The Body on the Train

by Frances Brody

  “Why did the home close so suddenly?”

  Mr. Arkwright re-lit his pipe. “In an area where you’ve had mining over the centuries, you never know what shifts and changes go on underground.”

  Mrs. Arkwright said, “It was the early hours, that we heard a rumble. Not that I have ever known of an earthquake, but it was something like that, and nearby. It shook the house. The next day, we told Mrs. Brockman. She had it checked right away by mining engineers. We was moved out within twenty-four hours.”

  “How shocking.”

  She nodded. “The children were so happy at being sent to the seaside, and us with them. We came back one way and they another, to another home, temporary, until a new site can be found. They couldn’t make the old one safe.”

  “When will that be?”

  Mrs. Arkwright did not trust herself to speak.

  The kettle had boiled. Mr. Arkwright made tea. “You would never have thought a house that old and that sturdy could be demolished so fast. They brought an army of experts in to do the job.”

  “And we never said goodbye to the children.”

  “When was this?”

  “Two weeks ago. We are still waiting for the new place.”

  Neither Commander Woodhead nor DC Yeats had mentioned the influx of an “army of experts” in demolition. I must find out whether Wakefield CID had looked into the appearance and disappearance of the demolition men. One of them might have murdered Mrs. Farrar. One might have murdered one of his fellows, and put his body on the train.

  The unknown man did not appear to have been a manual labourer, but demolition takes brains as well as brawn. “Have the demolition men gone now?”

  Mr. Arkwright reached out and patted his wife’s back. “We don’t know and we don’t care. All we want to know is, when will we see the children again?”

  “We don’t like to pester Mrs. Brockman,” Mr. Arkwright explained. “You see she’s been very good to us. There are just two grace and favour cottages in this row, and we’re grateful that this one became available and that she let us move in.”

  A troubled look came into his eyes, but so fleetingly that I wondered had I imagined it. Was there a price to pay for this grace and favour occupancy? A price of silence?

  It seemed callous to follow my own line of investigation when this couple were so upset at losing their flock, and with one of their former charges in prison. This moment of intimacy may never come again. Though my reason for being here was to find out about the man on the train, the instinctive sense of a connection between the two crimes had not left me.

  As Mrs. Arkwright poured tea, I slipped in my remark. “You have had some shocking and upsetting events here recently. I overheard an odd story outside the post office in Rothwell.”

  Mr. Arkwright sat down in a straight-back chair. He watched as Mrs. Arkwright passed me a cup, and then he reached for his mug. “Oh aye?”

  “Two men were talking about a body that was found when the rhubarb express arrived in London.”

  “Oh that,” Mr. Arkwright said.

  My hopes rose. “You’ve heard about it then?”

  “One of our old boys works on the railway.”

  This might be my breakthrough. “Is he based at Ardsley?”

  He shook his head. “Leeds Central. They was all questioned by the railway police. Nobody knew a thing.”

  Mrs. Arkwright handed me a cup. “The lad they ought to have asked is young Alec Taylor. He loves railways. Goes along to the stations and the junctions with his notebook, writing down the engine numbers, making a note of the sidings and what wagons go where.”

  “Not that he’d know about a body,” Mr. Arkwright said quickly. “From a little lad, he loved motion. Cycles, cars, engines.”

  She smiled. “Do you remember that engine you carved for him, and painted it red?”

  “Hours of fun with that! When Mr. Brockman took him out of the home and give him a job, he left it behind for the little ones.”

  This visit was providing some of my best information so far—my only information so far. Alec, Benjie’s son, if not heir, knew all about railways. There had been a transient army of demolition men in the area. There were two grace and favour cottages in Silver Street. The Arkwrights had one, because they had lost their positions as superintendent and matron of the Bluebell Home. Such cottages were often given as a confidential thank you for services rendered. Who occupied the other cottage, and why?

  I would set Sykes to tracing the demolition men. Alec, I would tackle myself.

