On Track for Murder Page 20

  Abigail paced in circles, pausing to check on the smoke plume with every pass by the door. The wait was insufferable. Finally, Ridley flew down the stairs and grabbed Abigail’s arm. “Come on. We’ve no time to lose.” He led her out into the street.

  With no buggy available they had no choice but to walk to the docks. Ridley set a fast, but tolerable, pace. Abigail trotted alongside, barely able to keep her mind on the journey. She scowled as she recalled how Frances had so willingly deceived her father. How could Father not have realised? Was Frances that good a liar? From Abigail’s experience Frances had trouble keeping her thoughts at bay. Abigail was sure Father wasn’t a gullible sort. Surely he had suspected something?

  The steamer came into full view as the couple crossed the railway tracks. With the end now in sight, the pace quickened. Damp with perspiration, the couple finally strode up alongside the SS Peary. Although smoke drifted from the funnel, there remained several stacks of wooden boxes alongside, waiting to be loaded. A gang of three men hauled on a rope attached to a pulley on a swinging arm. Slowly they hauled each crate up to the deck of the ship. There was still time.

  A uniformed official manned the foot of the gangplank. He wasn’t about to allow strangers with no ticket aboard without good reason. Dunning’s warrant card was scrutinised closely before the official eventually gave his begrudging approval. Shouting up to a second officer at the top of the gangplank, he called for the couple to be shadowed in their trek about the ship. Abigail glanced at Ridley who merely smiled and nodded.

  Abigail found boarding the ship revived strange feelings. Although the vessel remained docked she could sense it pitching in heavy seas, could smell the salt air and feel the wetness of waves crashing over the deck. She could also hear Bertie sobbing in fear as the ship rolled violently. Calls were ringing out around the deck as cargo broke loose, its ropes flung overboard by the howling wind.

  “Abigail … Abigail …” The voice was familiar. “Abigail.” Dunning gently shook her by the shoulder. “Are you all right, my dear?” He looked concerned.

  “Oh, I am so sorry.” Abigail came to her senses. “I was taken back to the SS Elderslie for a moment there. It was awfully stormy two days before we arrived in Fremantle. Being on board this ship reminded me. That’s all.”

  “My darling, you have been through so much. I wish I were able to relieve you of your angst.” Dunning placed his arm around her shoulders. “I would ease your pain in an instant, were I possessed of such an ability.”

  “You are so sweet,” she replied, as they strode aft along the deck.

  It didn’t take long to locate Frances’ cabin. The officer accompanying them knew the ship well. After knocking three times and calling out, the door finally opened.

  Frances stood with a scowl on her face. “Yes? Oh, it’s you … what do you want now?”

  Abigail replied in her most polite manner. “Frances, this is Constable Dunning from Perth. He is investigating Father’s death. He would like to speak with you regarding Prentice Sleath.”

  Frances scowled. “Little twerp keeps running off. He’s supposed to be here to see me off but has disappeared again. What do you want to know about him?”

  “When you left home,” Abigail began. “You—”

  “My home.” Frances glared at Abigail.

  “Yes.” Abigail forced a smile. “When you left your home … to come to Albany, did Prentice travel with you?”

  “Why do you need to know that?”

  Dunning broke in. “Mrs Sergeant. We have reason to believe that Mr Sleath remained in Perth on the Tuesday that Albert was killed. We would like to know why.”

  Frances stared at the floor, her fingers flicking her tunic buttons. “Well … Prentice was very obliging, helping me escape. He assisted me to the train and then he was to return the horse and buggy. It was upon his insistence that I agreed he may accompany me here to Albany.”

  Dunning gesticulated for them to enter the cabin but Frances ignored him. He continued the questioning standing in the doorway. “So, Mr Sleath didn’t ride the train with you? He stayed in Perth for an extra night?”

  Frances stared out, her fingers now twisting the buttons to breaking point. “He said he would be down the following day.”

  Dunning continued. “And was he?”

