On Track for Murder Read online

  “And I didn’t know you were such a bitch.” The insult hit hard.

  Dunning stood as tall as he could. Against the superior bulk of Stanley Larkin his effort seemed futile. Staring into Larkin’s face, Dunning continued to attempt a truce. “Look, if you put the gun down now I will see to it that you are dealt with leniently. A good word from me would help your case considerably.”

  “I don’t have a case. I have all I need right here.” Larkin waved the gun in Dunning’s face once more. “Now, get back in there.” He pointed through the shed doors.

  “No. Please, no.” Abigail was beside herself. “I can’t do this again. Please.”

  “Get in there. All of you. Over to the cart. Come on, hurry.” Larkin wasn’t going to let up. He spun around to his silent colleagues. “Tie them up.”

  They acknowledged him with a nod and slid past Abigail to shove Dunning and Sleath further in. Sleath had rolled over on the ground and was in the process of trying to recover his stance when he took his attention properly to the two accomplices.

  “Thomas Hurley, Eugene Burge, what are you doing with that idiot?” Sleath called out before collapsing in agony.

  “So, you know each other?” Larkin spun around, the gun finding each person in turn. “Had dealings before have you?”

  “No,” blurted Sleath, almost desperately. “They … they … we have a mutual friend. Someone who wouldn’t look favourably on this if it were known about.” He grimaced as he pointedly stared at the two men.

  “Well, it’s in their interest to shut up then, isn’t it,” Larkin rounded on the men. “Tie them up. The policeman over there, this other one over here. I don’t want them plotting.” He pointed to opposite sides of the shed. Abigail merely stood and sobbed quietly. This couldn’t be happening.

  As Dunning and Sleath were hauled to their respective tethering spots, Abigail was shoved down beside the cart.

  “So, Miss Abigail Sergeant. We finally meet again.” Larkin’s voice made her skin crawl. “I have a special use for you. These others are just an inconvenience, although I may be able to cash in on their capture.” He appeared to be thinking something through as he spoke. Planning a money making undertaking. What could he possibly have in mind for Dunning and Sleath? Abigail could see he had no way of making any extra cash from their imprisonment, yet the grin widening across Larkin’s face showed that he thought this to be a mighty advantageous situation.

  “They’re secure, Stan,” called one of the men. Larkin immediately strode over to check the ties, barking out instructions for Abigail to be watched closely.

  Abigail could tell from the muffled noises that Dunning and Sleath had been gagged as well as tied up. She strained her neck, catching a glimpse of Larkin kicking Dunning in the side. He laughed as he turned and strode back to Abigail.

  “Take her to the boat,” he ordered. “I will be there shortly. Don’t let her out of your sight. Secure her in the engine room. She must not escape.” With that he strode out the door and vanished into the glare.

  “Up,” demanded the fattest of the pair. His shirt had pulled apart over his belly and his hairy stomach could be seen beneath. “Now, hurry up.” He turned to the other. “Tom, could you get the door?” So, the fat one is Eugene Burge.

  Abigail turned and faced him. “Please, Eugene. This isn’t worth it. Let us go and I will personally request lenience for you. Please, just let us go.”

  “Think you’re the clever one don’t you?” Eugene replied, shoving Abigail through the door. “Well, you’re not. You don’t know anything. You’re just a dumb girl who happens to be worth a lot of money.”

  “But Eugene, my father is dead. Don’t you know that? He was killed three days ago in Perth. He isn’t around to pay any ransom.”

  Eugene shoved her again, this time past the small rotting boat beside the cottage. “You don’t know what you are talking about. Stan knows how this works. Anyway, even if he doesn’t come up with that money, we still get paid by—”

  “Shut up you fool,” cut in Thomas as he caught up after shutting the doors. “Didn’t you hear Stan. Say nothing. Just do the job and get out of here. That’s the deal.” He shoved Abigail harder than Eugene had, almost knocking her off her feet.

