On Track for Murder Page 11

  Abigail decided this was probably as good a time as any to confront Frances. Without delay she strode out of her room and down to her step-mother’s door.

  Frances gaped as the door swung open. Light from the window behind provided her with a glowing halo. Abigail found the effect most inappropriate. Through a scowl fit to sour milk, Abigail was invited in. She sat in the only chair, a hard wooden dining chair, while Frances perched on the edge of the bed.

  “So,” Frances began. “I was told you have come looking for me. What do you want with me?” Frances leaned forward and scowled even harder. “You know I walked out on your father?”

  “I do know, yes.” Abigail wasn’t sure whether to match Frances’ stance, or offer a more submissive approach. As she needed help, she decided the latter was more appropriate and placed her hands in her lap, gazing at the floor.

  “Well?”

  “You obviously don’t know.” Abigail maintained her downcast look.

  “Know what?”

  “Know that Father was killed the day after you left.” Abigail looked up, directly at Frances.

  “No. Surely not.” Frances’ face turned upwards toward the ceiling and she bit her lip. A light drop of blood formed. This is a strange reaction.

  Abigail continued. “I was the one who discovered him. But Bertie was there and was found holding the bloodstained knife. The police think he did it.”

  “Did he?”

  Abigail’s eyes widened. “No, he did not. I’m certain he didn’t have anything to do with it. But he may have seen whoever did.”

  “So, why chase after me?” She raised her eyebrows and scratched her nose.

  Abigail’s brow creased. “You don’t seem too upset?”

  “As I said, I left your father. What he gets up to after that is his own business.”

  Abigail glared at her. “What he gets up to? What he gets up to? He’s incapable of getting up to anything now. Someone killed him with a meat cleaver. I don’t think …” she stopped. No information would be forthcoming if she maintained this tone. She gazed at the floor. “I’m sorry. I do apologise for my outburst. Please understand, my father is dead. I’m at a loss to understand why, and it’s affecting my behaviour.”

  “Apology accepted.” Frances stood and placed her hand on Abigail’s shoulder. “Now, you came all this way for a reason. What is that reason?”

  Abigail shuffled in an attempt to escape the gesture but the firm hand remained. “Well, Bertie kept saying that you know something about this. That we should speak with you.”

  “I don’t see why. I wasn’t even there.” Her hand remained.

  “But something triggered Bertie’s insistence. Did anyone come to the house the previous day? Maybe there is a connection?”

  Frances finally sat back down and stroked her chin, slowly shaking her head. “Well, let me see …” A twinkle flashed across her face and she smiled. “Yes, a man did come looking for your father. A rather large, stocky man, with a tattoo of a mermaid on his forearm—”

  “Larkin,” Abigail gushed the name before Frances could finish.

  “Is that the man who menaced you on the ship?”

  “Yes, it sounds like him.” Abigail paused and cocked her head. Her brow furrowed. “How do you know about the incident on the ship?”

  “We discussed it that evening at dinner. Don’t you remember?” Frances shuffled on the bed. Abigail was sure she hadn’t mentioned the altercation with Larkin. Unfortunately, Abigail’s recollections of that night, and the following day, had become rather cloudy. It was entirely possible the conversation took place as suggested.

  Still, if this were correct, Abigail needed proof. “Do you recall anything about his manner that would suggest he may have been intent on murder?”

  Frances gazed upwards before answering. “He was angry, I remember that. He said he was going for a job at the railway workshops. He said that he suspected you may attempt to stop him.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. He definitely has it in for me.” Abigail looked at Frances. She seemed to know a lot about Stanley Larkin. “Did he say anything else you can remember?”

  “He mentioned something about the brig on the SS Elderslie.”

  “Yes, he was pretty upset about that. He was more angry that I told the workshop foreman about it.” Abigail paused. How could Larkin have called at the house when he was watching me at the docks all afternoon? Maybe he arrived during the evening meal? She shook off the distraction and continued. “You know that it was Larkin who attacked Prentice Sleath in Beverley. That’s why he disappeared.”