  “I didn’t see him again until Friday when I received a message that he was at the doctor’s surgery. I picked him up from there and took him to the inn, but he promptly disappeared again.”

  As Dunning wrote in his notepad, Abigail continued the thread. “Do you know where he went?”

  “No. Two men came for him. They were talking about someone else having work for them. Prentice wasn’t at all pleased. That is the last I saw of him.”

  Dunning stopped writing and closed the notepad. “I have to tell you, Mrs Sergeant, that Mr Prentice Sleath was killed yesterday. In a fire down by the waterfront.”

  Frances didn’t react. She merely stared out past the waiting ship’s officer, continuing to unthinkingly twist her buttons. Eventually she brought her attention back to Dunning. “Dead, you say? How did that happen?”

  Dunning raised his pencil to his mouth but stopped short of chewing it. “There was a fire.” He tapped the pencil on his chin. “In an old boat shed. He had been tied up and was unable to free himself.”

  Abigail found Frances’ blank look disturbing. Just the mention of being trapped in a fire was enough to churn her stomach. Receiving such news would upset most people, even if the acquaintance was merely passing. “You don’t seem surprised?” she said.

  “He was proving unreliable. He informed me that a large man attacked him. I believe he was involving himself with some very unpleasant people. That sort of unholy alliance always leads to trouble. One should keep oneself pure and refrain from such activities.” She stared at Abigail as she spoke.

  “So, you are not at all upset?” Abigail’s brow furrowed.

  “He received his reward based upon his actions,” Frances continued to glare at Abigail. “A fiery death is God’s vengeance for the worst kind of sin.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Abigail blurted out before thinking.

  “Now, now …” Dunning stepped between the women, a calming hand on Abigail’s shoulder. “We are here to seek your help in uncovering the truth, Mrs Sergeant. If Mr Sleath were involved in something so sinful, would you not like to help us uncover it?”

  “I can’t see how,” she said. “This ship is leaving this afternoon.”

  Dunning maintained a calm tone. “Mrs Sergeant. Would you consent to coming with us? You could catch another vessel later this month. We would pay for—”

  “No. I have waited long enough for this and I am not about to cancel my plans now.”

  “What about your husband’s funeral?”

  “He asked me to leave. He didn’t want me any more. Why should I show him the courtesy of attending his funeral, just as a show to others who colluded with him?” She began to fidget as she succeeded in pulling off one of her jacket buttons. “Now see what you have done. There is little chance I will find a seamstress on board this miserable ship. I will have to repair this myself.”

  “You don’t care about Father’s funeral? But you were married to him.” Abigail remained hidden behind Dunning.

  “I’ve given the solicitor my address in Auckland. He will relay details of the inheritance. It seems Albert left everything to me so …” she glared at Abigail. “You, missy, will need to vacate the house before I return. And take that idiot brother with you.”

  Abigail’s eyes bulged as she pressed into Dunning’s back. She was sure that, were he not there, her and Frances would come to blows.

  Dunning’s calm tone soothed the attack. “Mrs Sergeant. May I enquire as to when you will be returning from Auckland? I will require a proper statement.”

  “I don’t know. It will depend upon the inheritance. Once that is settled I will decide.”

  Abigail mov
ed out from behind Dunning but remained at a distance. “This is getting us nowhere,” she said, muttering into the empty corridor. The ship’s officer had moved away, busying himself noting down the presence of a broken lamp.

  Dunning shuffled to fill the doorway and stood to his tallest. “Mrs Sergeant. I am asking if you would please accompany me to the police station to complete witness statements and hopefully assist in the release of Bertrand Sergeant.”

  Frances rose to her full height, defiance painted across her face. “I am not required to do so. Such foolishness will excessively disadvantage me.”

  Abigail gasped. “But Bertrand is—”

  “God will deal with Bertrand.”

  “You are an inhumane witch.” Abigail couldn’t help herself.