  As they trudged around the cottage towards the water, the jetty quickly came into view. Abigail was surprised to see a small steam boat tied up at the long wooden structure. Short and squat, it resembled a small tug. A compact wheel-house sat in front of a lower section which sported little round windows. A tall funnel rose up above the deck. The black hull and dark brown topsides made her look quite imposing in the late afternoon light. Abigail noticed no smoke plume from the chimney; they weren’t going anywhere in a hurry.

  Shoved unceremoniously along the narrow jetty, Abigail was forced onto the boat and down through a hatch to the engine room below. She couldn’t imagine why they were taking her aboard a boat. Did they have some hideout somewhere with no other access, or maybe they intended a night-time dash out to sea? Possibly a rendezvous with a larger ship that would see Abigail transported to some distant shore? Her mind raced. How would such a thing allow Larkin to extract money from anyone?

  A thought struck her. What if the whole point was to kill her? What if someone intended her to disappear without a trace? They would need to get well out to sea if they wanted to fling her overboard. Too close to land and the body would simply wash ashore. The risk of such evidence being discovered would be too great to attempt a harbour disposal.

  Abigail shook involuntarily as the two men lashed her hands to a thick pipe that ran along the inside of the hull. She sat perfectly still as the men left, slamming the door behind them. At least she was now alone.

  Abigail’s breathing became erratic, her heart pounding. She wanted to cry but tears failed her. Maybe she had exhausted her supply? Over the past few days there had been enough sobbing for a whole lifetime. It took all her concentration but she managed to quiet her breathing and slow her heart. Still shaking, she gazed around.

  A small steam boiler sat in the middle of the room. An enclosure mounded with coal was situated just forward of this. A large lever, that Abigail assumed to be similar to the locomotive’s reversing lever, stuck up beside a complicated array of valves and gauges. Pipes running in and out of various sections appeared to be colour coded. Large red pipes ran from the boiler to the single piston. Blue pipes led through valves into the boiler and green ones ran into some odd looking bulbous device.

  Abigail recognised some of the gauge readouts: pressure, temperature and revolutions, each with its red sector showing a danger zone. She also noticed the smaller lever that sat in the steam line from the boiler; that must be the regulator. As she scoured the workings with interest she began to imagine how she would run the engine if she had to. Shovel in coal to get the fire up. Inject water to create steam, then shove the reversing lever forward before opening the regulator. A chuckle grew within her. I could do this. Although smaller than the locomotive, it wasn’t that dissimilar.

  The smell, though, was dissimilar. Mixed with the pungent coal smell, hung a stagnant wet odour not unlike that of rotting sacks. Abigail found it clouded her thinking, the air thick and putrid. If she managed to free herself, fresh air would be high on her agenda.

  Muffled sounds of men engaged in animated discussion invaded the space. She struggled to make any sense of the dense waffle. Occasional clinking suggested that drinks were being imbibed. That could come in useful later on. After one particular loud crash, guffaws of laughter firmly proved Abigail’s assumption.

  While the motive of these two hired lackeys was understandable, Abigail struggled to see how Larkin thought he might benefit from this. She had told him that Father had died. His feigned ignorance of this seemed genuine but his lack of concern perturbed her. Was he lying about seeking a ransom? Did he think Abigail was lying about Father’s murder? Dunning’s voice rang out in her memory: ‘Look for the anomalies in the stories.’


  She thought about Father’s murder and the evidence she hoped would prove Bertie’s innocence. Where were the anomalies? Was the apparent evidence plausible or was it all just too convenient? Who had the opportunity to set Bertie up? Who had the time? Who had the ability?

  While she desperately searched through her recollections, the thick atmosphere tormented her. She just couldn’t think properly in these surroundings. Escape was the only way she would ever save Bertie. He was to face the gallows if she failed. That just wasn’t an option.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A dim glow radiated from the boiler’s firebox. Having been left untended, it would require several hours to rekindle. Could that help? Abigail scanned the dank room. A mound of empty coal sacks was piled against the rear bulkhead. Discarded alongside was a leather satchel that had been turned inside out. A couple of sturdy leather jackets and a pair of thick trousers hung from a hook beside the door. Next to this, a small table, bolted to the bulkhead, held a journal with a black leather cover. Its white paper edges were tarnished with dark smudgy fingerprints. Probably the ship’s log. Poking out from underneath, a nautical chart showed the sea area surrounding Albany harbour. It, too, was covered in sooty black finger smudges. Further away, two shovels and an iron tool used for opening the boiler’s firebox door had been flung onto the floor beside the coal compartment.