  “What do you know about Prentice?” Frances’ eyes grew wider as her volume increased.

  “I helped him. I know he was coming down to Albany with you. He wanted to stay with you.” Abigail tried to recover the situation.

  “He’s a kid. He thinks he’s in love and followed me here because of it. But it’s merely childish infatuation. He needs to move on.” She stood and glared down at Abigail. “Now, if you have finished, I would like you to move on.” The moment grew more uncomfortable as Frances took a step forward, their skirts pressing together.

  Abigail twisted away and stood. She turned to Frances. “I was hoping that you would accompany me back to provide evidence—”

  “I’m about to get on a ship.” Frances’ steely blue eyes grew almost black. “I’m afraid that returning to Perth is quite out of the question. Anyway, whatever I might say would do little to sway a case. There is no proof that this Larkin character returned to murder your father. It could have been anyone … even Bertrand.”

  “No, he wouldn’t do such a thing.” This was not going well. Abigail realised that she had no chance of persuading Frances to return with her. News that Larkin had come to the house was crucial, but what to do with such information was beyond her.

  “Well?” Frances glared at Abigail. She pointedly stepped to one side and gesticulated to the door. “Enjoy Albany.”

  Oh, how Abigail wished Dunning were there. He was only a police constable but had the vision of becoming a detective. He had the mindset to make sense of this. He would know what to do.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Frustrated, Abigail left the hotel. At the top of the front steps, she stopped. Her main aim in travelling all that way had been to speak with Frances. Bertrand had been so insistent. Now, with any hope of Frances’ assistance dashed, Abigail found herself lost.

  The day was clear and warm, the sun half way down the western sky. With no clear direction in mind, Abigail stood motionless. She rubbed her eyes. Sleep was desperately needed, but sleeping was not an option. Staring blankly across the road she became fixated on a rather fat black and white cat, hungrily eying up a nearby magpie. As it crept forward, the animal lowered its stance in readiness to pounce. It knew exactly what it wanted. Abigail envied that cat.

  With over half of the day already gone, panic took hold. Abigail’s breathing quickened as she realised time was a luxury she couldn’t afford to waste. She had been given five days to uncover evidence of Bertie’s innocence. Two had passed, and she had just wasted most of the third. What do I do now? Oh, if only Dunning were here.

  With no real evidence, and no idea how to find any, Abigail dropped her head into her hands and began to weep. The tears flowed freely, running off her cheeks and onto her tunic. She reached for a handkerchief. Nothing. Reaching deeper into her tunic pocket, all she came up with was a rather crumpled business card. Henry Robinson - York Street. It was Father’s solicitor. Abigail remembered that York Street ran up the hill immediately to her left. Although he wouldn’t supply the evidence she needed, this solicitor may offer some idea as to where she might find it. A decision was finally made. Henry Robinson would be her next call.

  The small sandstone building sat a short way up the hill. A brass plaque proudly proclaimed the building’s function, and the immaculately kept front garden revealed occupants of exacting standards. Yet, as Abigail gazed towards the build
ing, she was taken by a messy patch of flattened flowers beneath a front window. The window pane had been broken, smashed glass scattered through the ravaged bed outside.

  Abigail entered and was met by a rather matronly woman seated behind a sturdy dark stained desk.

  “May I help you?” She spoke with a very posh, English accent.

  “I’m hoping I might speak with …” Abigail paused and looked down at the business card, “… with a Mr Robinson?”

  “I’m afraid Mr Robinson is dealing with a pressing issue at present and will be unavailable until tomorrow. I could make an appointment if you desire?”

  “It’s very important that I speak with him today.” Abigail’s eyes began to fill with tears. “My father has been killed. He had retained Mr Robinson’s business card. I was hoping Mr Robinson may be of assistance … in discovering why someone would want my father dead.”

  “I’m afraid it will be impossible for you to see him today. We have had a break-in and Mr Robinson needs to ascertain what was taken.”

