On Track for Murder Read online

  Abigail yawned. Water welled in the corners of her eyes and she blinked to clear it. The blink lingered, welcome relief from the increasing light. Another blink was allowed to remain for as long as she dare. With an ache in her neck starting to nag, Abigail folded her arms across the table and rested her head. The subsequent blink lasted for … well who could say?

  She became aware of Bertrand standing on a wooden platform with a blank look on his face. It was clear he had no idea what was happening. A rope noose was placed over his head. She screamed but no sound came. Bertie seemed to hear her, for at that moment he looked up and smiled. This caused the rope to dissolve and turn into a celebratory paper streamer. Bertie grinned widely before being lifted into the air and carried, hero style, across a crowded room. The joy in him billowed outwards, like mist from a waterfall.

  The waterfall became fire, stoked by a desperate Prentice Sleath. His angst drew Abigail closer. She gasped as into view came Frances. The woman began whipping Sleath, laughing, her huge teeth growing larger with each stroke. The fire peaked and a plume of flame leapt out, turning into an angry Stanley Larkin. He pulled Frances out of the way to get to Sleath then stopped, noticing Abigail watching. The attention turned to Abigail, all three of them staring at her as they chanted ‘She shall not know … she shall not know.’ As Abigail fruitlessly attempted to run away, Dunning arrived with a cohort of policemen who swarmed across the three protagonists. The feeling of angst remained. Confusion grew with every turn as the entire lot became embroiled in the fire. This rapidly turned into a waterfall that Abigail found herself plummeting down.

  She jerked awake. Beads of sweat ran down her face as she slowly regained her composure. Abigail realised that almost everyone she knew was a possible suspect in her father’s murder. She possessed not a single thread of evidence to support her claim of Bertie’s innocence. Currently, it seemed, she was not going to find any, either. Yet, in her dream, she had seen Bertie happy and free. Could it be a sign? Her heart was pounding as the door opened and a tall thin officer with a red moustache entered.

  “I heard a cry, miss. Are you hurt?” He spoke softly.

  “No constable, not at all. I fell asleep and had a dream. I do apologise.”

  “Think nothing of it, my dear.” He held out a hand to assist her up. “Might I offer you somewhere to partake in a proper sleep? We have a room with a small day bed where we allow victims to recover. I could enquire as to whether you might rest there … if you so desire. Your friend will be with the doctor for a few hours yet. If you would like to remain here until he is released, you are most welcome.” He smiled at her assent.

  The room sat just behind the main desk, shielded from public view but close enough to overhear almost every conversation. That didn’t matter any more. Abigail was in the grip of tiredness and sleep was the only escape. Every sound, every smell, melded into a haze of fluffy mist.

  Memories of Bertie standing in the dining room clutching a bloody knife swam in her mind. The image of Father’s dead body rested beyond. A deep, heart wrenching, sob ripped through her. Father was gone and she felt so helpless. The room began to blur as tears flowed freely. She closed her eyes. The images remained. Trying to convince herself that this was all a dream, and that Father would be there when she woke, proved fruitless. This was her reality. For the first time since the discovery, Abigail was alone. She quickly succumbed to overwhelming grief. The sobbing continued. It wasn’t until sheer exhaustion overtook her that Abigail eventually curled up into a ball on the hard bunk and allowed the pull of sleep to overtake her. This time it was peaceful. No angst filled dreams, no driving emotions. For now, she was safe.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A commotion at the public desk woke Abigail. She sat up and blinked. The clock on the wall showed it was half-past-one. Sunlight leaking past the wooden shutter proved it was early afternoon. She yawned and stretched before taking her attention to the heated discussion outside. It was entertainment to wake to.

  “Well, that’s just not good enough.” The woman speaking was quite riled.

  “I’m sorry, madam, but there is nothing more we can do. I have two officers scouring the area and another approaching our trusted informers to see if they know anything.”

  “What?” she snapped at the officer. “You are trusting the recovery of my property to a collection of criminals?”

  “Madam,” the officer remained calm. “Your travel trunk has almost certainly been taken by criminals. It is not the local vicar we should be talking to.” The unsubtle sarcasm made Abigail smile. Yet there was something familiar about this woman.

  “I just cannot believe you are taking this seriously.” She was getting worse. “Do you know who I am? Do you know who I am, constable?”

  “Yes, madam. You are Mrs Sergeant.” Frances?

  “That is correct, constable. Frances Sergeant. My husband is one of the most influential men in the railway corporation. Did you know that?”

  “No, madam. I did not know—”

  “And do you realise that I am supposed to be leaving on a steamer for New Zealand this afternoon? Leaving … without my luggage … I think not officer.”

  “Mrs Sergeant. Madam. Please calm down. We are doing our best.”

  “Well, your best is not good enough. I will see to it that you are …” she stopped. “Listen, constable. I will be on that ship when it leaves. I expect you to have my travel trunk there on time. It is now your responsibility.” With that she stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

  “Cup of tea, miss?” The tall officer with the red moustache stood in the doorway, clutching a steaming mug.

