The Body on the Train

by Frances Brody

  He looked suddenly shocked, and opened his mouth to speak but I got in first. “Mrs. Brockman will think I got lost.”

  “She will be relieved to see you, madam. It has been a trying morning for her.”

  With that intriguing remark, he carried his portrait away, but he turned back. “In return for this gift, I want to do something for you, Mrs. Shackleton. You see I have an interest in casting astrological charts. If you would be willing to divulge your date, time and place of birth, I should be happy to undertake a chart for you.”

  Some sort of warlock, ready to cast a deadly curse if I fathomed his and Benjie’s secrets.

  I gave him the date and place. If he was surprised to hear that the place was White Swan Yard, he made no sign. As it happened, I knew the time: six o’clock in the morning. My adoptive mother, Virginia Hood, had given me every detail as soon as she thought I was old enough to understand.

  * * *

  Gertrude lay on the chaise longue staring at the ceiling, a wet flannel on her brow. The air smelled of vinegar.

  “Gertrude?”

  She peered from under the flannel. “Oh Kate, I wondered where you’d got to.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  She lifted the flannel. “This helps.”

  “Let me.” I took the flannel from her, refreshed it in the basin of cold water and vinegar, and squeezed it. “Lie still a little longer. Is it a headache?” She let me place the cloth across her forehead and temples.

  “More than a headache, but talk to me. Tell me what you’ve been up to, and don’t talk about going yet.”

  “Well I have all the photographs I need for my assignment, so the time is ours. And I’ve brought you your portrait, but you can see it later.”

  “I’ll look now!” She raised herself up and lifted the flannel.

  I held out the portrait of her and Benjie. “Oh Kate, that is lovely. How did you make such a big photograph?”

  “By magic. And here’s another of you with your bonny piebald.”

  “Isn’t he gorgeous?” The flannel dropped to the floor as she held the picture at arms’ length. “We’ve been shocking hosts, only it’s been a difficult time. And now we have a funeral tomorrow.”

  “Ah, poor Mrs. Farrar.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I saw my dad. He told me that the vicar is back and that the coroner gave permission for the body to be released.”

  “It should be a solemn time, but it’s become a farce.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Word spread that the murderer has been charged. Your Milly and that girl they call Joan of Arc have stirred up women and girls from the mill. They’re off to Wakefield, to make mischief.”

  I almost said “Again?” but stopped myself just in time.

  “Do sit down, Kate, you’re making me nervous.” She sighed. “The aspirins are beginning to work. Perhaps a cup of coffee.”

  I crossed to the fireplace and rang the bell. “What brought on your headache? If you were cutting the workers’ hours, does it matter that the women and girls will take time off to go to Wakefield?”

  “There’s an order arrived at the mill for blankets. It’s exactly what we needed to keep afloat. Benjie has done one of his disappearing tricks, so the manager comes to me. If the women walk out, we’ll miss the delivery date.”

  “No wonder you have a headache.”

  “What on earth good do they think they can do? One of the girls has a bicycle chain and said she would chain herself to the railings.” She sat up. “You rode a bicycle, Kate. Is that something it’s possible to do? Those chains always look so horribly oily.”

  “That wouldn’t work.”

  “Our reputation will be in the dust if this gets into the papers.”

  Raynor came into the room. He hovered discreetly.

  “Gertrude, you know that my dad is a senior police officer in Wakefield?”

  “I knew he was something.”

  “Why don’t I telephone him?”

  “Will he be there? Don’t they go out keeping us all safe?”

  “Men of rank are usually at their desk. He is very good at calming situations.”

  Raynor’s clearing of the throat indicated an intervention. “I’m told there’s been a whip-round among the men. They have fare for the train.”

  Gertrude groaned.

  I put my idea to her. “Dad would see the women are spoken to in a reasonable way. He might even do it himself, promise to look into things.”

  My idea would also keep Dad in the picture, and through him Mr. Sykes.

  Gertrude asked, quite reasonably, “What is there to look into?”

