The Body on the Train

by Frances Brody

  Since then, there had been more noises in the night.

  Last night she woke from a dream. Stephen, blindfolded, bleeding, being led along a corridor to the gallows.

  What woke her was the sounds. Someone was in the room. She had lain still, not daring to move, not daring to open her eyes. It was the dead maid, come to warn her, but a ghost could not warn you if you kept your eyes tight shut and your body stiff as a log. The ghost slipped back into the eaves.

  If a person can be brave once in a day, she can be brave twice. She struck a match, watched it splutter. The wick on the candle was low and so she held the match close, watching the black wick turn blue before the flame took and burned yellow.

  There is nothing there, she told herself. Open the door. Do what the housekeeper did. Make yourself look. She would look right, she would look left. There would be nothing.

  The candlestick trembled in her hand. The flame flickered as she stretched her arm into that cold dark space.

  And then she dropped the candlestick. Metal clattering against beams, candle falling, the flame still glowing, and then blackness.

  But before the blackness, she saw that there was something there.

  She did not want to go below stairs and be mocked for her foolishness.

  It was not time yet to turn down the bed for Mrs. Shackleton, but she went and did it anyway. After that, she sat on the carved oak chair in Mrs. Shackleton’s room, and waited.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  We were three for Sunday dinner, Gertrude, Benjie and me. Over Yorkshire pudding and gravy, Benjie gave a brief account of the sermon at Holy Trinity. “Vicar’s away still. Thought we’d have the curate but we had a stand-in from Wakefield. Sound chap, doesn’t overdo it. He spoke compassionate words on the loss of poor Mrs. Farrar.”

  “That must have hit people so very hard.”

  “It was a terrible shock. Left people frightened for their lives, until an arrest was made, and even then –”

  Gertrude rested her knife and fork. “Darling, you were very good at reassuring the congregation afterwards.” She turned to me. “And what was your experience of the chapel, Kate?”

  Knowing very well they would soon hear of the protest at the prison, I praised the music of the Temperance Band, and the peaceful vigil outside Wakefield Prison.

  It was now or never. “And I heard a most odd story, of a body discovered on the rhubarb express. If it’s true, that surely ought to have made the papers?”

  Benjie seemed suddenly on edge. “You didn’t hear it from me, Kate, because it’s a sordid business, not to be repeated in polite company.”

  That was telling me. I waited, in case of more. There was more.

  “If you want my view of that matter, it didn’t happen here. That train stopped farther down the line. I could speculate, but I won’t. We may never get to the bottom of it.”

  I had touched a raw nerve.

  Gertrude spoke soothingly. “It’s natural for Kate to be curious. It’s one of those mysteries that eventually will become embellished and turn into folklore. Gives me the shudders to think of it.”

  “Then don’t!” Benjie forked the last morsel of pudding.

  It was my guess that having been asked to keep quiet about this shocking event, he expected everyone else to do the same.

  Raynor deftly whipped away the plates, and brought roast beef. Benjie gave the carving of the joint his complete attention, while Gertrude passed the vegetables.

  Later, in the music room, Gertrude said, “I’m sorry Benjie was sharp with you over that business. He is very sensitive about it. As deputy Lord Lieutenant, he takes personally crime on his doorstep—a blot on his own copybook.”

  * * *

  Milly, still as a statue, was seated in the oak chair in my bedroom. It surprised me to see her there. “Hello, Milly.”

  “I can’t stay here.”

  Somehow, I knew she did not mean in the oak chair. It was ridiculous to ask if something had upset her. She had stood outside that dreadful prison, thinking of her sweetheart incarcerated for the worst of crimes, and given a statement that must have cost her dear.

  “You’re thinking of Stephen?”

  “No. Well, yes but no.”

  “What then?”

  She explained. It was about her bedroom. Something strange was going on.

  “Let’s go see.”

  “You won’t want to.”

  “Yes I will. Mr. and Mrs. Brockman are resting after dinner, but I’m not tired.”

