On Track for Murder Read online

  “Think nothing of it,” Abigail replied. “You are being most helpful and encouraging in this case. Please, you haven’t offended me in any way.”

  “Thank you, my dear. Now, the police in Perth have agreed that I will represent Bertrand and nothing will proceed before I have filed my defence case. I’m relying on your good self to ascertain what actually happened, or at least uncover enough to cast doubt on their claim that Bertrand committed the murder.”

  Abigail sighed. “Constable Dunning here is helping me. We have uncovered some interesting facts concerning the movements of a man named Prentice Sleath. He was the fellow I saw riding off in the buggy with Frances the previous night.”

  “Do you suspect this Sleath of the murder?”

  “Well, the problem is that he apparently boarded the train with Frances the morning the murder took place. So he would have been away from Perth at the time.” Abigail turned to Dunning.

  “There is strong evidence,” Dunning continued, “to suggest that Sleath had reason to commit the murder. He is a definite suspect. There is another fellow, Stanley Larkin, who had apparently involved himself in an argument with Frances the day before, although the claimed timeframe doesn’t ring true. He was denied a job on the railway the day of the murder. We can’t account for his movements and he is currently at large. It seems he has been pursuing Abigail in an attempt to kidnap her. We are told he seeks a ransom payout.”

  “Well.” Robinson jotted down some notes as he spoke. “It seems there are suspects but little actual proof.” He turned to Dunning. “Would it be prudent to attempt a reasonable doubt defence with Bertrand?”

  Dunning pulled his pencil from his mouth. He looked up. “I am convinced that we can find the actual killer. There is something I’ve missed, I’m certain of it. It will come to me, but at the moment I can only make suppositions. We are waiting for evidence to arrive from Michaelmas Island. There was a hideout there.”

  “Yes, your sergeant told me as much this morning. He informed me that it is likely some of my stolen files were out there.”

  “That is correct. The hideout belonged to two local criminals, Thomas Hurley and Eugene Burge. We managed to catch them when an explosion blew up their steam vessel. We have them in custody now.”

  “Ah, yes. Hurley and Burge. They are well known to me. Mostly petty thievery. How are they involved?”

  Dunning gazed at his disintegrating pencil. “It seems they were hired by Prentice Sleath to locate Frances’ travel trunks before they were shipped. It was pre-planned before the telegraph broke.”

  “This Sleath must be quite the schemer.”

  “Yes, quite.” Dunning fumbled for a new pencil. “It seems it was all going to plan until Stanley Larkin showed up.”

  Robinson scribbled more notes before replying. “What we require is hard evidence. Are you sure of what you’ve been told so far? Criminals lie, you know.”

  Dunning smiled. “I agree. Abigail and I are pursuing every angle we can think of—”

  Abigail cut in. “We are going to prove Bertie’s innocence. I’m certain of it. There has to be something.”

  Robinson drew his chair closer to his desk. “Find a blackboard and draw up everything you know. Put on it all your suspects. Then put on anyone you think is not likely to have done it. Be very suspicious. Question everything, and suspect everyone. Then when you note alibis and motives you are likely to see patterns appearing. Look for the odd circumstances that don’t fit the pattern.”

  “Does that work?” Abigail sat, wide eyed at this innovative advice.

  “Oh, yes. I use this method when working on cases. It is a marvellous way of discovering who is lying. If you have difficulty, let me know. After all, I have to argue the case using the evidence supplied.”

  Dunning looked over at Abigail. “There’s a board in the police station. We can use that.”

  “Remember,” Robinson said. “Hard evidence will win your case. Hearsay will not.”

  Abigail went to rise but stopped. There was something else to discuss. “Excuse me, Mr Robinson.”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “It’s about Father’s will. You mentioned there were things we needed to consider.”

  “There are, yes. However, as I mentioned previously, I must ensure that proper procedure is followed. I’m afraid that until I receive official notification of the death, there is little I am able to do. Once I have the correct documentation we can begin the proceedings. I said the same to Frances when she came to see me yesterday morning.”

