The Body on the Train

by Frances Brody

  Mrs. Espinosa began.

  “He is originally from England, as I expect you know, but has been living in France for a long time. He had to come back here. Truth to tell, he was a little agitated about it but he gave no details. He said that it would not be such a hardship because he would come and see the Ryder Cup and we would be sure to bump into each other. If the Brits won, the champagne would be on him, and vice versa.”

  “Did he say why he was coming back to England?”

  “He did not. We talked golf, not business. But there was a gentleman from Panama and I know that Harry Aspinall and he got to talking. The Panamanian gentleman had something to do with a mining company and the two of them seemed to have a lot of knowledge in common.”

  Here was what Sykes called a reliable witness. Her story made sense. She had noticed the man’s agitation, and discovered something of his plans. Where she did not remember something, the name of the golf club and the Panamanian with an interest in mining, she did not invent.

  “Mrs. Espinosa, you have been extremely helpful. Thank you very much. May I ask where you are staying?”

  “We have rented a house here in Moortown.” She gave him the address. “We shall be here until the end of the tournament, and then we go back to Southampton.” She sighed. “I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world.”

  She and Sykes had continued speaking quietly. Two men and a woman sat down at the next table. One of the men was talking in a loud voice, that upper-class-everyone-listen-to-me voice that made Sykes want to charge him with gross showing off and extreme poshness.

  “Just one more thing, Mrs. Espinosa.”

  “Sure.”

  “How did Mr. Aspinall speak?”

  “Well, like you. English.”

  “Really like me?” Sykes tried to think of a sentence that might give an indication of regional origins. Nothing came immediately to mind. He tilted his head towards the nearby table. “Like me, or like the man with the big mouth?”

  “Oh like you, certainly like you. I am only just beginning to get the hang of this accents business. Of course we have accents in the States but I am not sure they carry quite the same connotations as they do here.”

  “Mr. Aspinall was a northerner?”

  “I have my ear in now, since arriving in Moortown, and I would say he was a northerner. I would also say, just so you know, that he was what I call one of life’s good guys.”

  And in that moment, Sykes lost a little bit of his heart to her. Of course, being a true Yorkshireman, he could think of nothing more expansive to say except, “Thank you, Mrs. Espinosa.” After a pause, he added, “It has been a pleasure to meet you.”

  She would never know just how big a compliment that was.

  He set off back to Headingley, feeling like a man driving a car fitted with eagle’s wings.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Sykes was never sure just what Mrs. Shackleton’s arrangement was with certain people. She carried sway with librarians, including Mr. Duffield at the local paper and the entire staff of the Leeds Library. He had at first wondered whether bottles of Scotch changed hands at Christmas, or the occasional crisp new five pound note. Recently, he had come to realise it was neither of those things. It was Mrs. Shackleton’s natural charm and grace.

  Without her, Sykes would simply have to do his best.

  The Leeds Library would be closed. Mrs. Sugden, was on good terms with Miss Merton, the true glue of that place. If anyone could open doors after hours, or rustle up a person with a key, it would be Miss Merton.

  Mr. Duffield, newspaper librarian, would have gone home by now. Sykes knew where he lived. Newspaper buildings buzzed with life the whole night long. Mr. Duffield would, for Mrs. Shackleton, willingly return to his many files and index cards to search out a man called Harry Aspinall.

  With a library linchpin and a newspaper archivist on his side, Sykes hoped for good results.

  * * *

  Sykes and Miss Merton sat at a large polished table in the new room of the Leeds Library. A light from this room would not be seen from the street because the windows were in the roof. All the same, they took no chances. An old oil lamp stood on a raffia mat in the centre of the table, casting a soft light over the membership cards from the index box.

  Several cards were fastened together for members with the name Aspinall.

  Miss Merton carried two pairs of spectacles. When she looked at the cards, she wished for a magnifying glass. “How good is your eyesight, Mr. Sykes?”