  “Which is the other grace and favour cottage, Mrs. Arkwright? Not that I’m thinking of moving in.”

  “Now which is it?” Mrs. Arkwright asked her husband. She knew well enough, but was asking his permission to tell me.

  “Why it’s the one at the bottom end, same side as ours.”

  She nodded. “You could be right. Tall woman, lives all on her own.”

  Life could be difficult for women living alone in a working-class community. I was curious. “I suppose she must have been an employee of the Brockmans, or a distant relation?”

  “Women’s talk.” Mr. Arkwright stood. “I’ll just take a look at my rhubarb.” He put on his cap.

  When he had gone, Mrs. Arkwright said in a whisper, though there was no one else to hear, “It’s said she had a baby and went a bit funny afterwards.”

  “What happened to the baby?” Even as I asked, I knew.

  One advantage for wealthy individuals of supporting an orphanage was that there would be a place for offspring that might otherwise be difficult to explain. She looked a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Arkwright. I don’t mean to pry. You have a lot on your mind.”

  “We do, and I wonder what the world is coming to. All of us in this street miss Mrs. Farrar.”

  “Were you close, you and Mrs. Farrar?”

  “Always on good terms, and recently she came to talk to us, just as we were moved in here. She was the voice for the children you see.”

  Something told me to tread carefully, to wait and hear what Mrs. Arkwright would have to say. If I seemed too eager, too nosey, she might clam up. Yet I took the risk.

  “What was Mrs. Farrar’s connection to the Bluebell?”

  “She was one of the trustees. When it came to closure, she was outvoted by the others, by Mr. and Mrs. Brockman and Mr. Dell. It broke her heart. She came to talk to me about it. When she started, she couldn’t stop. She was here till midnight, saying the same things over and over. And my man with work in the morning.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said subsidence didn’t make a noise. She knew this because as a girl she worked in a house where they woke up one morning and the back garden was gone, and just a big hole. They were lucky to be alive.”

  An unwelcome thought came into my head. As a motive for murder, robbery of Mrs. Farrar’s paltry takings did not convince me. Silencing a trustee with a willingness to speak out was a different matter.

  “Tell me about the terms of the trust, Mrs. Arkwright.”

  “Nay I can’t do that ’cos I don’t know. That trust was set up a lot of years ago by a man with a good head on his shoulders. He knew that fools and money are soon parted. He put his brass in safe places until it grew and grew. And there was a lot of money in that trust when they wound it up. Oh they said to Mrs. Farrar that there wasn’t, but she had a head on her shoulders as well.”

  Mrs. Farrar had tried to stop the closure of the children’s home, and failed. Any other person may have given up. She seemed unlikely to do so.

  Mrs. Arkwright’s hand went to her mouth. “I shouldn’t be saying this. We could be out on our ear.”

  I rose to go. “Mrs. Arkwright, what you say won’t go farther than this room. May I ask the same of you?”

  “You can that, lass.”

  “Then we’ll talk another day.”

  I put on my coat.

  She touched my arm. “Mrs. Brockman’s your friend. Might y
ou find out about the children?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “And I won’t rest until Stephen’s let out of that place.” She walked me to the gate. “I made sure all the Bluebell lads washed their necks. Last night I woke from a dream about Stephen. He was in his cell. I lifted his chin, and I heard myself saying, I’m glad to see you’ve a clean neck.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  There is no better way of having a person on your side than to promise a flattering portrait. Alec, the railway enthusiast, was sitting on a bench by the stable door, wearing Sunday-best trousers, an old woolly, and a tweed cap.

  He had been reading Comic Cuts but now put his comic on the bench.

  He stood as I approached. “Oh, I was miles away. Wasn’t listening for a car.”

  “Well this is your time off.”

  He grinned. “You went to chapel with Milly.”

  “I did, and I took her photograph. Now I’d like to take yours.”

  He stared. “Me, just me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never had a picture on my own, only with the others at the Bluebell.”

  Once more, I went into my explanation about an article, and people and places. I could see that he had already heard the story, but listened politely.

