The Mountsorrel Mystery

& other stories

Stephen Done

Authors Note

So, here we are at Book Eight and, this time, I’ve decided to offer something a little different. Short stories offer an opportunity to explore aspects of Vignoles and his team that don’t fit into the longer novel format and a chance to try different approaches to storytelling. I hope the variety of incident makes up for the brevity in the telling.

The places are real and the characters are fiction, with one notable exception. In ‘The Tennis Match’ Vignoles meets the young airman Geoffrey Wellum. That encounter is fictional but not implausible, as Wellum was starting his training at Desford during the summer of 1939. He was to be the youngest pilot in the Battle of Britain and became a squadron leader, was awarded the DFC and served in the RAF until 1961.1 trust he will forgive the cheek and take this as a respectful tribute to a brave pilot, and I hope readers will forgive this story for having neither mystery nor crime.

‘Rogue Parcels’ features a series of crimes that seem implausible, and yet were actually committed in real life, and much as described — although time, place and names have been altered.

The Mountsorrel Railway really exists and has been restored to operation as a branch line from the Great Central Railway. I urge readers to support this fabulous community effort.

Stephen Done

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www.inspectorvignoles.ukwriters.net

This book is for Olympia, with love.

The Mountsorrel Mystery

1953

Friday 5th June. Driver Tom Kenney took a last walk around his little engine, checking once again that all was in order. She appeared to be burbling away satisfactorily, with no ominous leaks of steam or oil to give him cause for concern. With a gloved thumb, he pressed a cork a little tighter into one of the oiling points on the bearings of the short connecting rod. It was all too easy for these corks to work loose and drop out as the train waddled up and down the mineral line on track that jolted and jarred the engine over many an uneven joint. If that were to happen, then water or the ever-present granite dust that even now lay heavy on Kenney’s lungs could contaminate the oil. Much to his chagrin, the same pale dust that threatened to grind and bind every bearing also relentlessly dulled the sheen on the crow-black paintwork of his engine.

Kenney liked to give the stubby little ‘pug’ a going-over at least once a week with an oily cloth, as this brought out the full richness of the paintwork, especially on a sunny day such as this promised to be. Of course he knew it was a futile task on a hardworking industrial engine and he sometimes wondered why he bothered. His fireman had no such dilemma, having all but thrown in the towel as regards cleaning. He’d do it if ordered, but the end result was slapdash and Kenney was forced to accept that the younger man, whilst perfectly adept at maintaining and running the engine, was not interested in keeping up appearances.

The fireman in question, Joseph ‘Jos’ Tunson, was at this moment tinkering with the fire inside the open-backed cab, and Kenney could hear the gentle, metallic scrape of the narrow shovel against one of the tiny coal bunker openings. It was a cramped working space and adding fuel was far easier with just the one man on board. Tunson was getting his fire in condition ready for the run down to Swithland Junction sidings, where he would give it more attention once they had delivered their train of loaded wagons and collected the waiting empties to haul back to the quarry. Whilst down in the yard, Kenney would assert his prerogative as driver and stand beside the engine, having his morning cigarette and passing the time of day with one of the men who marshalled the wagons, leaving Tunson to sort out his fire and make sufficient steam in preparation for attacking the fearsome incline that started almost the moment they pulled out of the sidings.

Kenney stretched his back and flexed his shoulders ready for the long day ahead. His roving eye always alert to any small detail, he gave the brass nameplate another quick rub with the oily rag in his hand. The cast letters (that declared the locomotive to be christened ‘Elizabeth’), when given an extra burnish, would better catch the limpid, early morning sunlight against their red-painted background. The engine might already be pale with the ever-present dust, but he was determined the nameplate, at least, should gleam.

He was inordinately proud that this humble industrial engine bore the same name as their newly-crowned queen, crowned just three days earlier. He had not been able to watch the coronation on television — such a new-fangled contraption was way beyond his pay packet and indeed of those in his circle of friends — but each day in the long build up to the event and now, in the aftermath, he had drunk in every word written in his newspaper. His wife had already cut out some lovely colour photographs from a magazine, and intended to frame them for their parlour wall. They both thought the young queen very beautiful. Driving the engine ‘Elizabeth’ made him feel almost as though he were taking part in the huge outpour of celebration across the nation. Those few people who had seen ‘Elizabeth’ wend her way up and down the Mountsorrel branch during the last week had waved with perhaps more vigour than usual as they read her nameplate, and he was regretting not having added a few streamers of ribbon or some cheerful bunting around the handrails. It would have been an affectation, but how often was a young queen crowned in Westminster Abbey?

He looked up and caught the eye of Tunson, who had observed him give the nameplate attention. The younger man rolled his eyes, although he immediately tried to hide the action by dipping out of view. The fireman was no monarchist and Kenney even harboured suspicions that the younger man held revolutionary views. There were whispers around the quarry that Tunson was toying with joining the British Communist Party. Whatever the truth, he’d barely concealed his growing annoyance over the weeks of mounting anticipation for the coronation and had been contemptuous of the event itself. Kenney’s response was to tell the fireman in no uncertain terms to ‘button his lip if he couldn’t think of anything civil to say about Her Majesty,’ and they’d left it at that.

Kenney swung himself into the cab. With just a cursory glance at Tunson to ensure he was happy for them to be on their way, he gave a short toot on the shrill whistle, and in so doing lifted a flock of wood pigeons from the broadleaf woodlands bordering the edge of the quarry workings. He engaged reverse and gently eased the engine away from the front of the tiny engine shed in the heart of the busy quarry complex. ‘Elizabeth’ crunched her four little wheels over the uneven rails and they wobbled over a succession of points and some dramatically undulating track that, due to the considerable accumulation of packed and congealed granite dust, looked like dark grooves scored in grey cardboard. Tunson was ‘riding shotgun’ — as he would insist on calling it — perched on the lower cab step, the better to easily drop down and pull the point levers so they could set back and couple up to the first loaded train of the day.

This was composed of three elderly, grey-and-black-painted open wooden wagons and a guard’s van. Two of the wagons still proclaimed ‘Mountsorrel Granite’ in giant, shaded white letters, but all were heavily patched with newer planks and coated in so much powdered stone that even this bold statement was hard to discern. Despite the Golden Syrup-like glow of the June morning sunlight trying its hardest to bring colour to the scene, the waiting wagons looked like something from a faded black-and-white photographic print.

They might be old but each wagon contained twelve tons of granite and it took considerable skill to negotiate the steeply graded line with a fully laden train, and hard-won experience proved that just three full wagons was the safe limit for the run to the exchange sidings. Even this took all of Kenney’s expertise and similarly required Tunson to make a really good head of steam to get the train started and immediately tackle the short, but fearsome, 1 in 62 incline to escape the perimeter of the quarry workings. Little ‘Elizabeth’ would be sorely tested to keep her footing and lift them clear. Luckily it was not raining today, because greasy rails presented a serious problem and, on such occasions, Tunson would have to sprinkle dry sand liberally in front of the wheels from his shovel in an attempt to gain traction.

However, once the incline was surmounted as they passed beneath Bond Lane bridge they could not relax, as the line then dipped yet more steeply all the way down to Swithland Junction. It was unwise to proceed at more than walking pace on this incline, and if Kenney were to lose concentration and let momentum gather then the little saddle tank could not hope to hold this mass of granite chippings in check. The result would be a runaway train — and almost certain catastrophe.

There was no turntable or turning triangle within the myriad lines of the quarry, so ‘Elizabeth’, like all the other engines working the complex, only ever faced in one direction. The previous year, when she had been transferred across from the company’s Enderby quarry some miles away, Kenney had specifically asked that her cab face towards the reservoir. He preferred to have the open cab looking down the longer and steeper grade as, this way, with his hand resting on the brake and his eyes always forward along the single track that unrolled beneath the cab, he could maintain a sharp lookout. He needed every moment of advance warning in case he needed to make an emergency stop.

And it was precisely because they were travelling cab-first with the open back giving a perfectly uninterrupted view of the overgrown track and the pretty woods and fields that edged in close to the rails, that they saw him.

The man was slumped against the base of Swithland Lane bridge, both legs straight out in front and arms splayed wide, one hand almost gripping a small glass bottle that looked to have just slipped from loosening fingers as consciousness ebbed away. His head was dropped down, an old peaked cap, long faded to grey, had slipped low to conceal most of his face and a distinctive, bushy, salt-and-pepper beard was pressed against his chest. He looked fast asleep, as though he had for some foolish reason chosen to take rest dangerously close to the line, with one hand lying close to the nearest rail. Clearances were tight on the Mountsorrel Railway, offering no more than was strictly necessary to allow the stone wagons and small industrial locomotives to squeeze between the bridge abutments. Driver Kenney immediately realised that the pistons or motion could strike the sleeping figure and cause a horrible injury.

‘Man on the line!’

The short train had just followed a straight run but then turned quite acutely to reveal the bridge set within a deepening cutting and the abandoned workings of a smaller quarry beyond. The upper branches of the trees that surrounded this sylvan setting were dappled with eastern sunlight, but the line itself was still cloaked in damp and pungent shadow. The men’s eyes were accustomed to these conditions, both expected this darkling vale that concealed rusting, rarely used sidings, and they were also familiar with the unofficial footpath across the tracks used by gamekeepers, track gangers and the occasional dog walker.

‘Drunk?’ asked Tunson, winding the handbrake on.

‘Is that Alby?’

Their questions came at the same time as Kenney and Tunson worked in unison. Kenney had the steam shut off and was preparing to ease the engine into reverse if, once the brakes bit harder, the train still refused to stop in time. Tunson was signalling to their guard at the back of the train to apply the brake in his van. Kenney sounded a couple of loud warning blasts on the engine whistle.

‘Alby! Mind yerself!’ Kenney shouted, as if the shrill screams of steam had not been ear-piercing enough. But the man did not stir. They had been proceeding with customary caution and so, thankfully, the train responded and gently eased to a halt just two feet from the outstretched arm.

‘Alby! Are you all right? What are you playing at, man?’ Albert Gudgeon, the platelayer who had tramped up and down the line for as long as anyone could remember, was such a familiar sight he was almost considered a fixture and fitting. Sober and slightly fastidious, he was certainly not likely to exhibit irresponsible behaviour. Kenney frowned with a mixture of consternation and puzzlement, barely taking his eyes off the figure as he dropped down on to the track bed and approached.

‘Come on, old fella. Had a few too many, have you?’ His voice was supposed to sound light and gently mocking, but he found it came out with an odd catch in his throat. He swallowed and found his mouth suddenly very dry, and realised that his heart was pounding.

‘He’s drunk! Must have been out all night, the old rascal!’ Tunson was leaning from the cab and laughing. Kenney made an impatient gesture with his hand, flapping it behind his back and urging Tunson to be quiet. He then crouched beside the man.

Tunson sensed there was something wrong and his tone of voice changed as he, too, dropped down front the locomotive, feet crunching on the mossy ballast. ‘What’s up?’

Kenney was shaking Albert gently by the shoulder. ‘Come along, wake up.’ He suddenly recoiled and lost his balance, quickly putting an arm behind himself to prevent toppling right over as the sleeping man’s head lolled to one side, his ancient, battered cap slipping to the ground.

Tunson was equally shocked. ‘Lord preserve us! Eh, what’s wrong with his eyes?’

The old platelayer was staring, wide-eyed as if surprised, towards the tree canopy. It was an unblinking, sightless stare from pupils dilated and dark. His mouth hung slack and a dribble of saliva had congealed in his beard. His skin was white and waxy, like that of a doll.

‘Tunson, fetch an ambulance, and be quick about it!’ Kenney scrabbled to his feet.

‘There’s no hurry. He’s dead as a flippin’ door nail.’ Kenney looked angrily at Tunson, stung by the harsh observation. He was about to offer an acerbic response, but reconsidered and slowly, sadly, nodded his head in reluctant agreement. ‘I think you’re right. God rest his soul.’ He let out a long breath, then knelt beside the body again. Slipping off a heavy glove, he rested the tips of the fingers of his left hand on Gudgeon’s outstretched wrist, gently cupping the limp limb in his right. He knew it was futile, but he felt he ought to try to find a pulse. He felt nothing. The guard suddenly appeared, panting, having run from his van. Kenney spoke to him gravely: ‘Get back up the line, man, and telephone for help. Tell them we need a doctor — and the police!’

* * * *

DCI Charles Vignoles and DS John Trinder were driving to the crime scene. Vignoles had, somewhat regretfully, agreed that using the new Rover was the only sensible option for the journey, as this splendid machine would not only get them there quicker, but could facilitate any subsequent enquiries they might need to make. Jumping a suitable train and arranging to be dropped off in a marshalling yard at the side of a busy mainline, then finding suitable motive power to haul them up the Mountsorrel branch, would take an absolute age to organise and valuable time would be lost.

DC Blencowe, who was a master of timetabling and could pull out an obscure working or connection from memory almost as well as Vignoles, had been emphatic. ‘No, sir, the car will be by far the better mode of transport. I’d not recommend the train in this instance.’

Vignoles was slowly accepting that motor-cars had much to commend them, even if he was both a railway detective and railway enthusiast, and the body in question lay beside a railway line. He just wished Trinder would stop sounding so darned excited about getting behind the wheel. The Rover was a recent addition, pushed through the April budget by Chief Superintendent Badger, who had secured for himself an exceedingly fine and expensive Jaguar at the same time. Their chief had been surprisingly profligate and enthusiastic about spending the department’s limited funds when it came to procuring these vehicles. Clearly, Badger had used all the charm and influence he could muster at the British Transport Executive HQ in Marylebone. He might be a fractious, nit-picking, terrier of a man, but he could schmooze his way around the corridors of power to get what he wanted if he set his mind to it.

And so it was that a remarkably cheerful DS John Trinder maintained an almost non-stop commentary on how smoothly the Rover ran as they motored south towards Swithland, frequently remarking on the ease of changing gear, the balance of the steering and how rapidly they were approaching their destination ‘without having to stand about on a draughty station waiting for a late train or connection’.

‘I hardly think draughty is the word you are looking for, sergeant. It is a glorious June morning.’ Vignoles deliberately chose the official form of address as a gentle rebuke. ‘A more perfect day for waiting on one or other of our fine little stations, I can hardly imagine.’ Vignoles knew he sounded pompous and regretted his choice of words. He was looking out of the side window at the lush fields and flower-strewn hedgerows of Leicestershire, unwilling to admit that bowling through the pretty East Midlands countryside was actually rather pleasing and, with the window partially open, he enjoyed the heady scent of meadowsweet and freshly mown grass. ‘We’re nearly there already. We’d still be messing around in that goods yard if we’d taken the train.’

Vignoles grunted and concentrated on pressing a chunk of aromatic tobacco into the beautifully smooth and polished wooden bowl of the pipe his wife Anna had given him one snowy Christmas; this always served to soothe his mind and organise his thoughts, and was good preparation for approaching a scene of crime for the first time. He needed to push aside all this silliness about railway detectives being driven about in softly sprung Rovers, and focus on the deadly serious matter that awaited them. They appeared to be taking a circuitous route down a narrow country lane. Vignoles was sure he could catch fleeting glimpses of sunlight sparkling on water through a copse of trees that lay ahead. ‘Do you know where we are, John?’ His voice had mellowed.

‘I have a pretty good idea of the lay of the land.’ Trinder’s voice tailed off as he changed down a gear. However, he now sounded less confident than a few minutes earlier. ‘I took a gander at the Ordnance Survey before we set off. I feel sure I can get us right up to the bridge, where the body was found. It’s just that, well, all the roads round here look the same.’ He frowned.

‘I’ve spotted the reservoir ahead, so we can’t be far off.’ Vignoles had also seen a white puff of exhaust and a flash of green engine pulling carmine-and-cream coaches across an embankment and a stone viaduct straddling the shining expanse of Swithland Reservoir.

‘Oh, I say, what’s up?’ Trinder double de-clutched and braked as they approached a group of people milling around at the point where the lane turned at a ninety-degree angle. Straight ahead lay a tree-lined avenue guarded by two wrought iron gates, drawn closed between tall stone pillars. In the far distance beyond, Vignoles and Trinder could just see the bulk of a large and rather severe-looking country house. The heat haze lent it a faint shimmer of pale blue.

‘What’s going on, John? This isn’t the crime scene, is it?’ An audience looking on was all they needed. The local constabulary (known to the railway police as ‘civvies’) should have moved everyone on, not let people gather to chat and pass the time of day or treat a serious incident as a fairground sideshow. It was typical of the civvies to allow this, thought Vignoles. As they slowed to a halt, he could see a portly constable with a florid face and a huge moustache in the thick of the group. He was standing in front of the gates and appeared to have been detailed to keep the gathering in some kind of order. Trinder pulled the car to the side of the road and wound his window right down and put his head out. The constable strode across to the Rover and wiped his brow with a handkerchief before rather casually resting a broad hand on the roof and leaning closer.

‘I’m afraid you cannot enter the estate, sir. I have strict orders, you see.’

‘We’re not seeking entry, constable,’ Trinder replied. ‘Is this Swithland Lane? We’re trying to find the bridge that crosses the quarry railway.’

A number of the onlookers turned briefly to see who was speaking, but they appeared uninterested in the black car and the two formally dressed men inside and returned to talking and pointing and peering down what was clearly the approach to a grand estate.

‘Ah, no, sir, but you’re not far off. You just keeps on around the corner and it’s a straight run up. Turn right at the junction and the little bridge is just a short way on. You’ll see it clear enough. You’ll be there in two minutes in this nice motor-car.’ The constable smiled.

‘We’re from the British Railways detective department, attending an incident on the Mountsorrel Railway.’

The constable’s face flickered with sudden recognition. Realising he had been too casual in his manner, he removed his arm from the roof of the Rover and straightened up. ‘Ah, the railway force. That’ll explain it.’ It was an ambiguous response, which perhaps implied that the activities of the railway police did not register too strongly on his radar. ‘I see, sir, but I wouldn’t know nothing about no incident on no railway. I’ve been here since six of the clock this morning, fulfilling my official duties as per constabulary instructions, and as such, was therefore, perforce unaware of anything that might — or might not — possibly have subsequently occurred contemporarily in the local vicinity, beyond what I can see with my eyes and hear with my ears, especially if such an incident, if incident there be, happened railway-wise.’ He paused. No further questions or elucidations followed from the detectives (who were trying to unpick his mangled sentence) and so he continued: ‘I’m here to see the demolition contractors safely in and out of the estate, and to keep this lovely lot at bay.’ He gave a wry smile, and his manner suggested that he was not expecting trouble. Indeed, his friendly manner implied that he probably knew all, or at least some, of the onlookers by name.

‘Then we’d better get on our way and not detain you further.’ Trinder peered around the bulk of the constable, trying to follow the sight lines of the people gathered around the huge and heavy gates that secured the entrance to the drive. ‘What’s drawing such an audience? Demolition, you say?’

‘They’re taking the roof off. Deliberately wrecking the place.’ The constable shook his head. ‘Stripping it, so’s the rain and wind will make the house tumble down into ruin. Crying shame, I say.’

A surly-faced man dressed in farm labourer’s clothes, with a face deeply lined and nut-brown from daily work outdoors, threw in his own observation: ‘Good riddance, more like! They should get out as fast as they can and never come back! Leeches, that’s what they are. Sod the bleedin’ lot of them!’ the man growled. ‘I’ve little enough now, and what help are they, eh? I don’t see them coming around, putting food on the table.’

‘Shame on you, Tommy Field.’ The constable turned and responded to the angry comment. ‘You and your dad, and your grand-daddy before, were thankful enough of the work the family provided. Your being out of work is just bad luck. Don’t forget that, ’til they hit hard times, they kept the likes of you in work. You shouldn’t be so hasty in wishing them gone.’ Whilst his riposte was firm, it was not spoken unkindly. He sounded like a man who knew the locals intimately and understood their individual circumstances.

Tommy Field spat on the dusty ground. ‘They’re barking mad an’ all. Mad as bloody hatters — especially that stuck-up old witch!’

‘Watch your lip, Tommy! I’ll not have you speaking about her ladyship like that.’

‘What house would that be?’ asked Trinder, peering along the avenue.

‘Buddon Hall. Home of Lord and Lady de Havering.’ The constable seemed to take some pride in speaking their names. ‘Leastways, it was their home until they fell on hard times. His lordship was killed, along with his son, in a motor-car accident. The family are stony-broke now, as a result.’ The unemployed labourer gave a snort of derision, clearly not sharing the constable’s definition of hard times. ‘Double death duties and then huge repair bills on top. No matter they own all this land and used to ride over it on their fine hunters every new year, chasing the foxes, and that they held grand balls and banquets the like as you and I have never seen, they’ve gone bust! It’s all over for the de Haverings. They have to wreck the big house to help settle the accounts.’ The constable frowned and shook his head as if in bewilderment, ‘Seems an odd way of doing things.’

‘Are they really stripping off the roof?’ Trinder was astounded.

‘Correct. There’ll be quite a bonfire these next few days and nights. It’ll be a grand sight, I suppose. I’m here to hold back the gawpers and anyone thinking they can walk off with something. The family auctioned most of their stuff last week, but I wouldn’t mind betting there’s still a few bits in there that people might like for themselves. And we can’t have these little ‘uns getting hurt, what with slates being thrown off the roof and great timbers being tossed to the ground.’ He pointed towards two excited young children, who were balancing on the lower rungs of one of the iron gates.

Trinder wondered whether to enquire why the children were not in school, but thought better of it and instead engaged gear and bade the constable good day. They had more urgent matters awaiting. Before the car pulled away, both detectives took a moment to study the people gathered at the gates. The group was a mixture of different ages, sexes and attitudes. Some looked thoughtful; others, puzzled, whilst still others, like the disgruntled Tommy Field with his strong opinions, scowled or laughed and looked as though they were enjoying the humiliation of the gentry, feelings no doubt fuelled by healthy doses of the contents of the bottles poking out of their jacket pockets.

A few minutes later the Rover pulled up behind a dark-blue-and-cream-painted ambulance and a smart, pale-green Standard Vanguard, both parked close to the stone parapet of a small road- bridge. A lazy trail of pale steam curled into the morning air, betraying the presence of a steam locomotive in the cutting below. Two bicycles leant against the parapet. As the detectives stepped out of the car — and adjusted their hats to a stylish ten degrees from level — a young constable, doubtless the owner of one of the bikes, approached them.

Trinder made the introductions with a cursory flash of his warrant badge, and the PC offered a quick salute and a ‘good morning’ in return, then ushered them towards a steep path cut into the grassy embankment leading down to the railway cutting. After hurriedly checking his notebook, the constable’s stubby fingers clumsily flipped through the pages, suggesting that he was nervous in the company of the respected detectives.

‘An older gentleman, identified as one Albert Gudgeon, age sixty-three, residing at 68 Danvers Road, Mountsorrel — that’s not far from here, sir. Worked as a ganger on the railway since he was sixteen. The two standing by the engine are Thomas Kenney, driver, and Joseph Tunson, the, er, firing man.’ Vignoles smiled at the constable’s stumble over the job title. ‘They found the deceased and have also identified the body, along with the guard, Derek Smyth. That’s with a ‘Y’, sir.’

Vignoles nodded acknowledgment of the constable’s succinct summary, then took a moment to assimilate the scene before drawing closer. He noted the little industrial engine with the open back and mentally ticked off Peckett, made in Bristol, probably early this century. He then took in the length of the train, its load of granite rock and the guard’s van, which he noted as being of some vintage and in desperate need of a repaint, the wooden planked side still bearing ghostly letters declaring that it had been owned by the LNER A plume of blue smoke issuing from the stovepipe chimney suggested that Guard Smyth — with a ‘Y’ — was brewing tea. The enginemen, smoking roll-ups in silence, leaned against the side of the loco.

He noted the slumped figure of a man at the base of the narrow stone bridge and a second uniformed civie standing a discreet distance away, arms clasped behind his back in the classic pose. He was probably the owner of the second bicycle. Two ambulancemen stood to one side, engaged in quiet conversation. A folding stretcher was laid on the ground close to where the well-worn path that Vignoles had just descended crossed the line. He wondered why, when there was a bridge adjacent, so many people had evidently made the more strenuous descent to cross the rails. Was it, perhaps, one of those ancient ‘rights of way’ that people were eager to maintain by usage. This was a trend presently sweeping Britain, with enthusiastic and vocal ramblers’ clubs forming in nearly every county.

Vignoles was heartened to see that the only person actively engaged in working on the crime scene was the doctor. Everyone else stood at a discreet distance, thereby not further damaging any possible clues in the area surrounding the body. The doctor wore a crisply-tailored, navy-blue blazer that offset a brilliant white shirt and a duck-egg-blue silk bow tie. His smart, grey trousers bore a sharply-pressed crease line. A flash of silver cufflink and the occasional glint from a wristwatch that looked like they might cost a railwayman his wages for a year completed the outfit. Looking more suited to a swanky cocktail party in one of the more salubrious parts of Leicester, he seemed incongruous in the narrow railway cutting. A black leather medical bag lay gaping open on the ground close by. Vignoles observed with admiration how methodical and careful the doctor was as he inspected the dead man’s fingernails with his latex-gloved hands and what pains he took to replace the arm in exactly the position it had been found. As he did so, the cutting resounded briefly to the sound of a pair of chattering jays that rivalled the medic in their extravagant plumage.

Sensing movement, the doctor turned to face them and, appreciating immediately that the all-important detectives had arrived, he stood up, rather stiffly, and flexed his shoulders before extending his hand, although not before quickly whipping off the glove. A nice touch.

‘Pleasure to meet you, gentlemen. The name’s Tomblin. I’m new to the area, working on commission with the Leicester Constabulary in the pathology lab. As soon as the local GP got wind of the situation I was asked to step in.’

Vignoles made the customary introductions and asked the doctor for his first impressions.

‘There are aspects I find somewhat intriguing. He’s been here only a few hours: my thermometer detected some degrees of warmth; and rigor mortis, as you probably observed in the flexing of his fingers and arm just now, has not yet taken hold. I will need to do more tests and give him a proper seeing-to on the slab, but in my estimation he died in the early hours of this morning. The young constable has informed me the body was discovered at approximately 7.50am by the enginemen. I hazard he died up to an hour before that.’

‘Probably on his way to work,’ observed Trinder. He, too, had noticed the well-used footpath.

‘He’s certainly dressed for it,’ Vignoles added. ‘We need to map his movements from the time he got up.’ Trinder made a note. ‘Do we have a cause of death, doctor?’

‘Well, I suspect that bottle contained poison.’ He pointed to the small glass item, which evidently had slipped from the dead man’s right hand. ‘If that is so, and until we can determine exactly what kind of poison, we must assume the worst and avoid any risk of skin contamination.’ Crouching beside the object in question he looked up at Vignoles and Trinder. ‘If what it held proves to be responsible for his death then, evidentially, it was something both effective and very potent. The engine driver touched the man’s wrist to try and find a pulse but he’s now washed his hands. So far, at least, he is presenting no reaction.’ The doctor slipped his glove back on and waggled a pale blue finger in their direction. ‘Now, gentlemen, I must insist you take great care and don’t let anybody touch anything.’

The detectives exchanged a glance and, ignoring their inclination to join the doctor close beside the body, peered at it from some feet away, bent at the middle, arms clasped safely behind their backs. Vignoles appreciated why the others present were keeping a healthy distance and showing no inclination to draw near. He briefly glanced back at the engine crew and noticed that the driver’s hands appeared to be glowing red, as if perhaps from a liberal application of scalding water.

‘What makes you suspect poison?’ Vignoles asked.

‘The dilation of the pupils is the immediate indicator,’ the doctor replied, smoothly. ‘You notice that he is lying in a relaxed, comfortable position, so I would deduce that he drank something that first knocked him out, followed by cardiac or respiratory arrest. The PM will hopefully determine which. I can find no obvious bruising or other marks that indicate he has been struck or manhandled, and there is nothing to suggest knife or bullet wounds.’

‘So we might be looking at suicide?’ enquired Trinder.

Vignoles observed the corpse for a few moments as he considered Trinder’s hypothesis, then gave a slight nod that suggested he agreed. He addressed the doctor. ‘If the poison had a strongly sedative effect it would be a relatively gentle way to go.’

‘I am inclined to think so. Sleep induced coma, then the body is shocked into a major organ failure. This may prove to be the sequence. He’s an older gentleman, and whilst at first glance in reasonable health and used to long days of hard graft, he would still react to something that might stop the heart. I am sorry to be so vague, but that is the best I can do for now.’

‘Can you rule out homicide?’ Vignoles asked.

‘I don’t favour it at this stage.’ It was the guarded response Vignoles had expected.

‘May I have a closer view of the bottle?’ Trinder asked. ‘I promise not to touch it.’

The doctor stood up and carefully cupped the small glass bottle in his gloved hands. It could hold about a quarter of a pint and was made from a greenish glass with a cork and ceramic stopper held in place by strong wire. This stopper had been popped open and hung to one side. There was a tiny residue of clear liquid that looked like water and the bottle was grubby and marked with fingerprints.

‘These prints might prove useful,’ Trinder observed. ‘If they are just his, that goes some way towards confirming suicide.’

‘I am doing my best not to smear any.’ The doctor was dangling the bottle by its cap, using the tips of his fingers. ‘The style of bottle suggests it originally held something bought from a chemist’s shop or hardware store. We need the liquid tested and identified as a priority, so I shall get the lab boys onto it forthwith.’

Vignoles nodded his approval. He took a step back and surveyed the scene again. The obvious interpretation was suicide by poisoning, and yet that was a hasty assumption based on few facts. He had a body he dare not inspect closely and an unknown liquid, presumed to be deadly poison, though that may lead them up a blind alley: it could just as easily be water.

‘Assuming the bottle contained a poison, and he drank it, do you think it was self-administered, Dr Tomblin?’

‘His mouth shows no signs of a bottle being forced against his lips or gums.’

Vignoles nodded and held his chin with his hand. He stared at the lifeless body, trying to imagine why he was lying in that particular spot at that particular time of day. There was, of course, no set time or place for someone to take their life, but experience told him it was more often at night, either behind closed doors or by a dramatic plunge off a bridge or a leap in front of a speeding train. This pleasant, rural location answered none of the more obvious choices. His detective instincts told him to question everything and take nothing at face value.

A suicide note would settle it,’ Trinder remarked. ‘In an outdoor setting, we often find it in the deceased’s pockets, which doubtless you have checked thoroughly.’ The doctor seemed to appreciate the compliment from the detective sergeant and his voice took a slight lift. ‘Indeed I have. We have some loose change, a packet of chewing gum, a pouch of rolling tobacco, cigarette papers and two keys threaded onto a piece of coarse string.’ He picked up a paper bag and handed it to Trinder, who peered inside and then extracted the string, which he held up, dangling the keys in the air. ‘However, as I started to examine the body, I also found this…’ Tomblin reached for a second envelope and passed it to Trinder. ‘It was lying just under his left arm. It looks fresh and I’d say it was dropped or placed there in the last few hours. Make of that what you will.’

Inside the envelope Trinder found a small spray of dog roses, the white petals bearing the slightest tinge of pink. They were still fresh, the stem cut cleanly as if with a sharp knife or scissors. He showed it to Vignoles. They exchanged glances, unsure what to make of it.

After a few moments, Vignoles weighed it up: ‘This could have been dropped from the bridge by a passer-by before Gudgeon sat down, or perhaps he had it with him.’ He felt he had gone as far as he could with that line of thought, and changed the subject. As soon as our photographer arrives and has done his work, you may arrange to have the body removed. When can you do the post-mortem?’ Vignoles handed the doctor one of his visiting cards, which bore his contact details.

‘As soon as I am able, chief inspector, although we do have rather a crowded mortuary at the present time.’ Tomblin gave an apologetic look. ‘This time of year always seems to induce foolish youths with too much liquor in their veins to jump into cold rivers — with dire consequences to their hearts. Added to which, there was a tragic house fire in Shepshed, with multiple deaths. Always tricky cases.’

He refrained from offering any further detail. ‘I shall send my report across as soon as possible, by Monday if I can.’ He tucked Vignoles’s card into the breast pocket of his tailored blazer, removed the stethoscope from around his neck, and concluded: ‘I’ve done all that I reasonably can here.’ He gave them a nod and turned away to start packing his leather bag.

Vignoles and Trinder walked across to the engine crew, who were still silently chain-smoking and looking pensive. Trinder made the introductions and noted that Kenney’s hand was still an angry shade of dark pink from the scalding water, though he seemed untroubled by it.

‘I heard the doctor say it was poison,’ Tunson chipped in excitedly. ‘My uncle uses that on the rats and got took really bad one time. Sick as a dog. We reckon he had it on his fingers and then rolled himself a ciggie and licked the paper and—’

Vignoles interrupted the younger man’s reminiscences. ‘Please describe the circumstances leading up to discovering the body. We need to know anything and everything, no matter how unimportant you may think it to be.’

Kenney shuffled his feet and took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘We were just taking ‘Elizabeth’ along, nice and steady, as these wagons have a liking for pushing you all the way down to the junction unless you take care.’ Vignoles took in the steep incline of the track. ‘Next thing I know, we come around the curve and I see Alby sitting by the bridge—’

‘We thought he’d been drinking,’ Tunson intercepted.

‘No, you thought he’d been drinking.’ Kenney waggled his head and screwed up a corner of his mouth. ‘I thought he was asleep.’

‘Same thing, if you’ve had a rough night!’

Kenney shot Tunson an admonishing look. This was no time for light-hearted quips. He turned back to Vignoles. ‘Everyone at the quarry knows Alby, God rest his soul.’ He removed his cap respectfully.

‘Were you surprised that he appeared to be sleeping by the railway?’ Trinder was interested in their interpretation of the situation.

‘Oh, aye. Never known him to do a thing like that. He weren’t a drinking man, neither: a glass of mild on Fridays and a celebratory pint if his top bird won, that was all.’ Kenney fiddled with his cap brim, wondering if it would be a faux pas to replace it on his head so soon.

‘His top bird?’ Trinder looked puzzled.

‘Yeah, pigeons. He raced them. Won prizes and made a few bob.’ Tunson nodded knowingly, with a hint of respect in his voice.

‘What was his job on the railway?’

‘Boy and man, he worked on this line,’ replied Kenney. ‘Always as a platelayer, though lately he’s been made up to ganger. Nigh on fifty years, I reckon. Must have known every bolt, fishplate and sleeper between Swithland and the quarry and beyond, over towards Barrow. Steady as a rock was Alby. Every day, wind, rain or snow. Never had a day off sick.’

Trinder gazed at the lightly-laid track, its sleepers almost buried in soft ash and dirty granite chippings. There appeared to be more ash than stone. Where the weeds and damp moss were at their thinnest, he could see the wooden sleepers were grey or green and heavily scored by deep fissures and cracks. The track did not look in good condition. ‘Doesn’t look like he ever replaced anything.’

Tunson grinned. ‘The company don’t spend money on things like that unless forced to. They just asked the old bugger to keep it bolted together best he could and pack more under the sleepers if it gets too bouncy.’ Kenney gave the fireman another disapproving look for the disrespectful epithet, but did not offer an alternative assessment of the company.

‘You saw him about, then, walking the line and such?’ Vignoles asked.

‘Aye, most mornings we see him about here on our first run,’ replied Kenney. ‘So I wasn’t surprised at seeing him, only that he’d taken to sitting dangerously close to the track. He lives at Mountsorrel. Just beyond the bridge are the old Nunckley Hill quarry workings. There are a couple of sidings. He keeps all his tools in a shed there and has a bothy where he can make a brew.’ Trinder wondered if one of the keys on the string was for the shed.

‘Where is Guard Smyth?’

‘Dunno, but he didn’t see anything, he was at the back of the train.’

‘Was the deceased married?’ Trinder asked.

‘Aye. Name of Florence. He’s got a lad and a lass, as well.’ Trinder made a note and his heart sank a little, as it always did when contemplating breaking terrible news to a family.

‘Did you see anyone else in the area as you brought your train to a halt?’ Vignoles asked.

‘I was concentrating on stopping the train, but I don’t recall anyone,’ Kenney replied. Tunson just shook his head.

‘Can you think of any reason for him to take his own life?’

‘His best bird came second in a recent race,’ Tunson suggested, brightly.

‘For God’s sake, Jos!’ Kenney looked disgustedly at his fireman. ‘He’d hardly kill himself over summat like that.’

The locomotive’s safety valve lifted at that moment in a sharp scream of steam that set the birds chattering and flapping from the trees. Tunson swung himself up onto the footplate and opened a valve, releasing a flow of water close to where Trinder was standing, the warm liquid splashing onto a rotting sleeper and ricocheting onto his brightly polished shoes.

‘I’d step away from there, sir. He’s putting the injector on.’ Kenney looked at Trinder, who hurriedly moved out of the firing line just in time, as the fireman opened a valve releasing a powerful jet of steam between Trinder and the driver. Tunson waggled a long metal lever backwards and forwards in the cab and, after a few curses and what sounded like a hammer hitting metal, the steam stopped and a gentle burbling sound started, accompanied by a few drops of steaming water as the injector pumped more cool water into the boiler.

‘She’s a foxy little thing! Needs a good thump every now and then to keep her in order.’ Tunson grinned wickedly from the cab. Kenney winced at the lad’s tasteless jollity.

Vignoles felt it made little sense to hold them there any longer. ‘You may take your train on down to Swithland when you’re ready. We shall be back in due course to take written statements, and get one from your guard. I take it you will all be working at the quarry today and tomorrow?’

‘Aye. We knock off by six, once we’ve put the engine to bed.’ Kenney looked relieved they could be getting on the move again.

Vignoles turned to Trinder. ‘We’ll take a quick look in his work shed, then we’d better get across to his family. Word travels quickly and it would be bad form for his wife to hear of this before we arrive.’

The stone-built store did not delay them long, revealing only the expected tools of a platelayer’s trade, stacks of spare sleeper chairs and wooden packing blocks and a few spare point lever handles. Two donkey jackets powdered grey with granite dust hung from the back of the door and a stack of yellowing newspapers stood in one corner. Nothing threw light on Gudgeon’s demise. The two detectives walked back and clambered up onto the road, Vignoles noticing that on the other side of the road the footpath entered the copse and struck off at an angle. Suddenly he saw someone standing amidst the trees: a woman, wearing a headscarf and a tweed jacket. He was tempted to hail her, but she was some distance away and partially screened by the trees. As he continued to look, she turned and walked away.

The young ciwie constable had accompanied them back to their car, and Trinder gave instructions for him to watch out for the arrival of the photographer. ‘Take the names and addresses of anyone who walks past. Ask them if they saw anything this morning. If they saw anyone else in the area, anything suspicious. Then do the same again tomorrow.’

‘Oh, and there was a woman in the woods just now. If you see her, make sure you ask if she saw anything,’ Vignoles added.

‘Righty-o, sir!’ The constable saluted.

Vignoles had been looking over the bridge’s parapet. ‘Tell me, Sergeant Trinder, what do you see when you look at the scene below?’

Trinder realised he was not asking him to identify the birds in the trees nor even to point out the squirrel that had just scampered up a trunk, although on another day Vignoles might do just that. ‘Well, guv, it’s a quiet and surprisingly secluded location, despite the road and railway. The trains pass at set times and I suspect they don’t run frequently, so it would be easy to come here and not see a train for some considerable time. Unless you stand as we are now, the view onto the railway is quite poor from the road and would flash by in a second if one was in a passing car.’

‘What else?’

‘In the time we’ve been here nobody has passed on foot and only one car has crossed the bridge, and that didn’t stop. So,’ Trinder paused and considered what it was he wanted to say, ‘someone familiar with the area would know exactly when to take poison and not be discovered until it was too late to save his life.’

‘Or, if someone wanted to kill him, they would know how long they might reasonably expect to remain unobserved.’

‘You think this is murder?’ Trinder looked surprised at the suggestion.

‘I’m keeping an open mind, but sense all is not quite as it seems,’ said Vignoles. ‘The poison was not administered by force, but if Gudgeon knew the killer and was relaxed in his company, he might drink it willingly, and indeed unwittingly.’

Trinder remembered the bottle and wrinkled his nose. ‘It looked unsanitary, and as if it contained something lethal. Surely he wouldn’t think it was gin or elderflower cordial and just swig it down?’ Vignoles smiled at Trinder’s choice of drinks. ‘Plus he hardly ever drank.’

‘Or so the engine driver claims.’ Vignoles lit his pipe and blew a smoke ring. ‘But he could be mistaken. Or deliberately misleading us.’

‘Surely you don’t suspect the driver?’

‘No. But people are not always what they seem, John. We could declare this a suicide and walk away, but at the very least we need to understand what drove him to it. That spray of dog roses puzzles me. I can’t see any growing in the immediate vicinity, although they’re common enough along the hedgerows. How did they come to be under Gudgeon’s arm? Did someone accidentally drop them over the parapet? I don’t think he collected them to give to his wife because he’d pick them on the way home, not on the way to work.’

Vignoles started walking towards the Rover. ‘Come along, John, it’s time to break the sad news to his family.’

* * * *

Danvers Road was easily found, thanks to the clear directions from the young constable, who also lived in the small township of Mountsorrel and was familiar with the address. Number 68 was one of a row of single-fronted, red-brick terraced houses that descended in steps, a pair of houses at a time, along the inclined street. Each house had a narrow front door and a neat bay window to the ground floor, and a generously proportioned bedroom window above. Rather curiously, each house was also provided with a second door, surmounted by a wooden grille, protecting a tunnel leading to the concealed backyards. All in all, it was a neat and attractive street, and, whilst the houses were modest in size, they were clearly a step above the typically cramped Victorian two-up-two-down type that could be seen lining so many streets across industrial Britain. The Gudgeons’ house had mid-green painted woodwork that matched most of its neighbours and was clearly kept in good order.

As was his custom, Vignoles held back and let Trinder knock on the door, which was soon opened by a short, grey-haired woman in a high-buttoned shirt with a cardigan over the top and a long woollen skirt, all of which looked too warm for the blossoming summer’s day. A comforting, domestic aroma wafted out from behind her. Boiling cabbage and a baking pie, perhaps.

‘Mrs Gudgeon?’ Trinder raised his hat and tried to keep his voice light and unthreatening.

‘If you’re here to sell me something then I’m not interested.’

‘No, nothing like that,’ Trinder reassured her. ‘We are railway police officers, and we are looking for Mrs Albert Gudgeon.’

‘Oh, dear Lord! Has there been an accident?’ She brought her hands to her face.

Trinder took a small step nearer and spoke quietly. ‘Could we please come inside, then we can explain everything.’

Ten minutes later Florence Gudgeon was sitting on an upright tapestry armchair in the cool and musty front parlour. A mug of sweetened tea was close by and a big fat ginger cat called Rogers lay purring on her lap. A damp handkerchief was balled in one hand whilst the other caressed the cat in an almost mechanical manner. The tears that had immediately followed the shocking news had now dried. Her eyes were red.

Having waited for her to regain her composure, the detectives started by gently enquiring about her family, establishing that there were two grown-up children, Julie and Paul, both of whom lived in neighbouring towns. When they asked about Albert, she spoke not of love or affection, but of her admiration for his work ethic.

‘He goes to work each day, regular as clockwork. In fact, people can set their clocks by his leaving the house. Never missed a day. Not one. Never been in any sort of trouble. He’s been a good husband, all in all.’ Vignoles was forming the opinion that no sinister motive could necessarily be inferred by her restraint; she was a reserved woman, uncomfortable with showing too much emotion, especially in front of two strange policemen.

Vignoles made a few more attempts to get her to open up, and from the scraps offered from the table of Mrs Gudgeon’s memory, they started to form a picture of an uneventful relationship that had settled into companionship based around honouring vows long since made at the altar. A quiet life built around learning to live and work together, but lacking in passion. Perhaps not so different from many other married couples who dutifully worked their entire lives to raise their children and keep a roof over their heads. It seemed improbable that a man like Alby Gudgeon would suddenly wish to end his life. Nor did there appear to be any reason why Florence should want to hurry her husband into the graveyard of St Peter’s Church.

Vignoles changed to a more direct tack. He needed something to work with and wanted to provoke a reaction. ‘I’m sorry to have to say this, Mrs Gudgeon, but there is a suspicion that your husband may have taken his own life by drinking poison.’

‘No, that’s impossible. It must have been an accident. Maybe someone had used a bottle for weed killer and not labelled it properly. They use that on the tracks, don’t they? But he’s usually so careful. Oh, the silly man!’ She sounded more annoyed than upset, and clumped a bundle of ginger fur in her hand. The old tomcat looked up with emerald green eyes as if questioning what he had done to deserve such treatment. She gave Rogers a weak smile and fondled its ears until a deep, rumbling purr recommenced.

Trinder had his own line of enquiry, and now felt the time was right. ‘Did your husband alter his daily routine recently?’

She looked puzzled. ‘Not that I noticed.’

‘Was he worried about anything? His health, for example, or some personal problem?’

‘No, I don’t think so. He was not much of a one for talking, mind. Alby was the quiet sort; kept things to himself. But he rarely saw a doctor and was quite a fit man, what with his job.’ Rogers looked up at her and she met his gaze. Trinder wondered if the cat was a more expressive communicator than her husband had ever been.

‘Did you — did he — have money problems?’ Trinder asked.

‘No. We aren’t rich but we manage. He never wasted money on drink or gambling and he never ran up debts. I told him when we were courting that I wouldn’t stand for that. Alby was a good provider. Our house may not be large, but you can see it is well furnished and maintained.’

‘I can see you are an excellent housewife,’ said Vignoles, giving a conciliatory smile. He had hoped that mounting gambling debts or some terrible illness might have offered them a quick explanation for suicide. ‘Did your husband have a fondness for wild roses?’

‘Roses? No; he was a vegetable man. Stuff for the cooking-pot was all he grew. Useful things. He Dug for Victory better than most during the war and just continued after. But what makes you ask about roses?’

Vignoles gently extracted the envelope and held the spray of dog roses between thumb and finger. ‘We found this underneath him where he lay. Maybe he picked them for you.’

Mrs Gudgeon shook her head. ‘He never brought me flowers, except on my birthday. He wasn’t the romantic type.’ She stifled a sob. The shocking reality was striking home. With glassy eyes, she stared at the roses for a few moments. Nobody spoke. Eventually she broke the silence. ‘Mind you, if we took a walk out on a Sunday in the country, he would point out and name the flowers, along with the shrubs and trees.’ Her voice softened. ‘I suppose, working outside all those years he just learned them. Yes, I suppose he quite liked a rose, but doesn’t everyone? I can’t see how they have anything to do with his death.’ Saying the word out loud caused her to break down and weep.

Mrs Gudgeon took a deep breath and continued. ‘He was a content man, happy just working on the railway, going with his chums to the pub on a Friday night for a glass of beer and spending evenings and weekends, happy as Larry, out in the yard with those birds.’ As the sentence closed her words became bitter.

‘His racing pigeons?’ Trinder had his notebook out, looking eager to find something, anything, to write down. The page was largely blank.

‘Yes. There are ten at present. But there have been scores over the years.’

‘You did not share his hobby?’

‘Good God, no!’ She darted Trinder an admonishing look. ‘Stupid, smelly things coo-cooing in their lofts all day long. Enough to drive you daft.’ She and the cat exchanged a knowing look. Was there a murderous glint in the cat’s eyes, shared by the old lady? Rogers looked too big and slow to offer much of a threat now, but the instinct of nature would not have deserted him.

‘His colleagues said he was quite successful racing them.’ Vignoles could not see how this was of relevance, but was running out of ideas to extract more from the deceased’s widow.

Florence Gudgeon almost puffed out her chest like a courting pigeon and her voice held a new note of pride.

‘Oh yes. He won a great many rosettes and cups for racing and breeding. The breeding made the most money. They can be quite valuable. A good racer commands a high price. Not that he made a King’s Ransom, you understand, but his hobby never ate into my housekeeping money.’ She might detest the birds, thought Vignoles, but their success reflected back on the family and she was happy to take satisfaction in that. Mrs Gudgeon had momentarily forgotten the terrible reason why they were gathered in the parlour but she jolted herself back to reality and once again fell silent and sipped her tea, visibly glad of the warmth and sugar.

Trinder’s bloodhound instinct was telling him that somewhere in this story of pigeons, pride and prize money might lie the answer to the mystery. ‘May we see the pigeons?’

‘If you want.’ Mrs Gudgeon gave a long sigh and gently eased the cat from her knee. ‘I suppose I will have to look after them from now on, anyway.’ She suddenly looked tired and older. ‘I’ll I get the boys to take them away.’

‘The boys?’ Vignoles queried.

‘The Mountsorrel Avian Racing Club. Alby called them ‘the boys’, but they’re all grown men.’ She took a few deep breaths to gather herself, then ushered them out and led the way through to the simple kitchen with its quarry-tiled floor. A meat and potato pie sat steaming on the scrubbed deal table, where it had been hurriedly placed when she went to answer the door. The delicious smell made Trinder’s stomach rumble.