  “Perfect in a good light, but I can squint well enough.”

  He drew the lamp nearer. “It appears that Harry Aspinall is the third generation to have library membership.”

  “I knew his father,” Miss Merton informed him. “They lived somewhere south of the city as I recall. Am I right?”

  “You are.” Sykes had the card. He made a note of the family address. Rothwell Manor, Rothwell.

  Miss Merton sat in the warm glow of knowledge that she was not yet losing her marbles. Strange how certain things came back to you. “The father died, the elder brother died before he had time to take up membership. It passed to Mr. Harry Aspinall. Now that we have his name, I remember the treasurer complaining that she had to write to France for the annual contribution, and that when she explained the inconvenience, he paid ten years in advance.”

  “Do you happen to know whether anyone kept the house open in his absence? Were there younger siblings?”

  “If there were, I know nothing of them.” Miss Merton was already putting the index cards back in the box.

  Sykes would have liked to telephone to the newspaper office to tell Mr. Duffield he was on his way, but the date, time and number would appear on the library’s telephone bill and that might lead to trouble.

  As they descended the marble staircase, the light from Sykes’s torch cast long shadows across the stairs and the ground floor hallway.

  He walked Miss Merton to the tram stop, waiting with her until the tram came. “Thank you for your help, Miss Merton. I could not have done it without you. Mrs. Shackleton will be very grateful.”

  She gave a gracious nod and took a couple of coppers from a small purse, ready to pay her tram fare. “Always happy to assist. Good luck, Mr. Sykes.”

  He waited until the tram pulled away. They waved to each other.

  She is a good old soul, Sykes thought as he walked to Albion Street, and not the fusspot that some make out.

  He strode on, walking quickly, hoping that Mr. Duffield at the newspaper offices would be able to confirm whether Rothwell Manor was still in the hands of the Aspinall family.

  It had surprised Jim Sykes when he learned Mr. Duffield’s Christian name was Niall. He’d had him down as a Septimius or a Theodore. The lank elderly gentleman was waiting at the entrance. Sykes felt a surge of gratitude that Mr. Duffield had come from home after being ready to put his feet up for the night and listen to his newly acquired wireless set.

  Mr. Duffield had a good firm handshake. “Do you want me to tell you what I’ve found out as I walk you to your motor? You said it was urgent.”

  “That would be grand. Is there much to tell? I’m parked just round the corner.”

  Mr. Duffield was precise, as might be expected of a man who all of his life had worked at cataloguing and storing information that may or may not, now or in some distant future, be of interest to reporters or the vast local readership.

  “Harry Aspinall has lived abroad for years. As far as I can gather, the family home has been locked up since the elder brother died fifteen years ago. And before you ask, it was natural causes—a heart attack. The Ordnance Survey map shows Rothwell Manor as quarter of a mile east of the church. Family money comes from interests in the railways, mines and land. He is a major shareholder in several local mines and the Northern Railway.”

  “Any other local connections, distant relations, friendships?”

  “He hasn’t been back to England for years, or not that I kn
ow of. One suspects a rift of some kind but not the kind of thing that finds its way into the papers. Oh, he is a trustee of a children’s home. I came across an account of a meeting from a few years ago. He had sent apologies for non-attendance.”

  “Had he put down roots in France?”

  “I’m sure he had, after all those years. He left England thirty years ago. I suppose as a second son he had to make his way in the world. I don’t know what he did during the war. Perhaps he passed as French. Here’s a note of sources.” He handed Sykes a quarto sheet. “That’s as much as I could find in the time available, Jim.”

  So they were now on first name terms. Sykes was glad. As they passed under a street lamp, he glanced at the tiny writing. “Thank you very much, Niall.” They had reached the car. Sykes felt suddenly awkward. “I should offer you a lift but I’m going to drive straight to Rothwell.”

  “I don’t need a lift. I took the tram and I could do with the walk back. But is it a good idea to go tonight? It’s getting dark.”