  Raynor leaned forward. “If I may, madam?”

  “What is it, Raynor?”

  Solomon himself could not have spoken better. “When a party who considers himself or herself injured believes someone is looking into a grievance, they might be soothed.”

  Gertrude sighed. “Then Kate, do try it, please.”

  “I will.” Now was my moment to take a giant step. “I can look into the murder and see whether there is any cause to suspect a miscarriage of justice, starting from the presumption that Stephen Walmsley is innocent.”

  From her lounging position, Gertrude suddenly sat bolt upright. “Have you gone completely mad? Stephen Walmsley is guilty.”

  Raynor, who must by now have forgotten why he came into the room, spoke up. “Oh but madam, presumption of innocence is a cornerstone of British justice.”

  Gertrude stared at him, suddenly speechless. It crossed my mind that seeing himself look so noble in a portrait had turned him into a reincarnation of a fair-minded Roman senator. She opened her mouth to speak.

  At that moment, Eliot Dell arrived unannounced. He went over to Gertrude. “I’ve heard what’s happened. Leave this to me.”

  Raynor and I exchanged a look. He gave the slightest of moves that in another man would signify nothing. Coming from Raynor, it indicated alarm.

  Gertrude allowed Eliot to place a soothing hand on her brow, creating a tableau for a sentimental painting. “We’ll sort this out, Gertie. I’ll put the fear of God into them.”

  Gertrude, who had her legs outstretched on the chaise longue, swung round. “Kate has come up with an idea of having her father do something. I told you he’s a high-ranking police officer.”

  It was my turn. “Let me telephone Dad. This might buy you some time, enough to complete your order at least. Dad can be very persuasive.”

  Gertrude sighed. “Kate, you are a wonder woman.”

  “I’ll do it now.”

  Gertrude turned to Eliot. “I told you. I said we should have Kate on our side.”

  The one good thing about the morning’s events was that Gertrude had forgotten the poison pen letters.

  Dad listened. As expected, he pointed out the murder enquiry was not his investigation. He would be trespassing on CID territory. I was ready for that. “This is a civil matter, Dad, preventing unrest. No one wants another march to the prison, especially by workers in the employ of the Lord Lieutenant’s deputy. If the millworkers know something is being done –”

  His sigh came over the wires. “As it happens, some anonymous seeker after justice has engaged a fast-talking legal representative for the accused.”

  He paused, letting it sink in that he knew very well I was that person.

  “I’ll ask the local constable to go there now and pass that on. It might do the trick. Tell your friends I will do what I can.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Mrs. Sugden and Sergeant Dog busied themselves in the front garden, Mrs. Sugden doing a bit of pruning and weeding, Sergeant Dog sniffing his little heart out.

  The furniture van drew up outside. Sergeant Dog immediately took an interest. “Not for us,” Mrs. Sugden said to him. “We’ve all the furniture we need.”

  Someone climbed from the driver’s seat. He must need directions.

  Mrs. Sugden straightened
up.

  The van had a Wakefield address. The fellow opening the gate seemed familiar, and yet she had never seen him before.

  He took off his cap. “Mrs. Sugden?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’m Philip Goodchild, next door neighbour to the Hoods, Kate’s friend from when we were little.”

  “Ah, hello, Mr. Goodchild. You’re the one who looks after cars.” She understood why he was familiar. Mrs. Shackleton had sung his praises. She called him the professor of motorcars.

  “I’m come to take you to Wakefield on a job.”

  “Oh?”

  “Kate said you’d catch a train, but I can take you there.”

  “That’s kind.”

  “I don’t need to be home just yet. I don’t need to look at Mr. Battersby’s garage. I’ve seen it.”

  “Do you want a cup of tea?”

  “No thank you.”

  “Well just come in and tell me what this job is, and I’ll get my coat.”

  Philip stroked the dog. “He can come with us.”

  * * *

  During the several miles between Leeds and Wakefield, Mrs. Sugden worked out what she would do first.

