Durham, or Northumberland. I’m not absolutely certain, but doesn’t that raise the question of jurisdiction?’

  ‘Possibly,’ the policeman admitted with caution. ‘And what is your request?’

  ‘It’s for Belinda. She’s had a fearful shock and she wants her father. He’s on a temporary assignment in Northumberland at present, though I’m not sure exactly where. I hoped you might be able to trace him, because, you see, he just happens to be Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher of Scotland Yard
.’

  Halliday was indubitably startled. ‘Just happens, eh?’ he said, with a thoughtful glance at Belinda. Standing up, he gave a decisive nod. ‘Right, Miss Dalrymple, I’ll see what I can do, though it’s up to the Chief Constable – as I expect you know,’ he added dryly.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling at him.

  ‘I’ll have to ask you all to stay put in here. This carriage will be uncoupled from the train and shunted into a siding, but we’ll have accommodations in the town arranged for you as soon as possible. Oh, and one of my officers will be here in a moment to take the names of those passengers you know to be associated with the deceased. It remains to be seen, Miss Dalrymple, whether I shall later thank you for your cooperation or . . .’ His voice trailed off meaningfully.

  ‘Or curse me for meddling,’ she obligingly completed.

  Grinning, he saluted and departed.

  ‘Well,’ said Daisy with a sigh, ‘what a relief that he turned out to be both reasonable and intelligent, and with a sense of humour into the bargain.’

  ‘I believe I’ll treat myself to a whisky,’ said Alec Fletcher, the Newcastle Chief Super’s glowing words of grateful praise still echoing in his ears. The Customs man had been no less appreciative. ‘What’s yours, Tom?’

  ‘I’ll take the usual, ta, Chief,’ rumbled his massive sergeant, subsiding onto a dark-oak settle built solidly enough barely to creak under his weight.

  ‘A pint of bitter it is. Ernie?’

  ‘Half of mild, please, Chief,’ young Piper requested modestly. He took out the packet of Woodbines which lurked alongside his notebook and an endless supply of well-sharpened pencils in the pocket of his brown serge suit.

  ‘Never trust a half-pint man,’ Tom Tring teased. One thick forefinger preened the walrus mustache which compensated for the vastly hairless dome of his head.

  ‘A half’s the same to me as what a pint is to you, Sarge,’ the wiry Detective Constable retorted, tapping a cigarette on the table-top.

  ‘Hark to our numbers expert.’

  Alec laughed. ‘Don’t slight mathematical genius. It was Ernie’s noticing the discrepancy in those manifest numbers that started us on the right track to break up the smuggling ring. He’s earned a pint – so I’ll see if they have a quart pot for you, Tom!’

  He crossed to the bar. It was still early, and the three detectives were the only customers in the hotel residents’ bar parlour. A sharp rap on the countertop brought the proprietress herself through from the next room to serve him.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr. Fletcher?’ A veneer of refinement overlaid her native Geordie twang.

  Alec gave his order. As beer foamed into tankards, he went on, ‘We’ll be leaving in the morning, catching the early train up to London, so . . . Isn’t that your telephone ringing?’

  She cocked her head. ‘Yes. Drat that girl! Might as well run the place single-handed,’ she threw over her shoulder as she hurried out to the lobby to answer the insistent bell.

  Taking his men their drinks, Alec returned to the bar to await his own. The landlady reappeared and announced, ‘It’s for you, sir.’

  With a sigh, he went out to the telephone, picked up the apparatus, and applied the dangling earpiece to his ear.

  ‘Fletcher here.’

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ said a faintly Scottish voice, ‘this is Superintendent Halliday, Berwick-on-Tweed police. The Newcastle department put me onto you. I’ve a wee bittie problem up here.’

  Alec swallowed a second sigh. ‘Sir?’

  ‘A matter of a dead body on a train, and . . .’ A resounding crash came over the wire, drowning out the next few words. ‘Did you hear? Sorry about that, I’m at the station. There’s odds and ends of the Flying Scotsman being shunted around outside. I said, I’ve a dead body on a train and a young lady who claims it’s a case of murder. Her name’s Miss . . .’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Alec groaned. ‘Let me guess. Not, by any mischance, Miss. Daisy Dalrymple?’

  ‘Right first time, Chief Inspector.’ Halliday sounded amused. ‘An old acquaintance?’

  ‘Miss Dalrymple has a positive genius for falling over bodies, sir. I have to admit, if she says murder she’s very likely right. But I’m sure the Berwick police are perfectly competent to handle a murder investigation without calling in the Yard.’

  ‘Indeed I hope so, though misplaced cattle and motors without rear lights are more our mark. However, there’s some doubt about which county the death took place in. More to the point – are you sitting down, Fletcher? – it seems your daughter is a material witness.’

  ‘My daughter?’ As the words sank in, Alec sank onto the nearest chair. ‘Belinda?’ he yelped. ‘A witness? But she’s in London.’

  ‘Not she. I’ve not had time to get the details, but she appears to be traveling with Miss Dalrymple.’

  ‘What the devil . . . ? I’ll wring Daisy’s neck!’