  “Well, that is a prize comment coming from the only confirmed witch here. If anyone should be on trial, my dear, it is you.” Frances’ teeth appeared to grow as a grin crept across her face.

  “I can’t do this,” said Abigail, turning away. “We should leave, now.”

  Dunning turned to follow but stopped for one last comment. “Thank you, Mrs Sergeant. I wish I could say you have been helpful but I am afraid that is not the case.”

  “God bless you,” called Frances as the pair stormed down the corridor. Abigail stomped as hard as she could.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Sitting in the Victoria Tea-Rooms overlooking the bay, Abigail continued to fume. They had decided to adjourn and assess the situation. Tea served as the pacifier. That Frances would not cooperate was plainly evident. Anything she may have contributed was destined to remain hearsay unless evidence could be found. As Robinson had said, hard evidence was the key.

  Dunning had decided to approach the telegraph office for proof of Sleath’s message. A telegram to Perth would hopefully confirm Sleath placed the communique personally on Tuesday afternoon. They also agreed to message the station master in Beverley. He would confirm the arrival of Frances on Wednesday, with Sleath arriving a day later. Contacting the Beverley Inn for a guest list would provide further proof. The two men in custody were to undergo further questioning once the police boat arrived with the recovered booty. Their involvement obviously went deeper than either had admitted to.

  Abigail and Ridley also agreed to update the solicitor, Henry Robinson. Abigail had spotted files bearing the name ‘Albert Sergeant’ aboard the steam boat. Dunning agreed that it was likely they contained details pertinent to the case and should be discussed with Robinson as soon as they arrived. Abigail also harboured an ulterior motive. Her father’s will. With the telegraph working it was likely Robinson had received official confirmation of Albert’s death. His wishes could now be revealed. Whatever the outcome, it was clear that the contents of Father’s will would surely affect Abigail’s life from that point forward. Clearly, it was of an importance second only to saving Bertie’s life.

  Abigail stared out the window at the clear blue sky. “You know, I would be in Perth crying and alone were it not for you.”

  “I beg to disagree, my dear.” Dunning placed his teacup on the table. “It was you who made the arrangements to come to Albany. It was you who escaped the steam boat and thwarted the criminals’ getaway. And it was you who saved me from the burning boat shed. If anyone is the hero here, it is your good self.”

  Abigail smiled. “When you speak of it in such a manner, it does seem rather adventurous. I must say, I have surprised myself.”

  “You are a strong woman, Abigail, and I have formed the most sincere admiration for you over this last week. I have never met a woman like you before. It is so refreshing.”

  “You don’t mind that I am not like other women?”

  “Not at all. I love that you are an independent thinker and are not afraid to get stuck in. And your aspiration to pilot a mechanical flying machine is positively inspirational.”

  Abigail beamed. The tension over the altercation with Frances melted away as she poured a second cup of tea. With the much needed evidence about to come to light, Bertie was sure to get off. With Abigail’s testimony, the fire that killed Prentice Sleath would be blamed on Thomas and Eugene. The whereabouts of Stanley Larkin was still a mystery, but it was a fairly safe bet that he drowned after the boiler explosion.

  As the second cup was emptied Abigail gazed out to the bay. The water glistened in the mid-day sun. It looked so serene; a stark contrast to the terror she had experienced on that very stretch of water. She watched as a small steam vessel chugged its way across the bay. As it drew closer, three policemen could be seen standing down the side ready to secure the vessel to the jetty.

  “I think the police boat is retuning,” she said, pointing out the sight.

  “It looks very much like it. Shall we?” Dunning stood and offered his arm. Abigail rose, nodding ascent. She clutched him tightly as they walked back down to the jetty.

  They arrived to see four wooden boxes had already been offloaded. The lids had been prised off and the contents revealed. The first contained gold coins. Although barely half full, it held sufficient weight to render the box too heavy for one man to lift. Two further boxes contained hardware items such as water taps, copper piping and thin copper sheets. The last box was loaded with document files.

