First Class Murder: A Murder Most Unladylike Mystery

by Stevens, Robin

  ‘He and Madame Melinda must have banded together and decided to set the whole thing up, using Madame Melinda’s skill at ventriloquism to create a murder that seemed impossible. That’s why it all seemed like a play, Hazel! We thought so at the time, didn’t we, only we didn’t see what that could mean.

  ‘Look, it’s perfectly simple, really. They must have planned the crime before they boarded the train – but for it to work, they needed to wait for a moment when Jocelyn went through to the Calais–Athens coach. That happened at dinner, remember, and that was their signal. They staged an argument, knowing that it would upset Mrs Daunt and send her running to her room. Then Mr Daunt followed her, and that’s when he killed her. He must have locked the main door behind him, protected his white shirt front with that red scarf we found so as not to stain his shirt – the scarf could even have been Madame Melinda’s; perhaps she lent it to him – and covered her mouth so she couldn’t make a sound when he killed her. Then he took off her necklace, wiped the knife with the scarf, put it next to Mrs Daunt and left the room through the connecting door into his compartment. Then he came back into the dining car as though nothing had happened.’

  ‘But how did he lock the connecting door from the other side?’ I asked. ‘Do you think he used a bit of string or a shoelace, like when we tried it out on Maxwell’s door?’

  ‘He didn’t lock it at all,’ said Daisy. ‘And that’s the real reason why the murderers must be Mr Daunt and Madame Melinda. We were being far too complex with our ideas. We were forcing things, to make the impossible work. But the truth is far simpler. It’s that old logic puzzle: how can someone get out of a locked room? There are only three possible answers. First, they weren’t in the locked room at all. We know that can’t be true in this case, because Mrs Daunt clearly didn’t kill herself, so there had to be someone else in the room when she died. Second, they stayed hidden in the locked room until the rest of us arrived – we know that can’t be true here either, because we all saw that there was no one in there when Mr Daunt burst through the door. The compartment simply wasn’t big enough to hide them. So, once you’ve eliminated those two as impossible, only one solution is left: that the compartment wasn’t really locked. We saw Mr Daunt break down the main door, and that made us all think that the whole room was locked – but remember how he went running into his compartment and came back out saying the connecting door was locked? We all simply believed him.’

  ‘But the connecting door was locked!’ I said, remembering. ‘We heard Madame Melinda opening it— Oh.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Daisy. ‘She must have pushed the bolt to and fro to make it sound as if the door were being unlocked – but she can’t have unlocked it because the murderer – Mr Daunt – has to have left the room through it after he killed Mrs Daunt. He didn’t need to play about with string: he knew that his accomplice would make it appear to be locked later. Anyone not helping the murderer would have commented that the door wasn’t locked, so the fact that Madame Melinda didn’t mention that it wasn’t proves that she must have been involved. And both of them shouting that the other did it afterwards, when we knew that they couldn’t have, just made them both look absolutely innocent. That must have been part of their plan.

  ‘Then, later, one of them crept into Mr Strange’s compartment and hid the necklace and the handkerchief in his luggage. They weren’t to know that the Countess would go hunting through the compartments for the necklace and steal it before the attendants could find it! They really did have an awful lot of rotten luck.’

  I suddenly remembered something else that made my skin crawl. ‘Daisy, when Madame Melinda opened the connecting door, she was holding a scarf in her hand. What if . . .’

  ‘. . . it was what Mr Daunt used; the scarf we found snagged between the carriages. They must have tried to get rid of it, just in case there was something on it that might lead the police back to them. If they had prepared it beforehand, they could be sure that the handkerchief they planted to frame Mr Strange was quite clean of everything but Mrs Daunt’s blood. But . . . why didn’t Mr Daunt take the scarf with him when he left after killing Mrs Daunt?’ Daisy frowned.

  ‘Could it have been just another mistake?’ I asked. ‘What if Mr Daunt dropped it in his haste to leave, and when Madame Melinda saw it, she had to hide it quickly? So she picked it up and threw it out of her compartment window as quickly as she could – but she didn’t do it properly, and that’s why it got snagged.’