  * * *

  The backstairs of a fine house are sometimes not just shabby but grubby. All effort and labour goes into the parts of the house that owners and guests see.

  Milly led the way. The place was clean, but the narrow carpet worn to its threads. Yellowing distemper covered the walls of the corridor.

  Milly’s room was tidy, with two single brass bedsteads, a chest of drawers with basin and jug, table and chair and a clothes rail. On the walls were a couple of enormous old pictures, those dark oil paintings of a gloomy Scottish landscape hunting scene, banished to the attics when tastes changed.

  Milly kept her eyes averted. “I try not to look, but the stags stare at me.”

  I tried to be encouraging. “This could be a nice cheerful room. Let me have a word with Raynor. He’ll speak to the housekeeper. I’m sure she can find another place for these pictures.”

  Milly pointed to the little door in the wall, where the roof sloped. “There’s stuff in there. There’s noises. Mrs. Blanchard, the housekeeper, says it’s just the old house groaning. But somebody comes. Alec said this room is haunted.”

  “He was having you on.”

  “I think he was.” She folded her arms across her chest and rocked. It was cold in here. “Because I don’t think a ghost would keep a pair of shoes and a box in someone else’s room.”

  The little door to the eaves had no knob. It was made of planks, the kind where you had to put your fingers on the edge and pull it out. I opened the panel. “It’s storage space, that’s all.” Knowing we were going to the attics, I had brought my flashlight, and shone it in the space. “You’re right, but it’s only a shoebox, and a man’s shoes.”

  “There was nothing there before, when Mrs. Blanchard looked. Someone crawls round the roof and into the eaves.”

  I knelt down to take a closer look. The only other light came from the roof where there was a gap in the tiles. On closer inspection, I saw that the shoes were of good quality. There was a brown paper carrier bag with a string handle.

  I closed the door. “How long have these things been there, Milly?”

  “I don’t know.” Mrs. Blanchard looked last week and there was nothing.”

  “Have you looked at the shoes or the box, or touched anything?”

  “No. I never saw them until today.”

  “Do you think one of the other servants might have been in here, one of the men?”

  “They don’t come this side of the attics. The men have their own stairs. Somebody must crawl through, all the way round the house. That’s why I hear noises.”

  “Try not to worry, Milly. The housekeeper is right. The noises you hear could simply be the creaks and groans of an old house. But don’t tell anyone what we’ve seen today. Let me look into it.”

  If I had killed a man, and had something to hide, what better place than the room of a girl who was in love with a murder suspect?

  Milly pulled a battered brown suitcase from under the bed. “I’m off home. I don’t care if there’s too many mouths to feed. I’d rather starve.”

  “Don’t be hasty. Either there is a simple explanation, or there is something odd going on. Be brave.”

  Milly decided against being brave. She began to cry. “Everything’s going wrong. Mi mam’ll say I’ve let the family down. And Stephen, poor Stephen, he’ll be –”

  She could not say the word “hanged”.

  I glanced at my watch. This was not a time to rouse suspicion thro
ugh absence. “Milly, pull yourself together. If anyone asks why you’re upset, say it’s because of Stephen –”

  “It is.”

  “There are other maids here, and you have two beds. Who else on this corridor could share with you?”

  “They don’t have as many servants as they used to. Freda, the kitchen maid, she has two beds as well. She’d let me go in with her.”

  “Good. And you explain that it’s because you don’t want to sleep on your own. You’ve had nightmares. No mention of any other reason, unless it’s the stags in the painting. Understood?”

  “Yes. But –” Milly sniffled. She wiped her nose.

  “Comb your hair, blink your red eyes and go for a walk round the garden, if the housekeeper doesn’t need you.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll think of something. Meanwhile, say nothing about this, not even to Freda if you share her room.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Early on Monday morning, I approached the prison. It felt strange to be here, ringing the bell, asking to be let in. Those on the other side of the gates, perhaps including the staff, would prefer to be on this side of the wall.