  “May I?” Dunning asked, kneeling down beside the fourth box. He pulled out the top file. It was from Robinson’s office but was unrelated to Abigail’s family. The second folder was of more interest. The name ‘Albert Sergeant’ adorned the front, inscribed in neatly formed hand-written lettering. Inside, Dunning found a property deed for a house in Albany, along with a small grouping of share certificates. The share documents described a business supplying coal for the railway. Abigail wasn’t aware that Father had been part owner of any business and wondered what else may be found to surprise her.

  Delving through pages of notes detailing Albert’s attempts to purchase more property in Perth, they came across an envelope titled, ‘Last will and Testament.’

  “Robinson will want this,” Dunning said.

  “He said he would inform us when he received official notification of Father’s death. Only then would he be able to address the will. We should go and see him in the morning if we haven’t heard. He may have received the documentation over the weekend.”

  “You may like to see this,” said a rather stern constable, thrusting a tatty looking diary under Dunning’s nose.

  The last few entries were intriguing reading indeed. The rather scrawled text had been written by Thomas Hurley. He detailed their original mission to intercept the luggage from the train. A particular case belonging to Frances Sergeant was the goal, with a demand that others be taken to cover up the crime.

  Dunning read on. Seconds later he gasped. “Abigail, look.” He pointed to the entry detailing dates and times. ‘Travel trunk will be arriving Thursday afternoon.’ He turned to Abigail. “Thursday afternoon would mean that Frances’ luggage came down a day after she did.”

  “That can’t be right.” Abigail craned her neck to read for herself. “Why would Frances have her luggage arriving a day later? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “What say she hired Sleath to lug her trunks around and it was he who was a day late?”

  “Constable Ridley Dunning.” She smiled at him. “You forget that I came down with Sleath that night in the stolen locomotive. There was no luggage, only the engine and coal tender. What’s more, my luggage still hasn’t surfaced, so it is doubtful that Frances’ luggage would have been found so easily.”

  “Curious.” Dunning produced a fresh pencil.

  “What else does it say?”

  Dunning flipped the page. “Here it says that Stanley Larkin offered them a greater amount of money to forget the original goal and assist him in kidnapping you.”

  Abigail shuddered. “Just the thought of it makes my skin crawl. Is there more?”

  Dunning glanced up before continuing. “Indeed there is. It seems Hurley and Burge thought they would
be able to continue with the original plan while doubling up working for Larkin. They conspired to collect the money for stealing the luggage as well as the extra for the kidnap.”

  “Does it say who hired them to collect the luggage?”

  “It says Sleath contacted them, although they suspect someone else was behind it.”

  “Sleath wanted the luggage stolen. Why?” Abigail still couldn’t imagine a possible motive.

  “It goes on to say they were told to burn the luggage but missed the chance as Larkin found them out. It says he was furious. The last entry here says they will burn the trunks as soon as they get the opportunity.”

  “Do you suppose Larkin instructed them to kill you and Sleath?” Abigail’s brow risked a permanent frown.

  “I don’t know.” Dunning stood and gestured a constable. “We should go and talk to Hurley and Burge again. Confront them with this new evidence.”

  The police station was quiet on this Sunday afternoon. A duty sergeant held sole charge with one lone constable out walking the streets. When Dunning asked to see the prisoner Hurley again, the reception was a little cold. Nonetheless, Thomas Hurley was quickly brought out to the back office and positioned in the seat furthest from the door. Dunning sat directly in front of him while Abigail positioned herself to one side. With the muted sun well down in the western sky the room that had previously basked in the early morning light, now felt cold and uninviting.

  “Mister Hurley,” Dunning commenced. “New evidence has come to light that I think you will find interesting.” He flung the diary onto the table. “This is yours, is it not?”

  “Um … don’t know.” He was going to make this as hard as possible.

  Dunning opened the cover and pointed to the initial inscription. Thomas’ name was proudly displayed above the title: mastermind. “This is your name I believe?”