  ‘Yes!’ said Daisy. ‘She couldn’t plant it in Mr Strange’s room with the other cloth and the necklace, could she, as it was a woman’s scarf, and quite possibly hers? It wouldn’t have been believable. Oh, very good, Watson! What a lovely little detail.’

  My heart was pounding. What we were saying . . . it was all so incredible. But for the first time since the murder, what we were saying sounded true. I could feel that we were on the right track at last – and the logical part of my brain agreed. All those details that had refused to add up before had slotted into place quite beautifully. Daisy’s eyes met mine, and we glowed at each other.

  And then our compartment door slammed open. In the soft light stood a dark, furious shape. We both gasped. My heart was pounding. We were trapped! There was nowhere to go. Had Mr Daunt found us?

  A moment later a part of me was almost wishing he had – because when the figure stepped forward, it was not Mr Daunt at all, but my father, and I had never seen him look so furious.

  ‘WONG FUNG YING!’ he bellowed. ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING?’

  ‘Who’s that?’ whispered Daisy. ‘Who’s he shouting at?’

  ‘Me,’ I said miserably. ‘He’s shouting at me.’

  4

  I know that things are bad when my father uses my other name. He strode into our compartment, and I saw that behind him was Jocelyn, hovering rather uncomfortably. We clambered down from my bunk and stood before them nervously.

  ‘Wong Fung Ying,’ said my father, deadly calm, ‘I asked Mr Buri to let me know if he saw any suspicious movements around your room. I was doing this for your safety, but when he knocked on my door to say that he had seen you peeping out a few minutes ago, and I came to make sure that you were safe, I heard you . . . making the most ridiculous, fantastical assertions about two of your fellow passengers! Hazel, this is not polite or ladylike! And I told you that on this holiday I wanted you to be on your best behaviour! I did, did I not?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ I said, my voice catching in my throat and having to be forced out through a lump as big as a toad.

  ‘Oh, Mr Wong!’ said Daisy. ‘We were just talking. We were making up silly stories—’

  ‘Silence,’ he snapped. ‘Hazel, what were you doing?’

  My head spun. It was no good pretending any more. I had to tell my father the truth about what we had been doing – and show him that we had disobeyed him because we had to. If we did not speak out, Mr Strange would be arrested for the murder, and tried, and found guilty.

  It was just like the Easter holidays again – a nightmare moment. In order to save a life we had to be believed, but how could we prove what we knew, and how could we make my father believe us? I knew I had only a few very short moments’ grace. I had to speak more carefully and cleverly than I had ever spoken before.

  ‘We were investigating,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m sorry. We were. But . . . Father, we had to. We know who really murdered Mrs Daunt. It wasn’t Mr Strange, it was Mr Daunt and Madame Melinda, and we have to tell someone, because if we don’t Mr Strange will be arrested for a murder he didn’t do. You’ve always told me . . . You told me that justice was important, and if Mr Strange is accused of murder that won’t be justice. It can’t be wrong to find out the truth; not if it saves someone – that’s why we went on with the investigation after you told us not to.’

  ‘Explain,’ said my father. ‘Explain why you would accuse two people whom you had never met three days ago of the worst crime known to mankind.’

  ‘Becau
se Dr Sandwich was going wrong!’ I said. ‘And—’

  ‘Because they did it!’ cried Daisy.

  I elbowed her. Not hard; only enough to warn her to keep mum. If she kept on, she would ruin everything. She shot me a look, but did not say any more.

  ‘We wouldn’t have accused anyone until we were sure,’ I said, ‘but we are sure now. That was what we were talking about. None of the other suspects add up – none of them could have done it in the time. There simply wasn’t time, if you believe that Mrs Daunt was murdered when we heard that scream.’

  ‘Dr Sandwich accused Mr Strange because of the knife, and the bloodied cloth, and his poverty, Hazel,’ said my father sadly. ‘This is not your business. Anyway, you know Mr Daunt couldn’t have done it. We all saw him in the dining car.’