  I took out my Thornton-Pickard. “Where would you like to have your picture taken?”

  “I’d like to stand next to your car.”

  “There are bigger cars to choose from. I won’t tell.”

  He looked thoughtful. “If the car was too big, I would never pass it off as having once been mine. Besides, I like the Jowetts. There’s an old one for sale in the garage where I work on Thursdays, It’s tip-top.”

  “I’m guessing you like most cars. I know you like trains, I’ve been hearing about the little red engine you had.”

  His face lit with a brilliant smile. “I hope one of the kids took it with them.” He stood by the car, waiting.

  “Go on, get in the driver’s seat.” The sky was a perfect blue, the bright sun sandwiched between a mass of white clouds with dark centres. “Let’s make the most of the light.”

  “Should I take my cap off?”

  “You’re fine just as you are.” I like to chat as I set up a photograph, to put my subject at ease. This time there was an ulterior motive. “So which comes tops for you, trains or cars?”

  “I’ve given up on watching trains.” He hesitated. “Mr. Raynor said best not go any more.”

  I made a guess at why. “Since what happened last week?”

  He nodded. “You heard then?”

  “A bit gruesome, eh?”

  “Someone came to the house asking questions but they didn’t talk to me. I thought I’d be asked about Ardsley station, but I wasn’t. I suppose they asked the railwaymen.”

  With the light behind me, I clicked the shutter, and again.

  “Stand by the car, Alec, as if you’re just about to get in.”

  He did so. There was a sudden shaft of brightness. Alec’s shadow was longer than himself. “What would you have said, if you’d been asked about that business? You see I can’t think how anyone would get a body on a train without being noticed.”

  “I’ve watched the men working. There’s a man to shunt the wagons into the sidings, make sure they’re in the right place to be connected. The driver and firemen are seeing to the engine. There’s a man stacking the boxes of rhubarb. He takes a break when he can. It would have to be when the shunting’s done, when the wagons are assembled in the marshalling yard ready to go. If it’d been January or February, you wouldn’t get an extra box in, never mind a body. But by March, towards the end of the season, not every wagon is full.”

  “Has anybody talked to you about this?”

  “No, but I asked Mr. Raynor should I give the police my railway notebook. He said I best steer clear.”

  “Mr. Brockman and Mr. Raynor seem kind.”

  “Mr. Brockman is. He buys me Comic Cuts every week. It was his idea for me to go to the garage and learn a trade.”

  “One more smile for the camera!”

  He smiled. I clicked the shutter.

  Alec stopped smiling. “Mr. Raynor was right telling me to steer clear of the police, after what happened to Stephen Walmsley. They pick you up for nowt. They might have taken me in, for just being on the slope watching.”

  “Another for luck!” I clicked again. “It was a good hobby though.”

  “I’ve grown out of it now.”

  “Sounds really interesting.” I glanced back at the bench. “We should have one more, you sitting on the bench, reading. Take no notice of me, just look at your comic.”

  I took one more picture.

  “This notebook you kept, might I have a look at it? I don’t know anything about railways and sidings and shunting.”

  His eyes lit. “I’ve got drawings and everything. Ardsley is the biggest junction around here. Serves everywhere, Leeds, Wakefield, Methley, Stanley, Bramley. It’s like the centre of the world for railway sidings, or at least the centre of the West Riding.”

  “It must be a busy station.”

  “Well, not busy with people. It’s the point for the goods trains because of its situation. One of the clerks told me that in all the times he’d filled in at Ardsley, he’d never sold a ticket on his middle term. I wish I could show it you, my notebook, only it’s disappeared.”

  “When?”

  “I looked for it when that business happened. I keep my stuff in a biscuit tin, up where I sleep. Everything was there except my railway notebook. Mr. Raynor said not to mention it. He said it’ll turn up.”

  Alec suddenly grew quiet, as he glanced over my shoulder. Barely moving his lips, he said, “And he said not to tell anyone.”