The small garden was dominated by a large shed painted green and cream with a row of top opening windows along the longer side facing into a garden laid out as a substantial vegetable plot enlivened by a few straggly nasturtiums and a stand of blue delphiniums. The long run of windows had a deep sill both outside and inside, to aid the birds’ landing when they returned home. There was a door near the house bearing a heavy padlock securely fastening a heavy-duty bolt.

‘It’s always kept locked,’ said Mrs Gudgeon, working the lock with a key she had removed from on top of the outside kitchen door frame. A classic location that would fool few intruders, Trinder mused silently. Vignoles pulled out the pair of keys he had been handed by the doctor and saw instantly that the smaller one, which was bright with constant use, matched the grubbier spare opening the padlock. ‘You can walk straight through into the garden from the street by going through the tunnel, so we slide the bolt across at night.’

As the door swung open, their nostrils were assaulted by warm air and the acid tang of bird droppings, sawdust and pitch pine. As they stood in the doorway, a gentle cooing and shuffling of small feet was audible. There was a great bank of wooden boxes to the right, each with wire mesh doors to the front. There were six boxes to each row and three rows in total. A wooden workbench lay beneath the length of the windows on the left. Some of the windows were propped slightly open by metal supports that could be locked in place at different heights, presumably to allow ventilation or left wide enough for a returning bird to enter the loft. The far wall was almost completely covered in yellowing newspaper cuttings pasted onto the wooden planking and a couple of curling press photographs pinned on top showing an unsmiling Albert Gudgeon holding a pigeon or a small trophy. Most impressive was a riot of rosettes in red, blue, purple and green, each with silver and gold paper labels declaring ‘Winner’, ‘Supreme Champion’ or ‘Runner Up’. A number of small trophies in varying stages of purple-black tarnish stood on a narrow shelf just below the sloping roof. There was a rag rug on the floor, a high wooden stool, a battered but comfy-looking armchair that had seen far better days and a small paraffin stove. It looked the perfect retreat for a hard-working man. Whilst Vignoles had no interest in pigeons, and indeed detested the feral city variety, he could nonetheless appreciate that this was a lovingly crafted space, built with care and precision and kitted out to exactly serve the needs of a simple man with dedication to his hobby.

Vignoles stepped inside, feeling as though he was intruding, entering unbidden into another man’s private world, in his absence and without his permission. Trinder followed, but Mrs Gudgeon resolutely remained at the doorway.

He surveyed the rows of birds in their cages, heads bobbing and cocking to one side, each pigeon curiously observing him, one beady eye at a time.

All except one.

He felt the hairs on the nape of his neck bristle. ‘What’s wrong with this one? Is it dead?’ The bird was on its back, wings folded tidily against its body, eyelids closed. There was little doubt it was dead as this was not a position a living pigeon would ever choose to adopt. Just as with Gudgeon, this appeared to have been a peaceful passing. Ginger Rogers could not be held responsible, for it had not died a violent death and the cage door was still closed and hooked shut.

‘It looks as though the bird has been carefully placed,’ said Trinder to Mrs Gudgeon, as he peered closer at the corpse. ‘I reckon Mr Gudgeon laid it out.’

Mrs Gudgeon shook her head, then rubbed her forehead, looking troubled. ‘If they fall ill or are injured, Alby puts them out of their misery at once. He wrings their necks, then always disposes of them immediately. He wouldn’t leave one lying about.’ She remained reluctant to step inside the loft. ‘Which one is it?’

Vignoles noticed the little cardboard labels pinned above each cage door. They had been cut into precise rectangles and neatly lettered with a succession of flamboyant names. He read out some of them softly, ‘Wellington, Winter King, Howgate Wonder, Red Sentinel. The dead bird is called Isabella.’

‘Oh. She was his favourite: she won the most races. Though she did come second last time.’ Mrs Gudgeon shook her head sadly. ‘He must have been so upset.’

Trinder looked at the old lady. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you at this difficult time, but do you think he could have been sufficiently upset to take his life?’

Mrs Gudgeon shook her head. ‘No, he’s not that daft. He’d be sad, of course, but he’d just get on with finding his next champion. She’s about the fifth or sixth Isabella. He always gave that name to his best one — if it’s female.’ She managed a short, forced laugh. ‘He’d call her his “darling Isabella”.’ She spoke the words with a hint of sarcasm. Vignoles and Trinder exchanged looks. For a brief moment they both thought they had an answer to the puzzle.

‘Did your husband look in on the birds before going to work?’ Vignoles asked.

‘Always.’

‘Then he knew Isabella was dead this morning?’

‘I suppose he must.’

‘Was anyone else here?’ Trinder asked, ‘this morning, or last night?’

‘I am quite sure there wasn’t. I was in the kitchen and would have heard voices. Alby tells me if one of the boys is visiting. Anyway, with their big, clumping feet I always knew they were here without seeing them.’

Vignoles nodded. He looked around the loft. It had not been forcibly entered. Yellowing pages of the Leicester Mercury were spread open on the bench, the paper marked with tea rings and scatterings of birdseed and sawdust on top. The crossword had been partially filled in with some scribbled ideas for solutions inked into the margin. Many were crossed out. Tiny pliers lay alongside soft metal strips painted in different colours and bearing serial numbers, clearly these were the rings placed around each bird’s feet. A mug with the dregs of cold tea stood on a well-thumbed booklet about pigeon breeding and a tatty copy of a lurid pulp fiction crime novel lay discarded. Vignoles shrugged his shoulders and, with one last look around, decided there was nothing to detain them longer. They offered to leave via the tunnel and so not re-enter the house, but just as Vignoles was turning to followTrinder, he suddenly stopped and asked the old lady when the pigeon boys would take the birds away.’

‘This evening, maybe.’ Her voice was flat and drained of energy. The adrenaline rush of the shocking news was receding and the crushing reality of her loss was starting to take hold. She looked frail and fragile. ‘This has been such a shock.’

‘Forgive me for mentioning this, but if the birds have monetary value, then you should get recompense, so don’t do anything hasty. Perhaps your son can advise you.’

‘Oh, dear. Of course, I’m going to have to tell Julie and Paul about their father!’ Her eyes filled once again with tears.

‘I’m so very sorry for your loss, Mrs Gudgeon. Just one last thing and then we will leave you in peace. I want the police doctor to examine Isabella, and will arrange for her to be collected today. Meanwhile, until we know how the bird died, do not touch it or let anyone else near it. Lock this loft and keep the key in your pocket.’

* * * *

Some hours had passed since Vignoles and Trinder were sitting down to breakfast with their wives. They were in dire need of refreshment, nourishment, and a chance to phone the station. The Waterside Inn was a delightful seventeenth century establishment placed beside a set of lock gates on the far side of a small island formed by the original, meandering course of the River Soar, which tumbled noisily over a man-made weir and along a newer route with lock gates that had been cut as a deeper bypass for river traffic. Trinder ordered lunch whilst Vignoles used the bar telephone to call the office and arrange for

Dr Tomblin to collect the dead bird. A grubby British Waterways boat towing a tender laden with pond weed and stinking mud was working its way through the lock as the two men took their seats in the sun in the pub garden. A thickly cut ham and mustard sandwich and a pint of foaming Everard’s bitter felt richly deserved. Both took a moment to sample the beer and watch the men working on the boat.

‘I am most curious to hear from the doctor about how that bird died,’ said Trinder, intrigued at this development.

Vignoles savoured the hops as he formulated a reply. ‘If it died naturally, Gudgeon would have removed it when he saw it that morning — assuming he noticed, of course. It looked staged the way it was laid out so reverentially, which suggests a deliberate act. But I’m darned if I know how it ties in with his own death. Would a jealous rival kill a champion pigeon? Surely he would steal it, re-label it and race it. Or demand a ransom. Killing the bird renders it valueless.’ Vignoles took a bite of sandwich and fell silent.

Trinder stared into his pint for inspiration. Then he bit hungrily into his own sandwich and chewed things over. After a few minutes’ silence he mused aloud: ‘If suicide, he could have poisoned the bird, and then himself. If murder, a jealous rival killed the bird, and then killed him.’

Vignoles drank some beer and blew out air from his lungs in a long sigh. ‘If a man like that was going to commit suicide, he’d drink the poison in his pigeon loft. He had complete privacy there each morning, whilst his wife was busy in the house with her usual chores. Why go to work and do it? If he was murdered, then it was by someone he knew, someone he was comfortable with, and who induced him to drink from that bottle.’

‘But at 6am surely he’s going to want a cuppa. I can’t see him uncorking a bottle of something mysterious and repulsive-looking! Someone must have persuaded — or coerced — him.’

Tutting to one side for a moment how he was induced to swallow the stuff, murder also needs motive, and I can’t see one.’ Vignoles drained his pint and remarked, ‘We need more beer.’

Trinder went back inside to replenish their pints, leaving his boss to watch as the lock gates swung slowly open, pushed by a man with a red-and-white polka dot scarf around his neck and a shapeless cap on his black, curly hair. He looked like someone who’d stepped out of a different age. The weir tumbled and roared in the background. When Trinder had returned with fresh pints, Vignoles took a sip and asked: ‘Give me one good reason why someone would want to kill an inoffensive railwayman and one of his pigeons.’

‘Well, I can give you the usual four: money, jealousy, passion, hatred. Then there’s political motives and espionage, but I think we can discount both of those!’ Trinder sipped his beer then wiped foam from his narrow moustache.

‘I can’t see the platelayer as a secret agent, and as for money, well, he certainly didn’t earn it on the railway. Find out how much the birds are worth and what kind of winnings he made.’

‘Righty-o.’ Trinder made a note, and added to it: Bank or savings account? ‘Could he have been swindling in some way? Hmmm, I’ll quiz the racing club members.’

Vignoles watched as a pair of mallards described an elegant circle in the air then dropped their feet and wildly back-flapped their wings as they touched the surface of the Soar before almost water-skiing to rest in a pleasing plashing of water. ‘That leaves crimes of passion.’ He raised an eyebrow and looked at Trinder.

‘He does not strike me as the kind of man someone would hate so much, or be so jealous of, that they’d kill him.’ Trinder paused. ‘The roses hint at something romantic. Although old, he was hardly decrepit; he was able-bodied and quite healthy. Jealousy and resentment can brew for years. Perhaps a wild past finally caught up on him. Maybe someone has been nursing bitter hatred and came to reap vengeance.’

Vignoles said nothing until he finished demolishing the stub of his sandwich. ‘There is a curious appeal to your story, John, but old Gudgeon the pigeon fancier turning out to be a prize womaniser and having a death sentence hanging over his head like the Sword of Damocles? And that still leaves the knotty issue of how he was duped into swallowing poison.’ Vignoles lit his pipe and leaned back in his wooden chair. ‘We’ll have to put in some ground work and reconvene. You can interview his work colleagues and the pigeon boys, and girls, if there are any—do women race pigeons? And don’t forget his son and daughter. Someone must know something. And keep an open mind on the idea of a jealous husband with malicious intent towards a philandering platelayer.’

Trinder was facing the road, and he looked up from his written list of jobs to do just as a Standard Vanguard pulled to a halt in a haze of dust and the gentle patter of gravel kicked up by the tyres. The dapper doctor stepped out of the vehicle and quickly scanned the area before walking briskly in their direction.

‘Afternoon gentlemen! Got your message and motored straight over to the dead man’s home, as I could not risk anyone tampering with that pigeon.’ He nodded politely to both men, and as he took a seat at their table extracted an envelope from his inside pocket. ‘I gave the bird an initial once-over on site to see if there was anything that caught my eye, and something did.’ He pulled on latex gloves as he spoke, remarking, ‘Can’t be too careful.’ He opened the envelope and, with a pair of tweezers, extracted a tiny curl of paper. ‘This was rolled up tightly and inserted in the bird’s beak. Pushed quite some way in. The casual observer may not have noticed.’ It was a generous excuse for Vignoles and Trinder having not discovered it earlier.

The pair leaned closer as the doctor carefully unrolled the paper. In small and yet immaculate copperplate was written Fare-thee-well.

‘What do you make of that, gents?’

‘A suicide note — of sorts?’ suggested Trinder. There was a new sense of mystery starting to creep into the investigation and this was something the detective sergeant relished.

‘What man says goodbye to his favourite pigeon but not to his wife and children?’ asked Vignoles, intrigued.

‘I thought it essential to get it across to you tout de suite.’ The doctor looked quietly chuffed at the impact his discovery had made. ‘I shall leave it with you.’ He flopped a spare pair of gloves on the table and grinned. ‘Wear them or use tweezers.’

‘Surely that cannot be Gudgeon’s writing?’ Vignoles was still staring at the note with a puzzled expression. ‘This has been snipped from a larger document. The edges are trimmed neatly although not exactly parallel, and cropped close to the words. It would be devilishly hard to write that fine, copperplate script onto such a tiny sliver of paper. Far easier to cut it down afterwards.’

‘The paper looks good stock,’ Dr Tomblin added, sharing the DCI’s interest. ‘A little mystery to discuss over your pints.’ He carefully let the note curl back into a tube, popped it in the envelope and passed it to Vignoles. He was in his car and away in moments.

‘That puts the metaphorical cat — if not quite the fat, ginger one — among the pigeons.’ Vignoles pocketed the envelope. ‘If Gudgeon didn’t write this, who did?’

‘His killer.’ Trinder lit a Black Cat cigarette and smoked it thoughtfully. ‘Who also left the roses.’

‘You’re now warming to the idea of murder?’

Trinder blew smoke from his mouth slowly. ‘I am.’

‘But let’s not lose sight of the fact that a suicidal man might do all manner of odd things in the time leading to the final act, including cutting out a piece of paper and stuffing it down a bird’s beak. If we could find the original from which this was cut it might offer some explanation. Drink up. We need to get to work!’

Trinder was feeling excited. He knew this meant a few more journeys behind the wheel of the Rover.

* * * *

It was late Monday morning and Vignoles was puffing thoughtfully on his pipe as he climbed the steps from the booking hall and strode along the generously broad island platform of Leicester Central station. He planned to meet Trinder to review the progress of the case.

He pushed open the door into the British Railways detective department office, only to have his plan of action for the remainder of the day immediately thrown into jeopardy by the familiar, tell-tale warning signals from Mrs Mavis Green, his secretary. She was seated imperiously behind her Imperial typewriter (both slightly forbidding sights) and both forming effective gate guardians to the inner sanctum of the offices beyond.

She was waggling a finger in the air as her shocking red, lipsticked mouth silently formed the word ‘Badger’, eyes rolling melodramatically towards the closed door of his office. He groaned inwardly and gritted his teeth tighter on the stem of his pipe. That was all he needed. Vignoles noticed that his detective team were all studiously beavering away in unnaturally silent application at whatever lay on their desks, as schoolboys do when a strict headmaster is prowling the corridors.

He hung up his hat and slipped off his light rain mac, buying a few precious moments to order his thoughts about the Gudgeon affair. He’d just returned from a meeting with the coroner, who was also eagerly waiting for him to offer her direction on whether this was a suicide, homicide or death by misadventure, so he was at least well prepared for the Chief Superintendent Badger’s surprise visit.

Dame Petronella Parnel QC had telephoned Vignoles first thing that morning to summon him to her chambers, preferring to meet face to face ‘because that way I can look you in the eye and tell if you are trying to sell me a pup!’ It had been a good-natured quip, but many a truth lay in jest.

Fortunately, Dame Petronella was one of the slightly less stuffy coroners Vignoles had to deal with and she also served a superb cup of coffee, brewed in a genuine Italian cafetiere, and which she insisted was served in delicate cups accompanied by stem ginger spiced biscuits. Nonetheless, she was a stickler for detail and had quietly but no less emphatically complained that she needed Vignoles ‘to put more flesh on the bones of the case’ before she could consider ordering an inquest. Vignoles had explained that until the pathology lab boys declared their hand, they were in limbo. The conscientious Dr Tomblin had already telephoned Vignoles at his home on the dot of 7am, advising him that the PM would not start until midmorning because the pressing (and somewhat depressing) backlog previously mentioned had ensured that a presumed suicide could not command top priority.

Dame Petronella graciously accepted this situation, although with a pointed comment about doctors and their distaste for weekend working that was not flattering to Tomblin. The intriguing note stuffed in the bird’s beak piqued her imagination and made her lean towards the view that it pointed to a man of unsound mind and could constitute a suicide note. She had been dismissive about the sprig of wild roses. As it stood, unless Vignoles or Tomblin could convince her to the contrary, or the evidence presented at the inquest proved otherwise, she was minded to return a verdict of suicide.

Badger put his opinion bluntly: ‘I’ll give you until Friday to make your mind up.’ He sniffed, an annoying habit he often deployed to express displeasure, as he sat to one side of Vignoles’s desk. His little moustache twitched.

‘Lean on that doctor and tell him to jolly well pull his finger out and get you the gen by lunchtime. Come to think of it, I’ll give him a roasting myself!’ Vignoles silently groaned, knowing that the more-than-helpful doctor would not take kindly to being unduly harangued by the irascible Badger.

‘You don’t have to turn everything into a murder mystery! This Sturgeon, Bludgeon, Curmudgeon fellow was probably sick of his dull life, mending the same bit of railway track and talking to pigeons. You can’t blame him for wanting to throw in the towel.’ It was another of Badger’s typically brutal assessments. ‘He swallowed rat poison. No mystery to solve.’ He slapped the palm of his hand on his desk and stood up. This was a promising sign that the meeting was about to end. ‘That note you found in the bird confirms it. Farewell, and goodbye to all that.’ He swept up his peaked uniform cap and leather driving gloves. ‘So it’s suicide, or “misadventure”, if her ladyship wants to be sympathetic to the family.’ With a curt goodbye, Badger strode out of the office and could be heard moments later barking down the telephone at some poor receptionist in the Leicester Constabulary pathology lab.

The annoying thing about Badger was that, for all his bull and bluster, he was a perceptive copper and Vignoles suspected he was correct: perhaps he was overcomplicating the case. He spun around on his swivel chair and watched the pleasing bustle of activity on the platform outside as a Manchester-bound train pulled to a halt with a squeal of brakes. Doors slammed and feet pounded on the hard platform surface and a porter wheeled a trolley laden with suitcases for a smartly dressed lady. It was a scene played out countless times but one which he never tired of watching, despite the fact that everything was more or less the same every day. The regular comings and goings of the station helped bring a sense of order and continuity to his world.

But was it really like that? Superficially, everything looked as it should and the people of the station appeared tolerably happy, but who really knew what was going on in the minds of the passengers and porters moving about outside his window? Was that slim gentleman in the bowler hat and furled umbrella really thinking about his cotton stocks as he strode purposefully towards the train, or was it a charade, hiding a troubled soul contemplating swallowing a jar of pills and a bottle of whiskey in a Manchester hotel tonight?

Aware that Badger had left the building, Vignoles flipped a switch on the new-fangled intercom which had replaced the brass bell and cord that had once jangled to act as a summoning call to those in the bigger office. He asked Trinder to join him. They’d managed a quick conversation first thing that morning and Vignoles had hurriedly scanned the various interviews and reports in advance of his summons to see the QC, but he now wanted to talk everything over. He asked Trinder to take a seat and recap on progress.

Trinder explained that on Friday afternoon and evening and again all day Saturday, Blencowe, Howerth and three more uniformed constables under his direction had interviewed as many men as they could find who worked at the quarry and along its extensive private railway system. Their task had been hampered by the Saturday shift patterns, but, after much footslog and door knocking, they had spoken to enough taciturn quarry workers to last them a lifetime. Each who professed to know Gudgeon said much the same: he was a quiet, diligent, reliable, family man; not much of a talker, but ‘friendly enough’. He’d smoke the odd fag, read the local paper over his snap (that seemed to consist of the same fish paste sandwiches every day) and he might exchange an observation about pigeons. He had no enemies and no women in his life apart from family. He was not a man to make tittle-tattle, let alone be the subject of any. Trinder could not find a shred of motive for murder or suicide.

Vignoles tossed most of the typed-up statements aside, leaving one, which he tapped with the stem of his pipe. ‘I see his railway is threatened with closure.’

‘Only part of it, sir. William Notton, foreman of works at the quarry, advised me that the Mountsorrel railway running from the quarry down to Swithland—’

‘That’s the section Gudgeon worked?’ interrupted Vignoles, to clarify.

‘Correct, guv. It is that part likely to be closed, perhaps by Christmas. They will send all the stone out along the other railway connection which goes north-east to the former Midland line at Barrow on Soar. Notton says it makes sense to concentrate on just the one rail link.’

‘Would Gudgeon be out of a job? That could tip a man over the edge.’

‘Not necessarily. Notton said Gudgeon would be shifted across to the other part of the line and work out his short time until retirement. The company hadn’t made the final decision on closure and so this was not guaranteed, but he felt reasonably confident.’

‘Had Notton told Gudgeon that his job would be safe?’

‘I think it was all still up in the air. Lowly workers don’t get invited to such discussions.’

‘Indeed not. If Gudgeon got wind of the closure and was given no reassurance, and the rumours started spreading about redundancies, then he could have been harbouring anxiety about his future. But surely not enough to choose suicide.’ Trinder nodded agreement. ‘Anything else?’

Trinder handed over another sheaf of interview papers. He explained that the members of the Mountsorrel Avian Racing Club had been interviewed by WDCs Benson and Lansdowne on Saturday evening, at the usual weekly meeting. ‘The news of his death appeared to hit them hard and the atmosphere was sombre, much as you might expect.’ Trinder explained how the women had interviewed all the ‘pigeon boys’, and in particular Desmond Crawley, the club secretary, who had freely admitted he’d sold Gudgeon a measure of rat poison only three months earlier. Gudgeon used the same old ceramic-capped bottle for this purpose for years and it matched the description of the one found beside his body. Rats were a menace and club members communally bought a large flask of the liquid from their funds and doled it out as needed. ‘Crawley maintained meticulous records of all transactions, and the chemist in Rothley who supplied the poison has his own paperwork. Benson will speak with him today.’ Trinder clearly felt this line of enquiry was closed. One interesting fact that came to light was that Gudgeon was more active and talkative when in the company of his fellow pigeon fanciers, and had even been chairman for a number of years during the war. His horizons expanded when he took his turn to accompany the pigeons in special vans on the mainline railway. These were filled with wicker baskets of homing birds then hauled away on a trip to some distant, pre-arranged location, for release in one of their competitions.

Vignoles was aware of these interesting and attractive railway vehicles, which were often seen attached to the rear of a fast passenger train or formed into their own ‘pigeon specials’. In the old days of the London and North Eastern, they had been decorated in varnished teak with gilt lettering and had white painted roofs and narrow slit windows through which could be heard the gentle, soothing sound of pigeon calls. He thought the vans elegant and yet faintly mysterious, although most now bore the carmine-and-cream that was in vogue. Pigeon racing might be a curious way to spend one’s time, but it clearly paid well and the vans were maintained to a high standard by the railway.

‘The away trips appear to be quite jolly affairs,’ observed Trinder. ‘Two or three club members stayed in the vans with the birds the whole time, having a thoroughly good time, bantering, eating sandwiches, drinking bottled beer and reading the sporting pages or pigeon racing journals. When they reached the release destinations and the birds were set loose, they caught the next train back in order to await the birds’ homecoming.

‘There was one anomaly the girls picked up. Crawley said that the pigeon club meetings ran from seven until ten, and for years Gudgeon always turned up at seven on the dot. But three months ago he started to arrive at every alternate meeting at eight o’clock. No explanation was offered and everyone just accepted that, for some reason, every other Saturday he’d be an hour late.’

Vignoles chewed this over for a while. ‘We’ll ask his widow if he left home at the same time each Saturday. If he did do then there is a missing hour to account for.’

‘I looked into his Post Office savings account, guv, but with little more than seventeen pounds inside, which I am guessing he has saved from the occasional prize money, there’s nothing to set alarm bells ringing. Nor was he being blackmailed, or blackmailing anyone, judging by the small amounts deposited and withdrawn over the past year.’

‘Did Howerth question anyone passing the crime scene?’

‘Yes, he covered Sunday and the ciwie constable did Saturday. I have their reports here. Don’t hold your breath: there’s nothing of interest.’

Vignoles scanned them quickly and agreed. A horse rider, three dog walkers and a party of cyclists from Loughborough numbered amongst the uninspiring collection. One of the local farmers had stopped by to enquire what was going on but the tweedy woman he’d seen in the woods had not returned. He put the reports aside. His tummy rumbled, so he decided they should repair to the Great Central Hotel for lunch, but just as he was about to make the suggestion, the telephone on his desk jangled into life.

‘Chief Inspector Vignoles. Glad I don’t need to wear earplugs when speaking with your good self.’ Dr Tomblin’s humour was droll, clearly he was referring to Badger.

‘I’m sorry about that, but my super took it upon himself to place the call against my better judgement. I knew you were up against it.’

‘Apology accepted.’ The doctor at least managed a chuckle. ‘As it happens I feel somewhat chastened: I’ve got some rather important information that will change everything. I regret you did not have this earlier. All of which goes some way towards mitigating having a strip torn off me earlier.’

‘I’m all ears,’ said Vignoles, intrigued. For Trinder’s benefit, he flipped a switch on the intercom which allowed incoming calls to be broadcast through the small speaker. Trinder sat quietly on the other side of the desk, smoking a Black Cat. He leaned in closer to the black Bakelite machine.

‘My initial inspection of the deceased was perforce not thorough, given that he was fully clothed and in an awkward situation. I was also hampered by concerns over possible contamination. The evidence pointed to the toxic substance in the bottle. However,’ Tomblin’s voice changed note, ‘once I got him in the buff and on the slab under a good light, I could make a thorough examination and I can now say for sure that he did not die by ingesting poison. He died thanks to a hypodermic needle penetrating his heart and administering a lethal dose of a powerful sedative. My guess is, something morphine based, and a dose strong enough to knock out a cow.’ He fell silent, in the anticipation of savouring the effect this dramatic news would have on Vignoles. He was not disappointed.

Vignoles took a sharp intake of breath. ‘My goodness! I did not expect that, doctor. We found no needle or syringe near the body.’

‘He would have slumped into unconsciousness within moments, with death following almost instantly. I doubt he would have time or strength to fling the syringe aside, which strongly suggests that it was not self-administered. The killer took the needle away with him. Or her, of course.’

‘So it was murder, but staged to look like he’d drunk poison.’

‘It was a neat job. The killer slid the needle between the openings of his shirt. He has thick chest hair, so the entry wound of a sharp needle was perfectly concealed. He died so quickly that there would have been next to no bleeding from this tiniest of wounds. My guess is the killer had a cloth handy to mop any leakage and wipe the skin clean, then straightened the shirt and composed the slumped body to look as we found it. It would take little more than a minute. The killer would have to be standing close to the victim. There is nothing to suggest that the deceased tried to defend himself in any way, so he must have felt comfortable with such proximity and indeed remained unsuspecting of any attempt to wound him until the last moment. The perpetrator had just one chance at this, and judged it perfectly.’

Vignoles looked across the desk at Trinder, who appeared equally astonished at this news. ‘And the pigeon?’

‘Next on my list. I felt you needed to hear about this as soon as possible, but my hunch is the bird could well have gone the same way. Finding a needle prick under the feathers will take time, but it would only need a very tiny amount of this stuff to kill it.’

After thanking the doctor, Vignoles replaced the receiver and began to fill his pipe with tobacco. ‘So, our assailant carried a spray of dog roses in one hand and a syringe charged with deadly liquid in the other. Who would be able to get so physically close to him with his assent?’ A man doesn’t generally let another man, even a colleague or fellow pigeon enthusiast, come close enough to push a needle into his chest. It has to be a woman, guv. Almost all murders committed by women are domestic ones, and so we start with his widow and daughter.’

With that, the pair left Leicester Central and took the Rover on a seven-mile journey to 68 Danvers Road, Mountsorrel.

* * * *

After being shown once again into the unwelcoming parlour by Mrs Gudgeon, Vignoles and Trinder were introduced to her married daughter, Julie Fordson. She was a solidly built and practical looking woman in her early forties. Her rather heavy-set, rounded face looked like it would more usually wear a smile. She looked suited to her job as a junior school teacher in Barrow on Soar, and brought with her a strong smell of detergent, boiling water and hot rubber hosepipe, explaining that she was there to help her grieving mother with the washing and other chores, having been given a few days compassionate leave. Julie seemed eager to talk about anything other than why the two detectives were there, chattering away nervously as she enthusiastically extolled the virtues of the Hoover washing machine that her mother had taken delivery of a year back, and which was still a source of family pride.

Vignoles uttered a few words of condolence that were well received, though they could do little to lift the sense of loss and bewilderment that almost palpably filled the house. During all this time Mrs Gudgeon sat quietly with hands folded in her lap, with a slight nod of the head or twitch to the corners of her mouth to acknowledge the kindly meant words. She looked tired.

‘I have news of a development. It is only fair to warn you it’s a rather startling one.’ The two women sat upright in the uncomfortable chairs on either side of the empty grate and looked nervously expectant. Trinder stood, notebook open and pencil poised, his eyes alert. ‘We have compelling evidence that Mr Gudgeon was murdered.’

The two women stared back, uncomprehendingly. The older one blanched visibly. The mantel clock marked time with a portentous tick-tock and the room seemed to grow colder. ‘I am not yet at liberty to disclose the exact details, but it was carefully done and had nothing to do with poison. If it is any consolation, it would have been swift and painless.’

‘Murdered?’ Mrs Gudgeon was rubbing her face with her hands as if this might aid understanding. ‘You mean he was robbed or something?’

‘But mum, he had nothing anyone could take. Apart from his life.’Julie’s observation was bleakly accurate.

‘We don’t have any reason to believe it was robbery. Can either of you think of anyone who would want your husband out of the way, or any reason why anyone would?’

‘Of course not! He never hurt a fly!’ Julie snapped. ‘You must have made a mistake.’

‘With respect, someone made a carefully premeditated decision to end Mr Gudgeon’s life.’ Vignoles wondered if Julie had been a little too quick to deny their version of events. She was one of the few people who could get close enough to Gudgeon, behind the pretence of an affectionate hug, to give him a jab with a needle. ‘Did you have a good relationship with your father?’

She looked aghast. ‘He was my dad! What do you mean by asking such a thing?’

Mrs Gudgeon remained silent. Her mouth was drawn into a tight-lipped line, but her eyes had momentarily widened and she was now staring at the ugly design on the carpet with an expression hard to interpret, but which had attracted Vignoles’s attention.

‘Was your father fond of dog roses?’ Trinder weighed in. It was part of the craft of the detective to keep suspects wrong-footed by jumping from one subject to another in the hope of tripping them up.

Julie looked at Trinder, Vignoles and then to her mother in quick succession, her face a picture of confusion. ‘You tell me my dad has been murdered then you ask what flowers he liked? For God’s sake!’

Mrs Gudgeon waved an impatient hand towards her daughter to quieten her. ‘Actually, Alby did have a bit of a soft spot for them. He liked to stop and smell their scent if we ever passed any growing in a hedge.’ She looked at

Vignoles. ‘But I could never convince him to grow dahlias or a nice tea rose or anything pretty. He only allowed me a row of delphiniums.’

Trinder judged it time to change tack. ‘Mrs Fordson, where were you on the morning of Friday 5th, between 6 and 10am?’

‘What are you suggesting?’Julie looked set to explode, her face marked by livid blotches.

‘I am sorry, madam, but I have a duty to ask. A murder investigation makes us rather unwelcome house guests.’ Trinder tried to soften his voice, but still held her gaze. He wanted an answer to write in his little black book.

Julie swallowed and took a moment to regain her composure. She began speaking with exaggerated patience, as she might to a classroom of naughty pupils. ‘I rose at 6.30 prompt, as usual, prepared breakfast, got my two little ones ready for school. By 8.50 I was at my own school, at 9 I was in assembly and from 9.30 to 10 I was teaching a class of thirty-five children.’ She pursed her lips with something akin to satisfaction.

Trinder knew that this timetable left no time for her to get to the railway bridge and back before 10am. He turned to Mrs Gudgeon and asked the same question.

She didn’t look up when she spoke, but stared straight ahead, her knuckles white as she balled her fists in her lap. Her voice was devoid of emotion. ‘I rose at 5.30 and put the kettle on for tea. I prepared his snap tin, filling it with fish paste sandwiches. Alby rose at 6, washed, we ate breakfast — he had two fried eggs on a doorstep of bread, and a mug of sweetened tea. We said goodbye, he looked in on the pigeons and left the house at 6.30. Same routine every working day.’ Vignoles noted that her description of his meal tallied with the stomach contents in the post mortem report. She could conceivably have gone to the pigeon loft and syringed the bird, but could not have followed her husband to the railway, administered the lethal dose and then returned home in time to have greeted the milkman and postman before starting to prepare the pie that Vignoles and Trinder had both observed steaming in the kitchen.

‘What route did he take from the loft to the street?’ Vignoles asked.

‘Through the tunnel, as always. I then tidied the things away, washed up, put the kitchen straight, got into my going-out clothes and, at five to nine, walked into town for my morning shop. I was home by ten thirty, made a meat and potato pie, and was busy with my housework till you arrived. I can give you a list of shops I visited and everyone I spoke to when I was out, but at home, of course, I was alone. Oh, I did listen to the wireless from the time I got home till you arrived, and can tell you what I heard. That proves I was here.’ She gave each detective a withering look, feeling hurt and insulted at being considered a suspect.

‘Do you or your husband own a bicycle?’

‘We do not. Nor a car, a motorcycle or even a pair of roller-skates!’

Vignoles gave both ladies a conciliatory smile, wanting to soften the mood as best he could before moving the interview along. He hated having to treat the bereaved as suspects, knowing it threw salt upon their wounds, but he had to do his duty. ‘We believe that whoever is responsible for Mr Gudgeon’s death may have brought him a spray of dog roses. Does that mean anything to you?’

Mrs Gudgeon responded with an icy stare. ‘Are you suggesting he was meeting with a fancy woman?’

‘We are simply trying to find out if the flowers are significant in any way that you can think of.’ Both ladies frowned, thought for a few seconds then shook their heads. Vignoles toyed with his hat brim, turning it through his fingers as he considered his next move. ‘When your husband went to the pigeon club on Saturdays, what time did he leave home?’

‘Funny question. 6.40 on the dot. Why?’

‘Just checking details.’ Vignoles gave Mrs Gudgeon a little smile. He had no wish to give away anything more at this stage. He asked to see inside the pigeon loft; Mrs Gudgeon told him that all the birds were gone, but rose and took the key from her apron pocket. He and Trinder went outside whilst the ladies turned their attention to making a restorative pot of strong tea, over which to come to terms with the veritable bombshell that had been dropped on them.

The pigeon loft was now eerily silent, but the smell of bird, sawdust and feed lingered and the windows needed to be opened to give the place a good airing. Vignoles had to trust that the pigeon boys had taken heed of his instructions, sent through Mrs Gudgeon, not to take away anything but the birds. Everything looked exactly as they had left it on Friday. Even the mug of evaporated tea was still in place. Perhaps Albert’s widow wanted to keep it exactly as he’d left it, a moment frozen in time, a memorial. They took time to stand and survey the loft, neither rushing to touch or move anything, each man pulling on soft, black leather gloves as they looked around.

‘Guv, do you really think that, somewhere in here, there is a clue to why someone jabbed a needle into his heart?’ Vignoles did not reply at once, but merely pulled opened the desk drawer and rootled through a motley collection of bits and pieces that looked like the contents of countless other such drawers across the land. ‘Something hinting at an illicit relationship?’ Trinder added.

‘A word of caution, young Trinder. We now know that he engineered himself an unexplained hour every Saturday evening for about twelve weeks, leading up to his death. Your theory about a smouldering affair might just have legs.’ Trinder grinned. ‘Before you look too pleased with yourself, you’d better help prove it.’Vignoles looked at the empty birdcages and the carefully crafted nameplate in brown Bakelite with cream-painted, engraved letters that bore the name Isabella. All the others were handwritten. They could be changed easily, which made sense for creatures with a relatively short life. ‘Did you realise, sergeant, that, apart from that solitary exception, the pigeons were named after apples?’ Trinder frowned and Vignoles elucidated.

The Reverend Gerard Vignoles, the DCI’s father, grew a small apple orchard at the back of the rectory in Dunton Bassett, filled with examples of some of the more unusual varieties. One telephone call to him confirmed what Vignoles suspected: Gudgeon used the names of varieties of apples as his naming policy. Racing pigeons were given names no dafter than those given to racehorses. Isabella was the odd one out. His father remarked that this was actually a type of aromatic black grape. He’d never tasted them and understood it would be a difficult variety to grow in England without a hothouse. It was unlikely Gudgeon had ever encountered one — if, indeed, he’d tasted any grape unless perhaps fermented into wine. So perhaps it was not a grape but a woman who had influenced the name given to a succession of his favourite birds.

Trinder busied himself inspecting the system for propping open the windows. After just a cursory inspection he was sure the small locks that held them open would offer little challenge to someone determined enough. It would be worth getting a fingerprint team over to work around each window. But maybe the killer knew where the spare key lay ‘A lot of people knew that Mrs G habitually left the house to go shopping about 9am. The killer could have killed Mr G, come here, and killed the bird. But that doesn’t explain why.’

Vignoles was seated on the stool beside the desk just as Gudgeon would have done on countless occasions, observing what the man had looked at every day and hoping for inspiration. He lifted the books on the desk and flipped through them in case there was anything interleaved between the pages. Nothing fell out and there were no illuminating inscriptions or messages written inside the fly leaves. He opened a few old jam jars and tins and tipped out the contents. Just stubs of pencils, an eraser, assorted paper clips, screws and tap washers. Trinder meanwhile was running his fingers along the top of the wooden cages, lifting balls of grey fluff as he did so. He could only just reach over the edge as the cages stood high. Vignoles stood up and offered him use of the stool.

‘Bingo!’ Pushed against the far wall, well out of sight and reach unless elevated on the stool, was a Jacob’s Cream Crackers tin with an enamelled design that dated it to before the Great War. Trinder took hold of the tin and immediately noticed that it weighed little. He gave it a shake and nothing rattled inside and so it was his turn to feel a pang of disappointment. It seemed empty. He stepped down and tried to prise it open whilst Vignoles looked on. The lid was a tight fit, but giving it one last and more brutal attempt, it suddenly sprung open. Trinder found himself staring at a posy of dried and faded roses, bound around the stems with a narrow satin ribbon and pushed tightly into the tin.

A memento from the christening of one of his children. Or from his bride’s wedding bouquet. As a young couple they would have little money to spare when they married and wild flowers serve perfectly well. These were his favourites.’

‘Strange that Mrs G said she does not remember why they might be relevant.’

Trinder was convinced that there might be another, far more intriguing, explanation and, after gently tipping the box to one side to allow the brittle flowers to move, he could see the edge of what looked like a piece of paper lying underneath. He extracted the bone-dry blooms which rustled like autumn leaves, and a few desiccated fragments dropped away as he lifted them clear and laid them on the desk. They now saw a small rectangle of fine card that bore in exquisite, tiny copperplate script a stanza of poetry.

So keep your heart at ease, my love,

Nor waste a joy for me:

I’ll ne’er prove false to thee, my love,

Till fish drown in the sea,

And birds forget to fly, my love,

And then I’ll think of thee.

‘This was a love token!’ Trinder exclaimed.

‘But a young Florence-soon-to-be-Gudgeon did not write it. Nor did Albert, for that matter. Look here.’ He pointed to the newspaper open on the desk and to the simple letters in a partially completed crossword. ‘That’s more his writing style. What’s more, I think whoever wrote out this poem also wrote that enigmatic little message we found in the bird’s beak’. Vignoles took out the manila envelope and carefully unrolled the tiny note so they could compare. There was no doubt about it being identical. Only the card stock was different.

‘I think we’re looking at the distinctive handwriting of our murderess,’ said Vignoles. He paused for effect. ‘And the quotation is part of a love poem by John Clare. A rather lovely, if slightly sad, poem titled “Fare-Thee-Well”.’

‘Clare?’Trinder was surprised. His guvnor’s favourite poet. ‘The little piece placed in the bird’s beak was cut from a longer version of this?’

‘I think so. A poem heavy with meaning for two young and romantic lovers. So, we have two people meeting secretly. Evading the disapproving eyes of family, church and perhaps even their friends. They have to meet in the countryside, surrounded by nature, wild flowers and birds — the imagery of the poem. This young woman loves poetry, perhaps, and she introduces the railwayman to this one. And she has skill with a pen and writes out this fond plea for everlasting and undying love and presents it to Gudgeon, who treasures it all his life, despite later marrying someone else.’ Vignoles was getting into his stride. ‘But John Clare was a gloomy soul and even his love poems are haunted by loss and longing, so perhaps this couple are already aware their relationship is doomed. We move forward in time and this former love now bids him a final adieu as she delivers a deadly coup de grace.’ They looked at each other, each confused by the conclusion to his brief, if shocking, tale. ‘Puzzling evidence indeed.’

Vignoles shook his head as if to banish the images swirling around. ‘It sounds like something Shakespeare might have dreamed up.’ He was already imagining Badger’s reaction if he’d heard this romantic nonsense. ‘We need facts, not this foolish flight of fancy. I doubt that any of his family and friends can write like that. The card is smooth, heavy and edged with gilt. What does that suggest to you?’

‘Not the sort of stuff a railwayman would usually buy, guv?’

‘It looks like something that would be used for a dinner invitation at a fine country house.’

‘Hullo.’ Trinder turned the card over. ‘There’s something in pencil here. It’s very faint but looks like it could have been written by our Mr G. A date, 1908, and the letters A.D.S.’

‘We need to ask his widow when they married.’

‘1908 would make Albert about seventeen, maybe eighteen.’

‘A young lad. Bit too early for marriage, though not impossible.’ Vignoles was holding the card and rereading the stanza of poetry. ‘Who is A.D.S?’

‘Not his wife’s maiden initials; she’s Florence.’

‘Ah, a different girl. More likely his first taste of being in love. Perhaps I was not so wide of the mark, after all.’ He turned the card over. ‘The reference to birds in the poem is intriguing. A poisoned racing pigeon might not have “forgotten how to fly”, but the end result is much the same.’

‘Is it supposed to be symbolic?’ Trinder scratched his head. ‘Killing the bird seems to refer back to this.’

Vignoles’s eyes were drawn from the poem and back to the partially completed crossword on the spread-open pages of the Leicester Mercury. There were a number of jottings and scnbbled-out words in the margin. Gudgeon had found some of the words hard to spell and had practised them. Vignoles was surprised to see there was also a sequence of what appeared to be the same word repeated about ten times, but these had then been blotted out forcefully and effectively. Vignoles flipped the page over and, by allowing a rake of sunlight to catch the surface at an acute angle, he accentuated the impression made in the paper by the pen nib. He was sure he could make out ‘ella’ as part of the word.

‘Is that Isabella?’

Trinder nodded. ‘The plot thickens.’

Vignoles needed only a minute or so to scan the simple crossword clues to be satisfied this was not part of the solution. Gudgeon had the racing pigeon or, perhaps, its namesake, on his mind. He noted the date of the yellowing paper and saw to his surprise that it was months old. Had something jogged Gudgeon’s memory? He swept some of the spilled birdseed aside, lifted the mug from the paper and cast his eyes over the pages, turning them over impatiently. Finally, he came to a story that held his attention.

‘Look at this, John.’

The inside front page ran an article on the enforced destruction of Buddon Hall, that was due to commence the following summer. The story was accompanied by two photographs, one showing the house in better times, with a carefully posed family group standing on the wide stone steps leading from an expanse of gravel drive up to the front door. The caption identified these as Lord and Lady de Havering with their two children, David and Isabella, taken in 1932. The young Isabella, although still in her teens, was already eye-catching. A trait she had clearly inherited from her mother.

‘Good Lord, did he name his racing birds after her? Mind you, I can see why.’ Trinder wolf-whistled softly.

The other photograph was of the late Lord de Havering standing alongside his son in more recent years. Both men were dressed in tweed jackets and breeks and wearing deerstalker caps, cartridge bags slung diagonally across their shoulders. Both had shotguns cracked open and resting in the crooks of their arms. They looked archetypes of well-to-do gentlemen on a game shoot. The caption explained about the tragic motor-car accident that had seen both father and son lose their lives, and prompted the crippling double death duties that had brought the de Havering family to its knees.

The photographs had been highlighted around the edges with the same blue pen used for the crossword. Gudgeon had also made numerous strange marks and stabbings into the paper as if a violent passion had gripped him as he read the article. The pen had been busy first underlining then obliterating a passage in the article about Lady de Havering and her daughter planning to emigrate to Italy once their affairs were resolved. It was hard to read, thanks to the extensive use of blue ink, but they understood enough.

Trinder kept his voice low. ‘If this Isabella and the old man were having an affair it could explain his slinking off for an hour of a Saturday evening.’

‘Firstly,’ Vignoles replied, ‘1908 places it too early. Judging by the 1932 photograph, I doubt if Isabella was born before 1912. And her initials would be I.D.H., or a variation on that. Besides, do you think that the debutante daughter of the lady of the manor would be involved with a humble railwayman?’

‘Sorry, guv, I wasn’t thinking.’

‘But thinking is what the railway pays you for, sergeant,’ admonished Vignoles, but with a friendly wink to indicate to Trinder that he was merely teasing.

‘And yet I still feel that, somewhere in here, is the key to unlock this mystery. I shall humour you and assume that old, simple, hard-up Mr G and young, lovely, well-bred Miss Isabella were in love, and about to be torn asunder by her moving to an unreachable part of northern Italy. This is the stuff of fantasy for such a humble working man. Almost an erotic dream of the sort that D.H. Lawrence once tried to capitalise on — with notorious results.’

‘His book was banned for being obscene, wasn’t it.’

‘Correct. Lady Chatterley’s Lover. An aristocratic lady and her gardener. I’ve never read it, of course, only the newspaper reports of the trial, but the shock lies as much in the idea of the two classes meeting for, um, carnal reasons, as in the language he uses and the explicit sexual scenes. Mr G and Miss Isabella would have to be secret, for the scandal would damage the de Havering family.’ Vignoles was carefully folding the sheet of newspaper and placing it in his jacket pocket. ‘Maybe if he were young, handsome, interesting and, let’s say virile, I might be able to believe they could ignore social class, but with the huge age difference, no. It’s out of the question.’

‘Maybe he knew something scandalous about Isabella? Something that could ruin her reputation. He caught her and someone else in the woods or fields and decided to blackmail her — hoping to be paid, not in money — but her affections?’

‘You could be on to something. That offers the first valid motive we’ve found for murder — to silence him.’ Vignoles chewed the idea over for a moment. ‘I wonder if someone is trying to be very clever here. They’ve skilfully engineered it to look as though Mr G had committed suicide in a fit of gloom because a girl he’s got a crush on is emigrating. A minor scandal might be kicked up, but would soon be forgotten in Italy and her true indiscretion would be hidden. And it just might have worked if Dr Tomblin’s sharp eyes had missed seeing that pinprick entry wound.’

Trinder agreed.

‘The ladies will have regained their composure by now/ said Vignoles, packing the bouquet back into the tin as he spoke. ‘Let’s join them and see what they make of this.’

Julie made a fresh pot of tea, much needed by the detectives to remove the lingering residue of the aroma of pigeon droppings from their taste buds, and they asked Mrs Gudgeon about the dried roses and the poem found in the cracker tin. Her shock was so visibly intense, Vignoles had been left in no doubt that she had been wholly unaware of their existence until that moment. Her thin-lipped denial that she was the woman involved was adamant. Her daughter expressed revulsion at the news, appalled in equal amounts at the idea that her father had a secret mistress.

Mrs Gudgeon produced a marriage certificate which confirmed they wed in July 1909. She explained that their courtship had been short and she did not know her future husband in 1908.

All of which brought them back to the tantalising question of exactly how Isabella de Havering fitted into the story. She shared the name with a favourite racing pigeon and Gudgeon had inked her name on the margins of a newspaper and doodled, scribbled and marked around an article about the family, implying everything — and nothing. It was the flimsiest of connections, but still the most promising lead they had so far uncovered. Vignoles needed a breakthrough.

* * * *

Vignoles stepped down from the van and thanked the guard for his hospitality on the short run down from Leicester Central. He walked the length of the red bauxite-painted box vans that formed their train until he reached the stumpy little tender locomotive at the front. This was a member of the J39 Class, which meant it was an unremarkable, snubnosed beast with six coupled wheels that looked a size too small and a boiler that looked a size too large. But although youthful trainspotters might groan when one rolled into view for being too plain and dull, Vignoles held them in high regard. They were honest, hardworking engines that did exactly what was asked of them, and were designed by one of his railway heroes, the late Sir Nigel Gresley.