  Abigail hung her head. She had been biting her lip and had just become aware of the taste of blood in her mouth. You must control yourself. Bertie is depending on you. She pulled on the ties that held her to the pipework. While not as tight and painful as before, they were secure. She found that by sliding along the pipe, she could move several feet in either direction. That could be useful. Abigail scrutinised the pipe. Could she disconnect it and slip away? Without tools that would be impossible. What about the mounts? Iron strops were bolted around the pipe and then connected to the wall with more bolts. She slid down to the rearmost mount and studied it. The edges were not sharp, but were roughly cast. Could they abrade the rope? She pressed the ties against the pipe mount and began to work her arms rapidly up and down. After several minutes she stopped to survey the results. Some damage had been done but not as much as she had hoped. If this were to work, it would take a long time. Still, she had nothing else to do, so set about sawing away at her rope bonds.

  The loud discussions on deck had degraded into raucous singing. Darkness enveloped Abigail as she sat in the smelly engine room, desperately trying to work her way free. Through the small round window above her head she could see the blunted disc moon rising through the surrounding trees. The sound of water lapping around the hull grew closer. A clicking, snapping noise seemed to permeate the entire boat. Maybe some sort of sea life, emerging in the night-time to feed.

  Abigail continued rubbing the rope binding on the pipe mount. Her wrists ached. As the pain became too much to bear, she paused. Allowing her head to drop, she closed her eyes, shutting out the fear. Her mind swam. She jerked up: Don’t fall asleep. Shaking her head, Abigail recommenced the abrading, pausing more often as the pain increased. Her eyes blinked slower with every passing minute. She allowed herself a moment with them closed, then opened them wide, realising this was merely courting sleep. Recovering from each successive blink required increased effort. Every nod of her head had to be consciously banished as unwanted. The constant repetitious scraping against the pipe mount seemed to draw her in. She found the rope becoming warmer, silken and comfortable. The rough wooden floor transformed into a soft luxurious sofa with billowy cushions at either end. The glow of a welcoming fire captivated her. She drifted across the balloon like room and through a large fluffy portal to yellow and orange clouds. Sinking in, she felt secure and warm. Sleep took hold.

  Abigail found Bertie, happy and running to meet her. A knot in her stomach reminded her that Father was dead, but Bertie was free. He hugged her, gratitude oozing from him. Constable Dunning was there too, triumphant; his achievements initiating a promotion. The memory of fear flooded through her. It wasn’t easy getting to this moment. Crying had been replaced with a determination that surprised even her. She saw Dunning and Sleath, Larkin, Thomas and Eugene. To the side stood Frances holding a thin gold string tied around Sleath’s neck. Each person pointed an accusatory finger at the others in turn. Confusion ruled. Then Abigail saw papers. Many papers with signatures at the bottom being handed to her. She felt elated but fearful. What is going on? The world seemed to drift away at that point. She felt warm and cosy, enveloped in fluffiness.

  A loud scraping noise woke Abigail. Firstly, she felt the pain of numb hands twisted in rope bonds. Then the hard floor that had deadened her bottom. A dribble of perspiration ran from her forehead into her eye. She blinked, desperate to rub it away but unable to do so. Why is it so hot in here? Another scrape, this time followed by a clang as the firebox door slammed shut. Hissing sounds began to rise to her attention. A low roar from the boiler provided a background to further thumps. Larkin began yelling from above. Eugene appeared from behind the boiler and strode angrily out the door

  The light level was lifting, the blackness outside turning to light grey as night slowly receded. Shouts from above became more recognisable; an argument. Larkin’s distinctive voice cut across the others’, shouting and stomping around in anger. Abigail strained, listening intently. She could make out occasional words, enough to establish a thread. Larkin wasn’t happy. The two men had got drunk the previous evening and subsequently overslept. They were supposed to be ready to leave by now. A full head of steam should have been up hours ago. Now, they were in some danger of discovery if they became trapped by the tide. Where are we going?