  A building, Stoneville, on York Street, would not be going anywhere. An estate agent might be shutting up shop early for his midday meal. She would try the estate agents first.

  Philip knew where to take her. He stopped on Kirkgate. Sergeant Dog whined to come out of the van with her but Mrs. Sugden told him to stay with Philip.

  The first agent had very little on his books just now. There was a butcher’s shop.

  Mrs. Sugden didn’t want a butcher’s shop.

  The estate agent had a garage, fully equipped, to rent or buy, put up by a Mr. Battersby who was retiring to Morecambe. It would be a grand investment.

  Mrs. Sugden thought this might not be right for her.

  The agent explained that she could put in a mechanic and the money would roll in. There was serious interest in this business. She should not waste time. He also had a big house that would make a corner shop. He showed her a photograph.

  Mrs. Sugden noticed that the big house was not on a corner. She thanked him for his time and would call another day.

  Philip kindly drove her to Westgate, to a second agent.

  Mr. Gopnik of Gopnik and Company quickly put a small bottle back into his desk drawer as Mrs. Sugden entered.

  He listened carefully to her requirements, and then praised a tobacconist’s shop in a prime location. Mrs. Sugden knew this was not the ticket, but it didn’t do to appear uninterested in what the agent described as a proper little gold mine.

  When she asked about something more general, such as a corner shop in a village, his eyes lit up.

  “I can show you just the thing, in Thorpefield.”

  That was the place. Mrs. Sugden hid her interest. “If you give me the address, and trust me with the keys, I can take a look. Will the shopkeeper be there to answer my questions?”

  “Sadly no. She died.”

  “Oh dear. When?”

  “I’m not sure exactly when, but I know she’ll be buried this week.”

  Mrs. Sugden stepped back. There were limits. “I won’t look at the poor woman’s shop before she’s in the ground.”

  “She wouldn’t mind.”

  “Well I mind. It’s not proper.” She gave him her telephone number. “Ring me when it’s decent to visit the place.”

  She felt sure that Mrs. Shackleton would agree. It would be no way of going on to pick over the woman’s life before she was respectably buried.

  It then occurred to her that the estate agent might think she was wasting his time, and not come back to her. “I think that corner shop will be right up my street, but I’ll take a look at the tobacconist, as well. If it’s all the same to you.”

  As she came out of the estate agent’s office, Philip looked at his watch. He explained that the furniture van, which he was testing after a repair, was overdue for return.

  Mrs. Sugden didn’t want to inconvenience him any more than she had already.

  “Point me in the right direction and I’ll walk. Sergeant Dog likes the exercise. And don’t worry about taking us back. We’ll find our own way to the train.”

  It would be good for the dog to know how to board a train, and how to conduct himself in the carriage.

  Philip seemed relieved. Mrs. Sugden remembered Mrs. Shackleton telling her that he liked people who talked straight, said what they meant, meant what they said.

  She walked to the tobacconist’s shop. Sergeant did that dog-thing of acting as if he knew exactly where he was going.

  They were there in a little under ten minutes.

  Everything about the shop was brown, brown painted wood, brown oilcloth, yellowing ceiling turning to brown. The tobacconist, Mr. Swarbrick, wore a brown overall. His fingers and sad moustache were stained from nicotine.

  His brightened considerably when Mrs. Sugden told him she had come to enquire about the lease.

  “I never expected a lady, I’ve had men, and some men with their wives, but I never had a lady on her own.”

  “Well you have now,” said Mrs. Sugden. “If you had so many enquiries, how is it you have no one signed up?”

  “Because I’m not sure, I’m not right sure.”

  “Of what?”

  “I’m dithering, that’s the truth. I want to leave this place and I don’t. I want to leave because I’m on mi own now, but I don’t know where I’d go or what do.”

  “Well that’s a rum state of affairs.”

  “I know. I’ve had two fellows here, both interested. Last one told me I was wasting his time, but I never expected a lady to call. Would you like to come here for nothing, share the shop with me?”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Marriage. I’m useless on mi own.”