He exchanged a few friendly words with the crew, then bade them goodbye and set off on foot alongside the Mountsorrel Railway towards the quarry, where he had arranged to meet his DS a while later.

Earlier, Vignoles had given the WDCs clear instructions: ‘We have nothing more than a rather romantic tale I concocted based around a poem. I want you to find out if the date 1908 holds any significance, who or what is A.D.S., and is there any scandal attached to Isabella de Havering? Only when we have something can we risk making an official call on the family. I’ll have my head well and truly chewed off if we go wading in there without a clear purpose and even so much as hinting they are in any way connected with murder. Like it or not, such people always have a powerful and influential retained lawyer guarding their affairs and reputations.’

Vignoles had chosen to travel on his own that morning to explore on foot the small and repetitious world of Albert Gudgeon. He wanted no distractions as he immersed himself in walking the narrow course of the decrepit railway line that the dead man had dutifully tramped for nearly fifty years. What did he look at? Who did he encounter? Had he seen something he should not and perhaps foolishly tried to exploit this to his advantage? Vignoles prayed he would stumble upon something, no matter how small, that would break open the mystery. It was a long shot, but detailed observation and meticulous study of the physical world pertinent to the victim was often as important as sitting in the office playing out scenarios on a blackboard.

The Mountsorrel Railway crossed a river on a short lattice bridge, then curved sharply on an easily discernible incline the moment it broke free of the complex of sidings and points at Swithland. A small copse of trees on either side of the single line threw dappled shade, and beyond these Vignoles could see pale green fields of ripening oats and cow-dotted pastures glowing yellow with buttercups. The hedge-rowed banks edging the line were bursting with life and colour, filled with flowering nettles, chervil and towering cow parsley, the creamy florets of which, reaching like upturned parasols towards the warm sunlight, released their sweet scent. Arching arms of brambles were intertwined with wild roses, spiny hawthorn and blackthorn. The presence of some dog rose was immediately interesting to Vignoles, but his interest was tempered by the fact it was so common. He watched an orange tip butterfly skittering across the pinky flowers and heard the distant drumming of a woodpecker; both pleasing enough, but doing nothing to solve the mystery. The copse of mixed, broadleaf trees now fell away to reveal a stretch of straighter track that climbed alongside a more open and expansive view of the verdant farmlands beyond.

The June sun beat on his back and he was grateful for his hat protecting his neck, and gladder still he had remembered that morning to clip his fold-down sunglasses onto the silver frames of his spectacles. He flipped these into place and his eyes felt less strained. All around him was bright and green and the shimmering heat-haze made the distant vista awash with pale blue.

No, wait, it was not just the optical effect of the heat, but a lazy drift of smoke spreading in a thin film of airborne pollution across a swathe of land to his left that was creating this softening effect.

He stepped up the slight embankment and leaned on a wooden fence post, long bleached to grey, and narrowed his eyes to better follow the smoke trail. He soon found the source nestling behind a stand of trees and could just see a few pinkish-orange tongues of flame and, behind this smoking pyre, he could make out an angular corner of a massive stone edifice.

Of course, this must be Buddon Hall! The wrecking crew must be removing the roof and burning the timber supporting beams on great bonfires. He watched as fresh billows of grey smoke lifted and filtered through the canopies of a group of mature elms set in grassy parkland. The torrential downpours that had threatened to spoil the coronation ensured there was still plenty of moisture to generate smoke. The roof of the hall seemed to be only partially visible, but after studying the scene a while longer he realised this was because about a third of it was now missing.

He was about to step back down onto the railway when his eye was drawn to a movement behind a long row of distant hawthorn hedge. It was a regular bobbing motion and, where the hedge thinned, he could see it was a rider on a fine bay horse. Although some distance away, a blonde ponytail beneath a black riding cap flashed like bright metal, and it was this that had drawn his attention. She was trotting along a bridleway that looked as though it might converge with the railway somewhere in the woods ahead. Remembering the lay of the land, he judged that most probably this path would meet where Swithland Lane crossed the mineral line. The exact place he was heading.

He watched the rider for a few moments longer before continuing on his way with a more determined stride. If he upped tempo he might arrive at the bridge about the same time as the rider because the horsewoman had now reined in her mount and was proceeding at a slow walk. Vignoles was starting to feel the heat take hold with his increased pace. Glancing across the fields he noticed, with some relief, that the rider had halted and turned to look back towards the destruction of the hall. Perhaps she was just another curious sightseer come to stare in fascination at the downfall of the rich and privileged. However, he had a suspicion she was someone with a far keener interest in the estate. Amongst the statements his team had collected over the weekend there had been precious little to attract his attention, but seeing the woman on her bay horse reminded him of one detail that had stuck in his memory.

PC898 had diligently spent hours beside the railway bridge as instructed and Vignoles remembered the constable had spoken to a woman on horseback. 898 had even recorded that the horse was a bay. There had been nothing interesting in the short statement offered by the rider, aside from the fact that she was now very much of interest to the investigation. Vignoles had a sneaking suspicion he’d just seen the same woman, and if so, this was none other than Miss Isabella de Havering.

He was there to discover anything that might have changed in Gudgeon’s apparently uneventful life. The de Haverings’ fall from grace and the break-up of the estate was a dramatic disruption to the gentle pace of life in the country and likely to have lasting repercussions. He remembered the confused bitterness of the now unemployed former estate worker. The loss of the estate was as big a jolt to the lives of those in the area as the building of the railway and the reservoir had been in the previous century. But for all the drama of the official vandalism being inflicted on the estate, it was hard to see quite how Buddon Hall’s demise impacted on the dead platelayer.

But had this woman made a quite different impact? Had Gudgeon stumbled on something that prompted her to murder him? If so, then to ride around brazenly and allow herself to be questioned by the police suggested a level of confidence he’d not encountered in a murderer before. Hopefully, the file that Trinder was bringing would reveal something more concrete.

He timed it perfectly, approaching the bridge along the deeply shaded cutting just as he heard the ringing sound of shod hooves on the metalled road. Rider and horse stopped on the little bridge and, apparently unaware of his presence, she looked over the far parapet with her back half turned to him. Perhaps she was just taking in the view, but he was aware she was also facing towards where Gudgeon had been found. It may mean something, or nothing. It was often said that criminals always return to the scene of their crime; it was also true that human nature had a way of drawing people to stare at such places.

Vignoles was passing the heavily rusted rails of the abandoned Nunckley Hill Quarry workings and the stone built shed that last week had been Gudgeon’s. His feet crunched loudly on the ballast, the sound made louder by the steepening cutting and the proximity of the building. Hearing this, the rider turned. If startled to see someone walking along the railway line, she soon recovered and raised a hand in salutation.

‘I say! Have you taken a wrong turning?’ Her upper-class twang indicated to Vignoles that she had been coached at an expensive finishing school. ‘You can get back onto the footpath through the woods just along here.’ She pointed her riding crop towards the woods to the right of the bridge.

‘Good morning, miss.’ He lifted his hat. ‘Thank you, but I am not lost, though I don’t know the area as well as you.’

‘I should say! I’ve walked or hacked every bally mile since I was knee high to a grasshopper.’ She suddenly laughed, revealing perfect teeth. Her smile was so bright it illuminated her face. ‘There are some frightfully splendid walks around here, so why the devil are you slogging along that dusty old railway line?’

‘I’m DCI Vignoles, of the railway police. I’m looking into the unfortunate affair of a railway worker, Mr Gudgeon. You may perhaps have heard that the gentleman in question was found dead here last Friday.’ He pointed with the stem of his pipe and observed her carefully as he emphasised this point.

‘I spoke with your constable on Saturday. He struck me as not desperately bright. I wasn’t of any help, I’m afraid. Have you discovered anything?’ She frowned at Vignoles and gave him an appraising stare, as if deciding whether he would be any more intelligent.

‘As you have so much local knowledge, I wonder if I may I ask you some more questions.’

‘Yes, of course, but not like this, with me bawling over the bridge like a bally fishwife!’ She laughed again and slipped off her mount in a gracefully practised move. ‘I’ll hitch Lucky Star to the fence here. There’s some good grass to keep him content. I’ll be down in two shakes.’ Vignoles was glad of her offer, for although her voice would probably carry a mile and had already set a couple of rooks cackling in the treetops, it would be better to not broadcast their conversation.

She trotted briskly down the embankment path with all the assurance of a mountain goat. Vignoles found her an attractive woman and noted her shapely but athletic build and long, well-defined legs, accentuated by pale jodhpurs and fine tan leather riding boots that were complimented by a snugly fitting summer-weight hacking jacket. He was momentarily taken aback to observe that her crisp white blouse was unbuttoned lower than he would have expected. There was a thin sheen of sweat in the shadow of her cleavage. He hurriedly focused on her face and the triple band of perfectly white pearls around her neck.

‘De Havering’s the name. Isabella’. She gave a firm, confident handshake, and Vignoles noticed that her riding gloves were of the softest calfskin, albeit rubbed to a polish in some areas by frequent contact with reins and tack.

He gave a slight nod when he heard her name. ‘I read the constable’s report and your name stood out. When I saw someone riding I hoped it would be you.’

She frowned, which did nothing to spoil her good looks. ‘But surely you didn’t walk all the way up here hoping I might pass? You could have sent word to the hall if you felt it imperative we speak.’ Her eyes were playful and Vignoles wondered if she was trying to suppress a mocking laugh at his odd behaviour. If she was hiding a deadly secret, she did it confidently. ‘A grilling by a real life detective inspector! What super fun!’ She pushed the tails of her hacking jacket back and rested her hands on her shapely hips, the riding crop at a jaunty angle in a stance edging towards flirtatious. Vignoles was experienced enough to push aside the desire to drink in her obvious allure and instead questioned whether she was trying a little too hard to be appealing. He was on his guard. ‘I really cannot fathom why the birdman would do such a beastly, cowardly thing as to take his life.’ She slapped a boot angrily with her crop. ‘Bad form. His wife and children must be in the most frightful state. Perhaps I should send flowers.’ She looked away and shook her head slightly.

‘The birdman?’ Vignoles was intrigued.

She flicked a strand of loose hair from her brow and her half smile was mocking. ‘We called him the birdman because he raced pigeons. But then, a clever detective like you would know that.’ First flirtation and now flattery. He could see how a gorgeous young woman like this could captivate the heart of the simple Albert Gudgeon, if she chose to turn on the sex appeal.

‘Why would a young lady such as yourself be au fait with the hobby pursuits of an old railwayman?’

She looked away and her voice became wistful. ‘When I was small, nanny or mama would take me for a constitutional walk around the estate. The railway bisects our land, and I always insisted we wait for the little train to come puffing along so I could wave at it. And we nearly always saw him, in that old jacket and cap, doing something or other on the line.’ She smiled and Vignoles smiled back: he’d done similar as a boy on many a station platform or standing on the bars of a wooden line-side fence. ‘We’d exchange a few words, maybe talk about the weather, or perhaps the flowers and the birds. He explained how to tell a crow from a rook, and told me all about his racing pigeons; hence, birdman. Sometimes he’d pick wild flowers and make a darling little posy for me.’ She smiled in fond reminiscence.

‘Did he ever choose wild roses?’

‘No, not for me. The thorns, I suppose. But it’s funny you should ask, because I do remember saying one time, in my childish way, that he was very naughty for never giving flowers for mama, only for me. Both of them were dreadfully embarrassed, and looking back, I can well see why. But he played along — just to humour me, I suppose — and made her a little posy of dog roses. Well, she knew not to prick her fingers on the thorns. Ha ha. What made you ask?’

Vignoles chose to play his cards close. ‘Just simple observation and thinking they are prettier than the cow parsley and golden rod I can see everywhere.’ He was studying her carefully.

‘Oh yes, and I remember being so cross with mama, as she’d carelessly dropped them on the way back to the hall.’

Vignoles could imagine the mortification Lady de Havering must have felt to be handed flowers by a lowly platelayer, even if only the result of the guileless prompting of a small child. He was not surprised she’d contrived to lose them. He was not sure where this was leading, but was reluctant to stem the flow of reminiscence. Encouraging a witness to talk was a fundamental rule of detection.

Isabella needed no encouragement to continue. ‘I was raised to be civil to working folk. Lady de Havering, too; she has enormous respect for our domestic servants, gardeners, farm hands and stable girls.’ She looked wistful, as if recalling a long forgotten memory. ‘We had money then, of course.’ She gave a rueful, bitter little laugh, ‘But Lady de Havering always said that hearts of gold don’t reside in the breasts of the rich alone.’ She seemed inordinately pleased with her magnanimous pronouncement and her ample bosom expanded, placing the buttons of her blouse under strain.

She looked sad again, and said, ‘You know, inspector, it was not until your constable told me that the poor man was Alfred Sturgeon that I learned his name.’

‘Gudgeon. His name was Albert Gudgeon.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ She looked at the ground and swished the crop against a leather boot as if swatting away a fly. ‘All those years and I never knew his name. Isn’t that just too awful?’

The breeze wafted the tree canopy, allowing light and shadow to flicker across her face, and the sun picked out flecks of gold in her hazel eyes. ‘I am sure you didn’t hunt me down just to hear such a load of foolish prattle, inspector. What exactly did you wish to ask me?’

‘Were you close friends with the deceased in adult life?’

She lifted her chin in a defiant manner and snorted. ‘Are you joking or just impertinent? He was of my father’s generation, not to mention of a different class.’

‘I am obliged to ask. You see, according to our evidence, he was murdered.’

‘That’s more incomprehensible than suicide. What possible motive could anyone have?’

‘There is evidence to suggest a woman was involved.’

‘How frightfully bizarre this has turned out to be, inspector.’ She took a deep breath of air and then exhaled. ‘If I knew the person responsible I’d take a shotgun to them, and hang the consequences. Or whip them within an inch of their miserable lives!’ Her sense of moral outrage purged, she continued in a softer voice. ‘He was utterly harmless, knew his place, never overstepped the mark.’ She gave Vignoles a stern look to emphasise the last point.

Vignoles was fascinated by her curious mixture of charm, looks and arrogance. She was in her early forties, well-preserved and with few lines to betray her age. An intelligent and attractive woman with shimmering golden hair spilling from beneath her riding hat and a healthy glow to her skin. Vignoles was surprised she was still a spinster; the landed gentry usually tried to get their daughters married, and to someone as rich or richer and preferably with a title.

‘When did you last see Mr Gudgeon?’

‘Last Monday. I was up in town Tuesday through to Thursday, of course.’ Vignoles did not immediately respond, and so she added, ‘For the coronation,’ and smiled broadly.

‘Ah. Of course.’ Vignoles privately noted that whilst the family had fallen on hard times financially, their status had not changed, and he doubted that she had sat in the rain on a camping stool at the side of the Mall with a flask of tea for twelve hours, wrapped in a blanket, in the hope of seeing the golden coach roll by for a few moments. ‘You did not see him on Friday, the day he died?’

‘No. I was busy until about 10am with frightfully tiresome but pressing matters connected with winding up the estate.’ She thrust a hip out to the side.

‘Can anyone confirm your movements that morning? An alibi will eliminate you from our enquiries.’

‘Inspector, if you are attempting to infer that I am responsible for that poor man’s death, you must be stark staring mad.’ She gave a sigh of resignation. ‘Margaret Kimble, my stable girl, will confirm that first thing Friday morning, just after 5.40, we took Lucky Star for a gentle walk for about half an hour, as he was still getting over a slight lameness he’d picked up on the Monday. But only around the park practice ground. I then collected the morning post, before being forced to talk all manner of rot with the ugly little foreman of the demolition contractors. He won’t have forgotten the gruelling encounter, so you can ask him yourself.’ A dark look and the colder tone to her voice betrayed a memory of what had probably been a fractious meeting. ‘Feeling vexatious and out of sorts after that far from enjoyable conversation, I rode here to clear my head. I wish I hadn’t of course, as my day was then thoroughly messed up by this upsetting event.’

‘You rode to this spot?’

‘Not exactly. I stopped at the edge of the woods. I took Jet out. He’s our black stallion and a bit of a handful. Poor chap has since been sold — auctioned at Tattersalls — and will be leaving tomorrow.’

‘You did not hitch your horse to a post like you have done now and walk perhaps closer?’

‘Golly, no. He’s far too temperamental and might kick out.’

Vignoles recalled seeing someone in the woods. Although only a partial glimpse, he felt sure it had been her. This was an anomaly that he would keep in mind. ‘You said you still live at the hall. I thought it was being rendered uninhabitable.’

‘It’s stripped quite bare.’ She seemed to relish the second and fourth words and again Vignoles had the feeling she was being deliberately flirtatious, verging on saucy. ‘You should take a look. I lodge in the rooms above the stables, just myself and Kimble. Jeffers, our ancient butler, insists on hanging in on the ground floor apartment he’s occupied for decades, despite the lack of electricity. They’ll both be paid off at the end of the week. A crying shame.’ Her face bore an expression of genuine sympathy.

‘What about your mother?’

‘You can leave Lady de Havering out of all this. She moved up to London two months ago, where she will remain until we travel to Italy. I can see no reason why her name could be associated with this sordid matter.’

He gave her an apologetic smile, hoping to keep her on side a while longer. ‘What did you talk about last Monday with Mr Gudgeon?’

‘Oh, this and that, you know.’ She scuffed a boot toe in the ballast. ‘He asked if I had been invited to the coronation and, in turn, I enquired if the railway would give everyone that day off work.’

‘Did he seem anxious or apprehensive?’

‘Not that I could tell.’ She looked beyond Vignoles, along the descending gradient of the line, and narrowed her eyes, as if trying to bring something to mind. ‘Oh yes, I remember: he enquired about our plans, now that we have to leave.’ Vignoles hoped his team was doing a thorough job of uncovering exactly what had caused the spectacular destruction of their estate. ‘I said that Lady de Havering and I might move to Italy.’ She hesitated and Vignoles noticed, so he set his expression to one that he hoped would encourage her to continue. It worked. ‘He seemed concerned about the house, as though he cared more than I do about ripping the place to bits.’

‘You found him unduly concerned, even upset, that the hall was being destroyed?’

‘Saddened, I’d say. Made a change from some around here, who appear to be taking a rather wicked delight in our situation. If they had to live in the draughty old pile and pay the monstrous bills they might have a different view. Ha!’ She seemed able to shake off painful memories like water from a duck’s back.

‘Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill him?’

‘Absolutely none. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be going.’ She turned on her heel and started to walk away. Vignoles was surprised to feel a twinge of regret.

He called after her. ‘Miss de Havering!’

She stopped and half-turned in a pose that accentuated her physique.

‘Why did you stop on the bridge today? Did I interrupt a private moment?’

‘Stay where you are on that track and you’ll find out soon enough!’ She smiled broadly and winked before ascending the path to the road. Just then, Vignoles heard the sound of a shrill whistle.

The little Peckett crept into view, easing around the tight curve with a tooth-irritating squeal and Vignoles stepped as far aside as the narrow confines of the cutting allowed. He raised a hand to indicate he was aware of the engine’s approach. The train slowed to a halt as Kenney and Tunson acknowledged him in return.

Fireman Tunson was preoccupied in looking out of the cab up towards the bridge, but Driver Kenney addressed Vignoles. ‘Have you found out why he did it yet, inspector?’

‘Things have changed since I last saw you. I’m sorry to say that Mr Gudgeon was murdered.’

Kenney looked aghast, as though the wind had been knocked from his sails. He shook his head sadly. ‘That’s terrible, and it makes no sense. What possible reason would anyone have?’

‘I’ve just been speaking with Miss de Havering, who knew him, of course, but she has no idea, either.’ He watched Kenney’s face for a reaction, but it remained blank. Tunson, however, reacted excitedly.

‘So it was her! I thought that gorgeous figure could only belong to one woman!’

‘Oy, mind your lip!’ Kenney gave the fireman an angry look. ‘Besides, I thought you didn’t approve of her sort.’

‘I do, if they look like that!’ His political principles appeared to be founded on insecure ground.

‘Put a sock in it or I’ll douse you with the slack hose,’ warned Kenney. ‘She’s around and about here quite often. Ready enough with a cheery wave and a smile. It’s nice that someone such as her gives railwaymen the time of day.’

‘A good time in the night would be better!’ There was a leering snigger from Tunson.

‘Ignore him, inspector. He’s got a mind like a sewer. Not like the de Haverings. Such decent, respectable folk.’

‘Yer what? How about the time their lad shot Alby’s prize racer?’ Tunson asked with considerable contempt. A measly ten bob note and not so much as an apology.’ He spat out of the far side of the cab.

Vignoles felt a frisson of excitement. ‘Tell me more about that.’

Kenney leaned over the open back of the cab. ‘It was just after the war, in 1946. Food was still short, as you’ll well remember.’ Vignoles nodded. ‘We were all right out here in the country, of course. My missus was in with a farmer’s wife, and she helped us with eggs and with a — well, whatever.’ He gave a hurried look at Vignoles, and started rolling a cigarette to deflect attention away from what might have been illicit arrangements to evade rationing. ‘Anyways, the good folk up at the big house would shoot pigeons and rabbits on their land to pass over to the likes of us working folk. Wood pigeon makes a fine pie, inspector.’

‘It does indeed,’ said Vignoles, filling his pipe.

‘We’d see or hear them in the fields and woods around here nearly every day, pop-popping their guns and their dogs fetching and carrying. It was so regular as to become normal and I think they gave most of the bag away to the local butchers. Right decent of them.’

‘Phah! Right-wing propaganda, more like!’ Tunson was scowling. ‘Cut to the chase, Kenno. That stuck up brat David de Havering blasted Alby’s bird clean out of the air!’

‘That was a mistake,’ Kenney continued. ‘It’s not easy to tell a wood pigeon from a racing pigeon from a distance. They soon realised what he’d done ’cause the bird was ringed.’ He lit his rollie and blew out smoke. ‘Alby always named his best racer Isabella, and, of course, that would be the one the lad brought down.’

Tunson was laughing in a heartless manner. ‘I’d have given a week’s wages to see the bugger’s face. He’d only gone and shot the county champion!’ He leaned over the back of the engine cab and almost leered at Vignoles. ‘What-ho! Bad form, old boy!’ He made a lame attempt at a refined accent. ‘It was a warning, you see, that no good was coming their way. And it was true, weren’t it? Look at ’em now! Dad and son both killed dead and now the women to be kicked out of the big house. The old lady’s starting to lose it an’ all. And that’s what I call justice.’ He grinned.

Kenney rolled his eyes. ‘What are you talking about? You’re the limit, Jos!’ He turned back to Vignoles. ‘Lady de Havering can hardly be blamed for finding it all hard to take. She’s had a lot on her plate. Anyway, what do we know, it’s probably all just rumour. More to the point, her ladyship demanded her son apologise, but his lordship sided with the lad, or so we heard. Sir Nicholas said pigeons were for the pot and men should not go wasting feed keeping them just for sport. Anyway, it was Miss Isabella what smoothed things over. Gave the money to Alby, as compensation.’ Tunson chuckled suggestively. ‘Alby had quite a spring in his step for weeks after!’

‘Have either of you seen anyone acting oddly? A stranger perhaps, idling away the time on the bridge in the woods?’

Kenney was chewing the question over. ‘It’s hard to remember something you didn’t know you were gonna have to have needed to remember.’

Vignoles gave a sympathetic nod of agreement, pursing his lips slightly to suppress his urge to smile at the convoluted sentence. ‘Let me know if anything comes to mind.’ He handed each man a calling card and watched as the engine restarted and pulled away.

Alone again, he puffed on his pipe, mind whirring. The jigsaw puzzle was far from complete, but he had a number of interesting new pieces to try out. He couldn’t yet see the full picture, but it was hazily taking form and shape.

* * * *

Trinder was running a finger through a haze of stone dust accumulating on the roof of the police Rover. It was going to need a clean and polish once they’d finished in the quarry. WDCs Lansdowne and Benson were standing nearby, observing the busy, slightly intimidating world of the Mountsorrel Quarry.

The crushing plant was a monstrous construction of hefty girders clad in corrugated iron straddling eight railway tracks with rows of beaten up wagons awaiting filling or propelled into the Stygian gloom beneath by a little open-cabbed steam engine called ‘The Baron’. The unpleasant noise of the crushing plant assaulted their ears, smoke and dust pervaded everything and Lansdowne was already developing a dry cough. Close beside them were tall stacks of wooden sleepers and short lengths of rail whilst a variety of spoked wagon wheels leaned against a stone retaining wall, together with various tools and odd bits of rusting metal. Everywhere they looked, the ground was littered with spillages of small stones. This was a world of stone and metal, harsh and unforgiving, and the noonday sun was adding unwelcome heat to the mix.

Vignoles spotted them immediately because their clean, dark clothes instantly stood out against the washed-out industrial landscape and dusty, pale figures of quarrymen bustling about. The two young policewomen were attracting considerable attention in this all-male workplace.

He hailed them and established that they had something to report. Trinder suggested they drive to the village, as the quarry was too noisy. He climbed into the driving seat, Vignoles sat beside him and the women took the long bench seat in the back. ‘DC Howerth is on door-to-door duties, guv. He’s already come up with something that might be interesting.’

‘Fire away!’

‘Firstly, I have eliminated Paul Gudgeon as a suspect. When his father was killed he was working underneath a Morris Traveller at his workplace, a garage in Loughborough. Howerth’s breakthrough is that two witnesses saw a woman on a horse in the vicinity of Gudgeon’s house not long after 9am on Friday. The rider was some distance away but still close enough to pique our interest.’

‘What colour was the horse?’

‘Black,’ replied Trinder, surprised by the question.

Lansdowne flipped her police notebook open and took up the story. ‘Jane and I went to the central library. Thanks to the helpful librarian we looked at local newspapers and magazines about the county and social gossip about the gentry.’

‘They’re an ill-starred family, it has to be said,’ added Jane Benson. ‘They enjoyed wealth and privilege, but happiness and good fortune were doled out in smaller portions.’

Lansdowne continued: ‘Sir Nicholas de Havering and his only son, David, were killed in a motoring accident on 25th October 1952. They were travelling home after a week of grouse shooting on the Duchal Moors in Scotland.’

‘A rather intriguing narrow gauge railway operates there to ferry the shooters, gun dogs and their baggage to and from the moors,’ Vignoles interjected.

Lansdowne was used to Vignoles finding something of railway interest in the most unlikely of places, and continued without pause. ‘They were staying with Sir James Lithgow, 1st Baronet, who owns the moor — and, presumably, that railway. The weather turned bad that evening as they drove south and Sir Nicholas misjudged a corner with an adverse camber. The car skidded and descended a steep bank before ploughing into a tree on a lonely stretch of road along the Lune gorge in Cumberland.’

‘A bleak spot,’ observed Vignoles.

‘Sir Nicholas was found to be driving with high levels of alcohol in his blood. Whilst not openly stated, perhaps out of deference to his widow, there was an implication he was feeling the effects of a week of high living. The accident was blamed on heavy rain, strong winds and a poor road. But then came the ruling that double death duties and inheritance taxes were to be imposed on the family. Although both men died at the same time in the same accident, it was adjudged in the subsequent High Court case that the son died fractionally later than his father.’

‘And that mattered?’ Vignoles was puzzled.

‘Most definitely,’ Benson chimed in. ‘In a cruel perversity of British law the estate in a matter of seconds passed from father to son — as Sir Nicholas’s will decreed — and then the son died, accumulating double dues. A nasty little pedantry dreamed up by lawyers.’

‘How fascinating civil law is,’ Vignoles groaned. ‘We’ve not been able to ascertain the exact amount, but it was close to a million pounds. The family couldn’t pay. If that wasn’t bad enough, they had the expense of house and estate repairs and the exorbitant cost of a failed High Court case. Even if they put the estate on the market and managed to find a good buyer—’

‘Not easy these days, with so many big country houses closing up and standing empty all over the land,’ Benson interjected.

‘—they would have yet another tranche of taxes and fees to find from the sale. So a deal was cut with the Treasury. Wreck the house. Strip the roof and let nature render it valueless. The estate is gifted to the nation for a song with a ruinous structure unfit for habitation. In this peculiar manner they can legitimately sidestep many, though not all, of the accumulating debts.’

‘That’s barmy! ’ Trinder exclaimed.

‘Strange indeed,’ Vignoles mused. ‘But where does Albert Gudgeon fit into this?’

‘Well, Jane and I dug deeper into the family history and made some interesting discoveries that we feel are relevant. One article sketched out a family tree of the widowed Lady de Havering.’ Lansdowne was turning a page in her notebook as Trinder slowed the car and pulled to a halt on Halstead Road in the centre of Mountsorrel. He cut the engine and he and Vignoles turned in their seats to look at Lucy Lansdowne as she continued her story.

‘The card with the poem had the inscription A.D.S. and the date 1908. Buddon Hall is not, as many assume, the de Havering family seat. That family hails from Derbyshire.

Lady de Havering’s ancestors are grand Italian nobility. Her parents moved to England in the 1880s and her father got rich importing pasta and other Italian food. He had shops and a warehouse in Leicester and other places. He bought Buddon Hall, an early nineteenth-century pile, built by an over ambitious local businessman who had to flog it off when he went bust. Now the interesting bit is, Lady Alisona de Havering’s maiden name was de Saluzzo.’

‘So, she was ADS. Well, well, well.’ Vignoles spoke softly.

‘Her family owned much of Buddon Wood and Rothley Plain. And so, of course, she grew up here, walking and riding the grounds. She married twice, the first time in September 1908—’

‘A significant year,’ remarked Trinder.

‘—to Piers Cavendish. The court diarists were surprised at the speed of the announcement and subsequent marriage, but held their tongues. The gossipy magazines were more forthcoming. Although described as ‘dashing’, Cavendish was also considered to be ‘a surprising choice’ and the marriage was deemed ‘unexpected’. I think we can take this as code for ‘inappropriate’ and ‘ill-judged’.’

‘A necessity, perhaps?’ Vignoles wound down the window and puffed on his pipe.

‘We think so, because only five months later, on 3rd February 1909, came the announcement that Isabella Alisona Cavendish had been born. This arrival seemed to bring little joy to the marriage and mother and daughter are living at Buddon Hall by the spring of 1912 — minus Mr Cavendish. He, presumably, stayed in London. Not much could be gleaned about what was going on, but there were hints that he was fond of gambling and the company of inappropriate women. By the start of the Great War, Cavendish was in the Royal Flying Corps, only to be shot down by one of the Red Baron’s Flying Circus in 1916.’ Lansdowne looked pleased at the reaction their investigations were prompting. ‘There’s something else. In 1917, Alisona privately published a slim volume of poetry under her maiden name. Pretty ghastly stuff, to be honest. The library had a copy, one of the few in circulation, as it met with lukewarm reviews and sold poorly.’

‘A.D.S. once again.’ Vignoles turned to the open window of the car and puffed a smoke ring. ‘Reverting to her maiden name, and perhaps to happier times? What was the book called?’

‘It has a most curious title, sir,’ Benson replied, as she handed him the copy.

Vignoles took a look, grunted then flipped through the pages. ‘I agree, it would seem to have particular relevance to Gudgeon.’

‘In her introduction, she claims pigeons are an analogy for aeroplanes and for a soul flying upwards to heaven. She mentions her “dear, beloved, heroic husband who died in the air lighting for King and country”.’

‘A likely story,’ said Vignoles. ‘She was thinking about someone else.’

‘There are quite a number of poems about unrequited love and about missing and longing for a long-lost lover.’

‘What was Gudgeon’s age in 1908?’ Vignoles asked, putting the book aside.

‘Seventeen or eighteen, sir,’ Benson replied. ‘Almost exactly the same as Alisona.’

‘So we have two young people of similar age. One exploring her family estate, the other working outdoors and encountering the young lady on her explorations. They met accidentally at first, but perhaps later their assignations were premeditated. They would be relatively easy to arrange. So did these two fall for each other and share a summer of illicit love?’

‘Until it all went wrong when she got in the family way,’ Trinder suggested.

‘It was impossible for Gudgeon and Alisona to marry, and futile for them to even dream of it,’ Vignoles continued.

‘So someone of the right class and background was hastily secured and she was dutifully shipped off to London and family honour was preserved,’ Lansdowne suggested.

‘It’s possible Piers Cavendish never suspected he was not the father. But did Gudgeon know?’

‘Funny that he called his best pigeon Isabella. Was that because he knew the child was his, or that he loved the mother and named his pigeon after her child?’ Trinder asked.

‘We need to find out if Alisona was an expert in copperplate script in her teens. That stanza of Clare’s poem would suit their situation admirably, because both lovers knew that their relationship was doomed. A fond, but final farewell.’ Vignoles was mentally filling in more parts of the puzzle.

‘The heartbroken Gudgeon marries Florence Proctor in 1909,’ said Trinder. ‘His youthful romance is pushed aside, apart from retaining a sprig of flowers and a poem, and hiding both where his family are unlikely to find them, he turns into a dull, predictable family man. Except that odd anomaly of a missing hour every Saturday.’

Benson completed the story. ‘The widowed Alisona Cavendish married Sir Nicholas de Flavering, in 1910 and they had a son, David, soon afterwards. They lived at Buddon Hall and in due course she inherited it. It seems to have been a happy marriage, cut short by his recent death and Lady de Havering is again a widow. She currently resides in a hotel in London, pending the time when she and her daughter leave for Italy to start a new life.’

Vignoles related his meeting with Isabella and the enginemen and how David had shot Gudgeon’s racing bird, for which Isabella de Havering had paid him compensation.

None of the four could see any obvious motive for Isabella to kill Gudgeon, whether she knew he was her father or not. Trinder struggled to find a scenario in which it made sense. ‘What if Gudgeon told her he was her father and threatened to tell the whole world? That would cause her family untold embarrassment and gives a motive for murder. Doesn’t explain the pigeon’s death, though.’

‘She gave me a quite different story,’ said Vignoles, ‘but perhaps that was to throw me off the scent. Maybe she knew where he lives and his wife’s daily routine and where the loft key was kept, and killed the pigeon. She has a black horse, too. It’s time to pay Miss Isabella a visit.’

* * * *

Trinder slowed the car at the entrance gates to Buddon Hall. The same portly constable was on duty but, as the initial excitement over the destruction of the hall had evidently lost its attraction, the gawpers were absent. The air was heavy with the smell of burning and smoke billowed through the parkland trees.

‘Afternoon, officers!’ He saluted. ‘Not lost your way again, I hope?’

‘Not this time, constable,’ Trinder replied. He showed his warrant card. ‘DCI Vignoles and I wish to speak with Miss de Havering.’

‘Of course, sir. It’s just that what with you being with the railway and me having my strict orders, it’s a bit tricky.’

Vignoles assured the man: ‘I shall square everything with your inspector, don’t worry.’

This mollified the cautious constable, who opened the heavy gates and allowed them in.

The car pulled to a halt before the hall. The men stepped out and took a moment to assess the situation. The profoundly ugly building was now rendered even more so by the complete lack of a roof, with just tottering brick chimneys standing proud of the walls. They looked unsafe and liable to fall inwards and crash through the floors below. Perhaps that was the idea.

The windows were shuttered except for those on a small wing which looked like a later addition. This modest accommodation still valiantly retained some sense of normality amidst the smell of brick dust and the bitter taste of bonfire and the shouts of men who were somewhere but out of sight. Two heavy British Road Services lorries painted in their cheerful scarlet liveries stood to one side, both partially laden with heavy beams of oak deemed worth saving from the flames.

To their right and some distance from the main building was a stable block with a row of dormer windows let into the red tiled roof. They could see two horseboxes with their tailboards lowered standing in the yard in front and behind these a glimpse inside one of the open stable doors revealed a horse being groomed by an attractive woman with a ponytail.

‘That’s Isabella,’ Vignoles told Trinder. They adjusted their hats and walked across.

‘Inspector, what a delightful surprise, and you’ve brought a friend!’ She stood upright and flexed her shoulders, an action that enhanced and drew attention to her physique. Her voice was still playful, but her eyes looked guarded and lacked the sparkle of their previous encounter. As she swung out a hip and rested a hand on the curve, Trinder was trying hard not to ogle her figure.

Vignoles touched the brim of his hat. ‘Miss de Havering, this is DS Trinder. I’m afraid we have a few more questions.’

‘Fire away, but I must carry on curry combing Lucky Star. It can’t wait.’ She partially turned her back on the detectives and leaned into the sweeping strokes of the comb, her face close to the gleaming flank of the horse. ‘I’ve sold him. He’s due to leave shortly.’ She concentrated hard on the work, her face set as though not wishing to betray her feelings about the matter. ‘But you’re not here to talk horses.’ She flashed a glance towards the detectives and especially Trinder, who was eyeing the horse with some trepidation. Dance music, collecting 78rpm records and driving the police Rover were more his cup of tea. Lucky Star snorted and Trinder jumped.

‘Do the initials ADS mean anything to you?’

Was there a momentary catch in the smoothness of her hand across her horse? If so, it was instantly recovered. ‘What is this, a parlour game?’ She moved to the far side of Lucky Star and looked across the bay’s back as she replied. Her voice had regained some of the bounce and confidence of their previous meeting. ‘How about the Animal Dispensary Service? Lady de Havering used them all the time. She took in deliveries most months.’ She gave the detectives a challenging smile as if pleased to have pulled the rug from under their feet. ‘I never dealt with them, so I’m afraid I can’t help you further.’

There was the sound of another horse snorting and a clattering of hooves coming from a neighbouring stable box. A woman’s voice made calming sounds. Trinder went to investigate.

‘Your friend appears to have left the two of us alone.’ Her raised eyebrow was charm personified.

Vignoles played a straight bat. ‘I have here a card bearing those initials and the date 1908.’ He showed her the reverse of the card across the top of Lucky Star’s back.

She frowned. ‘May I see it?’

‘It was found along with a posy of dried roses in the possession of Albert Gudgeon.’ A pause. ‘The birdman.’ He handed it across whilst watching her reaction.

She fell silent for a moment, then looked up and stared him straight in the eye. ‘What does this mean?’

‘I was rather hoping you could tell me.’

She took a step away from Lucky Star and stood reading the verses of the poem. ‘Oh, this is one of mama’s favourites.’ She looked puzzled. ‘A rather sad piece of work, I’d say.’

‘Is the copperplate script familiar to you? Could it be Lady de Havering’s hand?’

‘It is a classic style,’ she said, dismissively. ‘I’ve seen countless similar examples. Take a look at any place card at a wedding.’ Vignoles felt her riposte too quick and waited silently for her to continue. She fell silent.

‘Lady de Havering was Alisona de Saluzzo at that time. Could she be ADS?’

She snapped out of her reverie and flashed an angry look at Vignoles. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘That Mr Gudgeon and Lady de Havering knew each other, and that in 1908 they were romantically involved.’

‘Think very carefully about what you say, inspector!’ She looked genuinely shocked and for a moment Vignoles thought she might rip the card into pieces in anger. She hesitated, and he deftly plucked it from her grasp. ‘And I would advise against destroying evidence in a murder investigation.’

‘I’m sorry the old man is dead, of course, but if you think anyone in my family has anything to do with it, based on some unfounded rumour, or this piece of card, you’re barking mad. It’s absolute rot.’ If she was faking her incredulity, then she was a superb actress. ‘Lady de Havering was in London when he died, and I’ve told you, I was here. Must I call the site foreman over to confirm my alibi?’

Trinder had returned, accompanied by a young woman. ‘There is something you should know, guv.’

‘Excuse me,’ Miss de Havering snapped, ‘but I can’t waste any more time on your foolish questions, and Kimble has urgent work to do: she needs to have Jet prepared for collection within the hour.’

‘Not so fast, Miss de Havering.’ Vignoles turned to Trinder. ‘What is it?’

‘Miss Kimble has just told me something rather interesting.’ The stable girl in question flushed red. ‘The horse she is looking after is owned by Lady de Havering.’

‘What of it?’ snorted Isabella, irritated. ‘Our stabling arrangements are hardly police business. I think you should leave.’

Trinder ignored the tongue lashing and turned to the stable girl. ‘Please tell the inspector what you told me.’

‘Must I? B-but I was sworn to not tell.’ She looked excruciatingly embarrassed. ‘Miss Isabella, madam, I-I’m so sorry. It just slipped out by accident. I-I never meant to say anything.’

‘Say what, you silly girl? Speak up and do stop stammering!’

Kimble flushed scarlet, swallowed, then ploughed on, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Her ladyship came here, on Thursday evening, just gone. She stayed near Rothley, but I don’t know where, honest I don’t. She came here quietly, on foot. She took me quite by surprise and told me I had to get Jet ready for her early on the Friday morning.’ She looked at Miss de Havering with a guilty expression. ‘She said I had to do this without you knowing, miss. Those were her orders. You know how angry and upset she gets these days. I-I couldn’t face another of her tantrums.’ She impatiently wiped a tear from her eye. ‘I was desperate for you to leave and have that meeting about the house. I only just got there in time.’

‘Got where, exactly?’ It was Miss de Havering doing the interrogating. Her voice steely and cold.

‘This side of the woods near the railway, miss. I had to ride Jet like the wind. She took him from me and I was to go away then meet her ladyship close to the village an hour and a half later. I collected Jet from her and took him back and rubbed him down and never told anyone, miss.’

Vignoles turned to Isabella. It was his turn to be angry. ‘Are you saying that you knew nothing about your mother being here? And before you answer, don’t forget this is a murder investigation. It would be extremely unwise to lie.’

‘I knew nothing about this until now. Of course I didn’t.’ Her voice was quiet. Lifeless. She was visibly shocked. ‘Lady de Havering is now going to Paris before me, and I’ll join her in a few days, when the horses are gone and everything is finished here.’ Her eyes were glassy, as if fighting to hold back tears. ‘Our original plan was to travel together, but Lady de Havering was growing more impatient and said she would go on ahead. It’s the strain of it all, you see. I think I need to sit down.’ She slumped down onto a wooden bench, looking as though the lifeblood had been sucked out of her.

‘Where is her ladyship staying in London?’

Vignoles’s question had the effect of suddenly galvanising her into life, and awakening all her protective instincts towards her mother.

‘I refuse to tell you, inspector; I won’t facilitate your harassing her with your monstrous accusations. Her ladyship’s nerves are already stretched to breaking point. She is a refined lady, of gentle upbringing and disposition, and her life has been torn apart, firstly by the shocking death of her husband and son, and now by losing her very home, the place in which she grew up. She cannot possibly take any more! She needs lengthy convalescence, inspector, and that is why we are going to Italy. And don’t try to bully it out of Kimble because she does not know.’ She folded her arms in defiance and stared angrily at the floor.

Vignoles knew that pressing her was pointless. Even if he arrested her for being an accessory or obstructing the police, he could see that she was the type of person who would remain tight-lipped, regardless of how hard she were questioned. No matter, they would find her by some other means.

‘There’s something else you should see, guv,’ said Trinder. ‘In here. Miss Kimble, would you come, too, please?’ The three walked into the adjoining stable, where a black stallion stood arrogantly pawing the straw in the box. Trinder indicated to Vignoles a set of strongly constructed wooden cupboards and drawers, each furnished with locks, but many of them standing open to reveal a clutter of cardboard packaging, tins of ointment, half empty tubes of creams and other detritus.

‘Miss Kimble tells me this is her ladyship’s veterinary store. It was well-stocked and maintained until about a year ago, when she gave it all up.’

‘Are you saying that she was a veterinary surgeon?’ Vignoles was surprised at this revelation. ‘That is very unusual for a woman, let alone a lady.’

‘Her ladyship is fully qualified,’ Kimble replied, with some pride. ‘But she only practised on the estate. Thanks to her training, she saved a small fortune over the years on vet bills. She’s so good with animals.’

Vignoles was poking around. There was a heady smell of embrocation and fainter traces of creams and ointments. Little cardboard labels that bore a perfect copperplate script were fixed to the drawers and cupboard doors and on the fronts of some of the shelves. They reminded him instantly of Gudgeon’s pigeon loft. He eased one of the paper labels from its brass holder on the front of a cupboard door and pocketed it.

‘Did her ladyship always keep everything locked?’

‘Oh, yes, sir. And only she had the keys.’ Kimble spoke earnestly, eager to help. ‘Nobody was ever allowed to even look inside.’

‘When were the cupboards emptied?’

‘Just before she left for London, she opened them up and had the supplies removed. Everything worth saving, at least. I think she called in a vet from down Quorn way.’ Vignoles picked up a box and heard the tinkle of glass. Inside were two hypodermic syringes. ‘Did her ladyship ever have cause to anaesthetise a horse?’

‘I don’t rightly know, sir. But I am sure she could, if she had to.’ Kimble’s eyes were wide. She was, clearly, in awe of her mistress.

Vignoles looked at Trinder and both men had the same thought: Dr Tomblin’s remarks about the sedative being ‘strong enough to knock out a cow’, administered by someone ‘adept at using a syringe’. As Trinder ushered Miss Kimble out of the stable he had one final check to make, but chose to form it as a remark rather than a question. ‘I expect her ladyship enjoys flying to Paris.’

‘Oh no, sir, she doesn’t trust planes at all. My lady always takes the boat train from Victoria. And only ever the daytime one, so she can look at the scenery and countryside. She’ll be on her way in a few hours.’ Her face dropped, and she added: ‘I don’t suppose I shall ever see her again.’ She frowned, genuinely sad at the thought. Trinder motioned her to walk ahead and turned his back on her. Facing Vignoles, he spoke to him in a whisper: ‘The Golden Arrow, guv. Tomorrow morning!’

* * * *

After Vignoles, Trinder and the two WDCs emerged from the staircase leading up from the Underground station they were soon caught up amongst the morning hustle and bustle of the concourse of Victoria station. Despite this, it took only moments to locate Platform 2. The line of gloriously elegant chocolate-brown-and-umber Pullman cars, with their ostentatious decoration, sat graciously alongside the grey platform. Approaching these extraordinary vehicles, with their little table lamps and glistening silver and brilliant wine glasses at every window, were several small groups of wealthy passengers — mostly, couples. The gentlemen wore perfectly tailored blazers from Henry Poole, Anderson & Sheppard or Huntsman on Savile Row. Their ladies were stylishly dressed in the most fashionable outfits. It was almost a catwalk display by the season’s Paris, Milan and London fashion houses and the colours flashed and sang like so many birds of paradise. Lansdowne and Benson exchanged envious glances. The scurrying shop girls, office workers, eager shoppers and city visitors who criss-crossed the wide expanse of concourse in this endlessly busy station seemed, in contrast, rather drab.

Although they were not in uniform, Benson thought that they stood out from the crowd. ‘We might as well just blow our whistles and shout “police!”’ The four detectives stood for a moment outside the ticket barrier as heaps of battered, brown leather suitcases were stacked up alongside cabin trunks plastered artfully with exotic shipping labels to far-off destinations trundled past, hauled by liveried porters. Even their luggage proclaimed loud and clear that those travelling to Paris were untouched by austerity. The gulf in class between this Pullman train and the dowdy electric multiple unit on the adjacent platform, that had recently hauled a few hundred workers in from the suburbs, was obvious. The contrast was reinforced by advert posters on either side of the platform entrance. One of these depicted a painting of a slim woman in a grey twin-set cavorting on a pink ribbon swing, showing off a lot of leg and frilly petticoat, her arms weighed down by hatboxes in gaily-chequered yellow, red and green above a strap line declaring that the Golden Arrow was ‘The Train of the Elegant’.

‘She looks a bit daft to me,’ blurted WDC Lansdowne, unimpressed.

‘That bit of flimsy ribbon would give way if I did that!’ WDC Benson replied.

Vignoles whispered to a ticket collector standing in a wooden sentry box, the lower of the two doors bolted shut, doubtless to protect him from draughts. He discreetly showed the man his warrant card. After waving them through the railwayman watched eagerly as they walked towards the train. Police presence pretty much guaranteed a bit of excitement to liven up his dull working day.

The usual police procedure would be to intercept a suspect when boarding the train and haul him off for questioning, but Chief Superintendent Badger had set out strict instructions that on no account must her ladyship be publicly humiliated by being dragged off the train at Victoria on the flimsy basis of vet’s syringes and a card with her initials on. They could not interfere with her journey and cause her to miss her connecting ship merely to question her. They would have to speak with her on the train, and then, if necessary, take her away discreetly at Dover without letting any other passengers aware.

‘I telephoned the Continental Booking Office earlier,’ Vignoles explained as they walked alongside the train. ‘Her seat is in Cygnus, one of the parlour cars. We shall walk the length of the train, as though looking for our places, but in fact to locate Cygnus. We’ll be two romantic couples, and do all try to look like you’re on your way to Paris and not to a funeral!’ Both WDCs displayed fake but passable smiles in compliance. Trinder merely nodded.

‘Once we’ve established her whereabouts, we’ll take our places in the Trianon Bar. We can drink coffee there until we get underway, then make our move. I don’t expect any silliness from her ladyship, but her options are more limited once we’re steaming towards the coast. She has a maid with her, but we have no reason to suspect that young lady of any wrongdoing. But stay on your guard. She is upset, unstable, and cornered, which could lead to a potentially dangerous situation.’

