On Track for Murder Read online

  “What if he is not here?”

  “I heard that a policeman from Perth had arrived in town. My guess is, that would most likely be your constable. Tell him everything and ask him to come and see me.”

  “Oh, Mr Robinson.” Abigail fought the tears. “You are the first person to offer me real hope.”

  “Think nothing of it, my dear. I am merely doing my job. Albert was one of my most esteemed clients and I would consider it a real honour to be able to help his family.”

  Abigail turned over the damp handkerchief. “I didn’t realise he spent much time here.”

  Robinson set down his pen. “He practically lived here. You didn’t know?”

  “I had no idea. Frances said he hadn’t been to Albany for ages.”

  Robinson smiled. “He has huge holdings here. And I have all his personal papers, deeds and suchlike. There are also some rather delicate instructions to be enacted in the event of his death.”

  Abigail’s eyebrows rose. “What instructions are they?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t divulge that just now. I have an obligation to confirm his death officially, before I enact his wishes.”

  “It sounds very intriguing.”

  “Trust me, it is. Interestingly, now that I have heard what you have to say, it makes me think last night’s break-in was due to Albert’s passing. Luckily, I had his file with me at home. His instructions, you understand.”

  “I’m not sure I do, but it is not my place to pry.” Abigail wiped the remaining tears from her eyes and handed back the soaked handkerchief. “Thank you so much for your time.”

  “Thank you for coming to see me.” He held up his hand. “Please, keep the handkerchief. It must be difficult for you.” He stood respectfully and offered his arm to assist Abigail to her feet.

  She dutifully accepted. “Mr Robinson, thank you for all your support. I will go directly to the police station and find Constable Dunning. I do hope you are correct and he is prepared to listen.”

  “I’m sure he will.” They shook hands and Abigail left, folding the handkerchief into her paper-filled pocket.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Abigail smiled as she gazed out over the sparkling water of the bay. She began walking with renewed purpose. Down York Street and back into Sterling Terrace, her journey to the police station took her directly past the Chusan Inn. She toyed with the idea of calling in to let Frances know what was going on, but decided expediting contact with Dunning was the best course of action. Feeling increasingly hungry, she decided that offering to pay for a meal would be an excellent way of reacquainting him with the situation. As far as she knew, Dunning had no idea about Stanley Larkin, or that Prentice Sleath had run off with Frances. He was essentially in the dark and she felt it her duty to change that.

  The sun shone directly into Abigail’s face as she bounced along Sterling Terrace. She held her head up, allowing the warming rays to soothe her tired face.

  “Abigail.” The sound came from her left. “Abigail,” a little louder this time, it took her a moment to realise the whispered voice was calling her. She stopped and gazed around. There was nothing to see. She listened intently. All she could hear was the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze. I must have been daydreaming. Abigail turned to continue her walk, attributing the strange call to the lightly building wind. “Abigail.” Now she realised this was no trick of the wind. Someone was calling her name. But where were they?

  “Who is it? Where are you?” She put her hand up to shield the sun.

  “Here, down from the road. To your left.” The voice seemed familiar yet Abigail couldn’t quite place it.

  “Who is it?” she called out.

  “To your left. Come down the path.” Abigail noticed a narrow dirt pathway led down towards the water. There were bushes and trees shading most of the track but she could see enough to notice no-one standing in obvious view.

  “Who are you,” she called again. “I’m not about to walk down a dark pathway with just anyone, you know.”

  “It’s me. Prentice Sleath. Please, Abigail, follow me.” Abigail shook her head. What was he doing? Why couldn’t he just greet her in the street as would anyone else? Why the secrecy?

  Abigail moved further along to afford herself a better view away from the sun’s glare. The rough track curved slightly about ten feet down and it was in that curve that she saw a man, lurking to one side. As she moved closer to the top of the small lane, the man stepped out into the light. It was indeed Prentice Sleath.

  “Mr Sleath, what are you doing?” Abigail stood with her hands on her hips.