  “Yesterday morning? Frances? Came here?” Abigail was confused. “What did she want?”

  “To discuss Albert’s will. I offered her the same advice I shared with you. I need the official documentation.”

  Abigail looked at Dunning, her brow furrowed. “How did she know Father was dead?” She turned to Robinson. “You say she came yesterday morning; Friday morning?”

  “Yes, indeed. I remember she was waiting for me when I arrived at the office. It would have been around seven-thirty.”

  Abigail’s frown grew. “But I didn’t inform her of Father’s death until mid-day. And she was surprised when I told her.”

  “Maybe she received a message?” Dunning didn’t sound convinced.

  “But she told me she didn’t know.” Abigail flicked at Dunning’s notepad. “Why would she say that if she had already visited Mr Robinson, here, asking about the will?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know.” Dunning’s pencil was not faring well.

  Abigail turned to Robinson. “Could she have received a telegraph message? Can you remember when it was operational?” She stroked the furrows in her forehead.

  “Let me see,” he turned to the shelves behind his desk. “The only correspondence I received was on Tuesday afternoon. Concerning another case. I have the message here.”

  Abigail and Dunning exchanged a quizzical look. Dunning frantically scribbled in his pad while Abigail continued. “So, how did she know, Mr Robinson? She had to have received a message somehow.” Abigail shook her head as she spoke. “And why would she lie to me and pretend not to know?”

  Robinson mimicked her shaking head. “It is most puzzling. I’m sorry I can’t shed more light on it.”

  Abigail rose to her feet. “No need to apologise, Mr Robinson. You have been most helpful. We have a lot to be going on with. May I thank you for your time.”

  “Think nothing of it,” he replied, rising from his chair. “I will inform you when I receive the official notification we are waiting for. You are staying at the Chusan Inn, I gather?” He turned to face Abigail.

  “That’s correct. Thank you again.” Abigail bowed as Robinson took her hand in a parting gesture. Robinson’s handshake with Dunning was more solid. As both men nodded in some sort of unspoken agreement, Abigail realised Ridley was being tasked with her protection. The sentiment warmed her heart. She felt safe.

  After final goodbyes, the couple left in high spirits.

  The telegraph office stood on Sterling Terrace, a short distance from the Chusan Inn. Abigail and Ridley strolled casually along the street, basking in the joy of newly discovered romance. With Robinson’s revelation that the trial would be delayed, the previous desperation over tracking down evidence had eased. The pressure still remained, but they could now take the time to properly investigate every avenue.

  The sun was well into the last half of its daily arc as they entered the small office. Loud clicking noises emanated from the back area as the pair stepped up to the counter. A break in the clicking saw a rather harassed looking man striding quickly out to greet them. “May I be of assistance?” he offered.

  “I’m Constable Dunning from the Perth constabulary. I have been waiting for the telegraph to become operational again. Do you have any news?”

  “I most certainly do, constable. It was restored an hour ago and has been running almost non-stop ever since. Do you have a message?”

  “I will have,” Dunn
ing replied. “For now, I wonder if I may ask at what times and on which days did you have the telegraph operational this week?”

  The operator didn’t even pause for thought. “She was operational for three hours on Tuesday afternoon. Messages fair flew in, they did. Busiest Tuesday I can remember.” He shook his head slowly.

  Dunning slipped out his notepad. “Do you recall any messages for a Thomas Hurley?”

  The clerk scratched his chin. “Let me see, officer … Hurley, you say … I do believe there was a message. From Perth.”

  Abigail leaned on the counter. “Do you recall who it was from?”

  “It was from a … a Mr Sleath. That’s it. Mr Sleath of Perth. All it said was that they were leaving the next day and would arrive on Thursday.”

  “Leaving the next day?” Dunning almost blurted the question.

  “Yes. I remember it because the man, Hurley, seemed pleased about a ship being delayed in port. He said as much to his colleague here in this very office.”

  Dunning finished scribbling his notes then stood tall. “Thank you very much. You have been most helpful.” He turned to go, gesturing for Abigail to precede him.