  “Oh, thank you. Yes, please.” Abigail shifted around to sit on the edge of the bunk. The tea warmed her insides. She looked up and sighed, cradling the mug with both hands. “It seems there is trouble in town?”

  “Yes, miss. An entire handcart loaded with trunks bound for the steamer, SS Peary, was stolen last night. Just disappeared. Five passengers have lost their luggage. It’s a good thing the steamer has engine trouble and needs to remain in port for another day or so. Gives us a bit more time to locate the stolen goods.”

  “That’s positively awful.” Abigail struggled to hide a growing grin. “Do you have any leads?”

  “Not a one. We can’t think what would be so enticing about other peoples’ under-garments and toiletries. No-one has claimed anything of real value as being stolen.”

  “How very strange.” Abigail’s eyes flicked up to the ceiling. Could there may be any connection to her quest? “Tell me, constable, did they lose everything?”

  “Well, there’s the thing. Four of the passengers lost all their possessions, but that woman you heard before was lucky and only lost one trunk out of three. She was fortunate to get away with most of her goods intact.”

  Abigail stared at the gas mantle above, her mind racing. “It seems she is making the biggest fuss, though?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I wonder if I may impose one more thing, constable. I need to get a message to Perth. Where would I find the electric telegraph office?”

  “I’m afraid that the telegraph is still not working, miss. It’s been down since last week. Was it important? You may need to write.”

  “Oh, it’s not that important. Thank you all the same.” She stared at the ceiling, no closer to any relief for Bertie and no closer to uncovering any alternative suspects.

  The tall officer waited for a second before turning to leave. “Anyway, enjoy your tea, miss. I believe your friend is to be discharged soon.”

  Abigail returned to her cup and pondered the situation. She wondered how long it would be before someone noticed an extra steam locomotive parked in the warehouse siding. She would dearly love to get a message to Dunning, but if the telegraph was not working there would be little chance of that. And anyway, he would most likely be on a train by now. Would he continue to Albany, or return to Perth having lost Abigail? She had no idea how the mind of a pol
iceman worked; struggled even with the thought processes of any man. On top of all that, Frances was storming around town angry that her luggage had been stolen and that the ship that was to take her to New Zealand was delayed with engine trouble. She wouldn’t be the easiest person to talk to.

  Abigail’s mind reeled with all this information. A plan needed to be formulated, but what? First she would confront Frances. If Bertie were correct, Frances would know what happened. With luck it would be enough to prove his innocence. If Abigail could persuade Frances to return with her, they would be on the next train back. If not, further action would be needed. Father’s documents mentioned a solicitor in Albany. Maybe there would be something there to suggest who may have wanted to do this. It was worth asking.

  “Excuse me, miss.” The constable who rescued her and Sleath the night before strolled into the room. “My apologies for not seeing you sooner, I have only just now returned to duty for the night shift.”

  Abigail froze. Did he know more than the others? “Don’t apologise, please. I have been well looked after.”

  “I was just wondering, miss.” He stood casually in the doorway. “You said that your friend was attacked last night. Did you get a look at the perpetrator?”

  Abigail paused. This was a perfect chance to put the police onto Larkin’s trail. “Yes, I did actually. He was a big man, quite rough looking, a couple of inches taller than me so he would be about five feet ten inches or so. He had greasy brown grey hair.”

  “Anything else, miss? Any distinguishing features, anything to make him stand apart?”

  “Oh, yes. He had a tattoo on his right forearm. A mermaid I think. And he spoke with a northern English accent. He was quite intimidating.”

  “He sounds like he would be. And this was over by the sheds where I found you?”

  “Yes, a little further down but around there.”

  “Well. Thank you, miss. We’ll keep a look out for him. There is a high probability that he may be linked with the missing cart load of luggage.”

  Abigail had to play along. “Oh, how positively thrilling. I hope you catch him. I don’t wish to come across him again.” She hammed it up for the policeman.

  “Tell me, miss. Are you staying in town?”

  This was a problem. Abigail had no address and no booking at any hotel or boarding house. Her mind raced. Before she knew what she was doing, she blurted out the only address in Albany she knew. The solicitor her father had engaged: Henry Robinson of York Street. Without a hint of suspicion the constable copied down the address.

  “I would stay in tonight, miss. You never know what such characters will be up to under cover of darkness.” He slid his pencil behind his ear and closed his notepad.

  “I will, constable. May I go now?”

  “Of course. Please let me know if you see this man again. It would be of great assistance.”

  Abigail rose and took the empty teacup through to the public counter. After exchanging thanks with almost the entire complement of policemen present, she found herself in the street once again.

  The doctor’s practice was a short distance from the police station. Abigail had no trouble spying it across the dirt road. A horse and buggy clattered past, followed by a wagon load of boxes, pulled by a couple of slow cart horses. Prevented from crossing until they had passed, she waited.

  Gazing through the dust, Abigail noticed Prentice Sleath appear. He stood, glancing around furtively as if searching for something. Not surprising, as Larkin could well be in town by now. A buggy pulled up. It stopped in front of the doctor’s surgery and Sleath climbed up to sit beside the driver. With her vision clearing, Abigail was finally able to identify the buggy’s occupants. Sleath sat sheepishly alongside Frances. They drove quickly away. Abigail turned her back and allowed the dust to hide her from view as they drove past.