  “I’ll take that chance. I know my way to Rothwell.”

  That was not entirely true. Sykes knew the general direction: south and east.

  He drove along unfamiliar streets, on the eastern outskirts of the city. At a crossroads, he took out the road map and shone his torch. Yes, he was on the right track.

  Street lamps became less frequent. By the light of the moon, he found his way to the village. It occurred to Sykes that it would have been extraordinary if Aspinall hadn’t let one single person know he was coming. But perhaps someone did know he was coming, and that someone had been waiting for him.

  He knew he must have a story ready and thought of possibilities. Pass himself off as a fellow golfer who met Mr. Aspinall at a course outside Paris. He could do that. He had seen pictures of the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe. He knew how many golfers make a team.

  Now that he thought about it, he didn’t know how many golfers made a team. If he knocked on a door and started spouting about birdies and holes in one, he’d be unmasked as a fraud in two minutes.

  He saw the church first, a fine building framed against a darkening sky. But he wasn’t here to admire the church. The clock struck nine as he glanced at the churchyard and wondered where the vicar lived and how he would find his way to Rothwell Manor House.

  He asked a man walking a dog. Rothwell Manor was nearest. He was directed up some stone steps on the opposite side of the road.

  The iron gates to the Manor House were padlocked. Someone had made attempts at keeping the grass to ankle length and the bushes and trees from turning into a petrified forest. Whatever happened here in some murky past to turn this house into something so unloved that its younger son escaped across the channel and its elder son died here?

  Sykes walked the perimeter. Someone had bent the railings at a point where an apple tree and blackberry bushes grew. Nature must be having a field day. The dark shapes of nests added to the sculpted impression of the beech trees. A feral cat stopped long enough in its patrolling to stare and snarl. Sykes guessed that only the forbidding aspect of the place prevented it from being burgled of whatever dusty possessions lay within. The height of the building would deter strippers of lead or roof tiles. Perhaps this was the kind of place where a legend grew up that kept local people at bay. At the back of the house, only a broken fence separated the kitchen garden from the land beyond.

  Sykes entered the grounds. He walked round, looking through dirty windows at empty rooms, half expecting to see a body or to hear a cry of distress. A feeling of emptiness and absence prevailed. Even a tomb might be filled with busy spiders.

  He turned and walked back the way he had come, feeling a cold place in his lower back, as if something malign and damp had attached itself to him.

  “No wonder you didn’t come back here.”

  On his way back to the car, Sykes shone his torch over the ruins of Rothwell Castle. Perhaps the ghosts of long ago kings and their knights had returned to distress and usurp the newcomers who had the temerity to take over their manor.

  His informant with the dog had advised him to drive straight on to the vicarage, all along the lane to the edge of the village, passing the last houses, looking out for a high wall on his right. This surprised Sykes. He had expected the vicar to be housed near the church.

  As he drove, Sykes wondered what it was about the parishioners of Rothwell that prompted the vicar to put such a distance between himself and his flock.

  He pulled up near the gate in the high wall.

  The gate was locked. A dog began to bark. Short of scaling the wall, there would be no way to gain entry. He looked through a gap between gate and gatepost and made out the shape of a house, in total darkness

  A cloud slid away from the moon, outlining the dark and somewhat forbidding building, much larger than he had expected. Rothwell was turning out to be full of surprises. First an ancient house abandoned, and now a vicar who lived like a bishop.

  The church clock struck one.

  Sykes consoled himself that he at least knew his destination. The Vicar of Rothwell would not be going anywhere. Sykes would come back tomorrow.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Gertrude and I were having breakfast. Benjie had gone from the house, leaving his newspaper and a magnifying glass on the table.

  Gertrude cracked her boiled egg. “Don’t even think of going yet. All that ‘in three days guests are stale’ nonsense simply doesn’t apply to you. It’s such a pleasure having you here, and I love the idea of your article. Stay as long as you like.”