  “Thank you. Do come again,” called the telegraph clerk, as they exited once more into the late afternoon sun.

  “Do you know what this means?” Dunning offered his arm.

  “I’m afraid I am a little weary. It’s all becoming a bit of a blur.” Abigail was grateful for the support.

  “It means, my dear, that Prentice Sleath was still in Perth the day of the murder. He very much remains in the frame as a suspect.”

  “So, the telegraph was only operational on Tuesday afternoon, and Father was killed Tuesday morning?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And Sleath sent a message on Tuesday afternoon, from Perth?”

  “Exactly. He couldn’t have left on the Tuesday train. He had to have caught the Wednesday train. I would say he now becomes our prime suspect.”

  Abigail stopped, looking confused. “But he is dead. He burned in the fire.”

  “That doesn’t stop us suspecting him. And if we can prove Sleath guilty, Bertrand will go free.”

  Abigail hadn’t actually heard those words at any time since leaving Perth. Bertrand going free. It was her dream, the dream she had doubted but now dared to believe. She looked up at Ridley and beamed.

  It was quickly decided to retire to the inn. After such a harrowing day, Abigail sorely wanted to rest. Tumbling straight into bed was tempting, but the promise of spending time with Ridley spurred her to agree to dinner and a glass of wine. Assessing their findings and formulating a plan became the excuse. Delighting in each other’s company became the reality. Despite everything, Abigail had to admit that she was beginning to enjoy this trip.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A knock at the door woke Abigail from her deep slumber. She blinked slowly. Warming sunlight sliced through a gap in the thick velvet curtains. She lifted her head from the pillow, wondering what the time may be. The clatter of a horse and cart walking slowly past preceded a second knock at her door.

  “Abigail, are you awake?” Dunning’s melodic voice warmed her heart.

  “I am now,” Abigail called out. “Give me a minute and I’ll be there.” She crawled out of bed, catching sight of herself in the dresser mirror as she stood. With no night clothes available she had slept naked. Slipping in between crisp clean sheets after her bath had been a temptation too great to resist. Her discarded undergarments now sat on the chair, filthy and uninviting. Abigail frowned. Her reflection matched the underclothes. She looked hideous, hair sticking out at all angles and dark rings under her eyes. She looked at her arms. They were badly scratched and covered in bruises. Her legs bore the same wounds and merely accentuated her battered appearance.

  Abigail turned her attention to the cold dirty bath water. Set up under the window, the large tin bath had been warm and inviting; the ultimate cleansing. Later that morning, the maid would come and empty it. In that moment, all the dirt would be drained away. Abigail was thankful for the ease of release from such filth. She wished she could wash away the rest of her troubles as easily.

  Standing in a daze, Abigail stared at her dirty underwear. Pity that can’t be washed away. She had no choice but to don the filthy garments for the day ahead. The prospect of slipping her new skirt and tunic over these rags was hard to contemplate. Desperate not to ruin her new attire, Abigail spent several minutes beating off the excess dirt. The result was far from ideal. Abigail reluctantly pulled on the bedraggled garments. The wooden backed brush was then put to work coaxing her hair into a presentable state. Her new skirt and tunic were last to be slipped on. They made all the difference. A trip to the mirror imparted renewed confidence. She would have preferred to have the use of all of her toiletries, but given the circumstances she was happy.

  Ridley Dunning stared as he stood in the open doorway. He wore a grey civilian suit with a neat blue tie and brown leather braces over a fresh white shirt. His mouth sat wide open and he appeared to be struggling for words.

  Abigail saved his embarrassment by speaking first. “Good morning, Mr Dunning … Ridley.” She smiled. “Did you sleep well?”

  “That I did, my dear Abigail.” He pulled his jacket straight and continued. “I have come to invite you to join me for breakfast before they finish service.”

  “Ooh, breakfast,” Abigail almost squealed with delight. “That would be most satisfactory.” She took his arm and they strolled towards the stairs.

  “We have a lot to do today,” Dunning said.