They all nodded thoughtfully. She could be carrying a hypodermic filled with a lethal dose of horse sedative. It was an unsettling idea, but they made a play of sauntering slowly beside the train until Trinder stopped and gallantly lit a cigarette for Lansdowne as they drew alongside the car named Cygnus. This gave them time to scan the interior. Sunlight bounced off the windows, but despite the glare Trinder was sure he’d identified their quarry. He smiled as he communicated this in a whisper to the others. The group responded as if to an amusing quip.

Lady de Havering was seated at the window on the platform side, reading a magazine. She had a finely chiselled face with a strong jaw line, firm skin and thick, dark hair held in place with what looked like a diamond-and-silver hair grip. She had retained her good looks and, apart from the hair colour, the resemblance to her daughter was unmistakable. Facing her was a plain woman in her thirties wearing more sober clothes. Trinder wondered if the maid had been chosen to better enhance her employer’s looks. He was not feeling in a generous mood.

They walked on until they reached the Trianon Bar, which conveniently was the next car along. All except Vignoles boarded the train. He wanted to speak to the driver and guard, and also felt that one of them should stay on the platform until the very last moment, in case her ladyship alighted. He lit his pipe and walked past an enormous luggage van containing a mountain of baggage until he reached the gleaming green engine. He could spare a moment to admire a class of locomotive he’d rarely had chance to see in service. And it was a beauty! Bulled and buffed and polished to a glossy sheen that reflected the sunlight in blinding flashes, it was a vision of the new British Railways. It was presented to exhibition standards and the crew and a squadron of cleaners had obviously spent many hours preparing it for this trip.

‘William Shakespeare’ was fast becoming the pride of this fleet, dubbed the ‘Britannia’ Class. These were the newest express engines and already proving a huge success, with this example finding especial favour ever since its celebratory appearance at the Festival of Britain in 1951. Fast and strong, they had a pared-back beauty that Vignoles instantly appreciated. The locomotive was large and had a high-stepped footplate that showed off its coupled wheels to advantage. The smoke deflectors at the front of the boiler — fittings which Anna had dubbed ‘elephant ears’ — were painted a glossy black and garnished with a gold painted metal arrow hooked onto special brackets. Pointing forwards, the arrow suggested speed and urgency.

After glancing down the length of the train to ensure nobody but the porters had got off, he walked to the front of the engine and admired the other special adornments — the circular board hung over the smokebox door that declared ‘Golden Arrow’ on a green background with an arrow angled downwards from the top left to bottom right across the legend. British and French flags fluttered in the hot London air from short poles above the buffer beam. An unlit oil lamp, and a white disc (used in these southern reaches of the railway system to identify trains), were both pristine and bright.

He introduced himself to the engine crew just as the guard, who had completed his calculations of the weight of the laden train, arrived to pass this on to the footplatemen, so they would know how best to handle the load. Vignoles explained the reason for his presence. They took everything in without comment, then nodded their understanding. They would assist if and when needed. Their professionalism cheered him.

Fifteen minutes into their journey and ‘William Shakespeare’ was chuntering away like a well-oiled sewing machine whilst the heavy coaching stock was rumbling contentedly on the six-wheeled bogies below them. The first Bellinis and Martinis of the morning were being served by waiters wearing crisply-starched white jackets.

Luckily, Lady de Havering and her maid were sitting in wingbacked armchairs at the far end of the carriage. No other passengers were within earshot. Benson and Lansdowne sat nearby, both ready in case they were needed and to prevent any other travellers sitting near the lady being questioned. Vignoles and Trinder approached and Vignoles made the introductions as he flipped out his warrant card.

‘Good morning, chief inspector, and what can I do for you?’ replied Lady de Havering. Her sang froid was impeccable, as though she had no idea what a policeman could possibly want with her.

‘I’d like to ask you a few questions, and alone, please, so could your maid go with WDCs Lansdowne and Benson?’ Benson had risen and was waiting to usher the maid into a seat at the other end of the carriage. The maid looked to her employer for approval, which was given with a silent nod of the head.

‘One, two, three, four!’ counted Lady de Havering, raising an eyebrow. ‘All of you travelling to Paris, and at the taxpayers’ expense, no doubt?’ She dabbed her mouth delicately with a thick, linen napkin, although she had not yet eaten or drunk anything. ‘I find your choice of time and place most intriguing.’ She paused and gave a condescending smile. ‘Ah, but you did say you were from the railway police, so I should assure you that our tickets are quite in order! Now, where is that steward? I enjoy a glass of sherry when travelling. Settles the nerves.’

‘Lady de Havering. We need to ask you about something rather serious. We are investigating the death of Albert Gudgeon, in the vicinity of Swithland Lane bridge on the Mountsorrel mineral railway. A line you know intimately.’ He paused a beat as the engine whistle sounded an appropriate note of warning. ‘Where were you on Thursday night, 4th June, and the morning of Friday 5th June, between 7 and 9.30am?’

At my usual hotel, in London.’ She sounded slightly irritated at having to explain herself, but betrayed no alarm.

‘We know that you travelled from Marylebone to Rothley on the evening of Thursday 4th June, and stayed overnight in the village. Why did you not stay at Buddon Hall?’

She glared blankly into Vignoles’s eyes but said nothing, just rocked her head slightly to the rhythmic tickety-tum of the wheels over the rail joints.

‘We know that you secretly met your stable maid Miss Kimble, and arranged for her to bring your horse Jet to a pre-arranged rendezvous close to the aforementioned bridge on the morning of the 5th, swearing the poor girl to secrecy about the arrangement.’

Finally she responded and her voice was barely audible. Almost a hiss laced with disgust. A pity the stupid girl couldn’t keep her mouth shut.’

Realising she’d betrayed herself, she quickly rallied and fought to rescue her cause. ‘Inspector.’ She offered him a winning smile that she knew could make any man melt. ‘I know it sounds rather foolish and sentimental but I simply wanted to ride my horse one last time.’ Her voice grew increasingly wistful, until it became saturated in sugary melancholy. ‘To say goodbye to a dear, dear, lovely creature. Just Jet and myself and the mists of a sunny summer morning. I didn’t want my daughter fussing over me or accompanying me, so I went there under a veil of anonymity.’ Her performance was one that West End theatregoers would have applauded. Her voice grew bolder. ‘All perfectly innocent, as you can see. I rather fear you have made some mistaken assumptions and your trip was unnecessary. Oh dear, I do hope you won’t get into too much trouble for wasting all this manpower on a wild goose chase.’ Her voice was playful; mocking.

‘Others will judge if it was wasted.’ Vignoles placed a small rectangle of card on the bright white tablecloth. ‘Did you write this?’

‘Embrocation. Why, yes: it’s from my old medical supplies cabinet. What of it?’

Vignoles placed the card bearing the extract of the John Clare poem alongside it. ‘And this?’

‘Where did you find that old thing? Ah, I know! It must have been left behind after they stripped our house. There was litter and papers all over the show.’

Actually, we found this in Albert Gudgeon’s pigeon loft. Stored safely and secretly in a tin, together with a dried posy of wild roses. Roses you picked, together with your lover Mr Gudgeon, back in 1908. At the same time that you wrote out that sad poem and gave it to him as a farewell gesture.’

Lady de Havering fell silent. The slight rattle of the silver cutlery on the table before her was soon stilled by her hand.

‘Gudgeon pencilled the year and your initials on the reverse. Take a look.’ Vignoles flipped the card over. ‘Just there. A.D.S. As if he could forget Miss Alisona de Saluzzo. The beautiful seventeen-year-old from Buddon Hall.’ Vanity allowed Lady de Havering to momentarily twitch a corner of her mouth as she heard herself described in such terms.

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t attempt a denial. ‘I moved back after my first husband was killed.’ Vignoles noticed she had shifted time forward, away from the year he was questioning her about. ‘He was shot down over France, you know. Tragic waste of a young life.’ She offered these facts as though they would somehow help explain away all that followed.

‘But the loss of Mr Cavendish was not the personal tragedy others might have supposed.’ Vignoles was still keeping his voice quiet and measured.

‘What would you know of my feelings.’

‘Actually, I know quite a lot. It’s a case of knowing where to look and how to read the clues.’ Vignoles was pleased to see he was rewarded with a curious look in response. ‘You had just turned eighteen and the fruits of your, er, let’s say your “summer of love” were not yet showing.’ He allowed a mischievous grin that made her cheeks glow even redder. ‘Marriage preserved your honour and nobody suspected a thing. When the child was three you separated and returned to Buddon Hall. Soon you were taking the child to see her real father, dutifully slogging up and down his crumbling old railway. He’d made a vow of silence that you knew he would never break. He had by this time married and would soon have children. You also married again.’

‘What an extraordinarily romantic mind you have, for a policeman. You really ought to take up writing fiction. I am sure they would all be bestsellers.’ Her attempt at lightness failed.

‘But before you found contentment with Sir Nicholas, you pined for what was lost. You turned to poetry and perhaps it served its purpose in releasing some of your unspoken feelings.’ Vignoles looked up and Trinder stepped forward, the little book in his hand.

‘Our women officers are good investigators. They traced this rare copy.’ Trinder took his turn. ‘Gudgeon always named his best racing bird Isabella. His own way of recognising what the two of you had created. And you sent out a little message to him — although how you thought a humble trackman was going to know about, let alone buy, such a book, perhaps illustrates the gulf in status between you. The title poem of the book is most interesting.’

Those gathered around the table looked at the gold-blocked lettering on the sky-blue leather that declared ‘I will send my pigeons to the sky’.

‘Good God, where did you dredge that up from? That terrible doggerel was about flying. Piers was in the Royal Flying Corps, as you know.’ Lady de Havering dismissed it with a contemptuous wave of the hand.

‘And Gudgeon was the birdman, he kept pigeons.

‘Over the years, Albert was content enough. He had his wife and children, of course, but he was so happy to be able to see you and his daughter most days, even if it was just for a short time. He played his part perfectly, and not once did he let the truth slip out.

‘But your decision to move to Italy devastated him. He would never see either of you again. You had words, an argument perhaps. You had to agree to his demand to meet in secret on a Saturday evening, or he would have come to the house, which would raise awkward questions. When you refused to cancel your plans to emigrate, he threatened to tell Isabella — maybe even the world — hoping that this might force you to stay living nearby. He was even prepared to face his own wife and children with the truth and take the consequences. When you would not agree he asked to meet again the following Saturday, and this went on, week after week, for three months. But no matter how much or how many times he entreated you to reconsider, you refused, and the date of your leaving grew ever closer.’

When she spoke it was level, cold, and quiet. ‘He simply would not see reason. The romance between us was over decades ago, and Isabella was a grown woman. It was all ancient history. Besides, Isabella was not even his. She’d never been, not properly. A father is someone who raises you. I’d already lost so much: my husband, my son, my estate. I just wanted to leave all the horrible memories behind, to get away and never come back. But he threatened to expose our secret if I did. If he had, what possible good would come of it? It would cause Isabella mental torment and perhaps she might not move with me to Italy. And goodness knows what his wife would say, do, or feel. It was senseless all round, which I told him repeatedly during those repetitive, pointless Saturday meetings.’

Vignoles took up the story. ‘So, Friday morning would be your last farewell. When he saw you approach, perhaps smiling, and clutching the dog roses, he was transported back where you’d first met all those years ago. In the woods on a summer’s day. Just the two of you. He thought that at last you had relented and were about to give him the news he’d prayed for. You approached to embrace him, and drove a hypodermic needle into his heart and killed him.’

‘It was painless.’ Lady de Havering spoke calmly. ‘I didn’t want him to suffer. He was struggling with the realities and finding it too much to bear.’ She gave an imploring look to Vignoles. ‘I knew about dosages and how to administer a shot for an instantaneous effect. I let him slip away in my arms. It was very peaceful.’

‘No. You murdered him,’ Vignoles responded.

‘But don’t you see, inspector? I had to put him down. It was the kindest thing, all round. If he’d spoken out, Isabella would lose what little we have left! She can only inherit what I have because she’s Cavendish’s daughter and Sir Nicholas’s, through marriage. The truth would wipe all that away. How can that be right?’

‘Lady de Havering, that is simply not true,’ said Vignoles. ‘She would still inherit. Just because a man claims something, which cannot be proven, does not make it so. By law, if not by blood, Isabella is the late Mr Cavendish’s daughter.’

‘What do I care about all that?’ Everyone turned to see who had shouted those words. To everyone’s surprise, it was Isabella, being held back by Lansdowne and Benson. Trinder rose, to add reinforcement, because her face was furious. ‘How could you, mama? You robbed me of my real father in exchange for money! What do I care for wealth, or a house by Lake Garda? The man I supposed was my father died when I was too young to remember him. The man I loved for bringing me up as his own is now dead! My only brother, too! And now you would deny me my blood father! To think, he was right there, so close, every day. Saying hello in friendly greeting and teaching me about flowers and birds. And you deliberately took him away from me!’ She burst into uncontrollable sobs of heartfelt tears. Benson tried to console her.

Lady de Havering stared at the poetry book on the table. She reached out and gently touched the azure cover blocked with a flight of golden birds with her fingertips. ‘I loved him, Bella. I always did. I brought him roses. The ones he loved the best.’ Isabella’s wails increased.

Vignoles felt bile rising in his throat. What a vile mess all this was. A man dead because of class distinction, pride and money, and she had the nerve to claim she loved him. How could anyone murder someone they loved? And what had she said? ‘I had to put him down.’ She believed she needed to put him out of his misery. Not unlike how Gudgeon dealt with a sick bird — or she with a racehorse with a broken leg. But this was a man, not a beast. It was terrible. He looked at Lady de Havering, who still seemed unmoved by the drama unfolding around her. Even the heart-wrenching sobs of her daughter seemed only to cause her brow to furrow as if uncomprehending as to why she was upset. There was something controlled and dangerous about her.

And what about that dead pigeon? There would be time enough to question her about the details once they had her in custody. As Trinder and he had previously surmised, it was probably her attempt to muddy the waters and fool them into thinking he’d taken his own life. It was unlikely there would be a rational explanation. He began to form the opinion that Lady de Havering had suffered some sort of mental breakdown as a result of the stresses and shocks of the last few months.

A glance at his wristwatch told him that the train would be at Dover Western Docks in twenty minutes. He realised that the case had left a sour taste in his mouth. He needed a drink.

‘Sergeant, arrest Lady de Havering. If you need me, I shall be in the Trianon Bar.’

The Tennis Match

1939

‘Mother and father are awfully keen for us to all get together over the weekend. They’d like us to go to All Saints’ on Sunday morning, of course. Father is expecting it to be packed to the rafters.’ His sister had a charming habit of always referring to their father’s church by its proper name. ‘Absolutely everyone will be there. Mother says he’s been fretting about the sermon all week and still working on it now.’ Even down the crackly telephone line Gwendoline Darlow sounded almost breathless, talking rapidly, the nervous excitement sweeping across the land was affecting her, too. They needed to keep the expensive call brief and so she was speaking too fast. She was anxious for her brother to come home and help the family make sense of the impending madness brewing in Berlin.

‘I can imagine. A lot of people will be looking for something soothing and comforting. A ray of hope.’ Detective Constable Charles Vignoles paused a beat. ‘A near impossible task, I fear, with the Luftwaffe waiting in the wings.’

‘I feel for Father. He’s dreadfully cut up about the thought of war, although of course he can’t show it publicly. Mother says he just keeps grumbling about how the last one was supposed to be the “war that ended all wars”.’ Gwen snorted contemptuously, scoffing at the outdated claims of politicians and statesmen. ‘That idea didn’t last long.’

Vignoles grimaced. He was in his thirties and old enough to have been acutely aware of the horrors of the Western Front. If it had dragged on much longer he would have been conscripted in straight from school and sent to Belgium to be added to the cannon fodder. The effects of war lingered far beyond the Armistice. Nearly every day he could still see maimed and shell-shocked men hobbling or shuffling around the streets of Leicester, some begging, others silent and withdrawn, but often with hands shaking uncontrollably. Others had faces twisted and melted into shapes impossible to fathom, their features feebly disguised by hats, scarves and dark glasses. There were some who appeared outwardly fit and healthy and yet their eyes at times glazed over and became almost lifeless as they seemed to gaze towards something distant and unknowably horrific. And now it looked like it was set to start again. He felt his body sag with the weight of the impending dread that hung like the intense summer heat over the city, brewing like a thunderstorm ready to break.

‘I don’t suppose any of us will be in the best frame of mind, that’s why I suggest we have a tennis match on Sunday.’ Vignoles realised that his sister was talking. ‘We can make up a foursome. The weather’s still absolutely glorious and mother says the lawn is in perfect order.’ Gwen’s voice was eager and hopeful. ‘A few hefty rallies might help take our minds off everything! What d’you say, Charlie?’

He heard the telephone line make strange howling sounds as Gwen awaited his answer at the other end. ‘Why not? I assume that Mike is your doubles partner, but I can’t see mother making up the quartet.’

Gwen laughed. ‘Fat chance! She’s made a vow never to be seen in a tennis skirt again, and she’s sticking to it. But I have someone else lined up!’

‘And who would that be?’ He suspected that he already knew the answer. His dear sister was busy plotting again. Ribbentrop might be poised to declare war at any moment, but bless her, she was still trying to get him married off. ‘Well, I thought Sophie…’

‘Ah. The Hoglet.’

‘Charles! That’s most unkind.’ However Vignoles was sure he could hear his sister stifle a giggle. Sophie Hogg was a warm-hearted girl who would undoubtedly make someone a loyal and loving wife. Gwen was almost desperate that her brother should be the lucky man to share his life with this ebullient bundle. He was adamant that was not going to happen, despite his sister’s repeated attempts at matchmaking. It didn’t help that their mother adored Sophie and Vignoles suspected she was equally complicit in encouraging her to spend as much time as possible at the rectory whenever he was back home from Leicester.

Vignoles had at one time conceded that perhaps he might eventually find her short and slightly upturned nose attractive — Gwen was adamant that most men found it ‘unbearably charming’— although his response to this oft-repeated observation was that one of these captivated men should jolly well hurry up and marry her, then. The problem was, her somewhat porcine nose was accompanied by a most unfortunate laugh consisting of a series of rapid nasal snorts, resembling those of a piglet or the snuffling hedgehogs for which his mother put out bowls of milk and bread each evening. These were unkind thoughts and he felt suitably guilty. Whatever his sister might think, Sophie was just not his type. She was relentlessly enthusiastic and outdoorsy, for a start, all jolly-hockey-sticks and Labradors. That she was healthy and active were admirable qualities, but there was something about the way she was always wearing sturdy shorts and hiking boots or, for a change, a robust netball skirt, ensuring that she was always displaying a lot of strong, well-muscled leg, apparently only concealed in times of heavy snowfall. If offered a pony to go hacking upon, a scratch game of rounders or a canvas tent to pack with the chance to hike halfway across Middle England, the Hoglet was the first in line. The camping would, ideally, be accompanied by a troupe of Girl Guides with campfire building and communal singing to follow. No, she was just not Vignoles’s cup of tea. He preferred coffee. Preferably strong, dark and faintly exotic. Not exactly the kind of woman usually to be seen in Dunton Bassett.

‘Oh, come on, Gwen, you have to admit that there is something ever so slightly—’

‘Stop being so be unkind. She’d absolutely love it if you challenged her to a match.’

‘Yes, but it wouldn’t make much of a contest, would it? Her devastating serve and mean backhand are the only reason my side would have any chance of nicking even one point against you and Mike. In singles, she’d demolish me in no time. Utter humiliation.’ Vignoles was a moderately competent cricketer, but not much of a tennis player, but he agreed that a light-hearted match on the rectory lawn was probably the best way to keep up everyone’s spirits if the Prime Minister announced bad news on his planned wireless broadcast. Under such circumstances, he was even more determined not to encourage the poor girl into thinking there was ever going to be something more than friendship between them.

‘We’re going to the rectory tomorrow evening. The usual train. Mike’s managed to get a half-day. I think the feeling in the office was that, with things as they are, it might be good for everyone to be home with their families. Who knows when we might be able to do so again? ’ Vignoles grunted vaguely. He found Gwen’s husband a rather intense fellow. He had a fascination for radio receivers and was eager to talk at length about valves, aerials and other bits of electrical apparatus. He was also surprisingly good at tennis.

That day, a Thursday, was the last day of an August to remember. The whole summer had been close to perfect with a succession of cloudless blue skies and mounting summer heat. This had made it all the more difficult for anxious householders to dig deep through the cracked and sun-hardened soil to erect the Anderson shelters that had arrived on the backs of corporation trucks. When complete, these flimsy structures — that would, supposedly, protect families from the impending horrors from the skies — were found to be baking hot and airless, in fact, like outdoor ovens, and the consensus was that they were to be avoided at almost any cost. Meanwhile the parks of Leicester had been filled with families and young couples eager to escape the dusty city heat and these big open spaces, with tumbling water and great banks of gaudy bedding plants between towering trees that offered welcome shade, had become wonderful outdoor meeting places, loud with the murmur of conversation and the yelps of playing children. The only signs of approaching doom being when an aeroplane buzzed overhead and every head uplifted, eyes were shaded, and men and boys competed to reassuringly identify it as ‘one of ours’.

As Vignoles stepped off the train at Ashby Magna he was glad to escape the cigarette-smoke-filled atmosphere of the carriage, which had effectively bottled up the summer heat in its close confines and left him feeling like a smoked kipper. If it was this bad in a railway carriage, what was it going to be like wearing a gas mask and sitting in one of those claustrophobic shelters? If and when a raid came, perhaps he’d just put his tin helmet on and patrol the railway instead. Or was that just foolish bravado? The sort of empty promise often heard during this extended ‘phoney war’, when nothing actually happened and defiant words appeared to be all that was at stake.

Gwen caught his attention with a cheery wave, then, to his surprise, ran to greet him. She gave him a bear hug which was cut abruptly short when his gas mask case jabbed into his stomach, almost winding him. Each immediately pulled away. ‘Steady on, old girl!’ he said, laughing. ‘What’s that in aid of?’

‘Just glad to see you, old thing!’ Gwen’s voice came out a little strangely, but she recovered instantly and linked her arm through his. She steered him towards the exit, surreptitiously wiping away a stinging tear that had unexpectedly developed. The apple-green-and-black locomotive was preparing to pull away and the fireman was shovelling on a few rounds of coal and dumping some ash in their direction, providing the perfect excuse for a corner of a handkerchief to be deployed. ‘Good journey?’

‘Too darned hot. It’ll be sheer hell with those thick blackout curtains pulled across. I’m dreading it.’ Vignoles wafted some air with his Panama hat. ‘Phew, I’m glad to get some fresh country air!’ He nodded towards the locomotive puffing into motion. ‘That’s a V2 on the front. Fine engines, as I think I’ve told you before.’ His sister only half listened. She was long accustomed to his fascination with railways. ‘They’re going to be given sterner tests than these carriages over the next few years, once everything kicks off.’

‘Years?’

‘I imagine so, though all I know about our war preparations is what one’s allowed to read in the papers, and that’s probably all censored. But if the last war was anything to go by — remember they said it would be “all over by Christmas”? I fear this could be another long haul.’

Gwen looked thoughtful, gently biting the inside of her lower lip. She seemed about to say something, but changed her mind. They walked slowly uphill from the little wayside station that lay between the two villages of Ashby Magna and Dunton Bassett, the road dry and dusty, the tall spire of All Saints’ poking out from a cluster of verdant trees at the top of the small hill. ‘Have they confirmed what you will do?’

‘I shall stay in the LNER Police. We’re recognised as a reserved occupation.’

‘Thank God!’

‘Yes, I’m a little too long in the tooth to be a squaddie.’ He grinned at his sister. ‘Mind you, I would not mind the RAF, though; I rather fancy learning to fly. I can quite see myself in one of those leather flying jackets with the sheepskin lining.’

‘But protecting the railway is just as vital, Charlie. They’re needed for so many things; not just for goods, but getting people to work, moving troops about. Stop the railways and you stop the country.’

‘You’re quite right, of course, Gwen, but it’s hard not to get that feeling of wanting to do something more, well, dynamic. To really get stuck in and put an end to all this as quickly as possible. I can’t do that by just patrolling sidings at night.’ He paused a little as they walked on. ‘We’ve all wondered if more could not have been done to stop these Fascists. By that, I mean stop them in the only way they seem to understand. With force. Hard, deadly force, not shilly-shallying around with bits of paper and meaningless promises. Although I still don’t think the International Brigades were the answer. I was as unhappy as any of us when Jack volunteered—.’

‘God rest his soul,’ Gwen interjected. It still hurt to talk about their brother, who died in a back street of Barcelona.

‘But he knew. He, and those other poor brave souls, who marched off to try and stop this awful calamity, armed with ancient rifles and fighting a highly mechanised, organised army with little more than passion and a belief that they were right. They warned us then that paperwork and handshakes meant nothing to the likes of Hitler and Mussolini. We’d all prefer peaceful appeasement, of course. Nobody wants more wars, but that rather relies on the other side keeping their word.’

‘So we should have started fighting back then?’

‘I don’t know.’ Vignoles looked bleak. He hated the very idea, but the evidence suggested they were up against a merciless foe that cared nothing for peace. ‘But if we’re brutally honest, our tanks were antiquated and too few aircraft that would have been a match for theirs. I just hope they’ve come up with something better.’

‘Father saw a Spitfire yesterday! ’ said Gwen, brightly, trying to lift his spirits. ‘He said it looked beautiful. Sleek and awfully fast. Sounded very impressive. We might see it this weekend.’

Vignoles forced a smile. It was clear that Gwen wanted to avoid gloomy war talk. ‘Come on, I’m sure mother is waiting to get dinner on the table. I’m half-starved.’

* * * *

Saturday dawned with fine weather, and yet nobody could quite decide what to do with it. After the first flush of chatter and exchanging stories about work and the state of Europe over breakfast, they had all been struck by a similar lack of focus. Even Mrs Vignoles seemed reluctant to walk to Ashby Magna to buy provisions, not even for their Sunday lunch, always the highlight of the week, and even more so this week, with family and friends to join them. She loved having the house full and was eager to entertain, and yet, despite her protestations, lacked her usual drive and energy.

The Reverend Gerard Vignoles needed to make amendments to his sermon, but found himself feeling halfhearted about it and spent most of the time standing at the open French windows and gazing at the church spire that arose from the small orchard of apple trees at the foot of the garden. He, too, was restless. Unable to settle, he decided to summon the verger to the church for a meeting. They discussed something neither urgent nor important, but it helped dispel the feeling that he was just frittering the day away.

Mike busied himself checking the radiogram battery and the aerial alignment, on the grounds that, ‘It is vital that we’re ready for any announcement from Berlin. We can’t have the wireless cutting out on us.’ This was approved by the others though everyone knew it to be unnecessary. The Reverend Vignoles had never once allowed the battery to run flat and their expensive and carefully maintained set had always enjoyed perfect reception. Nevertheless, Mike eagerly cycled to the ironmonger with the acid battery carefully ensconced in the basket to get some additional ‘juice’ squeezed in.

Charles Vignoles, as befitted a young detective learning his trade, had read the mood of the family and knew that he was being relied upon to help create frivolous diversions that would give them all a sense of purpose. His sister, although managing to remain upbeat and cheerful, was clearly anxious about the troubled times that lay ahead. From time to time he noticed a wistful, far-away look in her eyes, and she seemed to catch him noticing, too. What she needed was to be kept busy, and so he suggested they make the preparations for the next day’s tennis.

‘This racquet needs its strings tightening, Gwen. Actually, a restring would be even better.’ Vignoles tested the tautness by gently hitting the palm of his hand. ‘Flat as the proverbial pancake.’

‘Which proverb is that, then?’ asked Gwen, teasing him. She waved another old wooden racquet in his direction. ‘This one’s bouncy, but the tape is coming loose. Oh, but it doesn’t matter; we’re not expecting Fred Perry!’

It had been many years since Vignoles had re-strung a racquet, and he hoped he would remember how. He recalled that there was a set of unused catgut strings tucked away somewhere in the summer house, assuming they were not spoilt by mice or damp. The green-painted, weatherboarded construction had a raised veranda on the front, and two windows flanking a set of glass-paned double doors which led into one large room. Although originally intended as a summer house, or Wendy house for the children, it had — as these things always do — gradually been transformed into a repository for deckchairs, garden tools, bric-a-brac, bicycles, unused furniture and sports paraphernalia dating back to when the three Vignoles children had first been old enough to hold a racquet or bat. Gwen went inside to hunt for the strings whilst Vignoles carried an elderly dining chair out onto the veranda. It creaked alarmingly as he sat on it and filled his pipe in preparation to tackling the project. He was about to light up when Gwen called from within:

‘Charlie, come and see what I’ve found!’

The interior smelled mustily of discarded seed packets, bone meal and slug pellets, and was heavily festooned with cobwebs. Gwendoline had started delving eagerly into the darker recesses at the back, hefting aside a crate of ancient homemade dandelion wine that had, clearly, failed to impress and was working on opening a rusting metal trunk.

‘Look! It’s an old pond yacht!’ Gwen held up the craft from where it had lain in the trunk that she had finally managed to prise open. It was dusty and, because the main mast was unstepped and laid flat, the linen sails lay crumpled in untidy folds along the varnished deck.

‘This was Jack’s,’ replied Vignoles. ‘Remember, Uncle Arthur bought it him one birthday? Take it outside and let’s have a proper look.’

Gwen stood in the sunlight and tentatively lifted the mast into an upright position. The sails were foxed with brown spots and there was some fraying to their edges in places and one of the shrouds had snapped, but otherwise it looked in fairly good order.

‘Hold it like that a moment,’ said Vignoles. ‘We can step the mast and pin it in place, like so. See?’

‘I can see why Jack was so fond of it: it’s lovely. Let me give it a dust over.’ She handed the yacht to Vignoles and, pulling a clean, monogrammed handkerchief from her pocket, ran it back and forth over the deck a few times until it glowed a honey colour in the sun. ‘There. That’s better!’

‘A Star yacht, made in Birkenhead.’ Vignoles was reading the red transfer at the foot of the mast. ‘Quality models. This will last for forever, as long as the rot doesn’t get to the sails.’ They looked at each other, each with saddened eyes as they realised it had already long outlived its owner.

‘It’s a shame not to see it. I know: I’ll put it on display in the window!’ She dragged a small, rickety wicker plant table across to the window and placed the yacht upon it, then stood back and smiled, satisfied that she’d rescued a thing of beauty from oblivion.

Vignoles gently reminded her why they were there. ‘Any sign of those strings?’

‘Oh, yes, sorry, I’ll have another delve. Come and help, would you? Two sets of eyes are better than one, after all!’

She enjoyed being there with her brother, aimlessly poking through the detritus of their shared childhood and was secretly looking for an excuse to stay. She sensed, or imagined, that her brother was equally unwilling to return to the others. He joined in enthusiastically with her trip into nostalgia and soon each was taking turns to hold up long-forgotten items, recall whose they were and relate various anecdotes, some comic, others tragic, connected with them.

What’s in this old box?’ Gwen opened the lid. ‘It’s a big pile of comics. Dozens of them, by golly. They look about a century old!’ She examined one in more detail. ‘Yes look, here’s a date… 1866.’

Vignoles glanced across. ‘What have you found?’

‘The Boy Detective, or the Crimes of London. How very melodramatic! Do you remember that day you brought them home from that second-hand bookshop in Leicester?’

‘Can’t say I do… Pass one over, please.’

Oh come on, you must have been, what, eleven or twelve? You had your nose in the things for weeks afterwards.’ She handed him the top one of the pile and he smiled as he studied the front cover drawing, which looked vaguely familiar. Although less dusty and faded than he’d expected, when he tried to turn over the page a sepia-brown, crispy corner came away in his hand.

‘Yes, you’re right. I blew a month’s pocket money on the lot.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘I found them in a little shop on Humberstone Gate. All terribly overblown Victorian stuff, of course, but it fired a young imagination—

‘And prompted your choice of career.’

‘Perhaps…’ He turned a few more pages, stopping to inspect a particularly lurid engraving of several masked robbers.

‘And look, here’s a copy of Bleak House. You seem to have won it as a prize at school.’

‘Funnily enough, that book was noted for featuring one of the earliest detectives in fiction. Dickens and his friend Wilkie Collins, between them introduced the reading world to the enduring fascination with my line of work.’

‘Oh, what fun this is!’

And so the afternoon wore on, brother and sister unearthing, in turn, balding tennis balls and a tatty, dark-green net — which they found to be torn in several places. Gwen set to work mending it, and soon it was in place and pulled taut. The lawn had been mown and rolled to perfection, this being a skill Vignoles had mastered at an early age, and was fit for a major ATP tennis tournament.

Having finally found the catgut, Vignoles worked quietly under the blazing sunlight, determined to do a good job. The new strings were bright and fresh from the unopened box and, whilst he was fighting to get the very last turn taut enough, he knew the racquet would soon work as well as a new one. Gwen was busy laying afternoon tea on a table placed under the shade of a tree, and he could hear the pleasant clink of china and her voice as she gently gave instructions to her yet-to-be-domesticated husband. Underlying those sounds were those of birdsong and the endless screeching of swifts around the church spire, punctuated at regular intervals by a distant whistle and the gentle rhythmic beat of a passing train.

Vignoles tied the last knot and admired his handiwork. This would be by far the best of the four racquets. He knew that his sister would expect him to let Sophie Hogg use it; after all, she was a guest and they had been raised under the motto ‘family hold back’. He hoped his civility would not be misconstrued and serve only to stoke fires of hope.

He looked across the lawn. His mother was handing Mike Darlow a three-tiered stand displaying home-baked scones. He reflected on what tomorrow might hold for him, and for them all. Mike was not in a reserved occupation; he was an insurance clerk, but thankfully a little too old for frontline service. Wanting to ‘do his bit’, he had been the first man in Rugby to put his name down for Civil Defence duties and had been issued with a shiny black tin hat with a big white letter ‘W’ — for ‘warden’ — painted on the front. This currently took pride of place on the coat rack in the vicarage’s spacious entrance hall. Mike seemed almost excited at the prospect of fire-watching or whatever might be needed when the time came. Observing him carefully place the cake stand and smooth the tablecloth flat, Vignoles wondered what would happen to his brother-in-law as high explosives or even the dreaded gas bombs rained down on the streets from the aircraft they were told would soon darken the skies.

Intriguingly, Mike had hinted — in only the vaguest terms, naturally — that his knowledge of radio and above-average command of French were seen as ‘useful’ by an unspecified department of the War Ministry. Fie had given the subtlest of hints that perhaps he might be called upon to use these skills. If true, hopefully there would be a position for him in Rugby, where an impressive array of antennae were visible for all to see. He would be in the bomb sights of the Germans, but at least he would not have to live away from home.

* * * *

It was 11am on Sunday, 3rd September. All were seated in the drawing room; the French doors were wide open and a slight breeze wafted the fine white voile curtains. The tuning dial of the radiogram was glowing yellow and the smooth, calm speaking voice of Alvar Lidell was oozing from a walnut speaker carved into the design of a radiant rising sun. They all looked at the grandfather clock which regularly clunked as it measured time. In fifteen minutes they were to expect an announcement. Time crawled. Gwen looked pale and sat on the sofa clutching her husband’s hand. He was balancing an open copy of the Radio Times on his knee, but he’d read it through at least three times already.

The telephone rang in the hall.

‘I’ll get it.’ Mrs Vignoles bustled out of the room, glad to have something to do.

‘Don’t be long, dear. There’s just five minutes to go,’ the Reverend Vignoles reminded her. Mrs Vignoles’s side of the conversation could be heard: ‘Oh, yes, I know, we’re still waiting. Nothing, yet. I’m quite sure he will. Take care, and God bless you.’

The church clock chimed a quarter past the hour.

‘We’ve been told to silence the bells,’ said the Reverend Vignoles, to nobody in particular. ‘I shall miss them terribly. Some people suggested muffling them, but they need to be ready to sound when instructed. I received an official letter about it. They may only be rung as an alarm signalling imminent invasion, or when peace returns.’ His bushy white eyebrows were lifted high and his piercing eyes peered over the top of his gold-rimmed, half-moon glasses.

‘Oh, here we go!’ exclaimed Mike. ‘Shush, everyone.’

In about two minutes, the Prime Minister will broadcast to the nation. Please stand by…

Vignoles filled his pipe, just to give him something to do with his hands. He did not want anyone to think him anxious. He was, after all, a police officer.

‘That was Sophie on the telephone. She sends her apologies. The poor lass sounded distraught—’

‘Shh, Mother! It’s the Prime Minister!’ Gwen put a finger to her lips.

‘I just thought you’d all want to… Oh! I see.’ Mrs Vignoles stopped short and stood in the doorway. She entwined her hands, face blanching to match her white apron.

This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German government a final note stating that, unless we heard from them by eleven o’ clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us… Neville Chamberlain’s voice was clipped, level and emotionless. / have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.

‘So, that’s it then,’ said Mike, turning to Vignoles. ‘We really are at war — again.’

Now may God bless you all. May He defend the right. It is the evil things that we shall be fighting against — brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution — and against them I am certain that the right will prevail.

‘He is quite right of course.’ The Reverend Vignoles spoke quietly. ‘It is evil we face. God save us all.’ He made the sign of the cross. The others followed suit. Silence fell. Mrs Vignoles sniffed and blew her nose.

The telephone jangled again. Vignoles and Mike, having left the rectory number with their bosses, sprang to their feet, saying, ‘I’ll field that!’ and, ‘That’ll be for me!’ However, Mrs Vignoles was already in the hall and picking up the receiver.

‘It’ll be the chief inspector, calling me to an urgent meeting, no doubt,’ said Vignoles.

As both men waited to see whom Mrs Vignoles would summon to the telephone, they heard her say ‘good day’ and ring off. A parishioner, no doubt.

‘It was Mrs Green, Charles,’ she said, walking towards them. ‘They require your presence at a briefing at Leicester Central at 6pm.’

‘Righty-o, Mother,’ said Vignoles. ‘At least I can stay for lunch and still get there well before six. I’m not letting nasty Mr Hitler come between me and one of your delicious Sunday lunches!’

‘Quite right. We can all sit down and share a proper meal together at least. I insist.’ Mrs Vignoles brightened momentarily at the idea.

‘I’ll go up and pack my things now, so I’ll be ready to shoot off after pudding.’ He held his pipe between his gritted teeth and straightened his outfit. ‘Do you think that, it being a Sunday, I can travel in this rig?’ He flapped his striped blazer and slapped his arms against the sides of his white flannel cricket trousers.

‘Make the most of summer Sunday gear. We’ll all be thoroughly sick of uniforms and suits by the time this blows over!’ Mike laughed and the others did their best to join in.

Mrs Vignoles watched her son climb the stairs. She felt a sense of utter despair inside. She did not know if she could face another war. ‘What do you think will happen now?’ She appealed to her husband for guidance and comfort, her face filled with worry.

‘Nothing will happen for quite some time, my dear. Not on the surface, leastways. But rather like a swan there will be an awful lot of rapid paddling beneath.’ He crossed the room to put an arm gently around her shoulders. ‘Now, come along, my dear, dry those tears and keep your chin up. I’ll even help you peel the potatoes!’

The Darlows busied themselves in the garden, tidying away the unused tennis equipment. ‘Might be a while before we play that doubles match,’ remarked Gwen, sadly. Neither she nor Mike felt inclined to play against each other, or even have an amusing knock-about. They had suspected war was coming, of course, and yet, until Chamberlain’s broadcast, they were able to pretend to themselves that maybe, somehow, some last minute diplomatic solution would be found to avoid it. Now, a sombre mood fell upon everyone. Gwen carried the used bone china tea service back to the kitchen whdst Mike folded and put away the little table. She insisted on taking over from her father, who had rolled up his sleeves and was wrist-deep in potato peelings, and proceeded to chat about light-hearted topics to her mother whilst their respective husbands joined Vignoles in the drawing room and discussed more weighty matters.

After a sumptuous lunch of roast lamb and all the usual accompaniments, followed by spotted dick and custard, Vignoles checked his watch. ‘It’s time to go. I can catch the next train if I don’t dawdle.’ He slung his holdall along the polished hall floor so it slid until it came to a halt behind the front door in a move he hoped appeared lighthearted and carefree. He then gave his mother a hug. ‘I’ll phone, I promise. Don’t worry: we’ll see this through.’ He shook hands with his father, who gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder with his free hand.

‘Take care, old chap!’ said Mike, shaking hands more vigorously than usual.

‘You too, old boy, and make sure you look after those radios! Oh, and my sister, of course!’

The two smiled rather too broadly and their jollity looked forced. They were eager to keep up the pretence of remaining unruffled and fearless no matter how panic stricken they might feel inside. It was the British way.

Gwen, who was sitting in a floral chintz armchair, suddenly stood up: ‘I’m coming with you!’ she blurted. ‘I want to wave you off.’

‘Don’t be silly, old girl, we’ll probably all be back here next weekend.’

Mike tried to intervene. ‘Maybe you should take it easy. What with—’

‘Honestly, Mike. A little trot to the station and back won’t hurt me! It’s five minutes walk each way.’ She gave him a quick but emphatic kiss on the cheek. ‘I’ll be back in two shakes, but you can be a darling and pack our things? I think there’s a train within the hour.’

* * * *

At Ashby Magna the stationmaster was standing on the island platform alongside his two young porters, watching in silence as a heavy Robinson 02 freight engine clanked past, hauling a very long train of Warflat wagons bearing bulky machines that were carefully concealed beneath khaki-coloured tarpaulins. The fireman raised a hand to get their attention and called across. ‘Any news?’ Clearly,the engine crew had been unable to get near a wireless for hours.

‘It’s war. It’s official: Chamberlain announced it.’

The driver stared towards them over his mate’s left shoulder. He took a moment to take in what he’d heard, gave a sad shake of his head and returned to the controls. The fireman slapped the cab side in frustration. ‘It’s madness! Didn’t enough men die in the last bloody war?’ As if in agreement, the loco gave a series of angry, aggressive barks from the chimney as the driver urged it on towards Ashby tunnel.

‘Those would have been loaded and prepared some days ago, Charles,’ the stationmaster observed as the heavy train rumbled past, the track groaning and dipping under the weight of each bogie.

‘Once Germany rolled into Poland it was inevitable, really, wasn’t it, Fred?’ Vignoles had known the stationmaster since he was a little boy, trainspotting on that very platform.

‘I suppose it was. Oh, good afternoon, Mrs Darlow.’ He touched his fingers to the brim of his cap. ‘Off to Rugby? You know you’ve just missed one, so it will be an hour.’

‘Hello, Stationmaster. Ah, I thought it was sooner. Never mind. Is everything running all right?’

‘Of course! It will take more than a declaration of war to bring the LNER to a standstill!’ He puffed out his chest and sounded bullish. As if taking his cue from his optimistic pronouncement, he shooed the porters away. ‘Chop chop! I want the edges of the platform finished before it gets dark. No slacking — people will depend on your efforts.’

The lads hurried off into a storeroom and Vignoles and his sister noticed that alternate flagstones that formed the edge of the platform had a six inch white stripe painted on them. The greater part of one side of the platform still remained to be completed. There were also a few drips and splashes of white in places they should not be, suggesting that this had been a hurried job. ‘They’ll do the other flags in black, to give a strong, alternate design. Once we get the paint, that is.’ The stationmaster snorted derisively. ‘The stripes will help in the blackout, apparently. As if people were daft enough to go falling off the edge.’ He was trying to make a joke, but looked discomfited. ‘I’m darned if I know how we’re supposed to work with no lights showing. Perfectly all right at the moment with these long summer nights and double summer time, but it could get awfully tricky in the winter.’

‘We’re going to have to get used to a lot of difficulties, I expect,’ Vignoles replied. ‘Do your best tonight and see if the LDV can’t send someone over to offer some help and advice on how to curtain off the windows.’

‘But what about the signal box? The signalman has to see out and needs a light.’ The stationmaster ran a hand over his face. ‘But yes, I shall seek advice.’ A telephone started to ring in an office. ‘Excuse me, I’d better get that.’

‘Look, Gwen, if you speak to the Hog, er, sorry, Sophie — send her my regards.’

‘I shall. That’s thoughtful of you. She’ll appreciate it.’

‘But don’t overdo it!’ He gave his sister a warning glance and struck a match to light his newly-filled pipe.

Gwen smiled sadly. ‘Isn’t it time you settled down, Charlie?’

‘Settled down? War was declared just hours ago! I must say, you really do have the most bizarre sense of timing!’ He puffed on his pipe and shook his head, then laughed, and peered along the straight stretch of track towards the guard’s van at the back of the slowly-diminishing train of military equipment. He was looking for the Leicester train, which was due to come in the other direction, and would soon be steaming out of the distant tunnel portal. When he looked back, Gwen was wiping a tear from her eye. He regretted snapping at her. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound unkind.’

‘Oh, I’m just upset about the war, that’s all. And worried. About you, about Mike, and about mummy and daddy.’ The sound of the approaching engine made her pull herself together. In less than three minutes, he’d be gone. She blew her nose and patted her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘I have to tell you something.’

‘That sounds awfully serious, old thing. What is it?’

She fought back a sob as the sound of the approaching train grew louder. ‘I’m in the family way. There — I’ve said it now.’

‘But that’s wonderful news! Really. You’ve told mother and father, of course?’

‘I was waiting for the right moment, but it didn’t arrive.’

‘Unlike my train!’ he quipped.

He opened a carriage door, flung his holdall into the compartment, climbed in, pulled the door closed and dropped the window down. Leaning out he planted an enthusiastic kiss on her cheek. It was hot and tasted of salty tears. ‘Listen, go back now and tell them. They will be delighted. Overjoyed. It will lift their spirits, I promise.’

‘Do you think I’m crazy? It’s foolish and even selfish at a time like this.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Vignoles beamed. ‘Congratulations to you both! Stay safe…’ The train lurched into motion. He watched as the solitary figure on the sunlit station receded, waving her handkerchief at him like a tiny flag.

‘Well, I never saw that coming!’ he thought. ‘So I’m going to be an uncle. How surprising. But she was going to play tennis!’ He frowned, and pondered how early an expectant mother ceased strenuous activity.

He wriggled on the dusty, softly-sprung cushions until he had reached an acceptable level of comfort and stared out of the window at the passing countryside. ‘Golly,’ he thought, ‘it’s not going to be easy for the old girl, raising a little one in wartime. But she’ll have Mike and me to help her. Mother and father will be thrilled to bits.

I just hope there’s going to be a decent world to bring the poor blighter into.’ He tilted his head back to touch the head cushion and gazed up through the side window at the sky, letting sunlight play upon his face. With his stomach stuffed full and mentally tired from the stress and worry, the gentle clackety-clack of wheel on rail soon had him drifting into a refreshing, ten-minute nap.

* * * *

Leicester Central was surprisingly busy, with great numbers of people eager to hurry home or to barracks and airbases. Men and women in various colours of uniform were to be seen scurrying about wearing serious expressions on their faces. Nearly all of them were smoking. Despite the long summer and the wall of heat pressing down on the platforms, Vignoles noticed that everyone either looked pale or blotchy red, depending on how they reacted to stress. It was noticeable that few people were talking and, if standing still, they seemed preoccupied with their own private thoughts, drawing heavily on cigarettes or pipes or staring at their shoes.

He was standing not far from the end of the platform, close to the turntable, which occupied a space bounded by a gently curving brick wall, near the central station block. A splendid locomotive was just easing back onto the turntable and Vignoles strolled over to watch it. He’d arrived in Leicester in good time for the briefing session and could spare a few minutes. The locomotive was slightly unusual and attracted his attention. Number 547 was a long and rather fine machine, of a type he knew was officially called by the unromantic title of B7. But the railwaymen, more intriguingly, dubbed them ‘Black Pigs’, possibly because they could be truculent and hard to steam. However, this engine was certainly far from black, being painted in glorious, apple-green express livery, and was in tip-top condition. Its six big, close-coupled wheels turned elegantly as it backed into place, ready to be rotated and then sent back home up north. Vignoles gave a nod of acknowledgement to the fireman, who was leaning a long way out of the generous cab window and helping the driver guide their Black Pig into place.

Vignoles was aware that a young man in RAF uniform had dumped a massive kitbag on the ground close by and was trying to light a cigarette with a misfiring lighter. It clicked uselessly a number of times before Vignoles turned and proffered a lit Swan Vesta.

‘Cheers, mate! Dratted thing won’t work.’ The lad looked barely sixteen years old and had the uncoordinated looseness of someone still developing into a man. Vignoles felt an icy finger down his spine as this young recruit reminded him of the stark reality of what had happened that morning. Thousands of youths such as he would soon be sent off to face a combat-experienced enemy who flew aircraft in a manner already talked about in respectful terms.

‘You’ve been called back to base?’ Vignoles asked.