  ‘But the scream we heard was faked!’ I said, clenching my fists. ‘By Madame Melinda! She threw her voice, just like she did in the séance, to make us think that we knew when Mrs Daunt was murdered. But it really happened much earlier – when Mr Daunt left the dining car after his wife. He killed her without her making any noise, locked the main door behind him and then left through the connecting door. That’s how the murderer had time to escape without being seen. Those clues you mentioned – those are all nonsense; they were planted by Madame Melinda and Mr Daunt. Daisy and I found the real scarf Mr Daunt used to mop up the blood and clean the knife caught between the carriages this afternoon when we went outside for a walk.’

  My father paused. ‘Hazel,’ he said at last, ‘this all sounds like the worst kind of detective fiction. I don’t like what I am hearing – I don’t like my little girl getting mixed up in all this nonsense.’

  ‘But I’m not little!’ I shouted. ‘I’m nearly fourteen, and I know what’s true and what isn’t. I’ll swear on anything you like that Daisy and I aren’t making this up – honour bright we aren’t. I don’t tell lies: you taught me not to, so you ought to know that I’m telling the truth.’

  My father clenched his jaw. I held my breath. I had never spoken to him that way, never – how would he react? I should be beaten for it, I knew.

  ‘Send a telegram,’ I begged. ‘Once we get to Belgrade. You can find out about Madame Melinda’s music-hall act – whether she really was a ventriloquist. And can’t you look at Mrs Daunt’s will? We’ve seen it – it proves that Mr Daunt and Madame Melinda both had a motive to kill Mrs Daunt – for her money.’ As I said this, I realized how thin it sounded. Mrs Daunt had left something to Mr Strange as well – and that would only seem to prove his guilt the more.

  ‘The scream,’ I said desperately. ‘Please . . . the scream. Didn’t you hear it at the séance? It sounded exactly like the noise we heard last night, when Mrs Daunt died. Isn’t that too much of a coincidence? Don’t you see? If it was Madame Melinda who screamed then, doesn’t it follow that she could have screamed on the evening of the murder as well? She and Mr Daunt are working together, we know they are. You just have to prove it. Please!’

  It was a long speech for me, and I was amazed at myself. I was being almost Daisy-ish.

  ‘I ought to consult Dr Sandwich,’ said Jocelyn, frowning.

  ‘Wait, Mr Buri,’ said my father. ‘Is that advisable? Dr Sandwich does seem very set on his present conclusion.’

  I had been looking down at my hands, defeated – but my head whipped up to stare at him. Beside me, Daisy squeezed my arm so hard I had to clench my teeth. Was he really saying . . .?

  ‘Is there perhaps a way to test this theory – carefully, of course, without letting it be generally known? If my daughter and Miss Wells are wrong, they will of course apologize to you and the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits most humbly, in writing, and be subject to some rather dreadful punishments – but I do know Hazel, and she is an honest girl. She would not make an accusation like this if she did not feel she had grounds for it.’

  I gasped. I knew that this was a sort of test – would I crack and weep, and admit that I had been lying? But of course I couldn’t, because I wasn’t. My father and I looked at each other in the dimness of the compartment, and somehow his face seemed new, although it was still as familiar as ever – I suppose I was only seeing him in a new way. I wonder if he was thinking the same about me.

  ‘This is only a suggestion,’ said my father, ‘but could you perhaps pretend to arrest Madame Melinda? This scarf the girls found, and the faked scream – could that be enough? I do not suggest arresting Mr Daunt, because he appears to have an excellent alibi, and he is also a very influential man. If he is innocent, you would be hearing about it for the next twenty years. But Madame Melinda – she is a safer bet all round, and if she thinks she is being accused of the murder, who knows what she might say?’

  Jocelyn frowned again. He clearly found it all most irregular and worrying – but all the same I could see that he had been bothered by Dr Sandwich’s less scientific methods. He wiped his hand across his forehead and came to a decision.