  “I’ve imposed long enough. I’ll pick up my photographs this morning—some for you, and after that I’ll be making tracks. I’m sure you have lots to do.”

  “Eliot is arranging dates for us to see potential investors in Manchester and London. While I’m in London, I’ll go to the Adoption Society. There’s an infant who sounds just the sort of little fellow I’m looking for.”

  “What good news! You must want to scoop him up and bring him home.”

  “He has some minor ailment and so I can’t fetch him yet.” She was looking through the latest copy of The Lady and slid it across the table to me. “Third one down in the employment wanted. She looks a likely candidate for nursemaid. I wouldn’t know what to do with a sick child.”

  I read the woman’s advertisement. “She is experienced and has references.”

  “I shall write today. She could meet me in London and bring the child back.”

  “I can’t wait to meet him.”

  Raynor came in to call Gertrude to the telephone.

  She stood. “Excuse me, Kate. That’ll be Eliot.”

  “It’s all right. I’ll pop into Wakefield and pick up my pictures.”

  * * *

  At Picture This, Maurice Lewis set out my framed photographs on the table. He placed the palms of his hands on the counter and looked for my approval. His work made a fine display. Gertrude alone, and Gertrude and Benjie together, were framed in hallmark silver. A finest French gilt frame set off Milly in her Sunday hat. Raynor looked out from a frame of best quality crushed Morocco.

  “You’ve done a grand job, Mr. Lewis.”

  “I’ll send over the rest tomorrow.” He angled the portrait of Raynor. “I like your composition, and the black of his outfit against the wood of the hand-made seat. He is every inch the proud butler.”

  “He’s a good subject.”

  “You caught the shadow pattern of the leaves. Very fine!” He held the portrait at arm’s length. “He puts me in mind of someone I saw on the stage, but I can’t think who. It will come to me.”

  I smiled, knowing very well who it was. I took out my purse. “Thank you for doing them so quickly.

  He wrapped the photographs and brought them out to my car, placing them carefully in the dicky seat, packing them round with newspaper. “Ah now it comes to me. He played Count Dracula at the Wakefield Opera House.”

  “I’m sure he would be flattered
to be compared to an actor, Mr. Lewis, but perhaps not the character.”

  We parted, with his assurances that he would send on the rest of the photographs.

  * * *

  Alec must have heard my car. He appeared from the direction of the stables, looking hopeful.

  “You’ll have your photographs tomorrow. I think you’ll be pleased.” The poor boy blushed. I was glad that as an afterthought, I had asked Mr. Lewis to make several postcards so that Alec could give some to his admirers. “Will you give me a hand with these framed pictures?”

  He picked up the pictures, carried them as far as the door and then came to an abrupt halt. The noise of my car engine had also alerted Raynor, who opened the door before we reached it. He took the parcels from Alec.

  There was an odd moment of understanding between the three of us. Alec turned back and looked at me. I smiled. As stable boy and minder of cars, he was not allowed through the front door. Had he been born on the other side of the blanket, he would be heir to the Brockman fortune, or its debts.

  Gertrude would insist that her newly adopted baby would be the Brockman heir. Alec, Benjie’s by-blow, would remain just that. It crossed my mind that her animosity towards Alec was so great that she would go to any lengths to exclude him.

  Raynor and I stood in the hall. I would not let him know that he had rattled me by following me to Rothwell, and by his constant observation. “One of these pictures is for you, Raynor.”

  He is a proper butler who has trained himself to suppress expressions of surprise, delight or dismay. Yet he glowed with pleasure as he looked at his portrait. “Oh, Mrs. Shackleton. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Like it? I have never had such a portrait, never one of myself at all.”

  “It’s a fine likeness. You look noble.”

  He nodded in agreement. “You have captured my better self. You have captured my soul.”

  The thought of that was disconcerting. “Then it’s lucky I didn’t suffocate in the darkroom. Your better self might have died with me.”