  As if mention of his name had conjured the butler, Raynor bore down on us. “I saw you coming back, Mrs. Shackleton. Has this young scallywag been wasting your time?”

  “On the contrary, Raynor. I was taking up Alec’s time, insisting that he pose for me, but we’re done now.” I put away my camera. “Am I holding up lunch?”

  “No, madam. Mrs. Brockman prefers a late Sunday dinner. The gong will be in about half an hour.”

  “Thank you, Raynor.”

  When he was out of earshot, I said, “Didn’t the landowner mind that you watched the trains?”

  “Nobody ever chased me off. They all know me.”

  “Who does own the land over there?”

  “Some of it belongs to the railway, where the rails are—obviously. On this side it belongs to the Brockman estate and on the other side, that’s part of the Dell estate. But Mr. Dell’s a friend of the family here, so he wouldn’t have me turfed off.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Milly claimed a bad head. She sat on her bed in the room at the top of the house, biting her nails, wishing herself somewhere else. She hated this room with two old oil paintings on the wall. Stags at bay. She felt sorry for the stags. The frames were backed with brown paper that had come loose and sometimes rattled when the door opened or if the wind blew through the top part of the window that wouldn’t ever shut right.

  She told herself that she wasn’t biting her nails. She was biting the skin around one nail. Her mam said that she would not be kept on if she bit her nails. She didn’t want to be kept on. She wanted to be at home. But then she wouldn’t have met Stephen. Besides, there wasn’t enough food at home for everyone.

  Milly felt proud of herself for speaking up today. When she arrived back at the manor, the housekeeper pointed to the clock. “What time do you call this?”

  Milly answered that Mrs. Brockman’s guest had asked to go to chapel, and walk with the band.

  At least today she had been brave enough to do the right thing. She was trying to be a person who isn’t scared all the time. She had kept her hands in her pockets when she talked to the policeman, so that he wouldn’t see they were shaking. That part worked. He took her inside the prison yard, into a little house, s
o that she could make her statement. She was so frightened, she couldn’t see. If anyone asked her now what the room was like, she wouldn’t be able to describe it. Some kind of fog came between her and out there.

  She made herself give the account exactly, and say why it couldn’t be Stephen Walmsley who killed Mrs. Farrar.

  When she had to sign her statement, her hand shook. She had to hold her right wrist with her left hand to keep it steady.

  Back at Thorpefield Manor, the first person she saw was Alec Taylor. He was tinkering with a car, which he was not supposed to do on a Sunday.

  He once told her that Mrs. Brockman didn’t like that he went to Holy Trinity, but if Mrs. Brockman didn’t like it, she could lump it. He worked for Mr. Brockman.

  Even before Alec told Milly that the top floor where she slept was haunted by a maid, murdered and hidden in the eaves, she had been afraid in this room.

  She had pushed the chair against the little door that opened into the eaves, but a chair would be no good. She couldn’t move the chest of drawers so had taken out the three drawers, one at a time, and put them on top of each other against the little door. The top drawer toppled off and landed on her toe, making her yelp with pain.

  Just her luck that the housekeeper chose that moment to do one of her inspections, walking along the corridor. She came to see what the noise was.

  She told Milly it was only thanks to stout boots that she hadn’t broken every bone in her foot, and not to believe a word that Alec said. He was a silly boy. Milly knew he wasn’t a silly boy. He took care of the horses. He was sent once a week to a garage where he learned about looking after cars. He could drive. Nothing silly about that.

  The housekeeper had put the drawers back. Milly should be grateful for a good room, all to herself and nicely done out. Look at that lovely jug and basin, decorated with such pretty tulips. It used to be in the mistress’s room,

  She opened the little door and showed Milly there was nothing behind it. Such a space under the roof was called the eaves. There was nothing to be afraid of. She lit a candle, made Milly take it, made her look left and right—at nothing. The candle flickered. The flame died. Milly knew that was a sign. The dead maid had blown out the candle, as a warning.