  What would Frances be doing picking up Prentice Sleath from the doctors? How did she even know he was there? Abigail stood for a moment, stunned. Speaking with Frances was her main goal, yet here she was watching her step-mother drive away with Prentice Sleath alongside. Exactly like that night in Perth. She shook her head. Was everything going to be this difficult? Without any hesitation, Abigail determined she would follow. She strode off, picking up her skirts as best she could to allow for a faster gait.

  Within minutes Abigail had lost sight of the buggy, her last hope disappearing behind a wagon full of coal. The street she was on ran parallel with the waterfront. Looking down to the sea, Abigail noticed the railway line she had come in on, and could just make out the docks beyond. In front of her she could see the main street heading up away from the docks. She had been told it was York Street, where she would find the solicitor's office.

  Gaining ground rapidly, Abigail slowed as she neared an inn on the corner. To her relief, sitting outside was Frances’ buggy. It stood to reason that Frances would be staying there. It looked to be a tidy establishment and was close to the docks.

  The Chusan Inn was an impressive two storey building with an ornate balcony overlooking the street and the sea beyond. Abigail considered it would be the perfect place to install herself while in Albany. It had the added benefit that she would have easy access to Frances. She stepped inside.

  “May I help you, madam?” the clerk said, puffing out his chest and sliding his glasses to the end of his nose.

  “Would you have a single room available?”

  “You are alone, madam?” He bowed his head to observe her over his spectacles.

  “It’s miss, actually, and yes, I am alone.” Abigail straightened herself to her full height. “I’m looking for my step-mother, Mrs Frances Sergeant. I believe she may be staying at this very establishment?”

  “Indeed she is, miss.” He pressed his glasses up his nose, smiled, and opened the register. “We have a guest by that name. Would you like a room next to hers, overlooking the waterfront?”

  “That would be most satisfactory, thank you. Could you tell me which is her room? I would like to let her know I am here.”

  “Certainly, miss. If you would please sign the register, I will fetch your room key.”

  Abigail completed the formalities and found her way up the stairs to her room. True to his word, the clerk had placed her in the room right next to Frances’. What a stroke of luck.

  After a quick trip to the lavatory, Abigail fronted up to her step-mother’s door. Voices inside revealed that Sleath was in with her. They appeared to be arguing. Abigail paused, her hand in mid air, about to knock. The conversation was too intriguing to interrupt. She leaned in closer to the door.

  “But why did you leave me there?” Sleath spoke with his voice raised.

  “I’ve told you, because I needed to arrive in time for Hurley and Burge.”

  “I still don’t know what you needed them for. They aren’t the most savoury characters. You need to be careful who you associate with.”

  “It really is none of your business what I’m doing. I don’t have to answer to you.”

  “But …” Sleath seemed wounded. “I thought we had something. I love you. You know that. I thought you felt the same way.”

  “Well, you are wrong.” Frances’ voice held a mocking tone. “It was fun while it lasted, but did you really think following me to New Zealand was a good idea?”

  “I thought we’d agreed?” Sleath’s tone eased.

  “We agreed for you to come to Albany and assist me. I never intended for you to travel all the way with me. Who did you think would pay for it, for a start?”

  “But …” Sleath became lost for words.

  Abigail’s mouth dropped open. She slowly moved back from the door. This was much worse than she had considered. Frances and Prentice Sleath? What a remarkably odd pairing. Father couldn’t have had any idea that his wife was seeing other men, let alone his staff. He would have been devastated. Maybe that was at the heart of the argument the night Frances left, although Abigail had heard nothing to suggest that at the time
. She guessed that Father never knew. A blessing, I suppose.

  Creeping back to her own room, Abigail decided that waiting for things to calm was a pertinent move. She quietly closed the door and crept to the wall. Finding a glass tumbler on the bedside table, she deftly put it into service as a listening device. Held against the wall, with Abigail’s ear pressed to the bottom, it worked a treat. The conversation had lulled but quickly picked up again as the glass door to the balcony was slammed shut.

  “I was attacked, you know. A man your husband refused a job to.” Sleath raised his voice.

  “Well, that isn’t my fault, is it.” Frances matched his tone.

  “You didn’t even come looking. It was Abigail who—”

  “Abigail was there?” This took Frances by surprise. “What was she doing there?”

  “She said she was looking for you.”

  Frances’ speech slowed. “What does she want with me?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t say.”

  Abigail bit her lip. I’m sure I told him.

  Sleath continued, becoming sheepish. “But she came down here with me. I left her at the police station.”

  “The police station?” Something hard was thrown against the wall.

  Abigail jumped at the loud bang. Recovering her composure she returned to the listening glass just in time for the next statement.

  “I need to find out what she has to say.” Frances barked the instruction. “Go and get her. Bring her to me. I must discover what she knows.”

  “Knows … about what?”

  “Just go.”

  A few steps could be heard shuffling around the room. The door closed, then all was quiet.