  “Quiet, please,” he whispered.

  “Why?”

  “Um … it’s …” Sleath appeared to be struggling for a reason.

  “Prentice Sleath, what do you want?” Abigail turned to walk away.

  “It’s Larkin. He’s in town. He’s looking for you.” Sleath’s head thrust from side to side as he scanned the surroundings, his eyes wide and his mouth pursed.

  “Larkin, is here? How do you know?”

  “That doesn’t matter right now. What does is that you need to get out of sight. He arrived at the inn and discovered you are staying there.”

  “So, what do you propose? Steal another train?”

  Sleath paused for a second before slipping back into the shadows. “Please, follow me.” He slowly crept down the track towards the railway line at the bottom, scanning the area as he went.

  Abigail stood, her mouth wide. What should she do? Sleath had rescued her from an unsavoury situation before. Was he doing the same again? He seemed different somehow but Abigail couldn’t quite determine how. Something about his manner disturbed her. His quiet insistence was out of character. He was normally a confident man who knew his mind and wasn’t afraid to say what he thought. She admired that in him, along with his obvious strength and cute eyes. But it seemed he wasn’t above telling a few lies. His tryst with Frances proved that.

  Abigail looked up and down the street. It was empty. With doubt still coursing through her mind she took a step into the lane. It was fairly steep and she had to watch her footing as she descended. At one point she found she needed to reach out for a branch to prevent a fall.

  Several minutes later Abigail crossed the railway track and stepped onto flat land.

  “Quickly, follow me.” Sleath stood in shadow, overlooking the sandy foreshore. “Try to stay in the shadows.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Abigail said, as she attempted to keep up with the eager lad. “I feel like one of Conan Doyle’s characters, creeping around like this.”

  “Who’s Conan Doyle?”

  “It doesn’t matter. If you don’t read it would mean nothing to you.” Abigail stumbled, recovering her composure just in time to avoid falling headlong into the sandy dirt. “Look, is this truly necessary?”

  “You will thank me when we successfully escape Larkin’s clutches.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see when we get there.” As a long wooden jetty came into view at the water’s edge, Sleath turned. He crossed onto a broad grassed area in front of a rather shabby looking cottage. Fishing nets and cork buoys were strung up across the front of the house. A sky blue rowing boat sat beside the cottage, its peeling paint attesting to years of neglect. Sleath scooted around the boat as he headed into the bushes behind the house. “Come on.”

  Abigail took rather more time to negotiate the obstacle course. Eventually clearing the cottage garden, she found herself facing an even more tatty boat shed. A wooden ramp ran all the way down into the bay. The tide was low, revealing a muddy mess at the foot of the ramp. The main door to the shed sat ajar. Sleath, who had been waiting for Abigail to catch up, ducked inside as soon as she approached.

  “In here, quickly,” he called.

  This did not seem like a good idea at all. With every fibre of Abigail’s being she wanted to turn and run. Surely Sleath was only doing this to protect her. She ought to list
en to him and allow him to help her once again. With a tremble in her step, she slowly slid past the door and into the old boat shed.

  Inside smelled musty, a mix of wet leather and sacking. Shards of light shone through holes in the iron roof, cutting through the dusty air and painting balls of light on the dirt floor. Discarded fishing equipment lay scattered around the sides. In the centre sat a large rickshaw like handcart with both its wheels smashed to pieces. It was loaded with travel trunks.

  Abigail spun around looking for Sleath. Where was he? She was just about to call out when something caught her on the back of the head. A searing pain shot through her scull, the images before her blurring. Then all went black.

  Vague images began to swim across Abigail’s vision. A beam of light seemed to play across her face. Damp boat shed smells lingered in her senses. Where was she?