  Abigail searched her memory of the surrounding area. Albany sat in a large bay with an entrance at the eastern end. Beyond that, she had been told, was a river that ran inland and a couple of small islands. Heading directly out to sea would take them either west to Africa, or east to Sydney or maybe even New Zealand. Abigail didn’t imagine this vessel was capable of such a sea voyage, being designed purely for port work. She hoped that the men wouldn’t be so stupid as to risk such a trip.

  The door clanged open and Eugene strode back in. “So, you’re awake at last. Good dream was it?” He turned to face her. “Did you dream of me? You would make a good wife. Feisty, I like that in a woman.” Laughing, he clomped up to the coal hopper and recommenced his shovelling. The heat from the open firebox was more intense than in the railway locomotive. With no open sides to allow for cooling, the thick air had become like treacle.

  Abigail shuffled in an attempt to regain feeling in her lower limbs. “Where are we going, Eugene?”

  “None of your business.”

  She shuffled some more. “Look, I’m here with you on this boat, aren’t I? Don’t I have a right to know where we are bound?”

  “Listen, you.” Eugene paused his work. “I don’t know what is going on. I just do as I’m told, right. If you need to know something, ask Stan. He knows everything. He’s the one who hired us for this bit.”

  “But, Eugene.” Abigail smiled a false but believable smile. “You seem to be an intelligent fellow. Do you not care if your life is placed in jeopardy?”

  “It’s not.” He turned to the coal heap, yelling over his shoulder, “Talk to Stan.” The shovelling continued.

  Abigail watched the pressure gauge rise. As the reading neared the optimum level, Thomas yelled out from above. Eugene was wanted on deck for casting off duty. He slammed the firebox door and strode out, muttering under his breath. So, Larkin hired Thomas and Eugene. This must be their boat.

  A clanging sound brought Abigail’s attention back to the engine, where several levers moved around under control from above. Mad hissing was quickly followed by movement as the entire apparatus shuddered into life. The boat rocked then leaned over as they turned away from the jetty. The engine speed increased. Abigail watched the gauges flick and bounce as they gained speed.

  Abigail wished they were st
ill tied up to the jetty. She had made reasonable progress working away at her rope bindings, but all that would be to no avail if they were miles out to sea. She couldn’t swim and had no intention of learning with such short notice. Thinking about it, she realised that she would willingly leap overboard if her life depended on it. That would be a difficult decision, and one that would have to be considered at the time. She immediately recommenced sawing the ropes over the pipe mounting.

  The vessel began to pitch and roll as they moved further away from the shore. Where they were going, and how she would get back, worried her. Beads of sweat streamed down her face. She considered the irony: ceasing crying in favour of action yet still being plagued with wet cheeks. In any other situation it would have made her laugh. At this particular time, laughter was not an option.

  A large wave caught the boat side on, sending it rolling heavily to the left. The motion caught Abigail off guard and she fell backwards. There was a light pop and Abigail felt her hands come away from the pipe, the rope dropping to the floor. She was finally free. It all happened rather faster than she had imagined, before a proper plan had been formulated. She remained still, using the time to wipe away perspiration from her face and to massage her numb legs. Slowly, Abigail lifted herself to a standing position and turned to peep out the small window.

  They were powering across the bay towards the entrance. As they passed through the heads Abigail groaned softly. Civilisation was slipping away. They were headed out to sea.

  Just as Abigail was about to sink back in despair, the boat turned. It began heading for one of the large islands sitting several miles off shore. Without delay she grabbed the nautical chart from the small table. With relief she noted that they were headed for the closer of the two islands, Michaelmas Island. With no roads or paths marked on the chart it looked deserted. No houses, no shops. The other island, Breaksea Island, held a lighthouse; probably with a keeper. Not a good place for lawbreakers. This other island would be a perfect place to use as a hideout if you wanted to escape the law.