‘That’ s right. We were warned to expect it.’ The young airman puffed inelegantly at his cigarette.

Vignoles fell silent. They watched the lovely engine pivot on the turntable, its great weight now as nothing as it swung around just by the effort of the crew pushing on a bar. It looked almost weightless.

‘So, what’s your role in the RAF? If it’s OK to tell me,’ Vignoles smiled.

‘Trainee aircraftman.’ Fie exhaled loudly. ‘We’re back to base to taxi our little aeroplanes around on our funny little grass airfield. Just little men in little Tiger Moths in the middle of England.’

‘They’re biplanes?’

‘All wood, canvas and dope. And painted bright yellow. And we don’t have guns, of course. Great, innit?’ Fie sucked on his cigarette and grinned.

‘I’m sure you’ll move on to other machines, when you’re up to speed.’

‘If we last that long. Not that I can see us being a constant worry to the German High Command. A training airfield near Leicester can’t be top of their list, can it? Ha ha.’

Vignoles smiled again. He liked the young man’s attitude. Wry, ironic, but apparently free of panic and nerves. He offered his hand. ‘Charles Vignoles.’

‘Airman Geoffrey Wellum. So, are you joining up?’

‘I’m in what they call a reserved occupation.’

‘What’s that, then — if you are allowed to say, of course.’

‘I’m with the railway police, a constable in the detective department.’

‘A tec, eh? Sounds interesting. Right, time for me to go. It was nice to meet you, Detective Vignoles.’

‘And you, Airman Wellum. Take care, and fly well.’

‘I’ll certainly try.’ He took one last drag on his cigarette, picked up his kitbag and was about to walk away when suddenly he stopped and spoke quietly, so only Vignoles could hear. ‘To tell the truth, I feel a bit edgy.’ He looked at Vignoles. ‘I don’t know what is in store for me, but, whatever happens, I’ll just have to take it, and do my best.’

‘That’s the spirit!’ They parted and Vignoles felt a tingle of energy, like electricity, coursing through his veins. The months of tedious, anxious waiting and wondering were now over. Here it was — war. And, like the brave, young airman, he’d take whatever was thrown at him, and do his best.

Rogue Parcels

1940

Monday, 10th June. Anna Carelli stepped out of her family’s ice cream parlour on St Martin’s Lane and stood for a moment in the warm sunshine, blinking in its morning brightness. Using the window, she took a moment to make yet another small adjustment to the angle of her hat and check her long, dark hair, that flowed in attractive waves down to her shoulders, and the dusky-pink dress with the scalloped neckline. Her face was reflected in a diamond shape, framed by thick, brown-paper tape that her father Bepe had carefully pasted in the obligatory pattern across the shining plate glass.

According to the public information leaflet he had studied at length, this tape would stop lethal shards flying about when the air raids finally arrived and the bombs shattered all the glass. So far there had been no raids on Leicester, but numbers of German bombers had been seen passing overhead on their way to more unfortunate places such as Coventry, where the motor industry formed a more urgent target. The tangible effects of the aerial war for most of the citizens of Leicester had been restricted to the looping vapour trails left by an occasional fighter, these slowly dissembling into smaller and smaller balls of what looked like cotton wool as they drifted across the sky.

However, bombs and Messerschmitts were not on Anna’s mind this particular morning. Finally content that she was looking presentable, she headed off. Having left herself sufficient time to not need to hurry to her interview, she chose to walk down Loseby Lane, this being one of her favourite streets, with its many different little shops, most of which had their sun awnings extended over the narrow pavement, so throwing dramatic blocks of strong shadow. These shady coverings usually enticed her to dawdle and look into the increasingly bare but imaginative window displays underneath. Many items were becoming quite scarce but the patriotic shopkeepers of Leicester were not going to be defeatist and leave their windows empty, and most had filled the spaces artfully in such a manner as to make things appear more buoyant than they really were.

But today Anna gave them barely a glance, nor indeed did she look to see if the Civil Defence Corps had placed yet more strategic walls of sandbags near important doorways and street corners or if they had affixed any new black-and-metal signs to the walls signifying that a stirrup pump was now housed on the premises. She did, however, rest her hand on her chocolate-brown faux leather covered gas mask case, which had been decorated and much improved in both looks and waterproofing, thanks to a covering rescued from a damaged chair from the family ice cream parlour. After an evening wrestling with the stitching, the robust fabric had rendered it more presentable and the colour looked, she hoped, intriguing against her dress. The gas mask itself might be loathsome and it made her feel claustrophobic when forced to wear it, but if she was going to have any chance of getting a responsible job with the London & North Eastern Railway, then she’d better get off to a good start by not forgetting this vital item that every citizen was expected to carry at all times.

Anna continued onto the High Street with barely a glance at the broad and almost traffic-free road with the kerb stones freshly painted alternate black and white, which made it look like the setting for a board game. She stepped around the shoppers with anxious faces, already forming orderly queues, and studiously ignored a group of young men in RAF uniforms loading bulging canvas kitbags into the back of a truck, resolutely paying no attention to the odd wolf whistle and their curious stares. She was too preoccupied to worry if her hemline was too short or if the dress was to showy for that time of the morning, thinking instead about what she should say at the interview and more urgently, trying to remember the name of the man who was going to interview her. For some silly reason, probably caused by nerves, she could not keep it in her head. Turning down Friars Causeway and onto Great Central Street, Anna resorted to stopping to let a double-decker tram rumble by whilst impatiently ferreting in her handbag to retrieve the letter. Crake, his name was Crake. She repeated it mentally a number of times, until it sounded like the call of a species of waterfowl. Checking the clock on the tower of the ornate station frontage, Anna noted that she was exactly on time, and so took a deep breath and walked inside.

‘Miss Carelli? At least you are punctual.’ It was not the most genial of opening gambits. ‘Take a seat.’

Leslie Crake was a skinny, stern and unsmiling gentleman with a precise side parting and heavy, round, horn-rimmed spectacles that made him look like an owl. His unblinking eyes magnified by the lenses added to the sensation of being sized up by a hungry mouse-eating bird. ‘Anna Carelli.’ He unashamedly looked her up and down, although without the slightest suggestion of gaining any pleasure from so doing. He might just as well have been inspecting a consignment of timber. Anna smoothed her dress self-consciously and was glad it draped over her knees.

‘Your name and appearance suggest Italian origins.’

This sounded more like a statement than a question, so Anna just gave him a smile and refolded her hands demurely in her lap. ‘Interesting.’ He flicked her application form over. ‘Of course, you understand we are presently in a state of war, with Italy as one of the Axis forces?’ This was clearly framed as a question, but one that hardly needed asking, unless to someone who had been living on the dark side of the moon for the past ten months. Anna inwardly groaned. Both she and her parents had already endured their share of comments, some quite abusive, about their Italian background. That they were generally well-liked and still made excellent ice cream whilst roasting and brewing arguably the best coffee in the city, perhaps protected them from more sinister attention — including the threat of incarceration in a prison camp on the Isle of Man. The clock on the wall clunked and a train whistled in the platform hard by, and it appeared Mr Crake really did expect an answer.

‘I’m English. I was born and brought up and educated here. My parents moved to Leicester in 1905, some years before I was born, as you can deduce from my application form. They are good, honest citizens, running a popular business making ice cream and other delicacies.’ She tried not to sound too defiant, but her Italian genes were already in danger of making her blood boil. Her dark eyes met those of the owl’s for a moment and smouldered before dropping away to her twined fingers in her lap. She must remain calm. Her father had coached her at length the evening before, reminding her that people were feeling nervous and frightened, and this might cause them to say things that sounded more hurtful than perhaps they intended.

‘Very popular with the children they are, too.’ Crake didn’t smile, however; he just continued to look at her application form, which lay perfectly aligned on top of a sheaf of other papers. ‘This would be Carelli’s ice cream parlour, where you work at present?’

‘I help my parents. Serving when busy, but also stocktaking, managing the invoices and doing the accounts. Hence my reason for applying for this position.’

‘I see.’ He paused for a moment. ‘My young daughter is rather partial to your Knickerbocker Glories.’ His voice was still emotionless, although there was a slight twitch at the comer of his mouth that might suggest that he was about to try out a smile. The attempt failed. His unblinking eyes met hers. ‘You consider yourself good with numbers?’

‘Our accounts are in excellent order.’

‘Presumably that is why you asked to be sent across to the London & North Eastern Railway, and not to work on a farm with the Land Army?’

‘I’m afraid I know nothing of sheep and cows and haymaking.’

He stood up abruptly and walked across to a neighbouring desk, where a huge black typewriter sat like an ugly toad. ‘Step over here, please, miss.’ He held out a sheet of foolscap paper for Anna. ‘I want you to copy this short letter. It is typical of the kind we generate here in the Goods Despatch Office. You will notice that it contains a number of costings and calculations. Make an exact copy. I shall time you.’ He flicked out a wrist and checked his watch, despite the clock audibly measuring the seconds on the wall. Anna gulped and tried to steady her hands as she fed the paper into the machine and, after a hesitant test of the weight of the keys, set to it.

‘Hmm. It will do for a first attempt. You will need to speed up, of course, but I expect that will come, with time.’ He folded her typed practice-piece and then carefully tore it in half. ‘Waste not, want not. We reuse paper whenever possible. It is our duty,’ he offered, by way of explanation. ‘The hours are eight till five — on the dot. But these are trying times, Miss Carelli. When in extremis, we must all go the extra mile. You can expect extended hours at short notice, often until late. We work until all the essential goods get through each day. If we dilly-dally, vital supplies could be held up in rail yards and sheds across the land. We cannot allow our brave servicemen to be without vital supplies, just because we want to get home in time for tea, can we?’

‘I quite understand, Mr Crake.’

‘How soon can you start?’

‘Oh, Madonna.’ Anna involuntarily exclaimed under her breath. ‘That’s to say, I—I could start tomorrow.’

‘Good girl!’ He finally allowed a smile. It went some way to softening his austere face. ‘That’s the fighting spirit! We shall see you at eight, sharp. Mrs Kendrick will find you a desk and show you the ropes.’

Anna stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr Crake. I really am most grateful.’ She gulped to stay her voice from quavering. ‘I want to do my bit — for the war effort.’

‘I would expect nothing less of a British citizen.’ Crake adjusted his glasses and refocused his big eyes on her, again with something of a raptor eyeing prey. ‘Miss Carelli, I feel duty bound to point out that those working here are privy to information about goods transhipped around the country, and elsewhere. Information that could prove useful to the enemy. A spy could make a great deal of mischief with such detailed knowledge.’ He stared at her. ‘You come with good references, but your Italian parentage may give rise to questions being asked in some quarters.’ He paused long enough for Anna to feel her heart sink. ‘Both Mrs Kendrick and I shall be keeping a particularly close eye on you. I make no apology for that; the stakes are too high. The tiniest whiff of suspicion and the authorities will be informed without hesitation. Do you understand?’

‘You shall have no cause to doubt my loyalty or my willingness to work hard.’ Her eyes flashed.

They shook hands and Crake wished her good day. It was all over in less than ten minutes. She felt slightly giddy and both nervous and excited in turn. She was now to be a radway worker, ready to do real work to help the country in its time of need. Ice cream was lovely for a treat, but the summer would be over before they knew it and both rationing and acute shortages were likely to make things ever more difficult. Her parents would need to take a long, hard look at the business to see what changes they might make. Offering soup for the Civil Defence volunteers, perhaps. It was going to be tough, but they could manage without her. She also looked forward to putting some welcome funds into her rather large purse, that presently contained only a meagre selection of coins.

* * * *

Anna sat on a sunny bench on the broad island platform of Leicester Central, enjoying the warmth on her bare arms. The office was proving to be rather too dark and cool, nestling as it did beneath the station canopy that offered little clear light through the grimy glass. There was talk of the canopy being painted over, or even replaced with plywood, to help the blackout, which, if correct, meant they would need the lights on even in summer. It was going to be chilly and cheerless in winter. But such thoughts could wait.

For now, it was the strong sunlight that Anna was soaking up on the super-elevated station platform. She put on her sunglasses and adjusted her hat to prevent the side of her face burning, then extracted a sandwich from her gas mask case. There was just room to squeeze two thin sandwiches and an apple alongside the ugly mask that offered up an aroma of warm rubber and talcum powder as she lifted the lid.

A long goods train clanked into the station, the large engine at the front wheezing in time with the turning of its small wheels. The locomotive was painted all black and was heavily streaked with rain-smeared soot and a trace of a white chalky deposit betraying a leak from an inspection hatch on the side of its firebox. The driver leaned on the side of his cab, the fireman standing in the shadows behind, their eyes ringed with black as if they wore Kohl eyeliner. Both looked at her and the driver smiled approval. He was about to say something, but noticed the signal change and reluctantly returned to the controls of his engine and made it emit a gruff huff of exhaust and gather pace.

A young man approached, whistling atrociously and tunelessly, with his cap set back on his head at an angle. He was wearing a porter’s uniform that was several sizes too big, ensuring that any hope the cap slant made him look sophisticated was wasted. The overall effect was that of a badly dressed schoolboy. He was swinging a parcel by the string from a finger in a manner he probably thought made him look ‘cool’, as the Americans might say.

She already had the measure of Porter Simpkins and smiled with amusement, but just as the acne-faced boy was about to make some ill-judged comment, she advised him to carry the parcel properly as the string might snap and break the contents. She further reminded him that Mr Crake was a stickler for the correct handling of all parcels whilst in their care, quietly enjoying bringing the lad down a notch or two. Simpkins was impertinent and blatantly burned a candle for her despite being practically half her age. Suitably admonished, the young lad blushed and hurried off, nursing the parcel safely in his arms.

Anna turned her attention to the number of brave passengers defying the posters that questioned if their journeys were really necessary. The impending arrival of the Manchester train was announced by a woman broadcasting on the station Tannoy system in a perfect cut glass accent. Anna noticed how the passengers all moved into the sun if possible, clearly enjoying its soothing heat on their backs.

A rather splendid engine now drifted in, and unlike the gloomy workhorse that had just chonked past in a dribble of steam, this example was still looking presentable in glossy, apple-green livery, offering a cheery contrast to the rich tones of the varnished teak coaches it pulled. Anna noted it was called ‘The Lady of the Lake’, and thought this a romantic name. She liked named engines and also loved their sounds and hot smell, the strange belches of steam and the sudden, shocking explosions of safety valves they made when least expected.

There was much bustle as great numbers of people in various uniforms intermingled with civilians who got off as others pushed urgently to steal a march on the others and shoe-horn themselves onto the already overcrowded coaches. The guard’s compartment was close to where Anna was sitting, and she watched as the guard lifted various packages out of the van and placed them on the platform, then instructed two porters to help unload the heavier items, including a shiny new bicycle. This was a valuable item these days, and someone was going to be delighted to see it waiting when they came to collect it.

After only a week in the Goods Despatch Office, Anna appreciated the sheer number and variety of things people sent by rail. It was both bewildering and surprising. So far she had dealt mainly with larger consignments of foodstuffs or great trains of minerals, such as coal or coke, but she was aware of the endless personal packages and surprising oddities that also filled the luggage vans. As a result, she was enjoying sitting on a bench, eating her lunch and playing a game of trying to guess what might be in the small mountain of brown-paper wrapped parcels, wicker baskets and trunks that had accumulated.

A young woman in a rather elegant short-sleeved, navy-blue dress with a striped collar and decorative bow at the bottom of the V of the neckline, was evidently eagerly anticipating something that had come down from London. She was slowly circling the mound whilst craning her neck to read the labels, although Anna noticed she didn’t actually touch or move anything. After a minute or so of this, sometimes politely stepping aside to let the porters start to load the packages onto one of their upright, twowheeled trolleys, she stopped and looked across at Anna for a moment before hastily turning and walking off at a brisk pace.

The Manchester train was loaded and ready for the off. The guard blew his whistle, gave a cursory flap of his green flag, and stepped back onto the train at the same moment as ‘The Lady of the Lake’ answered with a sharp toot on the whistle, then whooshed and whumped into action. It was a splendid sight and Anna was glad she had chosen to sit outside. But it was time to eat her apple and get back to work.

Lunch was technically an hour, but she had already worked out that if she cut this short it met with tacit approval from the fearsome Mrs Kendrick. Anna was very much the new girl in the office and eager to make a good impression, especially as she was finding the others rather hard to rub along with. Nobody was overtly rude or unpleasant, and if she asked one of them a direct question they were perfectly helpful, studiously polite even, but never offered anything more than had been asked. She was never invited to join in with the occasional exchanges of small talk about films and clothes or cooking. She had also just started to notice that one or two of the other girls gave her furtive glances when they thought she was not looking and, sometimes, when she entered the room she got the sensation they had instantly cut short whatever it was they were discussing. It was subtle and hard to be certain if it was just her own insecurity at play. But whilst it was never openly declared, Anna was starting to suspect the others disapproved of her. Perhaps this was just because everyone was so awfully busy and they had not yet found time to get to know and trust each other, but she feared it was because they thought of her as Miss Carelli, the Italian sympathiser. Or worse, the Italian spy.

The following day was also warm. If one forgot the gathering fear of impending blitzkrieg, as the papers were calling it, then it was turning out to be a glorious summer. This should be a time for everyone to relax and enjoy the long, super-extended evenings, thanks to double summer time, and not be fretting about ration coupon management and how to stop the Anderson shelter from filling with water. Sometimes it was hard to believe that the war was real.

Anna was again seated on her bench and trying to draw as much comfort as she could from the summer warmth and push aside all her nagging worries for a short while. She was actually feeling rather down in the dumps. Perhaps it was the shock of being thrown into the demanding and relentless work with an equally demanding boss and his scary second-in-command breathing down her neck. Both Crake and Kendrick forgave not even the tiniest mistake and habitually put her straight on points of detail in front of the others.

Or was it the whispers and glances and averted eyes that were starting to get under her skin? It was hardly pleasant to sit and feel their eyes on the back of her neck and sense the silences and unspoken words. She bit angrily into an apple, then instantly spat it out in disgust. Ugh! Rotten! She hoped nobody had seen her unladylike action. The apple had been attacked by some ugly grub. She swilled her mouth with tea and felt a little better.

‘A rotten one, eh?’ The voice was light and sympathetic.

‘I foolishly bit straight in without looking.’ She grimaced.

‘I’ve done that often enough! Some say that’s my problem. I jump straight into things without even a second glance. Haha!’ The woman was in her mid twenties and had light wavy hair and a sun-tanned and healthy complexion, with a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. There was something energetic and vital about her. She was wearing the jacket and trousered uniform of the LNER, with a peaked cap fighting to retain a grip amidst the almost untamed froth of ginger-blonde hair. Anna knew she must work somewhere on the station, although she had not seen her before.

‘I’m Geraldine, but simply everyone calls me Gerry.’ She was still smiling. ‘I work in parcels.’

‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Anna. Though I have a nasty suspicion everyone calls me something less pleasant behind my back.’

‘How odd? May I join you?’ Gerry didn’t wait for the invitation and almost flung herself down, stretching her trousered legs out straight in front to reveal a stout pair of boots. ‘Why would anyone be so beastly to a nice gal like you?’ She folded her arms behind her head in a position of relaxed repose that Anna thought was not completely ladylike in a public space.

‘Probably because my parents are Italian.’

‘Hmm. That could be tricky.’ Gerry furrowed her brow, which if anything, added to her charm. ‘But gosh, you sound English enough and a pretty woman like you hardly seems to fit the bill of evil, green-goblin men hunched over the controls of their Junkers coming to kill us all!’ She laughed heartily, demonstrating that she had no problem with Anna’s heritage.

‘That’s kind of you. But it is a strange situation and I suppose I can understand why people are twitchy. Aren’t we all?’

‘Not when the weather’s like this! God, I love the sun.’ Gerry closed her eyes. It was a posture of almost wild abandon and Anna was amused. She felt sure Mr Crake would thoroughly disapprove of a woman practically sunbathing on a platform bench. And if the stern old stationmaster in his tailcoat and top hat saw Gerry, then she’d be in for a right roasting. He made Crake and Kendrick look like playful kittens in comparison.

‘I actually quite miss the old farm on days like this. Working outside in the fields until late, the smell of freshly-mown grass and the hot beasts steaming whilst plodding back to the byre.’ She opened her eyes and looked at Anna. ‘Mum and dad have a farm in a village called Charwelton. I suppose I really ought to go back and help out. But they have a whole gang of Land Army girls starting soon, and besides, I’m settled here. Becoming quite the city girl these days.’ She suddenly sat upright and fished out a crumpled packet of Woodbines. ‘Smoke?’ Anna politely declined. ‘Though I might be given my marching orders the way things are going.’ She scrunched her face in a gesture that suggested concern, but which looked amusing and charming in equal measure. ‘At least I have all that to fall back on if push comes to shove.’ She puffed smoke into the air thoughtfully.

‘They wouldn’t release you now, would they? I thought the railway was desperate.’ Anna paused. ‘I’m sure that’s the only reason they took a chance on me.’

‘It would be darned awkward, but any more problems like we’ve had recently and they’ll give me and my little assistant the big elbow! ’ Smoke puffed rhythmically from her mouth in a manner not unlike the smoke from the chimney of the station pilot engine quietly trundling through the station like an eager dog off to fetch something. ‘We’ve had some strange goings on. Just silly muddles, I suppose. But we’ve had complaints.’

‘Everyone complains about everything these days.’

‘I know. But packages have been going missing. Not good when you’re charged with safely looking after them until delivered to their rightful owners! Oh cripes! You oversee us. I’d better shut up. Me and my big mouth.’ Gerry looked crestfallen. ‘Careless words…’

‘Don’t worry! I’m new here and trying hard not to make a complete fool of myself and also be shown the door. You can tell me anything. I don’t gossip.’

Gerry gave Anna a grateful smile. For all her initial energy and confidence she looked like she wanted to talk. ‘It’s happened twice in a fortnight. Don’t take this wrong, but Miss Penny Willars is a sweet little thing, but she is only eighteen and so at first I just put it down to inexperience. I’m not trying to be horrid or make her take the blame, but she did get awfully flustered when telling me about it and so it was obviously just a mistake, nothing more.’

‘Everyone can make one of those.’

‘They can. But when the same thing was repeated two weeks later, I’m starting to wonder if either of us is cut out for this line of work.’

‘What happened?’

‘It was lunch time and I was out of the office, taking some air and a sandwich, when a Mrs Higginbotham came to collect a large parcel that had just arrived for her. Penny handed it over and off went Mrs H, who’d also made a squiggle in the book to show she’d taken it, and that was that. Until two hours later, when another Mrs Higginbotham turned up and made merry hell about her missing parcel!’

‘Oh dear. There’d been a mix up?’

‘Evidently. She came bearing documents with her name and address and demanded we telephone her sister in Doncaster to confirm not only the contents of the parcel, but what it looked like and what station she had sent it from. Penny had handed it over to the wrong lady. She swore blind — well, she didn’t swear, bless her, although I think both Mrs H and I came close — that she gave it to a woman who was very convincing as the genuine recipient of the parcel. She even named the sender in Doncaster.’

‘But surely the first Mrs Higginbotham came back once she’d realised her mistake? She’d want to swap a parcel that was not hers for the correct one. Presumably this was on its way and arrived soon after.’

‘Not yet, it hasn’t.’ Gerry grimaced. ‘Which just makes it even more awkward.’

‘How odd. But it must just be one of those strange coincidences where there are two women with the same surname, both with relatives in Doncaster and both expecting parcels.’

‘And that was how we had to leave it. The problem is that blessed first Mrs Higgy; she’s not been back and we’ve heard not a dicky bird from her. We have no way of tracing her. We just have to hope she realises the mistake and comes back. Pm wondering if she got her stations mixed up and was supposed to go to the Midland Road office. That’s what comes with having so many stations in one town.’ Gerry puffed on her cigarette for a moment, building up to the next part of the story.

‘But there’s more…’ She gave Anna a sheepish look. ‘I was working on my own yesterday whilst I sent Penny out for her lunch. She was gone only minutes when in comes a very respectable young lady in a rather fetching little dress. Quite a doll. A Miss Catherine Manson, apparently. She was in an awful rush and asked if the porters could hurry and bring along a parcel being unloaded. She’d seen it on the platform but knew she would have to sign for it and do things properly by the book, but was in a desperate rush. I was happy to oblige, and the moment the porter wheeled his trolley into the office, I extracted hers and she scribbled a rather atrocious signature and was gone.’ Gerry took a last deep inhale of smoke and then stubbed her cigarette out in the sand in a red-painted fire bucket. ‘I know, I know. Did I ask for her I.D. card or ration book to be sure who she was? No!’

‘She was in a hurry…’ Anna sensed where this was going.

‘Kind of you to get the excuses in.’ Gerry pulled a pained expression.

‘Don’t tell me. She also took the wrong parcel.’

‘Spot on. How could I be so darned stupid? The problem is, she looked so confident and was hurrying me and described the package so perfectly that I didn’t stop to think. For goodness’ sake, how many Catherine Mansons are there in Leicester? At least two, as it turns out.’

Anna was looking thoughtful. ‘What did she look like?’

‘Average height, mid brown hair, nice, knee-length blue dress that was far too tailored to look good on a strapping farm girl like me. And sunglasses.’

‘Hat to match the dress, a black leather handbag and a decent pair of heels?’

‘Don’t tell me you know her. Is Miss Manson a friend of yours? You can get the parcel back from her.’

‘No, she’s not. But I’m sure I saw her. Yesterday, at about this time. She was interested in what was being unloaded from the Manchester train. I was sitting here like we are now and she caught my eye, mainly because I rather envied that dress.’

‘Oh.’ Gerry looked deflated. ‘Well if you should see her again do please tell her to come and see me. I really need her to return the package she waltzed off with. I’ve just had my ears chewed off by a rather fractious old lady going by the same name. I feel exhausted. Perhaps even a little sick.’

‘I’m sure it will all work out. Neither you nor Penny were trying to do anything wrong.’ Anna paused a beat, ‘It is strange, though. Two sets of women with the same name in such a short time. What did the first Mrs Higginbotham look like?’

‘Penny’s description was a masterpiece. It told me nothing. Normal height — whatever that’s supposed to mean; with brown hair, a dull-coloured dress and she was “older”, although I have a depressing feeling Penny’s idea of older means us!’ They both laughed. ‘Oops, look at the time. Must dash! So nice to meet you. It cheered me up no end having someone to talk to.’

* * * *

Anna was released from her office at Leicester Central by 5.30pm and, as the afternoon was still warm and bright, she decided to take a stroll across town. It would be good to stretch her legs and perhaps look in a few shop windows to see if there was anything left to buy once she got her first pay packet.

As she turned down Newark Street she stopped to watch a single-decker corporation bus rumble by with a curious, partially-inflated canvas gas bag mounted on the roof. It looked insecure and trailed a worrying scent of gas that made her feel alarmed at the idea of travelling on it. Petrol might be scarce, but a tram or bicycle seemed a far better option than sitting underneath a bag of gas during wartime. Life as she knew it was certainly changing, and she felt a shiver down her spine as she wondered what the future held. Things were not going well in France. In fact, it was turning into a rout. France was expected to surrender to Germany any day. She tried to shake this dark image from her mind and instead pondered the puzzle of the parcels.

On the face of it, she thought, it was in both cases simply mistaken identity. Ever since she was little, Anna had enjoyed mathematics and in particular the subject of probability, and so she knew that what happened was not beyond the realms of probability. However, most people, upon realising the mistake, would rush back, eager to exchange the wrong parcel for the right one. Even more intriguingly, Gerry said they had not received the correct parcels for either of the women. Anna realised she was rather enjoying chewing over this puzzle.

The suggestion that at least one woman had come to the wrong Leicester station was plausible. Some people were surprisingly scatterbrained. How they were going to get around once the council and the Civil Defence Corps finished taking all the station name boards down and removing the metal road finger posts from the roads, she had no idea.

Anna decided that a gentle stroll to the far grander Leicester London Road via the pleasantly leafy New Walk was hardly putting herself out, but it just might help clear things up. She could imagine how chuffed Gerry would be to hear that she’d sorted out the mistake so at least one person could be reunited with their correct parcel.

London Road station was owned by the London, Midland & Scottish Railway. It boasted an elegant red brick and stone frontage with a grand archway for passengers and taxis to gain access into the large, glazed porte cochere that lay concealed behind. Once inside this airy space there were flights of steps leading down to the platforms that lay below the level of London Road. As she approached the station Anna discovered that there were mountainous walls of carefully-laid sandbags blocking the various arches, with just the main entry and exit left clear for vehicles, but even these were further protected by side walls of sandbags, presumably to act as blast shields. These exuded a smell of damp sand and sacking. Rather than finding the bag walls oppressive or alarming, Anna was impressed by the skilful manner in which they had been assembled. There was a curious beauty to a British Army sandbagged defence. So much work and so much effort. If being prepared, well-ordered and meticulous counted for anything, then Britain would see it through.

The parcels’ office clerk was a young man, although he was at least past school-leaving age, unlike perhaps Porter Simpkins and Miss Willars. He walked with a pronounced limp, which probably explained why he was handling parcels and perambulators rather than learning to fly Blenheims or Defiants at one of the many RAF training bases in the county. The presence of an attractive woman, apparently eager for his attention, quickly worked its spell. He cheerfully admitted that he was unsure ‘if she was actually a Fifth Columnist trying to obtain secret information’, which made Anna laugh, but then promptly lost any pretence of wondering if he should divulge potentially secret information about lost umbrellas or uncollected parcels to her and introduced himself as Tom Smith.

‘Do you know Miss Greenway at Central?’ Anna asked. ‘She works in the parcels’ office there.’

Smith detected a hint of scent cutting through the airless, musty smell of the office, and was transfixed. ‘I can’t say I do, Miss Carelli. But we do spend all day in our dark offices and don’t get out and about much, let alone socialise with our counterparts.’ He gave a wan smile. ‘We’re a bit like badgers: we only come out after dark!’

They both laughed. ‘I’m here on her behalf. Actually, I took it upon myself to come here whilst Miss Greenway guards her sett.’ The parcels clerk smiled at the reference. He had no idea what this Greenway woman looked like, but was jolly pleased her friend had dropped in. He hoped he wouldn’t get a sudden rush of customers who would force him to divert his attention.

‘Look, I know this is not the sort of thing you should broadcast and all that, but whatever you tell me will remain strictly hush-hush.’ Anna leaned on the counter in a manner she hoped would not be seen as too provocative, but might nonetheless make young Smith feel as though he could confide in her. She lowered her voice, forcing him to lean just a little closer across the counter. ‘Has a Mrs Higginbotham been here in the last two weeks to collect a parcel? Perhaps to exchange it for another, addressed to someone of exactly the same name?’ She had not. ‘What about a Catherine Manson? A well-dressed lady with sunglasses. Nice blue dress. Again she might have come here, perhaps just yesterday, to exchange a parcel delivered for someone of the same name, or at least for someone identified as C. Manson.’ Again, no.

Anna chewed this over for a moment. She tapped her perfectly manicured nails gently on the counter whilst the clerk looked on. Smith was hoping she would find a reason to linger.

‘Have you had any incidents where someone laid claim to a parcel, only for the rightful owner to arrive later?’

He said nothing for so long that Anna started to wonder if he’d gone into a trance. The sound of a train arriving and doors slamming filtered through from the platform as time crawled in the gloomy, almost subterranean, office.

Smith reddened and looked shamefaced. ‘It’s awkward, having to tell someone you’ve given their parcel to someone else. I got quite a roasting over it, as well. But both times it was a woman. One of them fits the description of Catherine Manson, except she wore spectacles, not sunglasses.’

* * * *

‘So, you think that, in both cases, it was a swindle.’ Gerry looked shocked as they sat on their railway bench. She lit a cigarette.

‘Yes, perhaps a small team of two or three, taking turns. They try to get seen by a different member of staff, and maybe use disguises.’

Gerry nodded her head, the sunlight glinting on her hair. ‘So one approached Penny, another approached me, then they swap around to get four bites of the cherry.’ She bit into a Spam sandwich as if to illustrate the point, the cigarette smouldering between her fingers at the same time.

‘They meet an incoming train and find some pretext to stand near the parcels as they are unloaded. They dress most respectably to avoid arousing suspicion. They glance discreetly sideways at the packages, seeking one addressed to a woman, or with just initials and a surname. If they can see the name and address of the sender, all the better. They then march confidently into the parcels’ office and ask if it’s arrived, stating that they knew it was due on that train. They can be sure of arriving there first, well before the genuine addressee.’

‘That all fits.’ Gerry finished demolishing her sandwich. ‘But a heck of a risk. How do they know which parcel is worth stealing?’

‘They don’t. It is literally a case of fishing blind, to see what they catch. But with everything so scarce these days and tales about outrageous black market prices for even simple things like stockings or tinned fruit, anything they can steal can be used.’

‘Mm. Tinned peaches and Carnation Milk.’ Gerry rolled her eyes, as though savouring the finest food. ‘I’d buy those off a spiv, any day.’ She put her hand over her mouth in an expression of mock guilt.

‘I’d never buy from a black marketeer, of course. But I must confess a few new pairs of stockings would be rather tempting.’ Anna felt equally ashamed. They both smiled.

‘I think you’ve cracked it, Anna. What next?’

‘We set a trap!’ Anna’s eyes widened. ‘Hopefully they haven’t moved on yet. They can’t get away with it many times in the same town. Central and London Road may be too risky to try again. I wonder if they’ve been to Belgrave Road.’

‘I can’t see them even bothering. Not many parcels arrive, and so few passengers that there’s no chance to become anonymous in a crowd.’ They looked at the bustling island platform; it was filled with people. Large groups of forces personnel travelling on warrants; businessmen, determined that life should carry on as normal; porters fetching and carrying luggage and parcels. Central really was a prime spot for this particular sting.

‘You met only one of them, and only once. They might be planning to return and target you once more. It would be a great coup if it were you who caught them.’

‘It would be nice but we’ll have to tell the railway police your suspicions. They will doubtless send that handsome young detective constable to help.’

Anna was not so sure. ‘It’s merely a theory. I’d feel a bit foolish telling it to a detective.’

‘But three incidents cannot be coincidence. These are real crimes. He’ll have to interview us — in his office — to discover what we know.’ She winked salaciously.

‘Gerry! Really, you are quite outrageous!’

Anna had never met a woman like Gerry before and found her both shocking and amusing, in equal measure.

* * * *

The plan was simple but relied upon a large dose of luck. There was no guarantee the thieves would return, but Anna and Gerry found the escapade rather exciting. If nothing else, it added a frisson of intrigue that made their long working days pass that bit quicker.

Anna’s reasoning was that the parcel office was targeted when there was just one person working. At noon one of the two went to lunch and most conveniently for the thieves, shortly afterwards two trains arrived that brought a substantial load of boxes, crates, parcels and mailbags, which were piled up between the two platform faces until they could be sorted and distributed. This gave the thieves a chance to eyeball the labels, perhaps on the pretence of waiting to meet someone.

With the willing co-operation of the porters, especially young Simpkins, who was desperate to be part of the sting, Anna made up two tempting parcels. She used huge, black letters to address the packages to herself and for the sender’s name and address. One was in London, the other in Nottingham, and both were fake. Every lunchtime, Simpkins would quickly add these to the top of the piles of other parcels and packages brought from either direction.

‘It’s like fly fishing, Miss Anna. You float a nice, juicy-looking artificial fly on the water and tempt the fish to bite. Only our fly is a luwerly big parcel!’ Simpkins was in his element.

Anna was becoming a regular fixture on the bench, eating her lunch and hopefully looking like any office girl following her usual routine. The porters had every reason to be bustling around as they usually did, but they were now extra vigilant, although Anna had schooled them to be careful to not betray themselves. Gerry and Penny meanwhile just carried on as usual, but both on high alert and ready to question the credentials of anyone seeking to collect a parcel and detain them. At noon, Penny would fake leaving to take her lunch, but would in fact observe events from a little distance away, ready to corroborate the identity of anyone approaching and leaving the office and run to call for assistance if needed.

The only fly in the ointment, from Gerry’s point of view, was that the railway police had not sent the much-anticipated ‘handsome detective’ but an older chap called Constable Blencowe, a gruff, bearded fellow with a pot belly. He was kindly, patient and thoughtful and, whilst rather sceptical of their plan, promised to make himself available over a succession of lunch times to see if anything transpired. In the meantime he had made further enquiries and his interest was further piqued by the discovery that Nottingham Victoria parcels’ office had lost one parcel in what sounded like an identical manner. He was starting to think that the two slightly excitable ladies at Leicester Central might be on to something.

* * * *

Five past noon on Monday, 17th June saw DC Blencowe seated, out of sight, in a small inner sanctum of the parcels’ office, reading the sports pages of his paper, drinking a mug of tea and wondering if this was the best way to catch thieves. However, there were worse ways of passing an hour and the chair was tolerably comfortable. A wireless in the corner was quietly playing music and offering news bulletins on the steadily worsening situation in France.

He found it especially gloomy listening. France had surrendered to Germany and the British Expeditionary Force was left in what Blencowe concluded was a desperate plight. The calm and unflappable newsreader, his mellifluous tones filtered through the warm medium of hot radio valves and golden-painted wire mesh, did his best not to sound alarmist. The measured voice refused to betray even the slightest hint of concern, but it was clear there was a very real danger of the British forces being completely overwhelmed. They would be as good as unprotected except by the Royal Air Force, and whilst the BBC was not going to voice such thoughts aloud, it was generally agreed that the air deterrent was under-strength.

Anna sat on her usual bench with an untouched sandwich lying in her lap on a square of greaseproof paper. Her father could make any sandwich taste delicious, irrespective of the ingredients. But today she was too excited to eat. Would the thieves strike today? She felt in her bones that one would return and walk into their trap.

The London-bound train was already in. ‘Butler Henderson’ was hissing in the sunlight at the distant platform end whilst teak doors opened and slammed shut. A goodly number of items were being unloaded from the guard’s compartment and Anna noticed Simpkins pass by, trundling his two-wheeled trolley, with one of the decoy parcels tucked under his arm.

The Manchester train was also on time. The signals dropped and Anna could see the train snaking its way along the elevated embankments and multiple viaducts that straddled the city, a pale blue haze shimmering from the chimney of the green engine. She looked for the nameplate and felt slight disappointment that it bore the odd and uninspiring name of ‘Purdon Viccars’. She felt the pretty engine deserved better; it could do with a jolly good clean, as well. However, she soon pushed aside any further thoughts on LNER engine-naming policy and concentrated on watching the platform and the increasing number of passengers.

Once again the trains disgorged and then began to fill up again, mainly with people in uniform. The obligatory cardboard gas mask case that every woman seemed to have slung across her right shoulder had the odd effect of removing something of their individuality, as if they, too, were wearing uniform. There was much throwing of arms around necks or encircling waists and many handkerchiefs were being deployed to dab at wet eyes as the time for departure grew closer. Anna felt convinced that the rogue parcel purloiner would strike today. It would be the perfect time for a female thief to become anonymous and forgettable amidst the many others in pretty sundresses and tiny hats, all wearing light gloves and with faked stocking lines drawn expertly up the backs of their shapely, gravybrowning legs.

A young WAAF in an expertly tailored uniform that hugged her slim frame, but wearing stout, ugly shoes that spoilt the look, approached and then stopped. She appeared lost. There was a balled hankie in one hand and a distracted expression on her face. She was standing adjacent to the parcels being stacked on the platform. The decoy parcel now lay on top of the pile and even Anna had not seen

Simpkins’s sleight of hand in placing it there. The WAAF moved closer and picked it up.

Anna was shocked. In the WAAF, and yet a thief? There was something outrageous at the idea of someone serving her country against the most deadly threat since the Vikings, whilst robbing in broad daylight those she was employed to protect. She felt her hackles rise and was almost ready to make a huge error of judgement by confronting the woman, when fortunately events took a different course. As the train carriages filled and many of the women congregated towards opened windows and abandoned their inhibitions to publicly kiss their loved ones, another young woman approached the WAAF and asked for the parcel. Anna could not hear the exchange amidst the hissing of steam and the whistle and deep chuffs of exhaust as the London train started up, but the WAAF smiled briefly and perhaps a little sadly as she handed it over before drifting away into the crowd.

The woman now turned the package in her hands, reading the labels. Did she feel its weight as she did so? It was a subtle motion, but Anna was sure she detected it. Weighing up the promise that lay inside. Like a child on Christmas Eve gauging the contents of a wrapped present beneath the tree. Well, this was going to be a disappointment as the box contained only old rags wrapped around tarnished and bent cutlery. Anna was feeling her heart start to race and she tried to concentrate on looking at the big Potts station clock whilst surreptitiously studying the woman’s face. Was she the same as the elegant blue dress wearer?

The woman replaced the parcel on the heap of others and Anna had to stifle an expression of frustration, but recovered her composure as she remembered this was all part of the act. Whilst carefully rewrapping her sandwich and placing it into her gas mask case to mark time, Anna was now sure it was the same woman. Her hair was pinned up in a more severe style, the hat and dress were also quite different in cut and colour, and the sunglasses were not those she wore the previous week, but, despite the subtle attempts at disguise, it was she. Anne felt a thrill of excitement.

But would she take the bait? Anna watched as the woman strode purposefully away. She was going in the right direction, but would she just dip down the stairwell and exit the station?

Anna followed discreetly. The woman appeared to be going to the parcels’ office. She glanced over her shoulder and Simpkins gave Anna a cheeky wink as he placed the decoy parcel on the top of a stack already loaded on his trolley. He now trotted past, the iron wheels grating unpleasantly on the platform surface. Everything was in place.

I he woman was at the counter, haranguing Gerry. ‘You need not trouble yourself with all that silly paperwork, this is without a doubt my parcel. It was sent by my auntie Mabel in London. Look here — there is her name, Mrs Mabel Lewis, right there on the parcel. That proves it is most definitely for me.’

‘Yes, miss, I just need your I.D. card.’ Gerry was patient but firm.

‘But I’ve already told you, I’ve left it at home. Very silly and empty-headed of me, I know, but it’s just like me. But it’s my parcel, without a doubt, because there is my name: Anna Carelli.’

As pre-arranged, Anna had counted to thirty before entering the office, to give the fraudster a chance to fully incriminate herself. Simpkins followed her, in case the woman tried to make a dash for the door. ‘That’s a coincidence,’ she said confidently, ‘because I, too, am Anna Carelli — and that parcel is for me.’

Time seemed to stop for a moment. Nobody moved for what seemed an age but was probably barely a second. Then realisation suddenly hit home and the bogus Anna Carelh knew the game was up. She spun on her heel and flung the parcel at the real Anna with some force. It missed her but hit Simpkins flat in the chest, winding him and knocking off his cap. In an instant Anna realised it was down to her alone to block the exit and so, spreading her arms wide she grasped each of the door jambs and tried to look fierce.

‘What are you doing? I want to get past—’

‘Not so fast,’ Anna said, tilting her head and looking over the thief’s shoulder, ‘Mr Blencowe would like a word with you.’

‘Who’s Blencowe?’ she asked, and as she turned to face the counter once more she came face to face with the uniformed bulk of the DC, who had quickly stepped out of the back office whilst Anna created the distraction. ‘Miss, you are under arrest for theft. I advise you to come quietly, now.’ He grasped her firmly by the arm and led her away whilst the woman threw furious glances at Anna and Gerry. Anna sighed deeply and grinned at her colleagues. ‘We did it! We jolly well did it!’

* * * *

One week later Anna and her new friend Gerry were enjoying a superb cup of coffee in Carelli’s, seated in the window with a view onto St Martin’s Lane. They had each just demolished an indulgent sundae filled with perhaps more ice cream and whipped cream than present regulations allowed, but Bepe Carelli just shrugged his shoulders as his daughter suggested he might get into trouble. He said it was better to ‘make-a the da hay while the sun-a-shines’, and returned to his kitchen, whistling a northern Italian folk tune.

‘Oh, Lord, is this proper cream?’ Gerry was savouring every mouthful. ‘Mmm…’

‘Of course! Only the best for the Carellis. Mama and papa have friends in the local dairy. You can’t make sundaes with that vile artificial stuff.’ Anna shivered with mock horror. ‘Papa is right. Maybe he won’t be able to make it like this for much longer, so let’s dig in whilst we can.’

‘And this coffee is the best I’ve ever tasted. Why have I never been here before?’

Gerry raised her coffee cup. ‘A toast! Well done Anna! Your cunning plan proved the deception, and a little dickie bird tells me that quite a few items have already been recovered from the house of one Louisa Holloway.’

‘I’m not convinced she worked alone, but it’s not our problem. We can leave it to the police now, they can unravel the full story.’

Although dear young Penny and I will need to improve how we manage things. But at least our reputations are recovered. You are so clever!’

‘Stop it, you are making me blush. But, between you, me and this coffee cup, I rather enjoyed the adventure. Playing detective is quite exhilarating. But I owe you thanks, too, because in an odd, roundabout way, your problem with the light-fingered Miss Holloway has ended up improving my own position in the station. Mr Crake was almost fit to burst with pride when that Inspector Badger — is that really his name? — called in to thank us for our good work. I was rather embarrassed when Mr B, in his smart uniform and swagger stick, stood in front of the whole office and told everyone how my “eagle-eyed observational skills”, as he called them, had caught a thief, and then went on to say how I’d “set a shining example to everyone”. I’m sure I went red as a beetroot. But it was very generous of him and has done me no harm. Everyone was suddenly eager to congratulate me and the atmosphere has noticeably thawed.

‘Talking of detective work, what was the name of that much-vaunted railway policeman again? The one with the foreign name?’

‘Detective Constable Vignoles. I think that is how it’s pronounced.’ Gerry rested her chin on her hand and sighed. ‘He’s quite the dream-boat.’ She made a play of stirring her coffee as though disconsolate.

‘Is he French?’

‘Nope, he has no accent or anything and someone said his dad’s a vicar at some village near here.’

‘Ah, probably Huguenot in origin, then.’ Anna kept her response measured and factual.

‘Hugo what?’ Gerry leaned forward conspiratorially and managed, with great effort, to lower her voice to little more than a whisper. ‘It’s probably bad form to pass this on, but I heard talk that some railway detectives are going to be setting up an office on our station. And if we are very lucky, he might be one of them! But keep it under your hat, because Careless Talk Costs Lives, as they say on all those posters.’

Frankie Hyde held the squat, metal object in his hand. It was warm from being almost constantly in his palm. The metal was rubbed smooth and was slightly sweaty, so when released from his grip it offered a softened reflection of the strong July sun that beat down upon his back. It looked like a big, silver beetle, although without head or legs, just a hard shell, with a vicious creature crouched inside, waiting to strike out. All he had to do was press the tiny catch at one end and — schlick! — the four-inch blade spat out the other end like a metal tongue. The edges were keener than mustard and reflected like a mirror.

‘Ugh, that gives me the shivers.’ Elbe Woodcock had not long slipped off her thin, pale-blue woollen cardigan to reveal her sleeveless sundress, the better to enjoy the kiss of the afternoon sun, but she now moved her shoulders and pulled a face as if she had caught a momentary chill. ‘It looks sharp.’ She eyed the glinting blade suspiciously. ‘Almost cruel.’

He turned the knife blade so the sun dazzled her eyes and caressed her face with a slim finger of light.

‘Stop it.’ She turned away from the blinding glint. ‘Put it away.’

He chuckled, but slid the blade back into its shell in a practised move. Then, almost immediately, he flicked it out again. Schlick! Then back inside with a small click. Schlick! Out shot the knife once more. Elbe’s face scrunched up in an expression of displeasure.

‘Watch this.’ He splayed the fingers of his left hand and pressed the silver beetle hard against his palm. ‘If I release the catch, the blade would go right through!’

‘Ugh! No! Stop it!’ she blurted, horrified. ‘That’s dangerous!’

‘I know what I’m doing, doll.’ He gave her a sly look and winked. ’It would stick right out the other side.’ He held the back of his hand towards her. Schlick! The blade peeped out from between his fingers.

Elbe put her hand to her mouth and blanched. ‘Don’t do that again, Frankie. I mean it.’ He laughed and retracted the blade.

‘Where’d you get it?’

‘Bought it.’ He flashed the blade again so it dazzled her eyes.

Elbe was irritated; not only by his constantly fiddling with the knife but also because he was not listening to her. He didn’t even notice that she was starting to get upset. She looked away, trying to clear the odd, coloured shapes wandering across her retinas, which had been caused by the points of light.

The glorious day was too good to waste. As soon as he’d finished work, at two, they’d walked up to one of their favourite places to sit in the long, fragrant grass by the railway line, only for Frankie to spoil things by messing around with that horrible thing. She’d hoped he’d put his arm around her and be romantic, that they would lie on the grass and see what bird or aeroplanes flew overhead, or watch swifts making their endless peeps and squeaks as they swooped above the railway line.