  It was difficult to breath. Her mouth felt constricted. With her head pounding and her vision still to fully recover, she attempted to raise a hand to her lips. It wouldn’t move. She struggled. Her feet wouldn’t move either. Abigail’s eyes grew wider. Her mouth was covered with some sort of gag that was restricting her breathing. She screamed, unsuccessfully, and flung her head around in desperation. The effort hurt tremendously. She struggled again, desperate to find any part of her body able to move. She fought in vain.

  The pounding in her head was intense. Abigail put all her might behind an attempt to move her hands. Pain flashed from her wrist and up her arm. The ropes were tight. The gag over her mouth seriously restricted her breathing. Abigail felt she might almost pass out. This is nonsense. Her entire body shook uncontrollably. Through the hair cascading across her face she noticed her shoes lying several feet away. The hat that Father had presented to her the day she arrived had been crushed under foot, the flattened mess kicked half way to the door. Abigail found herself panting, quick shallow breaths that actually hurt her nose. What happened to me? Something had to be done. She needed to relax and slow her breathing. But how?

  Abigail closed her eyes and began to recall the journey of the submarine, Nautilus, from Jules Verne’s novel. They encountered such terrible situations but managed to overcome them. What would Captain Nemo do in similar circumstances? Slowly she opened her eyes. Take stock. The thing to do was assess her situation and formulate a plan of action. Deliberately slowing her breathing and relaxing her muscles she looked around the room.

  Abigail sat on the dirt floor in the centre of the boat shed, tied with rope to the large hand cart. She faced the front entrance. It was shut tight. Around the edges of the shed were the fishing materials she had observed earlier. A bucket had been placed upside-down on top of some sort of mechanical pump. The large hand-wheel on the side of the pump appeared to be rusted up, its handle corroded completely off.

  Closer to the hand cart sat a group of large glass bottles. Each seemed to contain an oily amber liquid. Maybe a fuel or lighting oil? Why would a boat shed contain such things? A stack of rags had been mounded up alongside the glass jars. There appeared to be no sign of Prentice Sleath anywhere. Had the attacker taken him away? Or maybe Sleath was tied up on the other side of the immobilised cart? She strained to turn but the effort proved fruitless and painful. If Sleath was there, she had no way of knowing.

  Pausing her breathing she strained, listening for any sign of life. The sound of waves lapping at the foreshore dominated. Several annoyed seagulls argued amongst themselves in the distance. No sounds of breathing or moaning could be detected. It was as if she were alone. The agony in her head continued.

  Thin streams of light shining through the roof began to flicker. As Abigail’s attention was drawn upwards a loud thump set her heart racing. What was that? Another thump followed, alongside a raucous angry cawing. A couple of crows had decided the shed roof would be the perfect place for an altercation. They persisted with the disconcerting noise, clomping around the iron roof like a couple of boxers dancing around the ring. It was a distraction but of no help to Abigail. Any further attempt at locating another human being was doomed until the birds departed. They continued.

  Forcing her attention back to the shed’s contents, Abigail strained her eyes looking for any means of escape. Every idea involved having one of the implements within easy reach. She wondered whether Sleath might have more luck when he regained consciousness. Possibly. If only she could remove the gag, she could call out. If Sleath were revived they could join forces. That would increase their chances.

  The gag tasted horrible and Abigail found that she was unable to get her mouth into a position where she could chew at it. It was hopeless. Tears began welling up. Her sobbing was barely audible over the sound of boxing crows. How did I end up in this mess? All I wanted was to save Bertrand.

  This was all about Bertie. Discovering who actually killed Father was of much less importance. Abigail believed that the murderer would ultimately suffer for their awful deed. Whether in this life, or the next, she didn’t really care. What did matter was freeing Bertrand. He mustn’t be found guilty of something he couldn’t possibly have done. He didn’t have an angry bone in his body. What a mess.

  With her vision blurred, Abigail almost missed a slight increase in the level of light. What was that? She racked her brain, trying to recall whether there was another door in the shed. She had no memory of such but assumed there must be. It was a large boat shed after all.