  “No uniform this morning?” Abigail was taken aback by how much more handsome he looked in a proper suit.

  “It’s Sunday and I’m taking a liberty.” He smiled. “Besides, the innkeeper’s wife offered to send my uniform to be cleaned. It was smoky and covered in dirt.”

  “Much like my under-garments,” Abigail said, as they reached the top of the stairs.

  “My goodness, I had forgotten about that.” Dunning looked falsely perplexed. “We shall go immediately after breakfast and remedy this unsatisfactory situation. I do apologise for my forgetfulness.”

  “May we?” Abigail wasn’t about to refuse the offer. “Such an offer really is too much but I am loathed to turn it down. My present garments are in such a state.”

  “Consider it done.” A grin crept across Dunning’s face. They reached the foot of the stairs and strode to the dining room.

  Breakfast was the most satisfying meal Abigail had enjoyed since embarking the ship in England. As the sun streamed in through large french doors she finished her second cup of tea and the last piece of toast. Dunning sat back in his chair contemplating the notes in the journal.

  “We should speak to Frances,” he said, pouring a third cup of tea. “She can tell us for certain whether Sleath travelled with her or not.”

  “She wasn’t very helpful when I spoke to her on Friday. In fact, she was most rude.” Abigail sat back, her hunger fully satisfied.

  “We’ll see if my presence makes a difference, then, shan’t we? Come, let us to the haberdashery.” He stood, offering a hand to Abigail.

  Abigail suddenly took on a crestfallen look. “But, Ridley. It’s Sunday. The shop will be closed.”

  He smiled. “I have spoken with the owner who will be only too pleased to supply you with whatever you need. She’s offered a private consultation.”

  “How? When did you arrange that?” Abigail was completely awestruck at Dunning’s thoughtfulness.

  “Before I woke you I went to the police station and wrote up our notes on the blackboard as Mr Robinson had suggested. When I returned and the innkeepers wife offered to clean my uniform, it struck me. A woman such as yourself needs clean underwear. And shoes too, if I may be so bold.” He glanced at Abigail’s split shoes and grinned even wider than before. “So let us away and oblige the storekeeper with our presence.”

  Laughter could be heard emanating
from the small shop on York Street as the couple enjoyed each others’ company. At least two changes of undergarments were supplied, along with a pair of delicate brown leather shoes and a replacement hat. With a crimson bow around its crown, the headpiece matched Abigail’s new tunic perfectly.

  It was a very contented Abigail who exited the shop an hour later. Dunning followed carrying a box with the second set of new underwear, and a brown paper bag containing her old garments. The ripped shoes had been relegated to the bin at the back of the shop.

  Abigail felt so safe, so happy. Even the charges against Bertie were soon to be overturned.

  The Chusan Inn offered an enticing view out to the bay. To add to the magic a tall Norfolk Pine tree masked the sight of the unsightly docks. Abigail and Ridley had taken a few moments to gaze out at the vista before returning to the front desk, enquiring after Frances. Had they observed the plume of smoke rising from the funnel of the steamer, SS Peary, they may have been less relaxed with their time.

  “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the clerk said. “Mrs Sergeant left this morning. She was called for by a gentleman who loaded all her luggage into a buggy. They drove off towards York Street.”

  Dunning spun around, scanning the entrance hall. Abigail wondered if he was thinking the clerk a liar, or worse that he may be complicit in some nefarious deception. Dunning strode to the door and stood, staring out. Abigail noticed his pencil revolving in his mouth as he fumbled through his pockets.

  “My warrant card,” he said, pulling out the chewed pencil. “I’ve left it in my room. We’ll need it if we are to catch up with Frances now.” He pointed to the plume of smoke, now visible above the sturdy pine.

  Abigail screwed her eyes trying to peer through the branches. “The steamer. It’s getting ready to leave.”

  “Frances is probably on board by now.” His pencil cracked. “If the ship leaves, we may never get to speak to her. Frances is an important witness, so it’s imperative that we get to her. Wait here. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.” Dunning raced away, scaling the stairs two steps at a time.