  Abigail fumbled in her deep skirt pocket for the note she took from Father’s desk. The neatly folded paper had unravelled and now felt like a birds nest beneath her fingers. She pulled it out and straightened it on the edge of the desk. “This is a letter stating that Henry Robinson holds an addendum to documents residing in Perth. It says that Mr Robinson should be sought in the event of Father’s death.” Abigail showed the paper to the woman who gasped as she read.

  “Albert Sergeant?” She looked at Abigail quizzically. “And you are?”

  “I’m Abigail Sergeant. Albert was my father.”

  The woman scanned Abigail’s face with a bore like stare. She jumped to her feet, snatching up the tatty letter from Abigail’s hand. “Wait here,” she stated, before disappearing through the rear door. Seconds later she returned, an immaculately dressed gentleman following closely behind.

  He held out his hand as he approached. “Miss Abigail Sergeant. How delightful to finally meet you. Please, come through to my office.” He gently took Abigail’s hand, pulling it level with his lips and feigning a light kiss. “Albert mentioned he would bring you in one day. Is he here with you?” He shut the door gently behind them and ushered Abigail to a leather chair. She sat gingerly on the edge, upright.

  “I’m afraid not, Mr Robinson. Father …” she sniffed away a tear, “Father was found dead two days ago.”

  “Oh, my goodness, that is terrible.” He shuffled in his seat.

  Abigail succumbed to a flow of tears. They streamed down her cheeks as she continued. “It’s worse than it sounds. It … it seems he was murdered.”

  “Murdered!” Robinson rose to his full height. “Who would do such a terrible thing?”

  “That’s … that’s just it. I … I don’t know.” Abigail struggled to form the words. “The police think … they think it was Bertrand.”

  “Your brother? But why? What would make them think that?” Robinson rummaged around in his desk, producing a neatly folded handkerchief that he passed across.

  “He was … he was found at the scene. He was holding the cleaver. It … it was covered … in blood.” Abigail flung her head down into her hands and wailed loudly. In her grief, she became oblivious to the movements within the office. Mere seconds seemed to have passed when Robinson placed his firm hand on her shoulder and spoke with a warm, calming voice.

  “There, there. Don’t cry. Have a cup of tea then we can speak more of this awful thing.” He held up a china cup and saucer, steam drifting lightly from the top. “Do you take sugar?”

  “No. No sugar thank you.” Abigail accepted the offer, grasping the saucer with her left hand while mopping away the wetness from her face with her right. “I do apologise, Mr Robinson. That was most unladylike.”

  “Think nothing of it, my dear.” Robinson smiled as he returned to his seat. “Now, it seems you harbour a differing opinion to that of the Perth constabulary?”

  “I do indeed, Mr Robinson.”

  “So, you believe Bertrand to be innocent?”

  “That I do. He wouldn’t do such a thing. And Frances said that a man called at the house the previous day looking for Father. She said he was angry.” Abigail sipped the tea and sank back into the chair.

  “It seems that more robust investigation is needed before people start jumping to conclusions.” Robinson imparted warmth and confidence with every word. His smile was captivating and his dark green eyes seemed to possess an ability to discern the truth.

  “Oh, I am so glad you agree.” She sat forward once again. “The police are holding Bertie. They say they will charge him with the murder by the end of the week unless I can find evidence to the contrary.”

  Robinson scratched his chin and grumbled under his breath. “Guilty until proven innocent? That’s good police work.” He paused and looked up. “Now, don’t worry, Miss Sergeant. I won’t let that happen.”

  Abigail gasped. “You can do that? Stop the police?”

  “My dear. I am a solicitor. That is what I do. Sometimes there is great eagerness to close off a case without executing due care. I ensure proper process is followed before going up in front of the magistrate.”

  Abigail dabbed away the building tears. “But the police said there was no doubt.”

  He smiled. “You doubt, therefore there is doubt. If Bertrand is innocent we will ensure he doesn’t get convicted.”

  Abigail placed down her cup before collapsing into a further bout of sobbing.

  A second cup of tea helped Abigail regain her composure. As she sipped, Robinson reclined behind his desk and pulled out a large notepad. Several stacks of crumpled paper needed to be shovelled aside to make room. The thieves had made quite a mess.