‘Where’d you get it? Not in Helmdon, surely?’ She idly plucked chamomile flowers and gently crushed them in her hand. The scent was supposed to make one relaxed. She inhaled deeply and, for a few moments, her annoyance was masked by something sweet and timeless. She closed her eyes.

‘From someone I know.’ He sounded cagey. He tossed the metal object casually into the air, making it somersault before landing in his palm with a slap. He was enjoying its solidity. It had real weight and substance and felt pleasingly smooth and comfortable in his hand. It was not unlike that pebble he’d brought back from the beach and which, even now, lay on his window sill and which, from time to time, he would take up and hold. It was years ago since he’d carried it back to Helmdon, a village far removed from the sea.

His mum and dad had taken a rare holiday. They’d stayed in a caravan amongst many others, on a huge site on a windy cliff top. That was the first and only time he’d ever seen the sea. The only time he’d felt its cold, salty tang on his lips and had the thrill of racing the little rolls of chasing waves. He’d loved the chunky, sea-smoothed pebbles almost as much as the sea, and especially how they looked darker and richer in colour when wet, as though coated in shellac. He remembered his disappointment when they lost some of their beauty once dry. He, too, closed his eyes, lifting his face to catch more of the sun as he stroked the metal in his palm. He imagined being back on that beach. He longed to feel sand between his toes and the icy touch of a little wavelet over his feet as he readied himself to plunge into the water.

What if he never saw the sea again? His eyes snapped open and he took a short, involuntary gasp of air, as if his breathing had stopped for a second. His heart was racing. He shifted position and gave his girl a quick glance to see if she’d noticed, but she was busy entwining flowers into her hair whilst staring down towards the village. Her head and shoulders were turned slightly away from him. She was in a grump. He should do something. Reach out and touch her hand, perhaps. He should say something, but he felt tongue-tied and the words wouldn’t form. It was easier to focus on an inanimate object. He fell to examining his knife yet again. Schlick! He liked the sound. And a knife like this could be trusted to work when called upon.

‘A fellah at work sold it me,’ he said, knowing these were not the words she wanted to hear. He turned the blade in the sun once again, trying to attract her attention by making the reflection tease her cheek and run across her trim, warm body. ‘See this?’ He pointed at the engraved mark at the base of the blade without checking if she was even looking. He lifted it closer to his face and narrowed his eyes. It was discoloured by a dark brownish stain, so he used his shirt tail to rub at it. ‘This is Sheffield steel. This blade can hold an edge like no other.’

She was unimpressed. ‘How much did you waste on it?’

‘You can’t get a blade like this for cheap.’ He slipped it back into the hasp and grinned as he made it tumble in the air once again. Silver against the azure sky.

‘They certainly saw you coming.’

He said nothing, not trusting himself to lie.

‘So was it Joe sold it to you, or Mike? I bet it was Mike.’

‘It’ll last a lifetime, this. And we haggled. I got a good price.’

She looked as though she was about to say something, but just shook her head sadly and turned away in silent despair. It was just how lads were: interested in things — not people; not love; not romance. She rolled over onto her front so she could look through the wooden fence and along the gently graded Great Central Railway main line towards Helmdon station, shimmering in the warmth of the almost cloudless day.

The heat haze was quivering and making the distant scene soften, as though seen through water. A short train of wagons was being shunted in the station yard in a washed-out, heat-blurred vision. There was no steam from the locomotive because the day was so warm, but the tiny clatter of buffers drifted towards them over the pungent, creosoted sleepers. A skylark burbled its song high above. A buff-tailed bumble bee rumbled amongst the tall clover. A meadow pipit alighted on a fence post and trilled its song. The air was loud with the rasp of crickets and grasshoppers.

Elbe was sixteen, and had known this place all her life. This particular spot on the flowery embankment had long been a favourite, ever since her father had started taking her here — along with her older brother, Peter — to watch from this high vantage point as the trains went by. It felt like sitting on top of the world, watching the Banbury to Buckingham train down below, slowly huffing along with its two grubby old carriages, looking like a toy train set. She didn’t write numbers down like Peter, nor was she expert at distinguishing one type of engine from another, but she loved waving at the passengers and trying to imagine who they were and what exciting destinations they were heading to.

She loved looking down onto the pretty sprawl of their village, with its creamy-brown ironstone cottages, which straggled up the far side of the hill, and the single-track railway nestled at the valley bottom, upon which was the station where Frankie worked as a porter. It was the poor relation to the mainline station, but they were a nice bunch of lads down there, and it gave him enough to get by on, for now.

She suddenly realised that he was speaking and she’d not been listening. ‘So, that is another way this knife could be useful.’

‘Sorry. I was miles away.’

‘I was saying, maybe I could whittle sticks; you know, sharpen them to points.’ He was leaning against a fence post, contemplating the knife with a slightly puzzled expression, as though he were unconvinced by his own argument.

She looked up at him and couldn’t help smiling, feeling her annoyance drain away. He might be seventeen years old and working for two years, but at times he still looked like the same cheeky, innocent schoolboy she’d known all her life. A bit naive, in some ways. In many ways, actually. Perhaps not even the brightest lad in the village — although she’d never admit that to anyone. And besides, who was she to judge? A farmer’s daughter who knew more about cows, hay and silage than she did about much else.

Theirs was a small world. Everyone knew each other, though a handful of outsiders had settled since the war ended to introduce a few notes of unfamiliarity. It felt safe and secure, even if sometimes the very closeness of the community meant that tempers flared and petty grievances could simmer and boil over. There were times when it might be better to fade into the background and not have everyone know your business. Occasionally she even longed for the hustle and bustle of a larger town, but, if she was really honest, she soon tired of Banbury or Buckingham on the few times each year she ventured there. You just couldn’t beat the rolling fields of the farm, the pretty, dark-blue brick viaduct striding so confidently across the valley, the ancient stone buildings and the regular, dependable, passing of the trains.

She smiled indulgently at him. The scent of the sweet herb was clearly working. ‘All right, tell me why that would be useful.’

‘Well…’ He was trying to think. ‘We might go camping—’

‘Camping!’ she interrupted. ‘Why would I want to do that?’ She rolled onto her side and propped herself up on an elbow. ‘And when have you ever spent a night under canvas?’

‘There’s always a first time.’ He cocked his head to one side and concentrated. ‘Listen, that’s the station telephone ringing.’

‘Oh yes, and the bells in the signalbox.’

They heard the gentle ting-ting of the block instruments and the distant jangle of the phone, overlaid by swifts and skylarks above. She looked along the shimmering rails of the double tracked mainline, watching for the approaching train they surely heralded.

He stood up, shaded his eyes and stared towards the station. It seemed to be slumbering peacefully in the sun. A porter strolled along the island platform in a leisurely manner whilst Felix, the station cat, licked a paw. The little shunting engine had paused near the goods shed and fallen silent.

‘That’s odd. The telephone rings and rings, and then it stops.’ Hyde was tapping the silver beetle on the fence in what looked like an involuntary and anxious motion. ‘But then it starts up again.’

‘That’s telephones for you. Annoying, noisy things. Glad we don’t have one at the farm.’ Frankie’s back was turned; he was still looking towards the station as if he expected something to happen. She flung herself back into the long, scented grass, enjoying the slight tickle and scratch of the stems. ‘So, tell me more about this wonderful camping expedition with your ever-so-useful knife.’ She smiled into the sky, one hand shading her eyes, the other plucking a tall stem of grass with a series of feathered seed heads that bobbed and flicked like a ponytail. She sucked on the end, enjoying the slightly bitter, green taste. ‘How would all those whittled sticks prove useful? Are they something you need when camping?’

He sat down, flicked the blade out and jabbed it into the earth. Short, sharp jabs into the sun-hardened soil. He repeated the action as he spoke. ‘Well, for starters I could make one of those tripod thingummyjigs from branches and we could hang a kettle on it, over a fire and boil water.’

She laughed. ‘I didn’t know you knew anything about cooking over campfires.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘There’s lots you probably don’t know about me.’ He jabbed the knife repeatedly.

She turned her head and looked at him. There was a dark furrow on his brow, as if he were puzzling over something. ‘Is there?’

‘Of course. Same goes for you.’ He quickly looked her way. There was something strange in his glance, but he now returned to worrying away at the stain on his precious knife blade with his shirt tail.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing. Just saying.’ They fell silent for a few minutes. The bells and telephone had fallen silent at last. There was a short toot from the locomotive and a series of sounds as it moved back to pushing wagons about.

He sat up straight and looked at her. ‘I could fend off wild animals with this. Keep us safe. Protect you.’ He looked down at the lovely young woman lying in the sun and smiled. She was so beautiful. In fact, she was too good for him. His smiled turned into a worried frown. There were others in the village who had eyes for her.

‘Wild animals? What, in Northamptonshire?’ She laughed and he joined in. That was more like it. Perhaps he might lean over and kiss her. He did not know that she was willing him to pin her arms against the warm earth and kiss her passionately whilst she pretended to be unable to resist, and then would pretend to be shocked at his forwardness. She wanted to erase the memory of yesterday.

‘Not here,’ he replied. ‘But we could go somewhere distant — more dangerous! Far away from Helmdon. Where no one can find us.’

‘Not on your life, Frankie Hyde. If we’re going camping it’s not in the back of beyond.’ She slowly pulled herself up onto her elbows and again looked down at the village. ‘Can you hear an annoying bell?’

‘There’s always bells on the railway, you know that, Ellie.’

‘No, this one sounds quite different. Can’t you hear it? Oh, look, Frankie, it’s a police car! Coming down the hill.’ She frowned. ‘And did you see that ambulance about half an hour ago? When we were walking up here.’

He did not answer, but pushed the blade back into its case. He suddenly seemed restless. Fidgety. She regretted changing the subject away from his fantasy camping trip. He stared across at the village, laid out across the hillside. ‘Did you see where it went?’

‘Yeah: down Wappenham Road. Just as the police car is doing now.’ She narrowed her eyes to focus better. ‘And look, there’s the ambulance, parked opposite the Bell pub. The police seem to be going the same way.’

He didn’t say anything at first. The tiny police car bell tolled and the signal wires close by started to thrum and twang.

‘That’s where Billy Trivett, the signalbox boy, lives,’ Frankie remarked. He shot a momentary glance across at Ellie. She was watching the progress of the black car, clearly feigning indifference to Billy’s name.

‘No, it could be any house. Lots of people live on Church Street. Maybe someone’s been taken poorly; mind you, that doesn’t concern the police.’ Ellie spoke quietly.

When they had first taken their place on the embankment, Helmdon had appeared to be almost asleep, with the roads empty and pale with dust and hardly anyone to be seen. But now she could just make out some figures, so small they looked like ants, moving around near the side of the pub. Why had Frankie mentioned Billy? She chewed the inside of her lower lip, felt her neck flush and her cheeks glow. Her mouth suddenly felt dry. If only they had brought some Tizer with them.

‘I think I’ve caught the sun on my arms,’ she said, changing the subject to light-hearted chit-chat.

‘Make the most of it whilst you can: there’s thunder clouds over Brackley way.’

She twisted around and looked into the sky. ‘Yes, and the air is getting close and muggy.’ She fell silent for a moment, then added: ‘The police are parked by the pub now. It looks like something has happened. Can you see what’s going on?’ Ellie was becoming increasingly curious.

‘What do I care? Those blasted bells are getting in my head!’ He threw the knife hard down onto the earth near his feet and clapped his hands over his ears. ‘Why don’t they answer the damn telephone?’ He stood up impatiently.

Ellie look startled. ‘What’s got into you? I don’t like that sort of language.’ She stared at him and, as she did so, the telephone, on cue, fell silent. She lifted her cardigan off the grass and wrapped it around her shoulders in an irritated gesture, despite having just declared she was too hot. Sitting hunched, knees drawn to her chin, she chewed on the grass stalk.

He sat down heavily, his face darkening like the ominous sky on the horizon. ‘Sorry, Ellie.’ He rubbed a hand across his face as if trying to scrub away his black mood and then adjusted his position, now lying almost on his side, facing her. ‘Come here. Give us a cuddle.’

‘I don’t feel like it now,’ she said, with considerable petulance, but her shoulders were already loosening and she was holding her legs less tightly. ‘Anyway, I’m worried someone’s been hurt.’ She craned her neck. ‘I can see someone running down Station Road. It might be Mr Willard, I’m not sure. And the police are talking to a group outside the pub.’

‘Then it’s all under control. No need to fret about it.’ He reached across and slipped his arm around her slim waist.

Ellie gave a little smile of encouragement. At least now he was making some effort. She lay back into the grass slowly and allowed the cardigan to fall away. Closing her eyes, she willed herself into a better frame of mind. She removed the stem of grass from her lips and at last Frankie got the message. He placed his free arm across her body and his big hand rested on her bare shoulder. And then he kissed her, long and hard. Eyes still firmly closed, she heard wires twang and the home-signal arm clunk heavily into place. She knew this meant that a train would pass any moment. A long goods’ train rumbled towards the viaduct, the wooden-bodied, four-wheeled vans rattling and clanking behind the gently breathing engine. Frankie did not quite know how long the kiss should last but he needed to take a breath so he moved his lips from hers. Ellie sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose. ‘Fish!’

They both laughed and rolled over onto their fronts to look through the fringe of grass stems onto the railway to confirm what the distinctive odour indicated. The train was now rollicking through Helmdon — without stopping or even slowing — and onwards towards the viaduct. ‘Yep, that’ll be the fish empties returning to Grimsby, and dead on time,’ remarked Frankie.

‘Imagine working on that — being the guard, sitting at the back of the train. You’d get so sick of the smell of fish!’ She wrinkled her nose.

He was again reminded of that trip to the seaside. The scent of fish and seaweed, of salty air and hot skin. ‘Ellie, let’s catch the next train that stops here and go away! Far away! To the seaside!’

Ellie looked surprised, but she was smiling. ‘Has the sun got to you or summat?’ Still, it sounded better than camping near wild animals.

His eyes were bright and alive, more alive than she’d seen them all afternoon. ‘We can run away together. Just you and me. We’ll live together — by the beach.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ she replied, but she was smiling. It was just a fantasy, of course, and there was no harm in that.

Frankie stared, seemingly mesmerised, at the long line of wagons passing by; the wheels roaring, the rail joints dipping and rising in a rhythmic motion that counterpointed the beat of the engine’s exhaust. Eventually the fish train had passed and the sound diminished. The almost hypnotic motion now over. Suddenly, his face became serious. He grasped her gently by the shoulders, looking into her eyes. ‘I mean it, Ellie. There’s a train due soon — listen!’ As the roar of the receding fish train faded there were more block bells tinkling in the signal box and yet more signal wires thrumming. ‘I’ve got a few pounds in my pocket. It’ll be enough, for now.’

‘Don’t be so silly.’

He looked crestfallen and she felt sorry for throwing cold water on his enthusiasm.

‘Of course, I love the idea. I really do. But how would we live? And we’re not even married yet! You aren’t asking me to… Frankie, you know I am not that type of girl.’ She pouted slightly and then smiled indulgently. He was being romantic, which is what she had longed for, even though he wasn’t being realistic.

‘We’ll get married, of course! But first, we’ll find work, and a place to live.’ His eyes were wide and eager and there was something even a little desperate about his impetuosity. ‘We’ll worry about the details later! Come on, we don’t have much time!’ His Adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke and he looked slightly crazy.

Elbe had never imagined that the marriage proposal she’d fantasised about for months would come as a casual, throwaway line, an afterthought. He hadn’t even gone down on one knee, like in the movies. But she was even more disconcerted at the way a silly fantasy had suddenly, swiftly, been transformed not only into a reality but into something so urgent that it had to be done instantly. They both looked up at the gathering thunderheads in the distance, purple like a growing bruise. ‘We still have a little time, maybe an hour.’ She looked into his eyes and suddenly realised he was not talking about the weather. She felt a cold finger down her spine. She wanted to laugh and make light of it all, but instead felt her throat constrict. Her heart was starting to beat too fast. ‘Frankie, is there something wrong? Something you’ve not told me?’

He didn’t reply but turned to face Ellie, at her fresh, girlish face that betrayed confusion and perhaps something else. Was it fear? He could not bear to look, so he turned his eyes back to the activity in the valley. Ellie followed his gaze and saw police in dark-blue uniforms, ambulancemen with a stretcher bearing a figure swathed in a blanket. Mrs Trivett, a coat around her shaking shoulders, weeping uncontrollably. A uniformed constable, shading his eyes and pointing up towards them. Mr Trivett, an arm around his wife, also staring their way.

‘Frankie, what’s going on?’ Her voice was flat and lifeless, her skin goose-pimpled, and yet a sheen of cold sweat formed on her brow. She pulled her knees up to her chin, hands gripping her ankles as though her life depended on it.

He shifted his body away from hers, his head drooping low, almost as though he lacked the energy to hold it up. ‘I saw you. Don’t deny it. I saw you kissing him.’ Elbe’s hands gripped her ankles even tighter. ‘I went to the Bell after work with some of the other railway lads. It was so hot and stuffy indoors, so we thought we’d stand outside. We saw you arrive, clear as day, then saw him come out and meet you, by his garden gate. And then you kissed him, hard and passionate. And in front of everyone, like a brazen hussy. Mike, Pete, Joe — all of the lads saw you, my girl, snogging him! How d’you think that made me feel?’

‘No, you’ve got it all wrong! He just grabbed me, I didn’t kiss him back!’ She was trying to make the words come out without sobbing. ‘Oh my God. What have you done?’ She put a hand to her forehead, where a vein was pumping at her right temple. Her head was spinning and she felt as though she might faint. She could smell the grass and cow parsley, the creosote of the railway sleepers and the tang of steam coal, hot oil and brake dust.

A passenger train passed close behind them, making little sound as the regulator was closed, save a gentle regular hiss and the clickety-clack of wheels on the rail joints and the mounting squeal as the brakes started to bite. Elbe had the strange sensation of eyes watching her from the passing carriages, but she didn’t turn to look. It felt as though time were moving in slow motion. She was gripped by a strange feeling that this moment would live with her forever, burned into her like the points of light from that shining blade. She felt a sickening sensation that soon everything about her life, her small, circumscribed world, would lurch forwards and nothing would be the same. It was like sitting at the top of the first dip of the rollercoaster at Banbury fair, when it was too late to get off: the tipping point had been reached, and any moment she was about to rush pell-mell into something chaotic and awful and unstoppable.

She squeezed her eyes together, trying to hold back the welling tears. ‘The Trivetts are one of our longstanding customers. You know that. Last evening I had to take four packs of butter and two dozen eggs there. I’ve been there many times before, so it was no big deal. Billy came up the gate when I arrived. I just assumed he’d come out to take the stuff off me.’ She risked a quick glance at Frankie. She wanted to see in his face that he understood what she was saying, and believed her.

‘And so you thought you’d kiss him?’

‘No, you great clot! He forced me. He took me completely unawares. I was clutching the eggs in one hand and the parcel with the butter under my other arm, and he just grabbed me and was pulling me close. It was so fast, and he’d got such a grip on me that I couldn’t pull away.’ Her voice was starting to break. ‘He’s stronger and bigger than me.’

Frankie grunted.

‘Suddenly his mouth was on mine.’ She barely whispered the words, her cheeks burning with shame. ‘Oh, Frankie, it was so horrible!’ She started to sob, tears streaming down her face. She fumbled for a hankie and blew her nose noisily.

‘Didn’t look like you minded that much.’

‘How can you say that?’ She tried to stifle another sob. ‘If that was true then why am I up here with you now?’ Frankie fell silent, in tacit admission that she had a point.

She dabbed at her wet, red eyes and continued. ‘He made a big show of what he was doing, as though it was for someone else to see. And it worked. I didn’t see you outside the pub but he must have, and he wanted to get at you, so he made sure everyone saw us and you fell for it!’ She sobbed into her handkerchief. ‘Oh God, Frankie, what have you done?’

He didn’t reply. He was replaying the scene over in his mind to see if her explanation matched what he saw. It was just one long, hard embrace and as soon as Elbe and Billy’s bodies were no longer touching, she got on her bike and left.

‘What happened to the butter and eggs?’

‘What?’ replied Ellie, irritated by the seemingly irrelevant question. ‘If you must know, I put them on the garden wall, got on my bike and pedalled away as fast as I could.’

‘If you’d dropped them when he grabbed you, you’d have had two hands free to push him off.’

‘What?’ She gave him an incredulous look. She was now more angry than shocked. ‘Actually, I remember thinking, even as his horrible mouth was on me, how I’d better not drop those eggs or there’d be hell to pay.’

Frankie said nothing. His head was aching.

A carriage door slammed shut. The guard blew his whistle and the train made a typically smart departure, the engine barking briefly as it got under way. The signal clonked back into place. The station fell quiet, a strange stillness that felt laden with expectation. A dog barked somewhere distant. Two men in dark suits and Trilby hats were walking towards the end of the platform in measured, steady treads. They looked calm, determined and serious. The police car was motoring swiftly along Station Road.

Frankie looked at Ellie. ‘I only meant to scare him. Warn him to keep his filthy hands off you, cos you’re mine.’

The ambulance had started to climb the hill, making slow progress. There was no urgency and the bell was silent.

‘Warn him? W—what do you mean?’ Elbe’s eyes were blurred and stinging with salt tears and her voice was barely a whisper.

‘I thought I’d practised enough. I was confident I knew how to handle it.’

‘Practised what?’

Frankie continued, without answering her question. ‘I pressed it against his chest, just to threaten him, scare him, let him what I was made of, and that I wasn’t gonna let him steal my girl.’ He tried to sound defiant, but it came across hollow and empty.

The two men were crunching their way along the ballast by the side of the railway line, crossing the viaduct. One wore glasses; the other had a neat, narrow moustache and looked quite suave. The atmosphere was now stiflingly humid and sultry. One man removed his hat and quickly mopped his brow before replacing it. The massive mountain of cloud was now almost the colour of blackberry juice. It would surely explode in a thunderclap any moment.

Frankie hung his head. ‘I was so angry.’ He jabbed the wicked blade repeatedly into the ground, punctuating his short sentences. ‘I was seething at work. I couldn’t take it no more. As soon as I finished, I wanted to warn him off.’ He jabbed the blade into the grass one more time and left it there. ‘Then I saw him, down the lane at the back of the Bell, whistling and smiling to himself like the cat who’d got the cream. It made me see red, Ellie. I flicked the blade in and out and made it catch the sun, so he’d see I meant business.’ He paused to catch his breath, which was coming in short gasps. ‘But he just laughed and said I wasn’t man enough to use it. He was taunting me, he said, “Pah, you don’t scare me with your stupid little knife, Frankie-boy”. So I secretly retracted the blade then pretended to let him have it — hard — right in the chest.’ There was a long pause. ‘The safety catch must have slipped off. It was horrible. There was blood everywhere. I just ran and ran.’

Ellie remembered that Frankie had seemed hot and out of breath when they had first met to climb up to the embankment.

‘I didn’t mean to stick it in him. Honestly.’

She put an arm around his shoulder. T-I’m sure he’ll be all right. It probably looked worse than it was. It’s just a little knife. It would not go in far.’ Her throat was dry and she was struggling to get the words out. ‘It’s just two lads, fighting over a girl. They’ll patch him up and he’ll be right as rain.’

Ellie looked over Frankie’s shoulder as they hugged each other tightly. She saw the two men approach but said nothing. She felt her shoulder grow damp: Frankie was weeping silently as he whispered. ‘I’m sorry, Ellie. I just didn’t want to lose you.’

‘Are you Frank Hyde, railway porter, of 22b Church Street, Helmdon?’ asked the younger of the two men. Frankie gently let go of Ellie and nodded his head as it hung low in shame.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Trinder.’ He flipped open a warrant card whilst speaking. ‘Could you stand up please, sir?’

‘Hello, what’s this?’ DCI Vignoles quickly slipped on a glove and reached down to the grass. He picked up one end of the knife with the tips of his fingers, gave it a cursory inspection, and slipped it into a paper bag. ‘Is it yours?’ Frankie nodded solemnly.

The younger policeman had unlocked a set of handcuffs and was holding them open in one hand. With the other he grasped Frankie’s arm. ‘I am taking you into custody for questioning about your involvement in the murder of William Trivett, also of Church Street, earlier this afternoon.’ He clicked the cuffs into place. He commenced to read the young man his rights in the flat monotone the police were accustomed to adopting.

Ellie fell to her knees on the grass, utterly distraught. She scrunched herself into a ball, wailing and sobbing. Nothing would ever be the same again.

The Flick Knife

1953

‘Good afternoon, John. How did it go?’

DCI Vignoles looked up from the mound of paperwork on his desk and gave a thankful smile seeing his trusty sergeant enter the office. He’d been expecting Trinder to knock on the office door at any moment, having watched the Manchester train steam into Leicester Central from Marylebone from the vantage point of his office bay window. He now had a legitimate reason to stop pretending he was concentrating on work.

In truth, his concentration had been wavering for the past hour. There was no operational reason why Vignoles needed to observe that Trinder’s train was being hauled that day by a Gresley A3 Pacific named ‘Sir Frederick Banbury’. Nor that he should take time to notice that the locomotive in question was now sporting a brand new coat of the Brunswick Green paint British Railways was introducing for express engines. Indeed it had been with only a very slight pang of guilt that Vignoles had taken up work time to consider the impression of this new livery.

In the afternoon sun the gleaming engine had glowed with an almost bronze quality to the green, whilst the narrow, orange-and-black lining was rendered more clear and bright than on a dull day. Vignoles thought it a somewhat restrained colour scheme, but was slowly warming to it. It had something of the cosy familiarity of the favourite cardigan he liked to wear at home on Sundays, the one with large, brown, leather-covered buttons. A garment that was quiet and understated — and perhaps not the immediate inspiration for a top link steam engine. Certainly this new look was in complete contrast to the pale blue such engines had previously carried, which was now being over-painted when trips back to the works dictated. Although the blue paint faded rather badly, and every nook and cranny soon darkened with soot and oil, it had felt uplifting when set against the ‘blood and custard’ of the coaches and offered a delightful zing of cheery colour along the soot-blackened railway.

Vignoles replaced the cap on his fountain pen and put it to one side. His monthly crime report didn’t make for exciting reading, and was even less interesting to pull together. It consisted mainly of arrests for petty crimes such as pick-pocketing, soliciting, minor cases of vandalism and their old favourite, escaped beasts on the line. He was glad of a diversion.

‘Come in, take a seat.’

Trinder crossed the room and pulled up a chair, flopping his hat onto the corner of his guvnor’s untidy desk as he sat down. Vignoles was already filling his pipe, so Trinder took this as a cue to fish out a fresh pack of Park Lane. He casually slipped a thumbnail under the cellophane wrapper before flipping the carton lid open and releasing the scent of fresh tobacco and fine quality cardboard.

‘I see London life has got to you already!’ Vignoles pointed the stem of his pipe at the carton. ‘A touch of urban sophistication, eh John?’

‘These?’ Trinder looked apologetic. ‘They’d sold out of Black Cats on the stall at Marylebone. A bit pricey, so they’d better live up to their promise.’ He flicked his lighter into action and puffed away, pulling a face.

‘So, you’ve come back brimming full of new ideas?’

Actually, I rather think I have.’ Trinder settled into the chair, sensing that Vignoles was in the mood for a detailed account and not just a brief resume. ‘It was terribly interesting, guv. There were a lot of people attending the lectures, including a fair number of top brass.’ Trinder raised his eyebrows meaningfully. At first I felt rather out of my depth, to be honest, but I soon realised the brass hats were there just to look good and chat in the bar afterwards with a whiskey or pink gin, and it was down to chaps like myself to take notes and do anything practical.’

Vignoles smiled as he urged his pipe into life. ‘I can imagine. You’re learning that the higher up the ladder you climb, the less you actually do.’ He shook a Swan Vesta match to extinguish it. ‘And one’s remuneration increases exponentially as the actual work decreases. Or rather, the increase in the time spent in the bar.’ He grinned ruefully whilst half watching ‘Sir Frederick’ snort back into action and depart smokily for the North. ‘As you know, the old Badger himself was all for going with Yours Truly on this training course. I found that idea far too ghastly and used the excuse of Anna’s birthday to duck out.’ He blew a smoke ring. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, John, but once he heard I’d put your name forward, his interest cooled.’ Both men laughed.

‘Not a bit of it. The thought of two days with that stuffy old coot is too awful to contemplate. As it was, I learned a lot. There are some big strides being made in detecting. Things are really changing. It was fascinating listening to the speakers and looking at their photographic slides and learning about what’s being done these days.’ He paused to take a drag on his Park Lane. ‘We even had some practical sessions so I could try my hand at a few things.’ Trinder looked and sounded excited. ‘Did you know the Home Office has created a post of detective-scientist?’ He puffed some smoke into the room. ‘They’re a sort of boffin policeman. Or woman. Apparently women are especially good at this kind of thing.’

‘I can believe it. Better suited to the meticulous work involved, I suspect. Having said that, I could imagine old Blencowe might rather take to that kind of work; he loves to get stuck into the detail, as you know.’ Vignoles eyed Trinder through the blue, aromatic smoke of his pipe. ‘And so would you, for that matter.’

‘When they got awfully technical I fear they lost me.’ Trinder grinned, making an attempt to scotch any such thoughts. ‘The top speaker was a Chief Inspector Cherrill.

He’s the world’s leading expert on fingerprint recovery and analysis, amongst many other things. A darned clever man.’

‘I’ve heard of him. He has quite a reputation. So, what did you learn?’

‘He showed us some of the latest techniques in fingerprint capture.’ Trinder shifted position in the chair, leaning closer to the desk. ‘It’s not just glass or polished metal and other such rather obvious things which they can lift them from nowadays. They were giving demonstrations of how to get decent dabs from the glossy pages of an art book or a plastic or varnished wooden child’s toy or even a Bakelite telephone receiver. And this despite it being almost impossible to see the prints with the naked eye. You’d never know there was even anything there to try and recover without Cherrill and his backroom boys.’

‘That could be useful.’

‘You see, there are three types of fingerprint,’ continued Trinder, getting into his stride. ‘The most obvious being the visible ones. If you pick up something with a dusting of soot or some fine powder, then your prints are instantly visible for all to see; but, let’s face it, no criminal ever makes our job that easy! Then there are the plastic sort: if you were to pick up some soft modelling clay, for example, you would leave lovely, moulded impressions.’

Vignoles grunted that he understood the concept.

‘But the most fascinating type of all, and perhaps the prints most likely to catch even a clever and careful criminal, are latent prints.’ Trinder paused and looked mildly puzzled. ‘I forget why Cherrill said they were called that, but no matter, all one needs to know is that they are very hard to see with the naked eye and can be recovered from quite surprising objects. From the sorts of places the average criminal might not expect. They could be caught out unawares. They showed us some pretty nifty tricks to try and capture these.’

‘Sounds promising.’

‘And then there was a ballistics boffin who projected a whole load of rather odd transparencies on a screen that, to an untrained eye, were just a complete mess of light and dark and looked like nothing much at all. But using these pictures he proved that if you recovered a bullet that had been fired, and then found a gun that you thought might be the one used to shoot that same bullet, you could do a comparison test to prove it. You fire a brand new bullet from the same gun and then compare all manner of very small scratches, scuffs and indentations that you can see on the bullets — that is, if you have a decent camera and a strong light. When the pictures are blown up to a great size you can prove that both bullets were fired by the same gun. Quite incredible.’

‘So a gun barrel effectively leaves the ballistics version of a fingerprint?’

‘You’ve got it, guv! The bullets really do have matching marks on them that cannot be replicated by a different gun, even if it is of the same type. Of course it takes quite a bit of specialist work and it’s not something we can do ourselves, so we’d need to get the lab boys down at the Met to do the leg work, but all the same, it makes you think.’

Vignoles nodded agreement as he contemplated the strange assortment of clutter and lost property items that had somehow found their way into his office over the years. Most of this was unremarkable junk that really ought to be sent to the corporation tip, or given to a church jumble sale. There was one rather fine item, however, that he wished he could return to its owner: a cast-bronze figure of a very attractive, scantily clad dancing girl. Someone would surely have bitterly regretted leaving her in the waiting room! But, whoever it was, they had never come back in nearly ten years. Vignoles pointed the stem of his pipe towards her outstretched leg. ‘I wonder, if we’d known about these latent fingerprints back then whether we might have been able to trace Dancing Doris’s rightful owner.’

Trinder laughed. ‘Bit late now, as she’s been polished once a week for absolutely yonks by Mrs Green. And besides, fingerprints only work if they can be matched to a known criminal who’s already had them taken for reference.’

‘But she may have been stolen. Art theft is big business and she seems expensive.’ Vignoles suddenly sat up in his chair, looked away from Doris’s pert bronze bottom and shuffled the mounds of papers on his desk with a newfound urgency, as if looking for something. ‘Nothing of any interest came in whilst you were away.’

‘I was only gone two days.’

Vignoles turned the papers over rapidly giving each one almost no consideration, the cases reported being too inconsequential and simple to require anything other than basic policing. ‘I need to find you something upon which to apply some of these wonderful new detecting skills. We need to see you in action so the others can watch and learn.’ He suddenly stopped and groaned. Pressing the flat of his hand on one particular report. ‘Ah yes. How could I forget?’

‘What is it?’

‘The Dog, up to his usual tricks.’

Ah, our old friend Gerry Walker, eh? Dog Walker.’ Trinder exhaled smoke in a contemptuous puff. ‘A right royal pain in the backside.’ Trinder stubbed out his cigarette with some force. ‘I’d love to pin something on him that sticks and watch the smile get wiped off his face when the beak sends him down.’

Vignoles scanned the report to remind himself of the details. ‘He’s small fry, and each time he annoys us I have to weigh up how much manpower I can afford to expend on him. He’s crafty, and careful, but maybe you can use latent fingerprints to outsmart him.’ Vignoles picked up the relevant crime report. ‘Take him out of action for a year or so and my crime figures will improve considerably.’ He passed the report to Trinder. ‘There’s been another break-in last night. A neat job, leaving us with nothing to work with. Or so it appears.’

Gerry ‘the Dog’ Walker was a small-time petty thief and fence. He loved nothing more than to cock a snook at the law. It was an open secret that anything that came off the back of his bottle-green, Austin flatbed lorry was of dubious origin, the problem was proving it. The Dog started his career as a spiv during the war and had continued as both rationing and privation bit ever harder, becoming one of the most notorious and successful of these shady, black marketeers. He knew exactly and instinctively how to play upon the baser human instincts, luring ordinary, law-abiding folk to hand over cash for scarce or desirable items. Once they became customers they were complicit in his wrong-doing and so if the police came sniffing around they denied knowing the man. Besides, if they wanted to continue enjoying the fruits of The Dog’s activities, they had to protect him, not help the authorities to catch him. This attitude and behaviour was now entrenched and it was now proving impossible to find anyone willing to admit to receiving dodgy goods or even to witnessing any illegal activity on the part of Mr Walker.

The Dog himself described his work as ‘import and export’, and was proud to explain that his business was ‘unhindered by tiresome paperwork.’

‘Paper,’ he stated, ‘is the curse of every small businessman. It weighs him down. We’re all better off without it.’

His Austin lorry was a familiar sight around Leicester. Rumbling down a cobbled street, trailing a smoky exhaust, the flatbed laden with all manner of produce covered by a filthy square of old tarpaulin, en route to his lock-up under the railway arches in Jarvis Street. Or there it would be, parked at the far end of a railway yard, or nestled along a wharf crowded with stacked goods, or perhaps parked by a secret rendezvous in a weed infested lay-by on the edge of town at midnight, or in a dark alley lined with warehouses.

He’d be close by, lurking in a shady corner, closing a deal, his battered trademark Trilby hat pushed to the back of his glossy, Brylcreemed hair, a cigarette trailing smoke from the corner of his mouth.

The Dog was cheeky, cocksure and confident. He invariably had an almost plausible story to explain being in possession of a few coal sacks, a brace of oil barrels or perhaps fourteen cases of Burgundy. Should an eager motorcycle-patrolman or uniformed bobby insist on taking a closer look, The Dog would pull out a jumbled heap of crumpled documents and tired receipts, torn invoices and smudged delivery notes, all rather judiciously faded or stained by oil and coal dust, to show that everything was ‘legit’. His London roots had ‘gifted him the gab’, and he would launch into a lengthy, complex story about why he could not produce the necessary paperwork that instant, whilst proffering cigarettes and chewing gum. His tale would be most entertaining, peppered with amusing, tangential anecdotes and cheeky asides, everything of course artfully designed to muddy the waters. By the time he’d finished, most bobbies were either so bewddered, bewitched or befuddled they gave up, but even if the odd really keen one took down all the relevant details in his notebook, promising to make enquiries, The Dog would just shrug and drive off, content in the certainty that the hapless constable would soon discover that untangling his affairs was an utterly futile exercise. On the rare occasion that he was arrested and brought in for questioning, The Dog would invariably walk out of the police station a few hours later with a smile on his face, a cadged fag in the corner of his mouth, and the desk sergeant trying to suppress a laugh at one of his salacious parting jokes.

The British Transport Police and, especially, its detective department, had until recently only occasional cause to deal with this irritating little crook. Over the years they had fingered his collar for hawking black market items on station platforms and along the corridors of express trains, but that was all. However, in recent months he appeared to be making the railway the main focus of his attention. He was suspected of a series of thefts but the detectives could find no proof that would stand up to judicial scrutiny. Despite that, Vignoles, Trinder and the team were convinced he was responsible.

Tickets were being stolen from a number of booking offices at small stations. These lonely outposts, unstaffed at night, were soft targets. The numbers taken were not huge, and it was probable that they were sold on the cheap to willing customers, who made a nice saving on their journeys. Third class tickets were chosen, because a cash-strapped worker was far more likely to seize the chance for a bargain. And such people were easy to find and approach, in smoky pubs or on platforms or trains. By keeping the numbers low, they could be quickly disposed of and turned into ready cash, perhaps even before the theft was noticed, let alone fully investigated.

Each time the thief struck it was a neat job; entry to the ticket offices was, apparently, gained with a skeleton key and the perpetrator wore gloves, was in and out in a matter of minutes and worked in a careful and ordered manner. In addition, sometimes a few items were removed from goods sheds: always a small part of the whole consignment and done in a careful manner so the loss was often not noticed until valuable hours or even days had been lost. These crimes were immensely irritating to those targeted, were proving impossible to prevent or detect, and were a blight on Vignoles’s monthly crime reports.

The incident Trinder read about in the report handed to him by his guv was true to form. A hundred third class tickets were missing from the booking office at Rothley, but he was not sure that, even with his new skills, he would be able to glean much from the crime scene, especially as a day had now passed since it was called in. However, he tossed the report back on the desk and stood up, putting his hat on his head in a determined manner.

‘Righty-o! I’ll get straight across to Rothley. When I’ve finished I’ll head home to Woodford to see Vi and Robbie, if that’s all right, guv. I’ll write up my crime scene notes on the train.’

‘The Rothley visit can wait until tomorrow,’ said Vignoles in a resigned tone of voice. He knew it was probably a long shot at best. ‘Go home and see your little lad before his bedtime.’

‘Thank you, guv, but time is of the essence. They drilled that into us. If we are to have any chance, then we’ve got to strike quickly.’ Trinder looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Did it rain up here whilst I was away?’

‘Yes, as it happens. On the night you travelled down. Why?’

‘Damp ground can be very instructive. Has the Dog and his lorry been sighted recently?’

‘Funny you should ask, but I saw him pootling along Talbot Street this morning. I felt like shaking a fist at him, but fortunately managed to restrain myself.’

‘Good. I’ll get Blencowe to take a walk past his lockup and see if he can find the lorry. There’s some information he could collect for me.’ Trinder gave Vignoles an arch look, but said no more. ‘If he finds something he can telephone through to me at Rothley.’

‘You have me intrigued!’

‘At the training course they gave us all a basic kit of materials. There’s not a lot in it, but enough to get me started. I’ll take it with me.’

‘Take one of the girls with you, John. I’m sure they’d benefit from watching our new detective-scientist in action. Lucy’s not doing anything urgent today.’

An hour later Trinder and WDC Lansdowne were slowly pacing around the goods yard at Rothley, staring at the slightly damp surface formed from compacted ash and coal dust. There was a succession of tyre tracks embedded in the surface, most of which led to and from the area immediately surrounding the little brick goods shed or the corrugated iron structure beside it.

‘Yes, then we shall do an experiment to find out if any tool in his possession cuts this same chain in the same manner. Every tool will leave a distinctive and quite unique cutting pattern when observed under a microscope. The marks are very subtle, but there they are.’

‘Just like a fingerprint.’

‘Exactly.’

‘So you think the Dog drove down to the yard to be close to the station building?’

‘Yes, his modus operandi is to be in and out as fast as possible. Once in the yard, close to this fence, I reckon his lorry would be as good as invisible from the road.’ Trinder had put the chain to one side and was now squatting down and giving close scrutiny to a partial impression of a tyre track, comparing it to the printed set of diagrams. ‘We want to find Avon tyres, set four foot, nine and a half inches apart. This handy ready reckoner chart will help us. Blencowe has done a cracking job in finding the Austin and obtaining this information without the old Dog knowing. Leaving his lorry on Talbot Street might be his first mistake!’ Trinder looked pleased.

‘If he’d seen Blencowe and realised what he was doing, he’d change the tyres!’

‘Precisely, Lucy. He would at the very least replace the front offside for a matching Avon. He’s obviously had a puncture and put a Firestone on. It has quite a different tread — look, you can see here.’ Trinder pointed out to her the difference in tread between the two tyre types on his chart.

‘If this ash and mud is damp enough, sarge, he will have left a distinctive pattern. Lots of lorries would have Avons, but few would have three Avons and a Firestone, and probably only one would have them in that exact formation.’

‘It would be compelling evidence. The prosecution would no doubt determine the exact factor of probability, but it’s going to almost infinitesimal.’

Some passengers seated in the carmine-and-cream coaches standing in the platform watched the pair with considerable curiosity. Female police were still a rarity and this particular one was an eye-catching sight in her smartly-tailored, navy-blue serge uniform and little hat perched on her head above a blonde ponytail. She attracted particular attention because she was bent at the middle, arms clasped behind her back, and stepping slowly in an exaggerated manner, raising each foot high and then placing it carefully and deliberately in front of her as she slowly patrolled the grassy verge that ran parallel to the train. To those watching she probably looked like a curious type of heron.

‘Got something, sarge!’ She pointed to the trace of a tyre, where it had clearly rolled off a firmer and drier stony area onto a muddy verge.

Trinder consulted his tyre chart. ‘That looks like an Avon.’ He straightened up and took in the whole scene. ‘I think I can just make out the line of a vehicle crossing the yard and swinging up close here, with the nearside parallel to the fence. Can you see?’

‘Yes. There are faint traces still, sarge. And where it went through that pothole, I think there’s a good chance of another tyre print. I just want to find that odd Firestone now. I’m starting to enjoy this, sarge!’ As Trinder reflected that he didn’t know many women who would find staring at mud even remotely interesting, she studied the short traces of tyre tread and then exclaimed. ‘Yes, look here. It’s only a short section, but I think it looks like a Firestone! What do you reckon?’

Trinder compared it with the paper chart. ‘Good work, Lucy. Put a marker down and we’ll process it when we’ve finished the first one.’

WDC Lansdowne pushed a garden cane into the compacted ash and then joined Trinder. ‘It’s like you said, sarge. He parked in the goods yard and took a short hop over the fence, across the track and onto the platform.’ She looked up at the towering bulk of the train as the black-liveried A5 express tank engine gave a perfunctory toot on its whistle and started to haul its cargo of curious passengers out of the station towards Leicester. As the carriage bogies clunked and clicked across the rail joints, and the rails gently rose and fell with the weight of the train, the detectives gazed toward the island platform. As the train passed beneath the road bridge and along the steep sided cutting, leaving balls of smoke and steam to drift and then gently disintegrate in the air, the signal wires twanged and the signal dropped back to danger. The stationmaster, who had overseen the departure, was left standing on what looked like a deserted platform.

‘Hello, Sergeant Trinder. Did you find anything?’

‘Perhaps,’ he hollered in response.

‘Good. I hope you catch the little bugger! Ooh, pardon my French, miss, I didn’t realise there was a lady present.’ The stationmaster turned away, slightly embarrassed at the faux pas, and slinked off to his office. He was proud of his station and the way he ran it, and so was still smarting from the ignominy of having been raided. This was not just about lost tickets, which the company could replace, but something more. An affront to him personally.

Trmder squatted down near the grass verge, took a measurement of the tyre width and compared it to his chart. ‘Spot on,’ he said, cheerily. ‘The ground is drier on the offside, so I can’t be too sure what they are. Look for footprints nearby, Lucy. Think where he might have stepped from the lorry cab, or vaulted over the fence, and so leave a deeper impression.’

They swished the tall grass and flowers aside for a few moments. ‘Here, sarge. I think this might be something.’

‘That looks promising. He’s known for wearing quite unusual and rather flash casual shoes, with a distinctive tread.’

‘Is he getting over confident, sloppily leaving clues everywhere?’

‘Possibly, but even the most common type of shoe, once worn for a few weeks, takes on unique characteristics and cannot escape a detailed forensic analysis. This particular villain is simply making things easier for us, by wearing shoes with such distinctive treads.’

‘Just like that villain Charlton you were telling me about on the way over here. Didn’t you say he was caught because of his distinctive boot-treads?’

‘Exactly right, Lucy.’ Trinder was contemplating the shoe prints in the mud as he spoke. ‘They discussed it on the training course. It was an instructive case in many ways and made all the more relevant to us, because both the victim and murderer worked on the railway — the victim was a crossing keeper, a Mrs Emmerson, and the killer was an engine driver. The investigating officer was a man far ahead of his time and we can still learn from his approach. Inspector Taylor noticed at the crime scene that there were clear boot prints in mud that had a distinctive pattern of hobnails — actually called sparables — that he felt sure could be checked against the treads of footwear any suspect they apprehended might own. He then had the truly inspired idea of seeing if plaster casts could be made, and duly engaged a local sculptor to make them.’

‘And it worked?’

‘Perfectly. The casts, and diagrams made from them, were used in court, alongside boots worn by Charlton, the killer. He realised he’d left obvious clues and tried to suggest that his brother-in-law had worn them whilst committing the murder and had also tampered with the evidence by removing many of the sparables, but the holes left in the soles matched so perfectly that there could be no doubt that these were the boots worn by the killer. Remember, these were hand-made boots and, ironically, Charlton had new nails put in by a local cobbler just a short while before he committed the crime.’

‘Not a very bright move, sarge! Did you say this was the first time plaster casts were ever used as evidence?’

‘Yes. And bearing in mind this was 1861, it makes it all the more strange that it has taken so long for it to become common practice. I was not the only delegate who had never used the technique before.’

‘Then it might interest you to hear that I am familiar with the idea and have even made my own, amateurish attempts,’ said Lucy Lansdowne, with a grin.

‘You have?’ Trinder was surprised.

‘It was a long time ago, sarge, and they were not very successful. I used to make casts of bird footprints: ducks and seagulls mostly. They left clear impressions in the half-dried mud at the edge of a lake near where I grew up. And once I got a cast of fox paw.’

‘A veritable nature detective before you joined the profession,’ Trinder grinned. If he was miffed at having some of his thunder stolen, he didn’t show it. ‘Since you’ve had more practice than me, you can ensure I don’t mess this up. Right, let’s get to work on capturing these tyre and shoe treads before we accidentally ruin them.’

Their strutting about with bowed heads now attracted attention from those on the platform. Two porters, Mrs Jenkins (proprietor of the station cafe) and three passengers waiting for the stopping train to Nottingham that was due in ten minutes, had gradually crept to the platform edge and were watching in fascination as Trinder and Lansdowne placed an empty wooden crate obtained from the goods shed as a makeshift table, and then unpacked onto it a small case of materials.

Lansdowne filled an empty milk bottle with tap water whilst Trinder emptied plaster of Paris into a small metal bowl until it was the consistency of thick cream. Whilst he did this Lansdowne constructed little cardboard walls carefully around the shoe and tyre prints. He then directed her to pour the plaster into each enclosure. Those watching from the platform had no idea what the pair were doing.

‘These enclosures will hold the plaster in place long enough for it to set.’

‘I never made cardboard walls and the plaster ran all over the place. Not sure why I didn’t think to do so,’ Lansdowne observed. ‘The results were a bit thin and broke far too easily. Often even as I was trying to lift the cast free.’

‘I can imagine. So, here’s a neat trick to avoid that happening.’ Trinder was twisting two loops of soft wire he’d cut from a roll in his box of tricks. ‘We place the tail of the loop into the wet plaster and this will aid lifting it out when it’s hard.’ He then dropped a square of thin cotton he’d cut to size onto the plaster and gently pushed it in so it was also wet. ‘This reinforces the cast so it won’t break so easily.’

‘Are these enough to secure a conviction, sarge?’ 