  Mrs. Sugden could see that very well. What this man needed was a good talking to. She gave him advice on how to find a wife. “You’d best try the chapels first. Don’t go for some soppy flower arranger. Choose a woman who turns her hand to mopping the floor and polishing pews. Many a good widow would be glad of a fresh start. Smarten yourself up. Try not to look pathetic.”

  “You’re very kind. Are you sure you won’t marry me?”

  “Quite sure. But I’ll come to your wedding. Now you can do something for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Show me and this dog to a building called Stone something or other on York Street.”

  He picked up his coat and locked the shop door.

  * * *

  Number 112 York Street did not look like a children’s home, more like offices. Mrs. Sugden considered trying to lose her escort, but he came in useful for standing by the lamppost, holding Sergeant Dog’s lead.

  Within seconds of stepping inside the building, Mrs. Sugden wished she had worn her Sunday hat. The woman at the desk gave her a snooty look and said nothing.

  Mrs. Sugden put on her best voice. “I’m Mrs. Sugden. I need to trace a child who was brought here.”

  The woman sniffed. “We’ve no children here. When was this?”

  “When the Bluebell Children’s Home closed, not so long ago.”

  “I can’t divulge the whereabouts except to a close relative. Are you a close relative?”

  Without knowing a child’s name, this was difficult. Play the woman at her own game. “I can’t divulge a name, particularly since this child may be due a legacy from a great aunt who died in Australia. I’m acting for the solicitor.”

  Mrs. Sugden’s best voice did the trick.

  A certain amount of snootiness evaporated.

  “I would have to have the name, madam. You see, children are brought here. We have frequent arrivals of pauper children. They are sent out to different addresses across the city.”

  “Then I’ll see that a letter comes to you. Have you a letter heading by you? I can give that to my employer and he will write.”

 
The letter heading was produced.

  Mrs. Sugden studied it. Her hand trembled as the penny dropped. “You’re the workhouse.” It came out as an accusation.

  The woman across the counter found a sudden itch by her ear, and scratched. She spoke sharply. “We don’t go by that name now, not for a long time. Everything is done good and proper. The children chosen for a new life in Canada are all properly certificated.”

  Something funny happened to Mrs. Sugden’s breath. She couldn’t remember how a person breathed. Someone had taken kiddies from a home in the country near a bluebell wood and fetched them to a place with no heart, no soul, and passed them on, elsewhere in the city, or else across an ocean.

  She hardly trusted herself to speak. The words came out in a gulp. “Where are the kiddies from the Bluebell, and who are you packing off to Canada?”

  The woman gripped the counter. “You’re not acting for a solicitor are you?”

  “Oh but I am. And if I wasn’t, I am now. And you’re acting for the devil.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  On Tuesday morning, a bright clear day, Jim Sykes fitted in a call to a client whose security he dealt with. He then drove on to Rothwell.

  The vicarage, that last night had looked forbiddingly Gothic in the moonlight, now took on the aspect of a bright villa. A gardener was tending the shrubbery. He looked up and exchanged a nod. As Sykes approached the front door, he took a sideways glance into a window. A man sat writing at a desk.

  Sykes rang the bell, and then stood a little way back so as not to appear threatening. After a few moments, a key turned in the lock. The door opened. A pleasant-looking housekeeper, almost as broad as she was high, said hello.

  She was the sort of person whose cheerful manner demanded a smile. Sykes introduced himself, handing the housekeeper his card. “I should be much obliged if the Reverend Mr. Branscombe would spare me a few moments of his time.”

  He had read the name last night, on the board outside the church.

  She asked him in, and left him waiting in the hall. The oak floor was highly polished. A cut glass vase of daffodils sat on an octagonal table inlaid with brass. The vicar’s study was a few feet away, and so Sykes listened to the exchange. No, the housekeeper did not know what he wanted, but he seemed a respectable gentleman. What a perfectly wonderful housekeeper. This was much better than hearing that he looked like a plain-clothes policeman.