  “So, Miss Sergeant,” he scribbled notes as he spoke. “I understand you doubting the police’s version of events, but what brings you all the way here to Albany?”

  Abigail set down her, now empty, teacup and slid forward in her chair. “Bertrand,” she stated. “He has completely shut down. It’s a form of stress induced petrification. But before it took hold he told me that Frances knew who did this.”

  Robinson continued his notes. “Was she there when it happened?”

  “It would seem not. She left the previous night and lodged in town. She took the train to Albany the morning of the murder.”

  “Had there been a falling out? Between Albert and Frances?”

  Abigail cocked her head. “Yes, there certainly had. They argued almost all evening. But there’s more.”

  “Do go on.”

  “Frances left with a man called Prentice Sleath. He worked for Father as a fireman on the trains.”

  Robinson paused his writing and tapped his pen on the blotter. “Curious. Do you know why?”

  “They had become lovers. Frances told me as much this morning.”

  He returned to his notes. “She is in Albany?”

  “She is booked on the SS Peary but it is confined to port pending repairs. She is staying at the Chusan Inn on Sterling Terrace.”

  “And do you suppose Albert found out about this affair?”

  “It is possible, but he didn’t mention it.” Abigail rested her head in her hands once again. How far should she go with her honesty? “Mr Robinson. I don’t know if it’s relevant but …”

  “But what, my dear?”

  “Tell me, are you able to keep a confidence? I mean, one that may become a distraction if it is to come to light before Bertie has been acquitted.”

  “As a solicitor I am bound to keep my client’s confidences. Unless you are about to tell me it was you who committed the murder?”

  “Heaven forbid, no. It’s just that, the police sent me here with a constable. When we were in Beverley for the overnight stop, I came across Prentice Sleath, Frances’ lover. He had been severely beaten by the man who had threatened Father.”

  “The man you say Frances remembered speaking to?” He refreshed his pen in the inkwell.

 
; “That’s correct. Well, we heard him say he was looking for me. To kidnap me for a ransom.”

  “Motive indeed, but not the actions of a man who has just murdered the provider of said ransom.”

  “Indeed.” Abigail gazed down at the desk. “However this man was not about to give up.”

  “And?”

  She turned partly away. “And, well … we took the train.”

  “You took the train? But it didn’t leave until the following morning.”

  Abigail turned back to look him in the eye. “No, we took the train … stole the engine … and drove it here. We abandoned it in a siding down by the docks.”

  “Goodness, that was a bold move.” He remained remarkably calm. “I won’t ask for details but that does put you in a bad light as far as the police are concerned.”

  Abigail relaxed her look. The confession was out. “I understand that but at the time it seemed the only way to escape Larkin.”

  “Is that the man? Larkin?”

  “Stanley Larkin, yes.” She took her gaze back down to the desk. “I thought I had persuaded Constable Dunning to believe me, but now I fear I may have completely ruined that.”

  Robinson dipped his pen in the ink. “Does he know you took the engine?”

  “No. I haven’t seen him. I thought he may have considered me lost and returned to Perth.” She frowned. “I was going to leave him a note but Larkin showed up. If he put two and two together he would deduce who it was that took the engine.”

  Robinson paused his writing. “Or, having lost you, would assume you had been abducted. It’s unlike the police to lose people without engaging in a thorough search.”

  “You do see the dilemma I am caught in, do you not?”

  Robinson refreshed his pen once again. “It certainly is confusing.”

  “So, you see, I have no idea what to do now.” She sighed. “I have until the end of the week to find proof of Bertie’s innocence. If I don’t, he will be convicted and sentenced to the noose.” She welled up again.

  “Now, now. Calm down. That isn’t going to happen. I’ll send word to Perth that I am representing Bertrand. They must allow me access before any trial can take place. In the meantime, I would suggest you go down to the police station and see if your Constable Dunning has arrived.” He smiled. “You need someone who can help you gather evidence, if we are to put forward a convincing case.”