  ‘After we’ve caught our murderer and sewn up the case.’

  ‘Belinda’s all right? She’s not hurt?’

  ‘Not hurt. Shocked, naturally. Miss Dalrymple assumed you’d wish to come, whether my C.C. agrees to call in Scotland Yard or not. Newcastle have offered to provide a car.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’m on my way!’ Hanging up, he put down the set on the table and clutched his head. ‘Oh Lord,’ he groaned aloud. ‘How the devil am I going to tell Tom and Piper that Daisy’s done it again?’

  CHAPTER 8

  A frigid wind whistled up the Tweed estuary and swirled about the station built upon the foundations of Berwick’s demolished castle. On this very spot, Edward I refused the throne of Scotland to the Bruce family; here, having crowned Robert the Bruce king despite Edward’s choice, Isabella, Countess of Buchan, spent six years in a cage in the courtyard.

  ‘Or possibly in a turret,’ said Dr. Jagai as they followed the rest of the waylaid travelers down the platform. ‘The accounts differ.’

  ‘I hope in a turret,’ Daisy exclaimed, burying her hands in her pockets. ‘It might have been just a trifle warmer.’

  Hanging on Daisy’s arm, Belinda asked wide-eyed, ‘Did she die?’

  ‘No, no. First she was sent to a convent, and then set free. A brave woman.’

  Belinda nodded solemnly. ‘What happened to the castle?’

  ‘The stones were used to build Stephenson’s great railway viaduct, and this was erected in its place.’

  Daisy regarded with disfavour the towered and turreted mock-Gothic station. It was in poor repair, the frivolous battlements visibly crumbling and half of one of the turrets missing. Her disapprobation increased when the station-master announced apologetically that the main waiting-room was unusable as part of its chimney – the tottering turret – had recently fallen through the roof.

  Were they to have no shelter until the police found lodgings for them all in the town?

  However, the ladies’ waiting-room was available. On hearing this, Jeremy Gillespie at once supported his swollen-bellied, swollen-eyed wife towards it.

  ‘Come on, old dear, you’ll feel better sitting down out of the wind,’ he said, full of solicitude. As he spoke, he cast a sidelong glance at Daisy, as if to make sure she noticed what a considerate husband he really was. She wondered whether he hoped to persuade her he was much too nice to have killed an old man for money.

  His mother joined them. ‘There’s no need to pamper Matilda, Jeremy,’ she said sharply. ‘Pregnancy is not an illness. She really must pull herself together.’

  ‘I’m sure we’re all upset,’ said Mrs. Smythe-Pike, coming up on Matilda’s other side, ‘and getting out of this dreadful wind is hardly pampering. Anne, dear, do bring the children in before they take cold.’

  ‘Come along, Kitty,’ the elder Mrs. Gillespie snapped at her daughter who showed a disposition to linger with Raymond and Judith.

  Raymond was in a bad way again. The way he hugged his overcoat about him suggested it was a protection against imaginary terrors as well
as the biting chill. Daisy didn’t know how the news of the murder had affected him, but the crashing clashes of shunting engines and coaches would have been enough to shake him.

  ‘Judith, go with your mother!’ barked Desmond Smythe-Pike. For him, it was a subdued bark. They were all decidedly subdued.

  ‘But, Daddy,’ Judith started to protest. A ferocious scowl silenced her, and she followed the others. Raymond watched her go, his gaunt face forlorn.

  Daisy was close enough to hear Smythe-Pike mutter to Harold Bretton, ‘After all, it’s those Gillespies who’ve hooked the fish with the old man’s death.’

  True, but the others might well believe they stood a better chance of changing Alistair McGowan’s will with Albert out of the way. Harold Bretton was a gambler – Daisy recalled his talk of a win on the horses. And Smythe-Pike had an explosive temper.

  Raymond set off walking very fast up the platform. The constable posted at the end stiffened as he approached. He turned on his heel and strode back towards the other end, past the huddled, shivering gentlemen and servants.

  Leaving them, Daisy and Belinda penetrated the tiny, crowded waiting-room. Within, a dismal coal fire emitted more smoke than heat. Anne bemoaned Baby’s wet nappy and snapped at Tabitha to stop whining. Enid Gillespie scolded Kitty for her hoydenish behaviour. Judith peered anxiously through the grimy window, muttering rebellion. Mattie wept.

  Daisy turned back to the door, in two minds whether to shut it or to leave. Behind her stood the elegant French-woman she had lunched with.

  Why was she not on her way to Edinburgh on the Flying Scotsman? What on earth was she doing entering this mad-house? She stepped forward and Daisy moved aside.

  ‘Mademoiselle.’ With a polite nod of acknowledgement, the woman passed Daisy, her high heels clicking on the stone floor. ‘Well, Amelia?’ she said.

  Mrs. Smythe-Pike ceased to pat Matilda Gillespie’s hand. She stared. Her mouth dropped open. ‘Geraldine?’ she gasped.

  ‘Golly!’ Kitty swung round. ‘Never say you’re Aunt-Geraldine-who-ran-away? How simply frightfully absolutely spiffing!’