  As the light level dropped back, Abigail allowed her mind to race away. There could be a rescuer entering the building. If so she ought to make a noise, attract attention. But what if it were the attacker returning. His hideous intent would soon become apparent. Maybe she should feign unconsciousness? At least he would likely leave her alone. He may even panic and leave for good.

  Angst flooded Abigail’s mind. She could end up being left to die. Her thoughts flew to Prentice Sleath. If he were tied up on the other side of the cart, the silence could mean he was already dead. Tears flooded from her eyes as the helplessness of the situation hit home. It really didn’t matter what she did. Whoever was creeping through this disused boat shed would soon be upon her. Her situation was dire indeed.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The racket on the roof continued. Abigail sat as still as she could, her eyes closed, waiting for whatever fate was about to befall her. Her imagination ran wild with possibilities. The dank smell of the shed washed around her, devoid of definition, distinctly unpleasant. She managed, with a great deal of difficulty, to calm her breathing to an almost silent level. There was little else she could do. She sensed someone else in the shed. Someone free, walking around. Abigail was certain she would have heard if Sleath had woken. No, this person was being deliberately quiet. But why? She strained to listen, her closed eyes aiding the remaining senses. The crows continued their haranguing on the roof. But something changed. The smell. There was a new odour drifting slowly through. She recognised it and nearly jumped from her bonds. Coal Tar Soap.

  Was this possible? Could it really be Dunning, come to her rescue? She decided it was worth the risk and struggled, kicking against the pain to make as much noise as possible. An unmistakable sound caught her ears. A sound she had only dreamed possible. A voice. A voice she knew.

  “Hello. Is someone there?” Dunning’s strong tone revived like a tonic.

  Abigail struggled even more, kicking at the ground, her eyes flaring as if it would help.

  “Wait, I’m coming.” Dunning crashed into an abandoned bucket in his attempt to circumnavigate the hand cart. Clinking glass revealed he had found the oil filled jars.

  Abigail kicked and struggled, increasing her pain but hastening her rescue. She could barely see the shadowy figure rounding the end of the cart. Tears rendered her eyes near useless. She would have wailed were she able to be heard through the smelly gag. Through the wet blur of light and shadow a face appeared before her.

  Dunning smiled and held her gaze as his hands worked the knot of the gag. As it came free, Abigail’s sobbing was fi
nally allowed a voice. Dunning merely smiled as he moved down to work the bonds holding her hands tightly behind her. His arms around her made her feel safe. They weren’t the strong muscular arms of Prentice Sleath but they were quick and dexterous.

  As he continued, Abigail’s sobbing was quickly surpassed by gushed gratitude. “Oh, Constable Dunning, I am so glad it is you. I was so scared.”

  “Now, now. There’s nothing to be scared of any more. I’ll get you out of this and we can put this ordeal behind us.”

  “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much for rescuing us.”

  “Us?”

  “Yes, Prentice Sleath is here as well. He’s tied up on the other side of the cart.”

  “I’m afraid he’s not, Miss Abigail. There is definitely no-one else in this shed.”

  “But …” Abigail became lost for words. If Sleath was not tied up behind her he must have been kidnapped, taken away for some other nefarious purpose. “They must have taken him. He is in danger. We must find him.”

  Dunning had completed freeing Abigail’s hands and now, rather bashfully, worked at her leg bonds. “Please excuse me touching your ankles. I can see no other way of freeing you.”

  His embarrassment caught Abigail off guard. She had assumed that policemen were an unfeeling breed who possessed the remarkable ability to remain calm in any circumstance. This was a new experience for her. How could such a well heeled constable be at such unease over a girl’s legs? The thought grew a smile through the tears. “I’m just so grateful for your help, constable, it doesn’t matter what you touch.” The words had barely left her mouth before she realised what she had just said. Such comments would normally be consigned to the ladies of the night, or one of those establishments that men frequented when they felt the need of female company. In the relief of the situation, Abigail considered that she really did mean what she said. The thought surprised her almost as much as Dunning’s self consciousness.