‘Taken on their own, no.’ Lucy looked mildly disappointed. ‘We have to bide our time. For crooks who are careful and don’t leave obvious traces we need to play a longer game. We collect information. A little here, a little there. Slowly, it all adds up, a bit like doing a jigsaw puzzle, so that we hopefully end up with an unbroken chain of evidence. First we must prove that these are the treads from his vehicle, so we’ll also take casts from the tyres on his lorry. Assuming they match, then he has to explain why his lorry was here. Likewise with his shoes, we compare not just the tread but any tears or indentations and examine whether the heel is worn more on one side than the other. Then he has to explain why he was here. Then there is forensic evidence from the bolt cutters, as I explained earlier. And so it goes on.’

Lucy looked thoughtful. ‘It’s a war of attrition. We have to keep chipping away. Find ways of placing him on or near the scene enough times that even the most lenient magistrate will see it’s not coincidence.’

‘Having said all that, we could do with the thief leaving at least one piece of evidence at the actual scene of crime. In this case, inside the ticket office, because anyone can drive into this yard and stand near this fence and that is not a crime. Even tampering with a piece of chain is not going to send him down. No, we need something damning, and it just could be something he does not expect.’

* * * *

Trinder did not have to wait long to find what he was wishing for. He’d spent the two weeks since his visit to Rothley coaching uniformed officers, fellow detectives and key station staff along the London Extension Line and the branches off, in the proper way to deal with any new cases of breaking and entry.

‘Touch absolutely nothing unless you absolutely must. Wear gloves. The moment you suspect the Dog has paid a visit, back off, close off the area and allow nobody near. We need to preserve even the tiniest trace of whoever has paid us a visit! If you think he came in his lorry, then stop people driving around, as there just might be tyre tracks we can preserve. Just call me and guard the scene of crime!’ He drilled his instructions into each and every one and such was his enthusiasm that there was a mounting sense of the railway staff almost willing the slippery thief to try his hand once more. Urging the wily old Dog to make another night-time advance on their premises.

And then, just after six-forty one dank Thursday morning, the call came in. The clerk on the telephone was convinced that the station office had been broken into and, if that were not interesting enough, a box-wagon had been tampered with in the yard.

There was perhaps even better news in that the call came from the West Bridge Wharf, which was literally a cricket ball’s throw from Leicester Central, and little more than a brisk walk across the busy West Bridge itself. Clearly, Trinder had successfully drummed into the staff working there how to report a theft and knew to call him directly, at home, at any time.

All of which meant he was far from unhappy to hear the jangling phone so early that morning. It had awakened little Robbie as well, but Trinder only had time to put the kettle on the hob for Violet to make her morning tea, before dashing from the house and across Station Road and sprinting up to Woodford and Hinton Station to cadge a lift on the newspaper train he knew would soon pass. He was impatient for this fast train to haul him north with as much speed as it could muster. In the minutes before the train had arrived he’d barked orders down the telephone in the stationmaster’s office and now the whole West Bridge area was cordoned off, with three uniformed officers — DC Howerth and the two WDCs — standing guard, preventing even railway and yard staff from entering.

Vignoles was about to travel to Manchester that morning for a prearranged meeting with fellow officers in the British Transport Police. He met Trinder briefly on the platform at Central as one train arrived and another prepared to depart and passed the investigation over into Trinder’s capable hands, much to the detective sergeant’s obvious delight. And with that, Vignoles stepped aboard and was gone in a drift of smoke and steam.

Trinder arrived on site, having collected his prepared detecting kit that had been sitting at the side of his desk for the past fortnight. Armed with fresh bags of plaster of Paris, Thermos flasks of water, tweezers, a multitude of small paper bags, magnifying glasses, sticky tape and all manner of other things he thought might prove useful, he was feeling confident. Whoever had been there that night must have left some trace, and the detective team were going to find it.

‘Tell me what you think has happened here,’ Trinder quizzed the goods clerk before crossing the cordon. Wading in without first thinking through the possible movements of those responsible for the robbery might accidentally erase any potential clues. Or at least, that was what the training course had taught him. A few minutes assessing the overall picture of the crime was time well spent. This had long been the approach adopted by Vignoles and Trinder appreciated that his boss was ahead of the game in this respect.

‘Some tickets have been filched, for starters, sergeant,’ the clerk replied. ‘Hard to say how many, as I never stopped to count ‘em, seeing as you want us to leave things alone and all that.’

‘You did the right thing.’

‘But it looks as though he was disturbed this time because he spilled a load of the tickets on the floor. They caught my eye the instant I looked around the door.’

‘Not like the Dog to be so careless,’ Lansdowne observed.

Trinder felt a tingle of excitement. Mistakes could play into their hands. ‘Do you have any idea who or what may have disturbed him?’

‘Well I don’t think it was me. Leastways, I never saw nobody run off nor hear a vehicle driving away in reaction to me nosing about. However, this is a sprawling site, as you know, and so whilst I was at the station he could have been out of sight behind the Bow Bridge Elastic Works and scarpered without me seeing or hearing anything. But you get barges coming down the canal and on the Soar early on. As soon as dawn breaks they get moving or people get active onboard, so maybe one of them spooked him.’

‘I can ask around the barges presently moored at the wharf,’ WDC Benson offered.

Trinder nodded his assent and addressed the clerk again. ‘How did you know to look in the ticket office? I understood that you work at the wharf, not the passenger station.’

‘Well, we’re all on alert these days, ain’t we?’ The man took a drag on his Woodbine and felt he needed to expand his explanation. ‘I live out the back there, on Falconbridge Street, so every morning I cut down a snicket from Tudor Road and come out slap bang between the infants’ school and the station. I usually take a quick turn along the station then cut across the yard as I come to work. Just to check all’s in order. It’s on my way and it’s become a habit now.’

Trinder nodded his approval. This was the spirit. Railway workers on the whole had an intrinsic desire to look out for each other and for their railway. It was as though if one person, or part of the system, was hurt, it was felt by everyone. ‘I could see the office door was ajar straight off. All the doors are locked shut at night, of course. You can ask Charlie. He’ll swear blind he locked it last thing.’ The clerk nodded towards a gloomy looking fellow standing beside one of the gates into the yard and smoking a cigarette in a series of angry little puffs. ‘Charlie Baker. Been here years and I’ve never knowed him leave the place unlocked.’

‘I’m sure he did nothing wrong. I suspect the lock was picked.’ Trinder directed Howerth to take a statement from Baker, and returned to question the clerk. ‘After you had discovered the station office had been entered, what did you do next?’

‘I gently eased the door closed, but don’t you worry, I used my hankie on the doorknob!’ replied the clerk, looking pleased with himself.

‘Quite correct.’ Trinder didn’t want to disappoint him by mentioning that Dog Walker invariably wore gloves.

‘Then I hurried straight across to try the doors on all the coal offices over on the wharf. We’ve got a run of various places along there, as you can see, and I was fearing the worst.’ He waved a half-smoked cigarette towards the row of red-brick two-storey offices, each with two windows, one up, one down, and a narrow front door. They looked like little dwelling houses, except they had wooden signs (of varying ages and sizes) fixed to the frontages, declaring the name of the relevant merchant.

‘Everything seemed in order, all doors locked and windows shut. But just as I was on my way to put the telephone call through about the tickets, I noticed the van.’ He pointed towards a bauxite-coloured four-wheeled box-van, standing on a short siding that ran from one of a number of flat iron turntables set into the road surface close to the canal wharf. The other short, stubby sidings held a number of open wagons surrounded by mounds of coal and coke or bags of smelly fertiliser. The box-van was all the more noticeable for being the only one.

‘The padlock’s missing: sheared clean through. I found a piece of the lock in the gap between the rails and the road.’ Trinder and Lansdowne exchanged a meaningful look.

‘Did you keep the pieces?’ Lansdowne asked.

‘Got ’em in my pocket,’ said the clerk, fishing them out and handing them to Lansdowne, who already had a brown envelope ready. ‘So then I opened the van door and sure enough the parts that should have been inside were gone. I did the paperwork myself and saw them being put in there yesterday afternoon ready to be taken out today.’ He nodded towards a small and very elderly steam locomotive steaming quietly in the pale morning light some distance away, its crew leaning from the footplate and looking their way with some curiosity. ‘We’ve told them to hold off until you give the word to come and collect their train.’ The clerk took a puff on his fag and laughed. ‘Not that there’ll be any point in taking that one now. It’s clean empty!’

‘Parts? What do you mean?’ Trinder asked.

‘Parts for a tractor and a harrow on a farm down Ratby way. Dunno exactly what, though I can get you the paperwork. They were wrapped in brown paper and string and were odd shapes and sizes. The farmer’s gonna to be livid, cos they’re hard to get. Imported from the States, and it takes an age. Probably fetch a decent price, though, and there’s plenty of farmers willing to buy one.’ He flipped his fag-end into a puddle. ‘One man can lift each bit, but he’d need a vehicle to take them away as they weigh a fair bit taken together.’

‘You didn’t see a green Austin flatbed?’

‘Can’t say I did.’

‘I get the feeling our man has over-stretched himself. Tackling two different targets in the same night,’ murmured Trinder, thinking aloud.

‘He got greedy,’ Benson observed.

‘Overconfident, as well. Maybe he came here for those valuable tractor parts but then couldn’t resist chancing his arm with some tickets as a little bonus, but got into a flap.’ Trinder looked around, noting the position of the box-van, the proximity to King Richard’s Road, and the almost unbroken run of Victorian terrace house backs that formed the back line of Tudor Road immediately behind the station. Rows and rows of identical, dark-green-painted bedroom windows, all with pale curtains, and all overlooking the wharf. If just one person happened to be peering out…

Trinder decided to ask the local constabulary to help out with a ‘house-to-house’. He wanted his own constables to examine the box-van and search for tyre impressions, and reminded them that the Dog’s front nearside was a brand new Firestone and different to the others. ‘Take a cast of anything promising, then interview any boat crew.’

With heads bent, steps measured and careful, Lansdowne and Benson slowly started pacing the railway yard, which consisted of cobblestones with muddy patches, and areas covered in spilt sand and other muck. Occasionally they consulted the printed sheet of paper that Trinder had used at Rothley.

Trinder and Howerth walked across to the station. Wearing leather gloves, Trinder eased open the ticket office door. It was a cramped little room, as expected in such a small station at the end of a branch line that saw only limited passenger traffic. It smelt of old wood and paraffin oil and damp rot. The back wall was lined with shelves filled with piles of papers, fat working timetable books with pages slowly turning brown, spare signalling flags, oil lamps, long-discarded gas mask cases and other detritus. On the side wall, assorted coats and jackets hung on a row of coat pegs. On the front wall was a small ticket window above a large desk and there was a vast array of small shelves crammed with tiny rectangles of card. Some of these spilled Edmundson tickets were scattered across the desk and onto the brown linoleum floor.

‘Look at that, sarge!’

‘Well, well, well, what have we here?’ Trinder turned to face Howerth. ‘Something did spook him, and he lost his hat in the rush to escape.’

‘You reckon that’s the Dog’s hat?’

‘Got to be. He never goes anywhere without it.’ Howerth made to step forward and pick it up. Trinder stopped him with a hand on his arm. ‘Not so fast, constable! We need a large evidence bag.’ Howerth pulled from his jacket pocket a brand new paper bag printed with the words ‘Earnshaw’s Family Bakery, Church St, Woodford Halse’, which Trinder had purchased, dubbed ‘evidence bags’ and ordered to be kept in pristine condition.

‘Now, place the hat carefully into the bag, fold the top over twice, to trap everything inside and prevent anything getting in and contaminating what we have captured. Then we fix it closed with sticky tape.’ Howerth produced a reel from his other pocket, tore off three strips and sealed the bag. ‘Next, we write on the bag the place, time and date and who collected the item, and take it back to the office.’

Trinder crouched down and peered closely at the floor. ‘Hmm, been swept clean and is noticeably shiny, but, oh, what’s that? Careful — don’t smudge the marks.’

Howerth dropped to one knee and peered at a faint muddy design close to the desk. ‘It looks like a fresh footprint, sarge. Part of one, any road.’

‘We need to photograph it. Tricky in this gloomy light but worth a try as that looks distinctive. Can you see the pattern?’

‘Yep. Not like ours, nor the sort of boots railwaymen wear.’

Trinder lifted the wooden chair and carefully placed it over the print. ‘That’s to protect it until we can get it photographed. Sit yourself down, constable, and make sure you keep your feet well out in front of you. Stay here until the photographer has done his work, then let the clerk have his ticket off back, and return to base at Leicester. I’m off to see how the girls have got on with the tyre tracks!’

* * * *

Two hours later Michael Simpson, a biology teacher at Wiggeston Grammar School, was standing, blinking, in the detective department, clasping a cardboard box to his chest as though his life depended on holding on to it.

‘This really is quite out of the ordinary. The headmaster has been obliged to find someone to take my morning class with the boys of 2A.’ Behind heavy-rimmed spectacles, his eyes continued to blink like an owl’s. ‘And it takes an exceptional circumstance to allow scientific equipment to leave the school premises, especially a ‘scope out of the lab as they are delicate and valuable precision instruments that don’t take kindly to knocks and bumps. I trust you will see me right with the cost of the taxi cab?’

‘It is very good of you to come at such short notice, Mr Simpson. Rest assured, we shall recompense you for any costs incurred.’ Trinder smiled warmly. ‘I am sure you will find this a suitably special cause, and one worth taking the risk for. And it’s confidential police work, so please, don’t mention it to anyone.’

‘I can assure you, sergeant, of my highest possible discretion.’

WDC Benson, sensing the biology master was slightly offended, added some feminine charm with a warm smile. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Simpson? If you would care to set it up over here, you will find this desk will serve admirably. It’s very sturdy, and I’ve cleared plenty of space for you.’

Ten minutes later Simpson understood what the police wanted and had become positively enthusiastic. He laid a clean, plastic-covered cloth on the desk and set his microscope up on it, along with a number of delicate instruments and a box containing thin, rectangular pieces of glass, in readiness for creating slides used for viewing under the microscope. With Trinder, Howerth, Benson and Lansdowne looking on, he pulled on latex gloves and then carefully unpacked the trilby hat from its incongruously printed paper bag. He placed this on the cloth and used a pair of long tweezers and a massive magnifying glass to hunt for loose hairs trapped on the inner band. Each hair was carefully encapsulated between the thin glass mounts and sealed before being handed to Trinder who signed, dated and identified each plate using a sticky paper label. Simpson placed one of them under the microscope, adjusted the focus and then, after a few moments peering down the viewing tube, declared himself satisfied.

‘A good, clean example. Very clear. Take a look, please.’ He stepped away and let Trinder take his turn. ‘Of course, the magnification on this machine is not the very best. I don’t doubt that at the university they have one with twice or thrice the power and with more powerful illumination.’ 

‘The Met labs may have one,’ suggested Lansdowne. ‘The greater the magnification and illumination the more detail you can discern,’ said Simpson, warming to his theme and enjoying the captive and receptive audience. ‘But this will suffice to show you that we’ve captured a unique specimen. I am of the opinion that there are indications of hair oil present.’

‘Our chief suspect uses hair oil,’ Trinder remarked, withholding the name. He moved aside to let the others take their turns, feeling pleased with Simpson. ‘The next step is to prove that this hair was from his head.’

‘You will need to collect some head hair from your suspect, to use as what we call a “control”, then use the highest magnification to compare them with those found on the hat. If they match exactly, that should satisfy a court that he wore this hat.’

‘That is our hope, Mr Simpson. Especially when taken into consideration with these…’ Trinder lifted a sheet on a neighbouring desk to reveal a set of plaster tyre moulds and a number of shoe prints, laid out in two rows. ‘We’ve been building up a set from a number of crime scenes. It’s all adding up, bit by bit.’

* * * *

‘Take off your shoes, Mr Walker.’

‘Yer what?’ Dog Walker sat bolt upright in his chair in the interview room, looking at Trinder, Lansdowne and the duty solicitor in quick succession. ‘Is this a joke?’

‘Kindly explain your reasoning behind this peculiar request,’ the solicitor said in a deadpan voice.

‘We wish take a plaster mould from them. For comparison purposes,’ Trinder replied, with a cheeky grin. He was enjoying himself.

‘You wanna wreck my shoes by daubin’ plaster all over them? D’you know what they cost?’ He glanced urgently at his solicitor for support.

‘Oh yes, Mr Walker, we are very much aware of what they cost. Both to make and to purchase wholesale. We are aware of their retail value, also. Not that you bought these, of course.’

‘Have you proof of that accusation?’ The solicitor intervened, scribbling a note on his legal pad.

Trinder ignored him. ‘We also know the exact scale of the loss to the importer of this footwear incurred due to the theft of forty brand new pairs — exactly like yours — taken from a wagon in Leicester South goods yard ten weeks ago.’

‘Well, there you go then. There’s thirty-nine other geezers knocking around town with the same ones on their feet. Why not ask them about it?’ Walker tried to sound bullish, but his bluster was losing some of its edge. He could sense the police were on to something.

‘We may well do so,’ replied Trinder casually. The duty solicitor coughed, as if to intervene, but Trinder cut him off. ‘Hence we wish to eliminate you from our enquiries.’ He paused a beat, a playful smile appearing beneath his Ronald Colman moustache. ‘Assuming, of course, these do not match the prints we captured at the site of the two separate incidents of breaking and entering we are questioning you about today.’

‘If there is a known quantity of identical shoes unaccounted for within the city environs, then I fail to see why my client should be singled out for interview. One shoe will look identical to another and so prove nothing.’ The solicitor spoke with a supercilious tone to his voice that encouraged Walker to slouch back into his chair and fold his arms across his chest in a self-satisfied manner.

‘No, not identical. At least, not once they have been worn for a week or more.’ Trinder again allowed a slight pause, just long enough for a slight flicker of doubt to cross Walker’s face. ‘There are small, often quite minute cuts, nicks and scuffs to the sole of any shoe. These render each sole as unique as any fingerprint.’ The solicitor scribbled more notes.

Walker reluctantly untied his laces and passed each shoe to Lansdowne, who had a new, empty box ready. DC Blencowe approached the table to collect the box, having been standing against the far wall during the interview, awaiting such duties.

‘I see you have brought your gloves,’ remarked Lansdowne.

‘A man’s not properly dressed behind the wheel without a decent pair of leather drivin’ gloves. Besides, I’m always loading and unloading stuff, and in all weathers.’

‘And they ensure you don’t leave any prints,’ Trinder added.

The solicitor made a show of putting his pen away in his jacket pocket with an air of finality. ‘Unless you have something more relevant to ask, I shall terminate this interview.’

‘We have.’ Trinder gave Blencowe a slight nod, their prearranged sign, and the constable left the room. ‘Mr Walker, how many times have we crossed paths?’ He kept his voice light and conversational.

‘Eh?’

‘Come now, we’ve had reason to converse over all manner of small matters over the past few months, haven’t we?’ Trinder was sounding relaxed and at ease. ‘We’ve quite got used to how each other looks.’ There was a stress to the last word that had the solicitor wrinkling his brow. ‘I can now spot you a mile off. I’m sure you can do the same for me.’

‘Yeah, I suppose.’ Walker felt himself on uncertain ground. ‘There have been a few times when you’ve stopped me ‘goin’ about my business. You lot are all the same, just as bad as the city boys in blue. Always pryin’ and sticking yer noses in. In fact, I should put in a complaint.’ He looked at his solicitor in a meaningful manner. ‘You’ve never had no good reason to stop an honest, decent bloke like me just doin’ a bit of work.’

‘We’ve got quite used to seeing your mug around the railway. Sidling down carriage corridors looking shifty, your pockets full of new nylon stockings.’

‘Legitimately acquired!’Walker looked at Lansdowne, blatantly sizing her up. ‘You’ve got a crackin’ pair of legs that would enhance a pair of decent stockings. Have a little word with me after all this nonsense and I’ll see you right.’ He winked, and the solicitor coughed. His client was skating on very thin ice.

Lansdowne did a good job of not rising to the bait and instead made an obvious point of writing down his words. ‘So, you have ladies’ undergarments in your stock, I shall make a note of that. We have a warrant to search your house and lock-up. When we find these items I shall personally liaise with the hosiery manufacturers that have suffered losses in recent months. And, being a lady, I can instantly discern one make from another.’ Her voice fell commendably short of mocking.

‘WDC Lansdowne and I noticed that something has changed about your appearance.’ Trinder was silently admiring Lansdowne’s excellent riposte. ‘We noticed that you have a brand new hat.’

‘Although I’m not quite sure burgundy is your colour,’ Lansdowne added. She smiled as she looked down and scribbled something.

Walker laughed and nodded in an exaggerated manner. ‘What’s this? Fashion tips? That the best you can do?’

‘What’s happened to your distinctive trilby, Mr Walker?’ asked Lansdowne.

‘Er, what?’

Trinder looked towards Blencowe. ‘Bring Exhibit A to the table please, constable.’

With great pleasure, Blencowe placed the Earnshaw’s Family Bakery paper bag in the centre of the battered wooden table almost reverentially, then backed away and stood against the wall, arms clasped behind his back.

‘What’s this then? Buns and teacakes! Oh good, cos I’m starvin’!’

Trinder ignored Walker and carefully opened the bag, pulling the paper open far enough for the old, much-worn hat to be revealed. ‘Your old trilby, Mr Walker.’

Walker sat back in his chair, as if trying to distance himself from it. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nah. Could be anyone’s. Millions of hats like that about.’

‘No, on the contrary, it looks exactly the same as this one.’ Trinder extracted a black and white photograph from the manila folder in front of him and laid it, face upwards, on the table. A face stared out: it was, unmistakably, Dog Walker, his faithful trilby on his head. The solicitor peered closely at the print and then at the old hat in the bakery bag. They bore a similarity but he knew they could not prove the hat was Walker’s.

Lansdowne picked up the thread of the questioning. ‘Where did you lose your old hat?’

‘If I knew that, darlin’ I’d have gone back and picked it up.’ He gave her an appraising look, torn between wanting to be sarcastic and thinking she was rather pretty. ‘Why don’t you make yerself useful and bring us all a lovely cup’o tea, eh?’

‘Not if you lost it somewhere you could not risk returning. Such as inside the ticket office of West Bridge station — where this was discovered this morning.’ Trinder gave Walker a steely stare. ‘We know you were there, and that last night you parked your Austin flatbed in the adjacent wharf yard, beside a box-van whilst you emptied the contents onto your lorry to cart away. We have plaster casts of tyre tracks left there, which exactly match the tyres on your vehicle.’ He slid photographs of the various casts, which had been taken under a raking light to show the tracks in detail. ‘Your Austin has three Avon tyres and a distinctive, brand new Firestone tyre on the front nearside.’ Trinder slid out another photographic print from the folder. ‘Do you find the steering hard?’

The Dog began to say something in agreement, then thought better of it and stopped himself.

‘The offside front tyre has some heavy wear, suggesting the tracking is out. It probably explains why you got a blow-out on the nearside.’ Trinder waited whilst Walker took in what he was hearing. ‘If you look here, you can see that this cast of the front offside Avon exactly matches in every detail a reference cast we took from your lorry whilst it was parked outside your lock-up. Compare the two images and the wear patterns. Somewhat intriguingly, the cast of the new Firestone also matches a cast we made at Rothley station, where your lorry had been driven up close to the railway line and on the night the station was broken into.’

‘This is daft. There are thousands of tyres like these in Leicestershire.’

‘No, yours are unique,’ contradicted Trinder. ‘Now, to return to the trilby, you lost it in the ticket office at West Bridge station, which you had broken into with the intention of stealing tickets.’

The solicitor sniffed in a supercilious manner. ‘It bears a superficial resemblance to the one my client is wearing in the photograph, but that will carry no weight in a court of law.’

Trinder eased the hat into the open. ‘It is indeed a common colour and design. Thousands of people wear such hats.’

‘Well, there you go then, now you’re admitting it!’ said the Dog, having recovered his optimism.

Trinder spotted a tortoiseshell comb protruding from Walker’s breast pocket. He pulled out an envelope and held it open. ‘Place your comb in here please, Mr Walker? You can have it back shortly.’

Walker looked puzzled and turned to his solicitor, who nodded to signal that he should comply. He dropped the comb into the envelope and Trinder folded it closed.

‘We will now conclusively prove, through scientific analysis, that this hat is Mr Walker’s. We confidently expect that hairs carefully recovered from the inner hatband exactly match the hairs on your client’s comb. We are even able to detect traces of the hair oil that your client is fond of using.’ Trinder looked at Walker. ‘Whilst we do our forensic tests, I suggest that you use the time to think everything over.’ He turned to the solicitor: ‘Your client would do well to cooperate and tell us why he used the bolt cutters we found in his Austin to cut the chain that secures the goods yard in Rothley, and to sever a padlock on the box-van in West Bridge. He might want to explain why he has a set of skeleton keys hidden in a drawer in his lockup, and why his distinctive lorry tyres and footprints have been found at both Rothley and West Bridge at the scenes of crime. He might further want to explain the store of Edmundson tickets we found in a paper bag in a cupboard in his lock-up alongside a small printing device and a fresh ink pad that matches the type used in booking offices to date-stamp tickets. You may wish to advise your client that he could find his stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure significantly reduced if he gives us his full cooperation. It will not take us long to prepare the evidence.’ He and Lansdowne stood up and left the room.

Trinder returned a few minutes later bearing two steaming enamel mugs of tea. He placed these on the table. ‘WDC Lansdowne made these herself. She’s useful like that.’ He gave Walker a wink. ‘A much needed refreshment break.’ He looked down at Walker who was now slumped in his chair, looking noticeably older and tired. The wind seemed to have been taken from his sails.

‘You look like you’ve had a rough night, Dog. Seems like all your nocturnal activities are taking their toll.’

‘I need a drink,’ he muttered. ‘A proper one.’

‘Bit late for that. Sweet tea is what you’ll be getting from now on.’ Trinder stopped as he was about to leave the interview room again. ‘Think of this as the, er, Hair of the Dog.’ Trinder turned away, chuckling to himself.

One Way Ticket

1953

The cavernous train shed of Marylebone Station was illuminated by gas lights suspended from the roof girders, looking like so many tiny flaring comets. The heavy, snowladen clouds pressing down on London made the evening gloom feel all the deeper and whilst the gas mantles burned as best they could in the fume-laden air, their light brought little cheer to the darker and smokier corners of the terminus. The first December snow was falling; temporarily whitewashing the soot-encrusted city. This snow, soon to be tainted a dirty grey by the poisonous, airborne pollution from numberless domestic chimneys, was gently filling bomb sites with the undulations of a white blanket, covering the cracks and fissures in damaged stucco and masking abandoned tramlines in the patched and mended roads.

A long row of elegant, teak-bodied coaches was waiting, their rich umber, gold-and-cream livery offering a welcome splash of colour in a scene washed over by a stain of smoke and encroaching night. The passengers surged from the station bar towards the ticket barrier, walking briskly, eager to avoid losing too much heat before reaching the comfort of a steam-heated compartment.

Vignoles was part of this bobbing throng, formed largely of men dressed in dark coats and dark hats, each clasping a tightly-furled black umbrella and a leather briefcase. Many were Midlands businessmen, returning to their hosiery and clothing manufactories or steel rolling mills and the booming thump of steam hammers beside the River Don. There was a scattering of women, offering some welcome dashes of green, red or pale blue clothing amidst this otherwise dull scene, and one rather glamorous lady with a silver fox fur who not only caught the eye, but drew envious glances for her coat’s obvious thermal benefits.

There was a keen wind whipping down Marylebone Road. Its icy fingers clawed at coat tails and wheedled itself between scarves and necks, making ears ache and even gloved fingers move slowly and painfully. Tickets were taking an age to pry from wallets and at the gate the shivering ticket collector was feeling the pressure as the impatient queue urged him to hurry along. His nose was red and the cold breeze was making one of his eyes water. Despite his discomfort he was determined that every businessman and Christmas shopper should prove their right to ride the prestigious ‘Master Cutler’ express that would soon haul them towards Sheffield.

A portly man with a florid face struggled to wriggle stiffened fingers into a tiny waistcoat pocket. He glanced at those behind him in the queue. ‘Awfully sorry, can’t seem to get my fingers to do what I want them to.’

The next man groaned irritably. ‘Come on, Reg, you’ve seen my pass a thousand times!’

‘Best to be sure, sir.’ Reg was unmoved.

The man duly freed the ticket from his wallet, flashed it impatiently and walked on with a shake of his head. However, Reg did wave the next two passengers through with just a nod of greeting and a lazy approximation of a salute made in recognition of their special status on the railway.

Someone behind them grumbled. ‘Did you see that? Those chaps just walked straight through!’

DC I Vignoles and his boss, Chief Superintendent Badger, were not listening. They were striding along the platform, Badger easily matching the younger Vignoles for speed. Badger was still a fit and trim man; proud of his ramrod straight back and chest inflated so his expensive woollen coat hung with parade ground style and precision. His close-cropped hair and neatly-trimmed moustache lent him even more of a military bearing, and whilst holding the most senior rank within the specialised detective department of the British Transport Police, he did not mind being mistaken for someone holding an equally exalted position within one of the armed services.

‘A route march soon gets the chill from the bones, eh?’ He gave Vignoles a quick glance as he strode purposefully past two dithering gentlemen who looked slightly the worse for wear after a lengthy business lunch in the city. ‘People are too quick to complain the moment we get a flurry of snow. Where I grew up it weren’t winter unless you had a couple of feet of the stuff and the privy froze over in t’yard!’ Whenever he reminisced, he allowed a trace of his former West Riding accent to slip out. It was usually masked by an over-accentuated adoption of Received Pronunciation.

‘I’ve heard it’s more than just a flurry, sir. There’ve been reports that it’s coming down pretty heavy up North. If that’s the case, we shall be lucky to arrive on time.’

‘Hmph! That big beast on the front can cope with anything.’ Badger stopped at the door of their Pullman car and pointed a calfskin-gloved finger towards the open end of the train shed, where snow could be seen falling in waving curtains onto the steaming bulk of the engine. The dizzying flakes were passing through the coils of smoke and steam billowing from ‘Galtee More’, the elegant, Ad-type locomotive panting eagerly at the head of the train.

Vignoles gave the engine a quick once-over from where he stood. In the delicate lamplight the locomotive certainly looked a treat with its paintwork rendered extra glossy by the snow melting on its hot boiler. It would have been cleaned and polished to perfection by a gang of cleaners in Neasden shed prior to this run because ‘Galtee More’ was about to haul the most prestigious train on the London Extension section of the former Great Central Railway. This was a service treated with almost reverential affection by railwaymen and it was considered the highest honour for the footplate crew to be granted this roster. Vignoles acknowledged the driver with a raise of his hand then stepped into the carriage.

The instant rise in temperature was a clear benefit of being coupled so close to the engine as the heating employed steam from its boiler, and so was at its hottest and most effective. Vignoles noticed that the compartment smelled of a curious combination of cigar and pipe smoke, the varnish and polish used on the wooden panelling, and damp clothing. After adding to the latter by removing their overcoats and hanging them on the hooks provided, they placed their hats on the lower of the two stringed luggage racks and settled into the comfortably-sprung moquette seats. Each took a window seat, facing the other.

Although eager to be home in Birstall, where his lovely wife Anna would be already banking up the fire in their sitting room at 7a Fielding Road, Vignoles decided that if they were to be held up by snow or frozen points, there were far worse places than a snug compartment on this fine train. ‘The Cutler’, as the regulars called it, was stocked almost to the roofline with excellent provender and beer, wine, spirits, coffee and tea to last for days and a crack team of chefs and stewards to ensure that nobody went hungry.

Badger inspected his expensive wristwatch. ‘We’re late. It’s 18.17 already.’

‘Not to worry, sir. That engine can easily make up two minutes.’

‘Well, now it’s three — and counting,’ said Badger, monitoring the progress of his watch’s second hand. ‘And we haven’t even started, yet. What was that about snow?’

‘As we were leaving Marylebone House one of the doormen said he’d heard on the wireless that heavy snowfall was expected. But, of course, it’s the wind that causes problems. Northamptonshire is notorious; the winds feel like they’ve come straight off the Russian Steppes and cause all manner of problems, like frozen points and drifting snow.’

Badger grunted and concentrated on adjusting the lie of his neatly pressed suit trousers and ensuring that a regulation half-inch of white shirt cuff was showing from beneath his jacket sleeves.

They felt the carriage creak and groan as it took the strain and the iron horse started to huff and puff the heavy train into motion. Badger nodded with satisfaction as the last of the pillars supporting the roof slipped past and the open section of the platform was revealed. Thousands of white streaks swirled around each glowing gas lamp, like so many pale moths, until the near-dark of the city settled around the train. Little studs of light from house windows and the sweep of vehicle headlamps on the roads occasionally punctuated the dark veil that folded across their window like the blackout curtains of the war. Badger settled into his seat, apparently satisfied with just a five minute delay.

‘As long as the stewards serve tea with their usual high standards, we’ve little to worry about.’

Vignoles demurred, smiling to himself at Badger’s description of the three-course meal they would soon be invited to enjoy as ‘tea’. Only a Yorkshire lad would describe it as such.

‘I found some of today rather dull fare.’ Badger was now half-heartedly flicking through a pile of papers extracted from his briefcase. He perhaps wanted to set a good example of tireless dedication to his work, but was evidently not interested. ‘What did you make of it?’

‘Too many stuffed shirts enjoying the sound of their own voices, sir. I’m not sure I learned anything, if I’m honest.’ Vignoles had hated every minute of the long, tiresome day. But at least he got to ride on the ‘Master Cutler’, so it had not been a complete waste.

Badger made a snorting sound that suggested tacit agreement. They’d sat through a thoroughly grim session entitled ‘Show Us the Way: Senior Officers must lead by example’, and Badger decided that he ought to put this into action and not let Vignoles’s comments go unchallenged.

‘I know it was heavy weather, but it can do no harm for you to attend more of these bashes. They do drag on a bit and the speakers can be an uninspiring bunch, but it helps just to be seen. If you want to take over from me in due course, you would do well to get your face better known at HQ.’ Badger flung the papers aside impatiently and shot Vignoles a hard stare. ‘I didn’t get where I am today by hiding my light under a bushel.’

Vignoles cringed silently. He disliked conferences and hated the annual police dinners even more, with all the speechifying and posturing that accompanied them. Badger was quite different. He relentlessly grasped every opportunity to self-promote and sing the praises of his detective department and his leading role in it. From Vignoles’s viewpoint this was ideal, as it meant he didn’t have to. He did not enjoy social climbing, nor did he want further promotion, because one step up and the job became desk-bound. He could not bear sitting indoors all day, fretting over budgets and crime reports and going to endless meetings. He much preferred to be at the sharp end: chasing villains, getting into sticky situations, solving mysteries.

He feared it was going to be a long evening if Badger harped on the same string, whilst he would be happier chatting about something trivial over their meal then dozing in the corner with his hat over his face until they reached Leicester. The ‘Master Cutler’ rocked through some points and Vignoles was jolted into realising that he had almost nodded off whilst Badger was speaking. He was rescued by the cheery sound of the steward calling them to the dining car.

As they took their seats among the chatter of other passengers, the clatter of plates and the delicious aroma of roast lamb and beef, Badger surprised Vignoles by reaching for the wine menu rather than just plumping for his usual pint. ‘We’ve had quite a day of it and deserve to kick back a little. What d’you say to sharing a bottle of Burgundy?’

Vignoles eagerly agreed. The bottled beer on board was passable but cream of mushroom soup followed by a roast would sit more comfortably with wine. He cupped his hands against the cold glass of the window and peered out. Snow was settling thickly on the ground.

Having enthusiastically tasted a sip, Badger nodded to the steward that the wine met with his approval, and their glasses were duly filled. Both took a deep swig and agreed that it was a fine vintage. The warmth of the alcohol began to knock the edge off the day. Vignoles adjusted his napkin as a steward approached with a steaming tureen of soup and was about to have a stab at discussing Leicester City’s impressive performance this season, which hinted at possible promotion to the top division, when Badger suddenly launched into a new and startling topic.

‘Charles, have you ever met Pierrepoint, the public executioner?’

The steward raised an eyebrow just a fraction as he caught the drift of this unusual conversational topic but didn’t miss a beat whilst ladling out the soup, expertly balancing himself to counter the rocking of the train.

‘Er, no, sir. Not a character I feel any wish to encounter.’

‘He has a job to do, like any of us, and it’s worth remembering that his work is effectively a continuation of ours.’ Vignoles nodded. He could hardly disagree with that last point. ‘Actually, there are a number of these fellows on the books,’ continued Badger, ‘but the gentleman I’m speaking about is the third in his family to hold the post.’

‘Their gatherings at Christmas must be a barrel of laughs,’ Vignoles observed.

Rather than the reproachful look he expected, his boss laughed. ‘Henry was the first in the family to go into the, er, business; then his brother got into it shortly afterwards, and carried on right into his seventies, retiring just after the war. It was Henry’s son, Albert, whom I met. He’s very highly regarded by the Home Office as the most efficient hangman they’ve known.’

‘Efficient? I suppose by that they mean fast and effective.’ Vignoles picked up his soup spoon and tried to push aside the unpleasant image of a hooded man having a noose looped around his neck.

‘Pierrepoint gave a speech at a conference I attended in Manchester a few years back. It was in the Midland Hotel and a rather dull event on the whole, but he was fascinating. Some of the tales he came out with were quite an eye-opener.’ Badger took a couple of spoonfuls of soup, then dabbed at his moustache with the white linen napkin, his appetite apparently unaffected by the topic of conversation. ‘An intriguing character and a far better speaker than anyone we heard today.’

‘And was he dressed in black, wearing a terrifying hooded mask and carrying a scythe?’ Vignoles tried to inject a touch of black humour into a subject that he felt made poor dinner conversation.

‘Oh dear Lord, no, nothing like that!’ Badger laughed again. He seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘Surprisingly normal; disappointingly ordinary.’ He waved a hand expansively around the coach. Anyone here could be part of that exclusive band and we’d never guess. He explained that executioners tend to hold rather uninteresting day jobs.’

‘Perhaps that’s how they deal with their gruesome task. They need tedious normality in between those early morning visits to prisons.’

‘Probably. They only execute part time, and are paid per job, so to speak. So they need a proper, regular occupation as well. A man with a good reputation for doing his work well wins more work, and Albert Pierrepoint is a class apart.’

‘So there is an element of Free Enterprise being exercised by the prison governors?’ Vignoles was doing his best to be polite, although he’d still rather discuss the upcoming fixtures between the Foxes and Rotherham United. ‘Rather odd to think these men compete to win the right to do away with someone.’

‘If you look at it that way it does sound rather ghoulish.’ Badger sat back in his chair and wiped his moustache. ‘It’s a tricky job to do well. Harder than you might imagine.’ Vignoles stared at his soup and said nothing. He was finding it heavy going. Perhaps there was too much cream.

‘They have to do some pretty nifty calculations about weight, height and rope length and then they factor in each prisoner’s age and physical strength. If they get it wrong—’

‘I can imagine, sir!’ Vignoles interjected sharply. He did not need to know what the consequences of a botched hanging might be. He left his soup unfinished.

‘Not enjoying the soup? I thought it rather good.’ Badger gave Vignoles an odd look as he refilled their glasses from the bottle. ‘Perhaps we shall dwell no further on the science and specifics of the hangman. But his work is the inevitable end to our more serious investigations.’ Badger watched a set of heavily-laden plates pass by in the expert hands of one of the stewards. ‘It’s like tonight’s lamb.’ He nodded towards the dishes being set down at an adjacent table. ‘All of us are content to eat it, but do any of us actually want to walk into a field on a sunny day in spring and shoot one? Or wring the neck of a fluffy, bleating creature then skin it and eat it?’ He shot Vignoles a beady look. ‘Of course we don’t.’ Vignoles smiled bleakly. He was hungry and wanted to enjoy the promised roast. ‘As long as someone else takes care of all the messy stuff and we’re not reminded of the harsh realities, we’re content to tuck in.’

‘I take your point, sir.’ Badger had ruined his appetite for the starter and seemed to be trying to do the same with the main. He struggled mentally to remove images of slaughtered lambs from his brain. And that was why Pierrepoint was addressing the conference?’

‘Reminding us just how weighty our responsibility is to seek the truth in each and every case we investigate. Of course we are not judge or jury. We just deliver the prisoner and the evidence, and let others decide.’ Badger frowned and looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I take some comfort in that.’

‘I’d rather be a detective than a judge,’ said Vignoles, draining his glass as though drinking to that sentiment. ‘We do our duty and others must do theirs, whatever we privately think about capital punishment.’

Badger gave Vignoles a steely look over his glass of wine. ‘You’re not a closet abolitionist are you?’

Vignoles considered his response. ‘I’ve become steadily less certain about it in recent years. I’m not sure it serves as a deterrent, as many claim. And if it does not help reduce murderous crime, then it is just vengeance.’

Badger straightened a small crease in the tablecloth. ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. If someone ends another’s life they shouldn’t be surprised if the law ends theirs.’ Vignoles thought he sounded far less certain than his uncompromising words suggested.

‘Some cases convinced me that the rope was a fitting end. I can’t say I shed a tear over those Nazis in the Nuremberg trials. But there are others that leave me feeling less comfortable. Things are rarely so clear cut.’

Badger took a moment before responding. ‘That’s pretty much what Pierrepoint said. He admitted he was coming to the conclusion that executions solved nothing.’ Badger continued to contemplate the wine in his glass. Vignoles waited, watching the snow hurtle past the window and listening to the steady beat of the engine. ‘He certainly put a few backs up once he got into his stride, for example when he declared that hangings are just a primitive desire for revenge.’ He pulled out a small book and flicked through the pages. ‘I scribbled some of what he said down on a page in my diary, so I wouldn’t forget. Here it is: “the trouble with the death penalty has always been that nobody wanted it for everybody, but everybody differed about who should get off.” I’ve chewed this over for a long time and feel that maybe he’s right.’

Vignoles was intrigued. This was at odds with what Badger had stated a few minutes earlier. ‘I’d say he’s hit the nail on the head, sir.’

Badger waited for their soup plates to be removed before continuing. ‘Reasonable doubt. It’s an odd phrase, in a way, but it sits at the heart of the matter, don’t you think? Perhaps unreasonable doubt would be better. That odd flutter in the pit of the stomach that won’t go away, despite all the apparently damning evidence. That unease that suggests something still feels wrong even though nobody seems able to prove it.’ Badger swallowed some wine. ‘Unpicking the truth can be hard.’ He frowned at this inconvenient truth.

Vignoles was captivated. Badger rarely betrayed anything less than an unshakable belief in what he understood to be right and wrong. He was usually so dogmatic and dictatorial that there appeared to be no room for ambiguity; now he was exposing his humane side.

‘Years of experience warns one to be cautious. Oh yes, I’ve been known to jump in too quickly and start to crow about cracking a tough case! And yet, when one digs a bit deeper, there’s another perhaps quite bizarre and almost unbelievable version of the same event that tells quite a different story.’

Vignoles nodded agreement. ‘I read the odd crime novel in my spare time. Perhaps an odd form of escapism for someone in my line, but I enjoy it. Some of the plots are fiendishly far-fetched. But the point of these puzzles is for the reader to be pleasingly bamboozled as they try to solve the mystery themselves. Eventually the clever detective reveals all, the killer is unmasked, hopefully to the amazement of the reader. Now, if we were given only the first half of one of these books, but presented as if it were evidence from a real investigation, we could form quite the wrong idea about whodunnit. The wrong person would be convicted and I wonder if anyone except the poor accused still pleading their innocence would suspect anything was wrong.’

‘I agree. It’s a tired old saying, but fact really is stranger than fiction. Even Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers can’t top what actually happens in real life. You may regard these stories as far-fetched, but there are plenty of actual cases that leave one wondering at the stupidity and sheer downright oddness of people.’ They both laughed, eager to lighten the mood.

‘People play clever tricks with the truth.’

Badger nodded agreement. ‘Ah, here comes the main course!’ The train juddered to a halt at that same moment. An odd silence descended. Glances were exchanged and some tried in vain to peer out of the windows, now streaming with condensation.

‘I hope this is nothing serious,’ remarked Badger.

‘We’ve probably just missed a pathway and are waiting for a signal to come off,’ Vignoles observed. ‘They’ll not hold ‘The Cutler’ for longer than necessary.’

Badger accepted this without comment and enthusiastically tucked into his roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. After a couple of minutes, punctuated by the sound of cutlery on china plates and a low murmur of conversation, the train groaned into motion. There was a soft, half-hearted cheer, not unlike the sleepy sounds of MPs responding to a point raised on a quiet afternoon in Parliament.

The resumption of their journey brought Badger back to his subject. ‘On the subject of fact being stranger than fiction, did I ever tell you about the Woodhead case? I worked this back in ‘38?’

‘No, please do, sir.’ Badger rarely spoke of his early career and Vignoles was keen to hear more. He’d heard of his boss’s reputation for being a decent copper with a sharp mind, if rather uncompromising and not always an easy character to warm to. It would be illuminating to hear this usually taciturn man sharing one of his early successes and, as detection was his business, Vignoles was happy to listen. He was starting to enjoy his roast lamb.

Badger looked pleased by the response. He suddenly clicked his fingers to attract the steward’s attention and ordered another bottle of wine. He spoke quietly and conspiratorially: ‘Why not? It’s on expenses and this story deserves more wine for the telling.’

Vignoles smiled. If his boss was happy to be so profligate he would not complain, although he was sure he would never manage to slip two bottles of over-priced wine onto his own monthly expense account.

‘It’s a sad and pathetic case, of course. Their heinous plan was destined to fail from the start. But it was also sufficiently confusing that I needed to have my wits about me to unravel each strand of the tangled knot those involved had tied. I should warn that you the end result was unsatisfactory on a number of levels, but at least I can content myself with knowing that I didn’t send anyone to be executed based upon faulty or imperfect information.’

‘That has to be reassuring.’

‘I believe so. But what makes this story so pertinent is that all the key figures in the case were guilty of something. But of what? I think they even surprised themselves in the end.’ Badger grinned. ‘One thing was clear: a young woman died a horrible death in one of the Woodhead Tunnels, having apparently fallen from a train. We were unable to determine if she had sustained any blows prior to her fall because she’d been run over by a following goods’ train.’ He sliced a piece of beef with his knife. Both men knew all too well the terrible effect of train wheels on human flesh laid across a cold steel rail to comment further. After making a good start on his meal, Badger put down his knife and fork, dabbed his lips with the napkin, and continued.

‘The engine crew had no idea they’d struck anyone until they were held at a signal on the other side of the Pennines. The fireman climbed down to phone the signalman and spotted a blood-soaked scrap of brightly-coloured fabric on the front of the locomotive. The following trains were stopped and men were called out for the unenviable task of walking the tunnel. This took some time, of course. They feared the worst and found it. I was in my office at Sheffield Victoria, reading a telegraph message informing me of what was happening, when I was advised that a woman was missing from a passenger train that had preceded this unlucky goods’ train, and the guard had found a door swinging open. That train was, at that very moment, standing alongside the platform, right outside my door.’

Badger paused to take a few more mouthfuls of food and wine before returning to his story.

‘Whilst awaiting the grisly news, I called the carriage and wagon inspector and together we examined the lock on the door of the forward vestibule of the rear coach, hoping to establish whether there was any fault with the catch.’

‘There have been too many deaths through doors suddenly opening,’ Vignoles remarked. ‘These newer, Mark I coaches now in service have at least improved the mechanism.’

‘The inspector was certain the door catch was working perfectly, leaving two options: did she jump or was she pushed? Fundamental questions — and, sadly, answers free of unreasonable doubt were never achieved.’

Vignoles was surprised at Badger admitting to failure. Heavens above! Perhaps a well-timed snow drift would not be so bad, after all, if it ensured his boss had enough time to complete the story. However ‘Galtee More’ pounded valiantly northwards.

‘Perhaps this was down to my inexperience as a detective at the time. Or perhaps they were consummate liars.’

‘“They”, sir?’

‘The Plumptons — the couple who’d raised the alert. I sensed foul play from the start.’ He gave Vignoles a significant look. ‘Something about their demeanour was not right, despite both doing a splendid job of running through the whole gamut of emotions as distressed relatives.’

‘It’s funny how one picks up little details that something is not as it should be.’

‘But I’m jumping the gun, Charles! I’ll tell the tale as I believe it happened. This is how I interpreted the events, even if it was not what ultimately was argued in court. You can draw your own conclusions.’

Vignoles speared a roast potato, sliced it in half and munched contentedly.

‘It started on a night just like this. A train departed London Road in Manchester for Victoria in Sheffield just after 7pm. It was likely to be a hard run across those bleak moors and through the old Woodhead Tunnels.’

‘1938, that would be before the line was electrified and the third tunnel was bored. My namesake was involved in the construction of the original twin bores,’ Vignoles added, inconsequentially.