  After a wait of about five minutes, the wicket gate was opened by a pale man of skeletal proportions. His vividly black eyebrows met as he frowned, and I saw that they were tinged with grey and white. Variegated-eyebrows man stared through eyes of stone. If it had not been for the uniform, I would have thought him the condemned man.

  “Good morning. I’m Mrs. Shackleton, and am expected.”

  Let that be true.

  He said nothing but simply opened the gate wide enough for me to step through.

  We walked across the yard and into the dimly lit entranceway. Here, it was colder than outdoors. We came to a stop by a bench, to which my escort nodded. I ignored his nod and remained standing.

  The sound of footsteps heralded the appearance of the tall officer. Last time I saw him, he looked cheerful. Today, cheer had deserted him. He did not meet my glance.

  “Would you come this way, Mrs. Shackleton?”

  Another corridor. Footsteps echoed from the opposite end.

  Stephen appeared, head bowed, his gait more shuffling than previously. There was no singing of “The Grand Old Duke of York” today. Slowly, he raised his head and gave me a look of such hopelessness that I felt a shiver.

  Stephen’s escort came into the room with us. My escort waited by the door.

  I was offered a chair in the corner. Stephen was seated at a table, his escort behind him.

  It was the kind of room where simply to speak seemed inappropriate. That did not stop me. “Stephen, I saw Milly and Joan. They were outside the prison on Sunday. Did you hear the band? Milly has given a statement about what happened.”

  He gave me a look that was so briefly hopeful, and then he glanced away.

  Wouldn’t it be wonderful, if he would be released? Now. This morning. I would have a bit of explaining to do as to how I came to be taking him home—wherever home would be now—but that would be worth it.

  “Officer, I should like to speak to Mr. Walmsley alone.”

  He gulped. “Sorry, madam. That is not allowed.”

  “Why not?”

  “Not today.”

  I soon realised why.

  The police officer who entered, nodded, and with great civility wished us good morning.

  The officer urged the prisoner to his feet, and then came the blow.

  “Stephen Walmsley, you are charged that on Friday, the first of March, 1929, in the Corner Shop, Silver Street, Thorpefield, you did wilfully murder Helen Farrar. You do not need to say anything but anything you do say may be taken down in writing and used in evidence against you. Do you have anything to say?”

  “I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill Mrs. Farrar.”

  “Take the prisoner away.”

  He passed so close to me that I could hear the gasp of his breath. “Don’t give up, Stephen. Don’t give up hope.”

  When he had been taken back to his cell, I stayed in the room for several moments, trying to make sense of what I had just seen and heard.

  The prison officer who had escorted me simply waited for me to move.

  I turned to him. “Why now? Nothing has changed since Mr. Walmsley was arrested over a week ago.”

  He spoke quietly. “He was being given the opportunity to plead guilty. That would have saved time, trouble, and public expense.”

  Trudging back through the prison yard, I had to force myself to think ahead to what must come next. One thing was for sure: Stephen must have better representation than the solicitor appointed by the police.

  I sat in the car to write a note to Mrs. Sugden, asking her to contact our fiercest legal friend, stopping at the first pillar box to post it. Mr. Cohen’s fees might swallow the fee we would earn from Scotland Yard, but my pristine Rolls-Royce languishes in the garage. That would fetch a pretty penny.

  As I drove back towards Thorpefield, I tried to think what to do next. There is always that desire to Do Something Quickly.

  Yesterday evening, when the house was quiet, I had taken two flashlights and every candle I could lay my hands on into Milly’s room. Wearing gloves, I took the items from the eaves and photographed them, alongside that day’s newspaper. Someone had done this deliberately, as a way of pointing an accusing finger at Stephen Walmsley. If I was right, and the pair of expensive shoes belonged to the unknown man, Milly would also be regarded as an accessory. There were coins and notes, a signet ring and a fob watch. The brown paper bag contained a pair of socks, a tie, and a gun. By doing nothing, I was withholding evidence. To do the “right thing” might damn Stephen for two murders. He could hang only once.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  My visit to the prison had not taken long. I was back at Thorpefield Manor by 8 a.m.