  ‘If these are your orders, sir . . .’ he said.

  ‘They are my orders,’ said my father, looking at me unblinkingly. ‘Arrest Madame Melinda.’

  5

  In the sleeping corridor, the noise of Jocelyn’s knock on Madame Melinda’s cabin door was thunderingly loud.

  Daisy and I waited almost in the doorway of our compartment, and my father stood next to us. The train swayed as it went round a corner, and my father’s hand on my shoulder steadied me. I still wasn’t quite sure whether he was angry with me or not – was he doing this to shame me, and prove to me that I was still a little girl after all?

  I craned round to look at him, and found him staring down at me, a crinkle of worry on his forehead. My father is still taller than I am, and for a moment I really did feel small and young and hopelessly foolish next to him. But then Jocelyn knocked again, and Madame Melinda’s door opened.

  Daisy clutched my hand, and I took a deep breath. Whatever my father thought of me, things were happening, and it was our duty to watch them.

  Madame Melinda popped her head out into the corridor. Her heavy make-up had been wiped clean, and her face looked quite naked, bald as an egg and undefined. I barely recognized her.

  ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘I’ll have you know I was busy communing with the spirits in the realm of dreams. They were giving me a most important message that is now lost.’

  ‘Madame,’ said Jocelyn, ‘my apologies for waking you. Alas, I have an important question to put to you. Do you recognize this scarf?’

  He brought up his hand and dangled the red – and red-stained – scarf that Daisy had given him in front of Madame Melinda.

  I saw her face twitch. ‘Of course not,’ she said. I knew then, with absolute certainty, that she was lying.

  ‘You are sure? It does look rather like one of yours,’ said Jocelyn, still apologetically.

  ‘It certainly is not,’ said Madame Melinda, drawing herself up to her full height and sticking out her bosom imposingly. ‘I only wear black. Now, please leave me alone.’

  ‘Madame,’ said Jocelyn, and I was concerned. He seemed rather at a loss. ‘There is just one more thing I would like to ask you . . . Forgive me. Is it true that you have had experience in music halls?’

  Madame Melinda gasped. It was an inrush of air so loud that we all heard it quite distinctly. ‘How DARE you?’ she cried. ‘How dare you insinuate that I might perform on the stage? I am an artist, a sensitive, I would never—’

  ‘But the séance . . . your ability is obvious, Madame. The scream – it was the work of a truly professional ventriloquist.’

  ‘Not bad!’ whispered Daisy, impressed. I quite agreed. Jocelyn sounded so appreciative that for one second – and one second only – Madame Melinda’s guard dropped. But a second was all it took.

  ‘My talent was unequalled,’ she said with satisfaction – and then there came a horrid pause.

  ‘That casts a rather different light on things,’ said Jocelyn, in quite a changed tone
. ‘I was hoping you would admit it. Taking into account the scarf – which I believe is yours – and your vocal abilities, I believe that there is enough evidence to place you under arrest for the murder of Mrs Georgiana Daunt.’

  ‘What nonsense!’ cried Madame Melinda. ‘I was in my room at the time of the murder! I was—’

  ‘But, madame, if the scream we all heard was nothing more than your thrown voice, how are we to know the true time of the murder? You might have gone into Mrs Daunt’s room at any time that evening and killed her – is that not right?’

  ‘No!’ said Madame Melinda, her powerful voice reverberating along the corridor. ‘No! I did not murder dear Georgiana – how dare you insinuate that I would ever do such a thing! I am innocent – I am an innocent. I am in touch with the spirit world, next to which this mortal coil is base and ignorant. How DARE you!’

  Doors were opening up and down the corridor and heads were popping out. The Countess came darting out, immaculate in a beetle-green robe, sleeping gloves and her lacquered cane, and out came Mrs Vitellius, pretending to blink and yawn in a gloriously racy red silk peignoir. Il Mysterioso appeared, wrapping himself in his cloak, and then Alexander, looking curious and rather dazed. And out too came Mr Daunt. I found I was holding my breath.