‘Is that so? Then you will probably be aware of the particular challenges the route presents. They were worried about gaining sufficient traction on the icy rails, especially on the eastern side of the Pennines, where, I can testify personally, wintry weather can be as bad as it gets in this country, so there were two engines up front.’

‘Can you remember which ones?’

‘I just knew you’d ask that, Charles!’ Badger laughed indulgently. He was slightly tipsy. ‘Not without recourse to the files.’

Vignoles was mildly disappointed.

‘Edwin and Alice Plumpton boarded the train at Manchester, where they lived. He was the proprietor of a classy shopfitting firm, specialising in department stores, top-notch hotels, gentlemen’s clubs and suchlike. His business had once been thriving and he employed a number of staff, including skilled joiners and French polishers, all on decent salaries, but, owing to a series of large contracts defaulting on payment, some awfully hard luck, plus that terrible recession, it had reached the point where it was all about to collapse around his ears, and Edwin would be bankrupt. They were on the ropes. The strain of having to economise severely, whilst still maintaining an outward appearance of wealth, and the terrible worry of imminent financial disaster, caused the Plunrptons to be fractious with one another and they were always squabbling. It was alleged that Alice had some mental instability in her family and the stress affected her badly. She had been feeling unwell for some weeks with what the medics called “melancholia”; this was the underlying thread of a hard-to-define illness. Or perhaps this was an illusion she was happy to create.’

Badger paused as the steward cleared the table. He ordered dessert and continued.

‘Alice had a sister, Ruby Caswell, as yet unmarried. She had an idea to open a shop in Sheffield, selling top-of-the-range, rather exclusive millinery to wealthy ladies. But she had a poor head for business, and had overstretched herself badly by choosing a central, fashionable location with an extortionately high rent, and taking out multiple bank loans to buy the expensive stock and tide her over till she’d made enough sales to put her finances back into the black. But then she, too, had been hit by the nation’s economic problems, as people cut back on luxuries like fancy hats.’

Bowls of steaming-hot rhubarb crumble and custard were placed before them and Badger took a break from the anecdote as they tucked in. The wind rocked and battered the carriage as snow spattered against the windows. The steward frowned momentarily then hurried back to the kitchen.

‘Our investigations discovered that the sisters differed very widely in character. Alice gave every appearance of being a calm, sweet person who forgave easily and never held grudges. Ruby was apparently quite the opposite: passionate and fiery. What is more, she seethed with jealousy and resentment towards her sister. Alice had married well: Edwin was a dynamic, handsome and wealthy businessman, whereas she was still a spinster, left on the shelf to struggle to make her own way in the world. She was far too headstrong and volatile to work under anyone, and so starting her own business was the perfect choice — until that run of bad luck had hit her for six.

‘Despite their different personalities, they were still sisters, and kept in touch by letter, telephone and occasional day visits, and when Alice became ill, Ruby suggested that she come and stay with her for a while, to be relieved from the strain of running a home, and for a change of scene. They say that a change is as good as a rest.’ Badger’s voice suddenly became heavy with meaning. ‘You could say that a permanent rest cure was being planned. Mr Plumpton would accompany his wife to Sheffield and deliver her into her sister’s care, stay the night to make sure she was settled and happy, then return to Manchester. His wife would stay for as long as she liked. This incident happened whilst they were travelling to Sheffield.’

He paused to eat a few spoons of hot crumble and to declare it to be delicious.

‘They arrived at London Road station with a set of smart luggage, travel rugs, a Thermos, a newspaper and a book. The porter noticed Plumpton being especially attentive to his wife, shepherding her protectively into a first-class compartment in a composite coach, marshalled at the rear of the train. Guard Andrews saw her with a rug over her knees and a book on her lap. He suggested that, for privacy, they pull the curtains across the windows and the door leading into the corridor, and pointed out that they could dim the lights, if Alice wished to sleep. Andrews had no cause to look into their compartment again — not until after the hue and cry was raised as they approached Sheffield.’

The crumble was finished off in a few more mouthfuls.

‘Despite being obliged to live frugally, Edwin had insisted that they travel first class, — as they always had in happier times — so that Alice could be as comfortable as possible, and of course a first-class ticket on that route of an evening pretty much guarantees having a compartment to oneself. Curiously, he purchased a return for himself, but only a single for his wife.’

‘In case she stayed longer than the three months a return ticket allows?’

‘That was the explanation given, but there was perhaps another reason.’ Badger looked hard at Vignoles, his expression full of significance. ‘If things went as Plumpton planned, Alice would not be in a position to use the return portion.’

‘Why? What happened? Ah, it was she who fell out of the train!’

‘You are jumping the gun, Charles, all will be revealed in good time. Let’s grab a drink and return to our compartment.’

Vignoles grinned, delighted to discover that Badger was a better storyteller than he had expected. Badger paid the bill, being careful to request a receipt, and asked the steward to add onto it a pair of double whiskeys, which the men took away with them. Vignoles looked forward to the tale darkening — as he knew it surely would.

Badger settled deeper into his seat as he picked up where he had left off. ‘The story really gets going once their train pulled away from .London Road’

‘I’m popping to the restaurant car. Can I bring you anything, dear?’

‘No, thank you. I have my flask of tea.’ Alice Plumpton gazed out of the window at the frozen white landscape of roofs and chimneys, factories and great iron bridges slowly parading past the window. She sighed and yawned. ‘I think I might have a snooze.’ He lifted the curtain aside enough to slide open the compartment door. He shut it quietly, ensuring the curtain was fully closed. Needing not only a nicotine rush, but some cool air on his face he stood in the corridor and lit a cigarette. He felt like he was burning up and his temples were pounding. Pulling open the narrow top light of the corridor window he drank in the sour, smoke-laden Manchester air.

He puffed repeatedly at his cigarette, but the nicotine just made his heart beat faster and did nothing to relieve the pressure in his head. He glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time. They would soon reach Ardwick; it was only a short run. It had worked out well — the corridor would be on the platform side. Even if Alice was still awake, and drew the curtain aside to see where they were, on her side were only snow-covered sidings and the backs of buildings. No chance of her inadvertently seeing what she must not. Fate was dealing the cards just as he wished.

The train was slowing. He could see a few lights ahead that indicated the station. The day was dimming fast and he could just discern a few dark shapes of waiting passengers dotting the platform but could not distinguish one figure from another. The conditions were even better than he’d hoped. He walked to the vestibule at the end of the coach and dropped the door window down. It slid easily, which was another positive sign. He leaned slightly out of the window as the platform end approached, a fresh but unlit cigarette dangling casually from his mouth, his hat slanted artistically across his brow. The train squealed to a stop and the handful of waiting figures rapidly approached. As he’d anticipated, they all wanted third class seats. He knew that, at this time of day, the first class compartments were empty.

A woman in a cloche hat and long winter coat suddenly appeared out of the shadows. Without a word he opened the door and stepped onto the platform to usher her aboard, as any well-bred gentleman might. He looked up and down the platform. It was deserted. No porter would loiter on such a cold night, and the stationmaster was doubtless warming his feet by a crackling fire. The guard had seen nothing: the woman had boarded before he even emerged from his brake compartment, a couple of carriages in front of them. He signalled with his lamp that the train was ready to depart.

‘In here,’ Edwin whispered, his lips close to her ear, his hot breath causing a stifled giggle. He pushed open the lavatory door and gestured to her to enter. It smelled of that oddly-scented soap the railway favoured. ‘Wait in here. Lock the door and be as quiet as a mouse.’

‘Not so fast!’ She looped her arms around his neck. ‘Kiss me, Eddie!’

‘Shh. Wait!’ He gently untangled himself and locked the door. Pressed close together in the tiny space they kissed, long and hard, needy and hungry. Her face was flushed and excited and her hands slid beneath his jacket, urgent and eager, her perfectly manicured nails biting into his back. Intoxicated by her scent and the smell of her skin and hair, the touch of her lips, he closed his eyes and felt the shape of her bottom through the soft cloth of her dress. He longed to hitch the fabric up over her hips. ‘Not now!’ he whispered, as much to himself as to her. With huge reluctance he pulled away. ‘We have to be patient. There’s work to do first. I need to concentrate. And keep your voice down. Alice is just a few compartments away.’ ‘My nerves are jangling. I need to release the pent up energy…’ She tried to unbutton his shirt, her breasts heaving beneath the unseasonably thin fabric of her dress. ‘No! Now be a good girl and wait here.’

She pouted. ‘But I want you!’ Her words sent another dart of desire through him, but he fought against it. She pretended to be offended. ‘Well, if you really don’t want to ravish me…’

He gave her an imploring look, and this seemed to work. She again ran her hands over him, but this time to straighten his tie and shirt buttons and smooth his jacket. She felt something large and bulky within his inside pocket. ‘Hm. What have we here?’ Her smile was enticing, her pale, china-blue eyes wide with excitement.

‘It’s all there. Fifty. In used ones. Just as he asked for.’ Edwin took a deep gulp of air. ‘I had to raid the office safe and borrow the staff wages.’ He winced at the memory. ‘But that’s a problem for another day.’

‘It will be worth it, my darling, I will make sure of that.’ She lingered over each word and looked at him in a way that left no doubt about the meaning.

He gave her an appreciative smile. ‘You know the drill. This is where you will hide later. If this one is occupied there is another close by, in the next coach.’

She nodded, gently biting the inside of her lower lip. Her bravado of just a few minutes earlier had evaporated and her nerves were starting to kick in. ‘I’ll tap three times on the door, so you will know it’s me.’ He slipped out and shot a glance down the empty corridor as he heard the lock click behind him, took a few quick breaths, and strode towards the dining car.

Edwin ordered a beer at the bar and looked casually at his fellow travellers. Four men were standing at the far end, chatting loudly and taking no interest in his arrival. An older man and his mousy wife were seated rather primly at a table, each studiously reading the menu cards. On a high stool beside a high, narrow shelf opposite the bar, a thin but muscular man sat hunched over the racing pages of a newspaper, sipping a glass of brown ale. He wore a dark suit, open-necked shirt, a grey scarf and a dark hat pressed onto his close-cropped scalp. His thin mouth was topped with a thin moustache and held a glowing cigarette in one corner. He gave Edwin a momentary glance with eyes that seemed cold and merciless.

Edwin slid onto a high stool next to him. He noticed that it had been pulled out, away from the bar, as if to look inviting. Yes, this man was a pro: he took care of every detail.

‘I don’t like standing at the bar in trains; they shake about too much,’ he remarked, ‘a man might spill his beer.’ He hoped his voice sounded casual. The man grunted a reply without looking up.

Edwin stared at his reflection in the window inches from his face. His nerves were on edge and his head was banging.

‘Got any good tips?’

‘You put the money on the nail and I’ll get you a winner.’ The four men had become louder and one was calling along the car, asking what his mates wanted to drink. This distraction took the bar steward’s full attention.

Edwin laughed nervously. ‘Afterwards, old man. When everything is er, arranged.’

‘Listen, pal. Cash up front, or I cut.’ The Mancunian accent was hard. ‘But not before I give you a hiding for wasting my time. Nobody pisses me about.’ His voice was quiet, and yet full of menace, whilst he maintained the perfect illusion of studying his paper.

‘But we agreed, half up front and the balance once the job was, um, finished.’

‘Balance on the night is what I said. And that’s now. Put it under the paper.’

Edwin smiled weakly. He felt helpless. Another fifty pounds handed to this most disreputable of men before he was sure of a successful outcome. This was not how he’d understood the deal. Surely you only paid in full when a job was complete. It was madness. His mind was racing but he couldn’t think straight. And there was little time to waste, and besides, he could hardly argue with the man in public when they were trying to attract no attention. He had no choice but to trust the man. Yes, he was a violent crook, but he had turned up, just as planned, and showed every sign of being ready and willing to go ahead.

The noisy drinkers had gathered around the bar, almost crowding against his back, and all facing the other way. Everything was going smoothly. He felt a surge of optimism. The conditions were now perfect, and so he slipped the envelope discreetly under the paper in a swift, deft move.

‘Last compartment of the last coach.’

The cold, grey eyes still did not look up, but there was a slight twitch to the mouth. It might have suggested amusement, or contempt. He spoke softly. ‘Problem Solved in the twelve thirty at Plumpton. You chose a good horse.’ He gave a low chuckle. ‘Now, bugger off and leave the rest to me.’ His voice was little more than a low hiss. ‘Leave it five minutes then you and your fancy bit take your places and don’t move until we’re past Penistone.’

Edwin stood up and walked away. The men at the bar roared at a joke. Another well-timed distraction. He felt almost cheerful as he made his way back to the rear of the train. But this optimism was built on fermented hops and barley and soon evaporated.

Doubt suddenly flooded over him like a cold shower. What had he done? It was too late to stop now. Or was it? No, he’d return and ask for the money back, say he’d changed his mind, let him keep £50 for his trouble and call it quits. But they were trapped on this tram and who knows what that psychopath might do? He quaked at the thought of having his nose broken, or worse. Perhaps he should summon the guard on some pretext and keep him talking with Alice in their compartment? That way nothing could happen. He’d lose all the money, of course, and for nothing.

Reaching the vestibule of the rear coach he stood at the join of two carriages and listened to the rush of air and heard the squeaks and bumps of the buffers, the urgent click of the wheels. A vicious draft of wind whipped around his legs. A few grains of snow had crept through the concertinaed canvas and blew around on the floor. This was the night he’d planned for, waited for, and yet a sour taste of bile rose in his throat. As he stood in the dim light, he felt that his soul was dark, dirty, and rotten to the core.

The coach appeared empty and yet he knew that two women were in there. Ruby was waiting anxiously, only a couple of feet away, behind the varnished teak door. But he walked on, until he reached the curtained compartment where his wife was, hopefully, sleeping. Feeling an ominous tightening around his chest, he gently slid the door to one side and peeped around the curtain. The lights were dimmed. Alice stirred slightly, perhaps sensing he was there. She snuggled deeper under her rug, a slight smile on her lips. ‘Sleep on, my dear,’ he said softly, then added the words ‘and goodbye’ silently in his mind. The door clicked shut.

He walked confidently back towards the lavatory and tapped his knuckles three times gently against the door. ‘Mrs Plumpton,’ he whispered, ‘would you care to join me for a drink?’

She stepped out of the cramped space with a quiet confidence, and smiled sweetly. ‘I’d simply love to!’

Edwin was relieved that, on the way to the bar, they didn’t bump into the man. He was clearly a pro and had doubtless been watching to ensure they didn’t meet. Edwin then realised that it was far better they had completed the payment in advance and would never meet again. When the balloon went up there would be an investigation and he did not want the police to discover any connection between them. It was another indication that he had chosen well.

* * * *

‘So, did you identify the Mancunian mobster?’ asked Vignoles. He was loath to break the flow of the story, but his detective mind was itching to ask questions and dig into the details of the tale.

‘We did.’ Badger did not seem to mind the interruption. ‘It was not too difficult identifying him, but pinning anything on him was quite a different matter. He was a slippery eel as well as a vicious brute. But what unfolds next perhaps throws a different light on him. You see, Charles, the thing about hit men is they are calculating, hard-hearted bastards. Excuse my French.’ Badger really was loosening up. ‘But from my own, somewhat limited, experience of these types and from talking to the boys in the Met and other big cities, it seems there’s no evidence they actually enjoy killing, per se. It is a job. And it’s done for money, or for power. Or both. But never for the thrill of it.’

‘Power?’

‘Perhaps that’s not quite the right word. Hit men almost always work as part of a gang, and gangs want to score points over their rivals and ensure they hold the most influence over their area, or ‘manor’, as they like to call it. It’s a relentless power struggle.’

‘They’re always seeking to reaffirm their status, either through violence, or the amount of money acquired.’

‘So gangs attack their rivals, or even nobble one of their own, on the orders of the gang leader, if someone is seen to be failing or becoming a threat to the top man. The gang leader is like a dominant wolf in a pack.’ Badger rather liked that analogy. ‘They do this to ensure discipline within the pack by instilling fear and obedience. Gang life is an unrelenting quest to exert fear. And gang members obey because they hope to get paid well. So fear of violence and the desire for money drives them. Nothing more; nothing less.’

‘So a simple businessman like Edwin Plumpton was completely out of his depth.’

‘Indeed. It was a world about which he knew nothing. He naively stumped up £100, a hefty sum to him at the time, but that was the limit of his power and influence. It was of no consequence to this gangster if his wife lived or died.’

‘And who was this hit man?’

‘Jack Hough, from Salford. A smart operator who led the local forces a merry dance for years. They never got anything serious to stick.’ Badger rolled whiskey around his mouth for a moment, enjoying the burning taste. ‘But more powerful forces did for Hough, eventually. It came whilst he was flogging stolen goods during the Blitz. The loss of 200 cans of perfectly good tinned peaches was generally considered to be the most upsetting aspect about that particular piece of Luftwaffe high explosive falling on Manchester. Boom! Goodbye Mr Hough!’ Badger and Vignoles smiled. Humour was essential to cope with their profession.

‘But getting back to the story, once Hough had received the money from Plumpton, there was no reason to run any further risk. His client could hardly chase after him for failure to deliver his services!’ Badger laughed. ‘And so Edwin and his pretty accomplice got their fingers burnt. Hough was a bit of a joker, but one can almost admire what he did next.’

Vignoles was intrigued.

* * * *

Edwin Plumpton and his mistress, masquerading as his wife, took their seats at a table near the older couple, who were now enjoying their soup. Polite words were exchanged, about snow on the Pennines being tricky and other such small talk. The older gentleman appeared to know something about railways and felt sure that, as they were ‘double-headed’ they could get through whatever the weather threw at them. He then explained to his wife that they had two locomotives up front, a detail she found both novel and fascinating. Edwin ordered two gins and tonic, double measures, to help settle their nerves. The four loud men were by then settled at the far end, roaring at each other’s jokes. Edwin and Ruby studied the menu and exchanged comments about the relative merits of pork over beef. He repeatedly looked at his watch. The minute hand seemed to creep around so slowly.

The guard appeared and chatted to a steward about the weather. Both were unsure of what to expect ahead, but the guard looked proud to announce that the train was on time so far. Edwin felt his guilty heart pound when the guard looked his way, but the railwayman gave no sign that anything was amiss. He looked across the table and smiled at Ruby conspiratorially. She had slipped off a stiletto-heeled shoe and was tickling his ankle with her stockinged foot, but he knew that, underneath, she was as tense as he was, because her knuckles were white as she gripped the side of her armchair rather too tightly and there were red flushes to each cheek. He hoped they would both manage to cope with the rising tension as the awful moment approached.

He told her it was all going well. This was not a lie, as the deception was perfect. She and Alice were two peas from the same pod. Strangers could never tell them apart, for most of their differences were temperamental rather than physical. The pair shared the same physique and the same fashionably bobbed hairstyle, and that is all that would be noticed by any casual observer and nobody would have reason to suspect that Alice had a doppelganger on the train.

Aiding the deception was that uncanny way that identical twins seemed to end up with a similar wardrobe. By chatting over the telephone, Ruby had been able to establish what her sister was going to wear for the journey, even successfully guiding her gently towards choosing items similar to ones that she also possessed. The coat and the cloche hat, in particular, were crucial to get right. Ruby completed the job by subtle alterations to her gait and mannerisms to match her twin’s. Even Edwin had been taken aback when Ruby stepped onto the train at Ardwick.

He gazed longingly across at Ruby and the effect was almost the same as when he’d met Alice all those years ago, when the first flush of romance and desire overwhelmed him. It was strange how his passion for one had transferred to the other. When he found himself becoming drawn to Ruby, she had encouraged him. At first they had just flirted, but a trip to secure a possible shopfitting contract in Sheffield had led to dinner — and eventually, perhaps inevitably, an opportunity had arisen for him to become more intimately familiar with Ruby’s taste in clothes…

Soon he was infatuated, hanging on Ruby’s every word in their stolen moments together, and the freshness of it, and her tempestuous nature served to make him start to despise the twin he’d married, who seemed insipid by comparison. His heart was ruling his head and soon he was living a double life, lying to Alice to cover his many trips to Sheffield regarding a contract that never materialised. But he was being steadily eaten up inside by a burning, irresponsible desire for Ruby, which made him lose all sense of right and wrong. Outwardly he looked the perfect husband. Inside, his heart was as black as tar. But he was not alone; Ruby shared this canker of the soul. If the family doctor thought Alice was troubled, he would have been horrified to realise what was stirring inside Ruby’s sharp, outwardly lucid, but dangerously disturbed, mind. As the twin locomotives relentlessly and inexorably puffed their way towards the ominously dark tunnel, their two hearts beat in cruel unison, united in their hate and desire.

The train was slowing and the guard called out: ‘Woodhead — and we’re bang on time!’ He eased himself away from the bar as he spoke to the steward.

Ruby finished her drink in a gulp and smiled. ‘I just need to slip back to the compartment, darling.’ Her voice was bright and clear, deliberately louder than it needed to be. ‘There’s something I need to fetch from our compartment. I won’t be long, so why don’t you order for me?’

He stood politely as she left the table and said, loudly and with spirit, ‘Righty-o, my dear!’ This ensured that the couple, the guard and the steward would see and remember her leaving. His ‘wife’ had gone to the end of the train, but he did not leave the restaurant car. As he sat down again he glanced around at those who would corroborate his alibi. He concentrated on watching the ripples in the last of his gin in the glass as the train started to brake, trying to clear his mind of everything except remaining calm and unruffled, then beckoned the steward.

‘Ready to order, sir? Or should I wait for your wife to return?’

‘Mrs Plumpton has just popped back to the compartment, to get something she forgot, but I have my instructions to order for her. Haha!’ His laugh was too harsh, too forced. The steward waited patiently, pencil poised over his pad, indifferent to why the wife was absent. He just wanted to take the order and move on. His fixed smile held steady. Edwin cleared his throat and tried to make his voice sound less high-pitched and tense. ‘The roast beef. For both of us.’

‘Soup, sir?’

‘No thank you, we’ll just go straight to the main course.’ A door slammed and a faint whistle was heard. The train restarted with a complex series of beats from the two steam engines. He felt his stomach turn a somersault. This was it.

‘And to drink, sir?’

‘Er, a bottle of red wine. Anything.’ His sang-froid was being tested to the limit. He suddenly felt his nerves jangle, a feeling of being on a dizzying knife edge, his heart pounding, mouth dry, cheeks flushed. The steward must not see this.

‘Water, sir?’

‘Yes. By all means…’ He flapped a hand impatiently. ‘That’ll be all, thank you.’ The steward walked away.

Gradually, the train was lost from view to those left on the lonely outpost of Woodhead Station. A thin man stood and smoked, watching the tiny red eye of the oil lamp hanging from the back of the train diminish to a pin prick. He turned up his collar, pulled his hat down further on his bald head, and crossed the lines to await the arrival of the Manchester train.

The line burrowed deep through the rugged bulk of the Pennine hills that rose in a sheer bulwark of stone. Edwin knew the line well enough to recognise that the train was about to enter the three-mile long tunnel. The howling wind scythed across the high fields, where dirty sheep crouched in the lee of snaking, drystone walls, waiting patiently for the snow to cover them, unmoved as the smoking, stinking orifices of the tunnels swallowed the train. It was a lonely and horrible place, the twin portals like open mouths forming a silent scream that never ended. He closed his eyes momentarily as the sound of the train changed and the increased air pressure made his ears pop. He was silently fighting down a sudden feeling of nausea.

‘Get a bloody grip!’ He cursed himself silently. ‘Take your time and think through the next steps.’ He mentally checked off each stage, a finger tapping the tablecloth as he went through them. He’d ordered dinner and offered an explanation for his wife’s absence. Everything was going to plan. But what if the meal arrived too soon, before the train exited the tunnel? Well, he would just sit patiently, awaiting his wife’s return. That couple at the adjacent table would smile sympathetically. Interaction with them would serve only to aid his alibi.

He realised that he was drumming his fingers nervously and one leg was twitching below the table. He must remain calm. No, perhaps it was good to let people see that he was impatient and puzzled at how long his wife was taking just to fetch something. It drew further attention to his presence — and her absence. He rehearsed the sequence once again. He would hear the note of the train change as they burst from the tunnel mouth. Then, as the train slowed to stop at Penistone, their meals would arrive. At this point he might express concern. Nothing too exaggerated. ‘She’s not been in the best of health, you see. I wonder if she’s feeling poorly?’

‘Oh, poor love!’ The mousy lady would be concerned. He could bank on that. Then he’d hear the train restart and pull away from the station. That would be the decisive moment, time to stand up and declare that he was going to find out what was delaying her. Perhaps he should say something to the steward as he passed him? Yes. That would be a nice touch. Explain why he was leaving two plates of food untouched on the table. He could imagine how the exchange might go:

‘I do hope she’s feeling all right, sir. The cold and the motion of the train might have upset her—’

His fantasy was interrupted by a woman who entered briskly and slightly out of breath.

‘Hello, darling. I fell fast asleep, and was quite dead to the world — but look, I have now returned to life, and here I am!’ She sat down opposite him and stared him straight in the face, her eyes bright and alive. Her manner was charming and cheerful, and there was a healthy flush of colour in her cheeks.

Edwin’s jaw dropped as a sensation passed over him that was not unlike being dipped from head to toe in icy cold water. He was instantly dumped out of his imagined world into a startling, appalling reality. The shock turned his insides into a writhing mass of snakes. His eyes were wide and staring, and he was unable to speak.

‘Gosh, I’m famished: I could simply murder a steak!’ She unwrapped the silk scarf from around her neck and folded it neatly into a small square, which she placed very deliberately onto the white linen tablecloth, as if to make a point, then looked at him. The scarf appeared to him to be the one worn by Ruby when she had sat in the very same seat just minutes earlier.

‘Are you feeling all right, darling? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘A ghost,’ said Edwin, robotically, as though in a trance.

‘Has something happened, darling?’

‘Happened?’

Are you going to repeat everything I say?’ She giggled good-naturedly. ‘You’re in danger of sounding awfully silly, if you do. Like a parrot. Now, what have you got lined up for me? Something to surprise me? Something I was not expecting?’

He stared at her in horror.

‘For dinner. The steward said you’d already ordered, but he didn’t say what.’

Edwin stood up suddenly, his face a sweaty, waxy sheen, excused himself and hurried out, reaching the nearest lavatory just in time to retch violently. ‘Alice! How can it possibly be Alice sitting there?’ he asked himself, brow furrowed in incomprehension. He rested his head against the rectangle of mirror and tried to soothe his throbbing head with the cold seeping from the glass. After a few minutes he composed himself sufficiently to stagger out and stood, swaying, in the vestibule, clueless.

Everything had unravelled, and at alarming speed. He needed to comprehend what had happened before he could even start to repair the situation. Was Ruby still hiding in the lavatory, waiting for the stop at Penistone, which surely must now be very close. If so, she would get off there, as planned, and drive the hired car to Sheffield, where she was due to meet them at the station. So long as Alice did not see her leave the train, this terrible mess could be covered up. Forget the money, forget that thug, just act naturally and take stock. He felt relieved that Alice seemed blithely oblivious that anything was amiss. Yes, perhaps it would all work out all right.

He needed to tell Ruby that the plan had been aborted and that she must not look surprised to see Alice at Sheffield. But where was she? He stumbled and bumped his way along the train like a madman. He reached the last coach and was hit by a startling blast of ice-cold air, which reeked of smoke, damp and mould, and the noise of the two locomotives blasting their infernal way through the tunnel. He spotted the reason for this change in temperature and volume: the window of the door that he’d noted earlier had slid down and was now fully lowered, allowing the stench of the tunnel to pour into the coach. He was about to shut it, as he could hardly think straight with the combined assault of cold and noise, but suddenly stopped himself. Not only the window, but the whole door was slightly ajar, making a tap-tap-tap sound as the steel catch bumped repeatedly against its keep. Only the force of the air rushing by was keeping it from flying open and smashing against the wall of the narrow tunnel.

He then noticed that the door to the lavatory in which Ruby had been hiding was also open, and swinging ominously on its hinges. Awful thoughts started to form. But, no, she had simply moved elsewhere, for some reason. He checked the next lavatory, but it was empty. Returning to the open carriage door, he wanted to pull it closed, but thought better of it and backed away. No, he must not touch anything. It would be better if the police could not link him to whatever might have happened here.

He walked to the end of the train, but there was no sign of either Ruby or the hit man. He reached the last compartment. There was Alice’s rug, her book with the silk marker placed neatly between the closed pages, his folded newspaper on the seat opposite, just where he’d left it. Their suitcases were still on the racks. He sat down and clutched his head in his hands, fighting down another wave of nausea as a terrible realisation washed over him.

What if the thug had thrown Ruby from the train instead of Alice? Edwin scrunched his eyes closed and rammed his balled fists against his eyeballs. His heart felt as though it would stop. He wanted to scream his way out of this living nightmare. But instead he stood up, gulping air like a beached fish. He forced himself to unclench his fists and tried to regain equilibrium. Alice must be wondering where he was, and he must face her as though nothing had happened, though he feared that her twin sister was now lying, probably dead, on the track inside the dank tunnel.

And where was the hit man? Edwin had seen nobody. But then, the man was a pro and would know how to keep his head down and evade detection. He would leave the train at Penistone, which they would reach any moment, and then melt away into the night, never to be seen again.

The plan had been that, once the train left Penistone, Edwin would declare that Alice had mysteriously vanished. He and the guard would search the train, and Edwin would become increasingly distraught. By the time the train pulled into Sheffield, he would display panic, fearing the worst. Ruby would be waiting on the platform, having changed into a markedly different coat, her hair hidden by being tucked into a hat of a very different style to the one she’d worn earlier. When informed of the circumstances, she would play-act being out of her mind with worry for her beloved sister. Maybe she could even fake a faint. The police would arrive and Edwin would tell them about the sinister man he’d sat next to in the bar, pretending that he had seemed overly interested in their travel arrangements. Crucially, Edwin would describe a gold watch Alice was wearing (an engagement present) and a pricy string of real river pearls. These would fuel the idea that the mystery man had carried out an opportunistic robbery, which had gone wrong.

A search of the track from Woodhead towards Penistone would follow, including a long, dismal walk through three miles of foul-smelling tunnel by torchlight. Alice’s mangled corpse would be discovered and conveyed to the mortuary. Eventually, her pearls and watch would be confirmed as missing. The police would conclude that she died as a result of a violent robbery that ended with her falling or being thrown from the train. They had no clue who the robber was, and, aided by Edwin’s detailed but incorrect description of the man, the trail would, in time, go cold.

But this had all gone awry. It was Ruby who had disappeared and, as Alice did not know she was on the train, Edwin could not report her as missing. He felt like his brain was overloading as he desperately tried out various excuses and justifications over in his mind. After a few days a porter at Penistone might wonder why a car had been parked outside for several days, and report it to the police, who would trace it to the hire company, who would tell them it was hired to Ruby. Just when he needed to think up reasons, alibis, explanations for everything — and in double-quick time, he found himself frozen, unable to work out any of it.

He slumped back into the seat opposite Alice. He felt nothing. No emotion. His body was going through the motions. His brain felt like it was shutting down, becoming numb. He stared blankly at the cold food on his plate.

‘Forgive me, darling, but I simply had to start without you! I’m sure the chef will warm yours up!’ She smiled sweetly at him, but her bright, china-blue eyes were watching him like a hawk. Taking in every move. She reached out a hand, the nails painted exactly the same red as those Ruby had earlier dug into his back, through his shirt, in sexual passion. She placed the tips of her fingers over the back of his hand. The perfect nails stood slightly proud of her fingertips, each filed into neat, sharp curves.

‘Oh, your hands are so cold, my darling.’ She slowly dug her nails in and the skin on his hand tautened and turned white, whilst maintaining her sickly-sweet, compassionate expression. As she pressed even harder his veins screamed and darts of pain shot up his arm.‘Ouch! Careful, that was starting to hurt a little.’ He lifted her hand away, hoping nobody had seen the exchange, or the red welts on his hand, which looked sore and angry.

‘So sorry, darling. I really must be more careful.’ She took a long draught of wine, never once looking away from her nervous wreck of her husband. ‘I’m so looking forward to seeing Ruby.’ Her voice was light and conversational. ‘She said she’ll be waiting for us at the station. My goodness, it is snowing hard. Do you think she will turn up?’

Edwin shrugged, not knowing what to say in reply. Did she know? Or were words just sounding sinister and double-edged because of what he knew? He stared at the window and could see only his own haunted reflection, eerily accentuated by the harsh shadows thrown up by the table lamp. Dancing flakes of snow hurtled past the window, but his vision was speckled with stars and odd, swirling patterns of colour and there was an unpleasant ringing in his ears. He felt lightheaded. He wanted to faint. He just wanted to jump from the train and roll in the cold snow and feel it cool him. He could lie there, close his eyes and sleep, perhaps never to awaken…

* * * *

‘Drat. Looks like our luck’s out. We’ve been stopped here for ages.’ Badger broke off the tale and was peering out, trying unsuccessfully to see a station running-in board. ‘Any idea where we are?’

Vignoles could tell from the layout of the buildings that it was Rugby Central, and said so, adding, ‘If we’re held here, something’s wrong ahead. Listening to that wind howling, I’d not rule out drifting snow. If that’s the case then snow ploughs might be needed. However, my money is on ice: a frozen point or signal. But if they can get to the spot quick enough we could be on our way pretty sharpish.’

Badger nodded and sat back on the cushions. ‘Hopefully we’ll be tucked up in bed by midnight. We’d best get a refill, as a nightcap! And then you can make a stab at working out the end game of this peculiar Winter’s Tale!’ He was enjoying himself.

Vignoles walked to the bar and returned with two more whiskeys. He lit his pipe and stared at the compartment ceiling for a few moments. ‘Edwin wanted to be with Ruby, but had no grounds to divorce Alice. She was neither adulterous nor cruel, she had not deserted him, and her nervous illness was nowhere near being the “incurable insanity” the law requires. Hm, and of course Alice’s death meant he could collect on any life insurance policy he may have had the foresight to take out.’

‘You’re on the right track!’

‘OK, leaving the specific motive aside for now, Edwin should by rights have been tried as an accessory to an intended murder — as indeed should Ruby. But he could only be brought to court if one could prove this intent. But how the devil to conclusively show that the money paid to Hough was for that reason and no other? One would also have to demonstrate that the subterfuges acted out with Ruby onboard the train were part of the same plot. But it would be a tall order to convince a jury.’

Badger nodded. He looked like an indulgent university professor giving a tutorial with a favoured student.

‘And then there is the enormous problem that Alice was not actually killed. Not a hair on her head was touched and she appeared — outwardly at least, and perhaps for the benefit of witnesses — to be unaware of anything being wrong.’

‘Perhaps she was merely playing a role. We could not pin anything on her that would prove beyond reasonable doubt that she knew about the plot, let alone had any part to play in Ruby’s death.’

‘Hm. If all that were not tricky enough, Hough, the man hired to kill Alice failed to carry it out. Edwin was an accessory to a crime that never happened and Hough was guilty of nothing. Given a good brief, Edwin would be able to wriggle out of any circumstantial evidence.’ Vignoles pondered the matter for a moment. ‘So that leaves him merely as an adulterer and an embezzler of company funds.’

‘Precisely.’

‘But what of Ruby? She was also an accessory to an intended murder. Plotting with Edwin to see the brutal killing of her sister. But the plotter has now turned into the victim!’ Vignoles grinned. ‘Does that mean Ruby was technically an accessory to her own murder?’

Badger grinned. ‘Fact stranger than fiction, again. Do you believe she was murdered?’

‘It feels that way, sir, but perhaps it really was a tragic accident, even though you and the carriage and wagon inspector found no fault with the door.’

‘It functioned perfectly. But that proves nothing.’

‘Could Alice have been involved?’ Vignoles sipped some whiskey and considered this idea.

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

Vignoles was silent for a few moments. ‘Let me first finish with one, less tricky, aspect of the case. You found the hit man, Hough, so I’m supposing you traced witnesses who placed him on the train?’

‘The steward, the guard, a passenger and a porter were all sufficiently confident to pick him out in an identity parade of likely culprits. He did not quite match Edwin’s description, of course, but he had good reason to put us off the scent. The porter had seen him shivering on the platform at Woodhead, waiting to return to Manchester. He’d even bought a return ticket, which he was more than willing to show us. He took Edwin Plumpton to the cleaners,’ Badger laughed. ‘Bagged some easy money with no intention of committing any crime. Likewise he played no part in Ruby’s death, be it deliberate or accidental.’

‘He defrauded Plumpton of £100, but chose a victim who would hardly be able to prosecute. A smart man,’ observed Vignoles, with a wry smile. He puffed on his pipe. ‘So, the Plumptons maintained their curious charade, sitting in the restaurant car, facing each other for the remainder of the journey.’

‘Yes, hard to credit it,’ Badger replied. ‘Guard Andrews discovered the open door and made enquiries through the train to satisfy himself that nobody was missing. Remembering the Plumptons were the only passengers in that coach, he duly approached them and asked if they knew anything about the open door or had seen anyone else in that coach. Their answers were negative, but he was a bright lad and sensed something was wrong because they seemed evasive and nervous. The moment the train stopped at Sheffield he alerted the stationmaster and suggested a constable be called, and that started the line of enquiry that ended with the body being found inside the tunnel.’

Vignoles chewed this over for a while. ‘Which neatly brings us back to the question of what, if anything, did Alice know.’

‘That is the key question. The whole case hinged on this point. I’m being a little unfair to expect you to unravel everything based only on what I’ve told you so far, because what followed was, frankly, a succession of lies and counter-lies that would be tedious to recount. Trying to determine what was true and false proved well-nigh impossible. I wonder if either Edwin or Alice knew what was fact and fiction by the time we’d finished our investigations. They are both fatally flawed human beings.’

‘But you’re confident Edwin and Ruby intended to do away with Alice?’

‘Yes. If Ruby had lived and Alice died as planned, we’d have got both of them bang to rights, I’m sure of it. I suspect Hough would have been apprehended in time and we’d have unpicked the case. Hough would have hanged from a rope, and the others banged up in the slammer. But Hough ducked out and the wrong woman died.’

Vignoles waved his pipe stem in the air to indicate that he was happy to concur with Badger’s interpretation.

‘You touched on motive and insurance,’ Badger continued. ‘Greed for money and lust lie at the base of most premeditated murders and with Edwin Plumpton it was both. We uncovered persuasive evidence that Edwin was plotting to kill his wife, but this was less than useful in determining why Ruby ended up dead. I mentioned before, there were stories that Alice was mentally not in the best of health. We found out that Edwin had, six weeks before this fateful trip, telephoned his insurance company about their life insurance policies. They were excellent policies, which they had taken out when business was booming. He paid a very high premium, having chosen the options for the maximum possible payout. It wasn’t unusual for businessmen with very high incomes to want to make the best possible provision for his family in the event of his unexpected death. Edwin had wanted to talk through some of the small print, to check what the situation would be if either of them were to take their own lives. He was concerned to learn that suicide appeared to invalidate any payout.’

‘He was worried that Alice might take her own life?’

‘Perhaps. If Alice was seriously considering suicide, it would have cleared the way to marrying Ruby, but their financial situation would still be in a mess. I rather suspect he needed to clarify it because he planned to fake Alice’s suicide.’

‘And Ruby might not find him quite so attractive if he came saddled with significant debt and was also not able to clear hers, and then keep her comfortable for life.’

‘That thought occurred to us. He apparently challenged the insurance clerk on what would happen if either he or his wife were to meet their end through a tragic accident — or murderous assault. He was satisfied with the reply.’

‘This conversation with the insurance company was suggestive of dark motives, but proved nothing. And, of course, it was not Alice who died.’ Vignoles considered his next question whilst watching a few brave souls stretching their legs in the bracing wind on the platform. The men were smoking and pacing about. ‘Was Alice ever accused of Ruby’s murder?’

‘No. The coroner decided that Ruby fell out by accident, due to her not noticing that a door was open and perhaps leaning on it or being thrown against it by the jolt of the train. That was the official line, based strictly on the evidence.’

‘But you don’t think it was an accident.’

‘No. But if Alice did kill Ruby, was it malice aforethought or was it a moment of — perhaps understandable — rage? Alice played what I feel was a masterful game of appearing to be the sister of an accident victim. But this was cleverly tinged with moments of oddness. Little asides or curious lapses in memory and the appearance of confusion that chimed perfectly with her apparently delicate mental state.’

‘She played that card?’

‘For all it was worth, at the coroner’s inquest. We also interviewed her at length on two occasions and there was a lightness of touch that, in my opinion, was too clever, too artful to be quite authentic. It was as though she wished to ensure there was sufficient unreasonable doubt to see her charged. There was little chance of her being found guilty of murder or even an accessory if we tried to take her to court. But her claim to mental instability was kept within limits. She was not going to allow anyone to incarcerate her in Broadmoor.’

‘Uh oh, we’re moving again.’ The train jolted and Vignoles thought he heard the engine wheels slip for a moment before the driver regained control. ‘Is it possible that Alice knew that Edwin and Ruby were carrying on behind her back?’

‘I believe so, Charles.’

‘So she could have boxed clever, played along with the visit, dressed the same as Ruby, pretended to fall asleep in the compartment. After all, Edwin could not guarantee that she would be tired on the day, and what if she’d fancied an early meal? What would have happened if another traveller had shared their compartment?’

‘All valid points, Charles. The plan was riddled with pitfalls.’ Badger approved of Vignoles’s analysis.

‘Hm. What if she was aware of Ruby sneaking onto the train and, after Plough got off, it was she who confronted Ruby, dealt her a blow and threw her from the train?’ Vignoles was getting into his stride. ‘Or maybe they had a violent altercation in the narrow vestibule, and the door somehow sprung open and Ruby fell.’

‘One can imagine the shock on Ruby’s face the moment she came face to face with Alice, who by then was supposed to be lying on the track. Perhaps she backed up against the door and it gave way.’

Vignoles was trying to picture the scene. ‘Perhaps Alice struck Ruby, who then turned away in a defensive move. The window was not closed shut and it slid down as Ruby leaned upon it. There was perhaps another blow and Ruby collapses forward, the window dropping down fully under her weight, and her body from the waist up is leaning out of the window. She is perhaps stupefied by the blow. It would be simple for Alice to reach around Ruby, put her arm through the open window, twist the door handle and allow gravity and momentum to do the rest.’

‘Bravo, Charles! That was one of a number of scenarios we tried out. But of course we could prove none of them.’ Badger looked momentarily exasperated. ‘It was suggested that Hough left the window open as he hopped off at Woodhead. Or perhaps, in his hurry, he didn’t even close the door properly.’

‘That would make him inadvertently an unwitting accomplice to her death.’

‘Yes, and that is ironic, considering he’d been paid to kill someone and didn’t. The rear coach would have been in the shadows at Pemstone station, a long way from any lamp. The guard was a couple of coaches away and could easily have not noticed a door was not fully closed. It happens all the time.’

‘But, if it were merely an appalling accident, sir, why did Alice not rush and tell the guard what had happened?’

‘Indeed!’ Badger gave an approving nod. ‘She denied even knowing Ruby had been on the train. Her story was that she expected her sister to meet them at Sheffield. When the body was found, she duly went through all the stages of shock, disbelief and grief one might expect from an innocent, bereaved close relation.

‘Edwin told us the same story: he had no idea that Ruby was on board, or where or why she had joined the train,’ Badger continued. ‘With both Plumptons sticking steadfastly to this story, we rather hit the buffers. Interestingly, he carried on living with Alice for some time afterwards, perhaps always wondering if she’d killed her own sister.’

‘Do you think he was afraid for his own life?’

‘Perhaps. Can’t say I can find any sympathy for the man, either way,’ said Badger. ‘Oh, we got him for embezzling funds from his own company and attempting to fiddle the books. He got six months, suspended.’ He made it clear by the tone of his voice what he thought of that. ‘The story is, ultimately, extremely unsatisfactory, but it raised interesting questions. I started off thinking this was a murder and wanted to see someone brought to book, but the law demands levels of proof that we could not deliver. It was a messy case and, despite a promising start, the outcome lacked the satisfying sensation that someone had paid for the crime. But, as time passed, I feel more comfortable that at least Pierrepoint didn’t get to put a rope around Alice Plumpton’s pretty neck. I still harboured doubts about her, though.’

‘Earlier you mentioned there was something else to tell me about Alice?’

Badger did not reply. ‘The Cutler’ had drawn to a halt in Leicester Central and they were busy collecting their hats and coats before stepping off the train. They were an hour late, slightly inebriated and both eager to get home and see their wives. Vignoles just had a short shuttle up to Belgrave & Bistall, whilst Badger was off to spend a weekend with his in-laws near Snibston. Any lingering thoughts about murder were banished from his mind as he eyed the coating of snow on the ground and remarked that he hoped his wife had taken care with his precious car.

‘Yes, there is an interesting coda to the story,’ Badger replied at long last, swaying slightly on the platform. The cold air mixed with the effects of the whiskey had taken effect. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope, holding it out to Vignoles. ‘I received this recently. It makes for interesting reading and I’d like you to study it.’ He gave Vignoles a strange look. ‘It will be your decision on whether we should take it further.’

‘Righty-o, sir.’ Vignoles was puzzled. It sounded as though work was suddenly back on the agenda.

‘Taken on its own, you’d be forgiven for seeing nothing more than an unfortunate tragedy.’

Vignoles, reluctantly made as though to open the envelope.

‘No, don’t read it now. It can keep till morning. You could say it has waited since 1938, so another night won’t make any odds.’

‘One of our officers at Manchester Central investigated an incident last week. At 8.00am on Tuesday, when the platforms were crowded and the surface slippery underfoot, a man tripped over some luggage and fell into the path of an oncoming train. Quite ghastly. It was one of those ugly, DC-electric things on the front.’ Vignoles appreciated this irrelevant detail. ‘Our lads carried out a thorough investigation and at the inquest, the coroner declared it was an accident. The deceased’s name was Edwin Plumpton.’

‘Oh, my goodness!’ exclaimed Vignoles. He had not expected that.

Badger continued. ‘One of our officers went to inform his next of kin, and found he was divorced, had no children and lived alone. Two others interviewed the many witnesses and, by sheer chance, one of them was Sam Worthington, who’d worked with me on the case we’ve just been talking about. Decent copper, with a memory like an elephant, but never made the step up the grades. He took a witness statement from Mrs Wright, whose luggage was involved in the incident. She had a furled umbrella — like most of the passengers did that morning — and a heavy carpet bag. She’d placed the bag six feet from the edge of the crowded platform, and threaded the brolly through its handles. Everyone’s attention was drawn towards the incoming train and they began picking up their own briefcases and luggage and generally readying themselves to board. Somehow, as Mrs Wright bent to pick up her things, they became entangled with Edwin’s legs and he lost his footing and plunged headfirst into the path of ‘Electra’, which was the name of the locomotive involved. When Worthington interviewed her, he felt that her face was somehow familiar.’

Vignoles felt a tingle on the nape of his neck.

‘It turned out that Mrs Alice Wright had once been Mrs Alice Plumpton.’

After so many years this could be coincidence.’ Vignoles was careful not to jump to conclusions.

‘Indeed it could. But a good detective is never completely comfortable with such an explanation. This letter landed on Worthington’s desk.’ Badger raised an eyebrow. ‘Nobody has read it, except Worthington and myself. I am going to leave it to you to decide whether we should send it to the coroner.’ He shook hands with Vignoles and turned to leave, but suddenly stopped. ‘Just remember that Edwin Plumpton was an adulterous, scheming liar, who’d coldbloodedly paid to have his wife murdered, all for the most selfish reasons of monetary gain and carnal lust.’ With that, he hurried away.

Vignoles stood beside ‘Galtee More’, watching the steam writhe and wriggle up from around the cylinders and wheels and the smoke being whipped away from the edge of the chimney. He exchanged a few words with the driver about the run. The man’s eyes were white against his soot-blackened face. He spoke quietly and used few words, and appeared calm and in control of his engine and the train it pulled. A model professional; a proper railwayman. There was no duplicity about him. He spoke frankly and honestly. It was oddly reassuring and reaffirmed Vignoles’s belief in the down to earth goodness at the heart of most people.

The beautiful engine was enshrouded in steam as it pulled away. Vignoles sought shelter as he awaited his connecting train, his mind and soul salved of any thoughts about the Caswell sisters and the pathetic Edwin Plumpton.

He shoved the letter deep into his coat pocket. Perhaps he might read it — one day. Perhaps he might lose it. But, for now, it could be quietly forgotten. What he didn’t know, he couldn’t act upon, and right now he had no stomach to add to Pierrepoint’s list of efficient jobs completed.

~ The End ~

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The Inspector Vignoles Series

Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

The Murder of Crows

The Torn Curtain

The Marylebone Murders

The Last Train

New Brighton Rock

Blood and Custard

The Mountsorrel Mystery & other stories

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