  Naturally, the ever-watchful Raynor noticed my return, but made no comment. Let him think it was my Monday habit to go out for an early drive, and come back looking as if I’d found a penny but lost a five pound note.

  At about ten o’clock, Gertrude and I made our way to the stables. It had been so long since I wore jodhpurs and riding jacket that my outfit felt like a disguise, which in a way it was.

  As we entered the stable, I felt warmth from the heat of the horses’ bodies. The familiar scent of hay and horses swept me back to the days when I first learned to ride.

  Alec was lifting down a bale of hay. “I’ve saddled Jasper for your guest, Mrs. Brockman. Is that all right?”

  She didn’t answer Alec, but said to me. “Jasper’s a good-tempered creature and knows his way about.”

  Gertrude’s piebald whinnied at her approach.

  We mounted, and moments later were riding along the broad drive into the now bright morning.

  Gertrude called to me. “You still have a good seat, Kate. Do you remember our old instructress? She was full of praise for your riding. “Look at Catherine! She has glue on her bum.”

  “I’d forgotten that.”

  Beyond the drive, we crossed the road and took the bridle path that led to the hamlet of Thorpefield. Our way took us through a small wood and over furrowed fields.

  At the edge of the hamlet were the long rows of miners’ cottages, small two-storey dwellings built of local stone and with stone roofs. Philip and I had passed them during our drive in the grocer’s van on Friday. A woman in a colourful pinafore knelt on the pavement, scouring her doorstep. Gertrude slowed her horse. “Do you want to take a photograph?”

  I had a small knapsack with me, containing camera, notebook and pencil. “She wouldn’t appreciate being pictured on her knees.”

  We rode on until we were alongside the railway line, by a row of attractive brick and slate houses, rather ornate, and in groups of four, with arches between.

  I stopped, and took a photograph.

  “Benjie’s grandfather built these,” Gertrude explained. “Having the railway meant they
could bring in bricks and Welsh slate instead of using local stone.”

  “They’re grand looking, but why use bricks when there’s Yorkshire stone?”

  “The railway barons liked to show off, as evidence of how well they were doing. It cost more to bring in bricks. They thought they would recruit better workers.”

  The railway line ran behind the houses. They all knew each other, these men, these trusted superior railway workers with brick houses. Three years ago, like their fellows, they had gone on strike. And now?

  Had the tenor of their lives been disturbed by a man who came to stir up trouble, among workers who had troubles of their own? A stranger murdered for his Russian gold, as Commander Woodhead suspected.

  How would they have achieved the task of placing a body onto a goods train? There was a signal box not far along. Halt the train. Slide open the door of a truck, perhaps marked with chalk to show there would be room among the boxes. The dead weight of the unknown man dumped alongside boxes of rhubarb. Wipe off the chalk mark. The houses looked so perfectly neat and orderly, yet what lay behind that civilised façade?

  We rode by the stream, towards the mill and mill stream. Outside the millworkers’ houses, a group of little children stopped their play on the pavement and stared up at us, and at the horses. We dismounted.

  A couple of mothers came to see what we were up to. I asked permission, and was soon snapping away, taking photographs of bow-legged children with rickets, sitting on the pavements and the cobblestones. They were cautious rather than excited. The mothers, self-conscious of their appearance in pinafores, turbans and slippers, refused to have pictures taken.

  I took names and promised to let them have copies of their children’s photographs.

  We were about to re-mount when one of the women approached Gertrude. “What about the shop, Mrs. Brockman? It’s awful shocking and no one wants to be disrespectful towards Mrs. Farrar. Will it stand empty now?”

  “I don’t know,” Gertrude answered quietly.

  “Only it’s a trek if you’re just after a couple of eggs or a teacake. Now if we could have a Co-operative Store here –”