On Track for Murder Read online

  “I’m sure he’ll be home soon, Bertie. Let’s go and knock.” Abigail pulled Bertrand away from the stacked luggage and up to the front door.

  As they approached, the door swung open. Their step-mother stood stock still, a tapestry frame clutched in her left hand. Her lack of a smile did nothing to hide a row of overly large teeth, brilliantly contrasting her shiny jet-black hair. Whether the menacing affect was intended or not, Abigail couldn’t decide. The cold manner, though, was unmistakable.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Frances offered as a greeting. “I wasn’t expecting you until Albert arrived home.”

  Abigail lowered her eyes. “We waited at the jetty in Fremantle for three hours, then a nice policeman offered to help us with a carriage. We weren’t sure what else to do.”

  “You’ve quite a large amount of luggage.” Frances turned her back and moved slowly into the house. “You had better come in then. Albert can fetch the bags when he arrives home.”

  With a last look at her precious possessions sitting out in the open on the front lawn, Abigail pressed her hand into the small of Bertrand’s back and pushed him in through the door.

  In contrast to the glow of the outside, the interior of the home was fussy and quite dark. Floral wallpaper provided a backdrop for oil paintings, tapestries and ornaments. Every surface overflowed with gathered possessions. At the end of the long hallway Abigail could make out pots hanging on a wooden rack. Probably the kitchen.

  The front room exhibited the same fussy decor. Although the setting sun provided a warm glow, the room still seemed dark. Two rather posed photographs held pride of place on the top lid of an upright piano. One was of Frances seated alone, the other included Father, standing behind, top hat clasped beneath his arm. Photographic portraits such as these didn’t come cheap. Father must be earning a good income from the Great Southern railway company.

  As Abigail scanned the room, her mouth took on a definite pout and her forehead furrowed with angst. There were no pictures of her or Bertrand anywhere. She knew Father had brought painted canvas portraits of them out to the Swan Colony. Apparently they didn’t go with the decor. Wouldn’t it be great if they could have a photograph taken together. Now that would be something.

  Beside the piano sat a sturdy scotch chest. The top of this chest carried several books held between ornate silver bookends. A large bible sat alongside three other books that Abigail recognised as belonging to Frances. The author, one William Jacobson, was not a favourite of Abigail’s. She had never read his work personally, but had been regaled with compulsory readings on three occasions. The titles; Cleansing the World, The Final Judgement, and The Enlightened Follower, always sounded most austere. Not the sort of reading Abigail would willingly engage in. She found it odd that none of Father’s engineering books were on display. Maybe he kept them in his office?

  The seating offered was not the most luxurious Abigail had experienced. Four rather upright chairs with padded seats and wooden backs sat beside the fireplace. Across the room, in the left corner, sat a single leather arm chair with an occasional table alongside. A copy of the West Australian newspaper had been positioned on top alongside a pipe and pouch of tobacco. Father’s chair.

  A winged backed armchair covered in floral patterned fabric was positioned in the opposite corner. Alongside this sat a small cloth covered table. An opened letter sat on top, the signature of William Jacobson plainly visible. Two pin cushions, threads and a large magnifying glass took up the remaining space. Beside this table rested a wooden frame holding a half finished tapestry. From what Abigail could see of the picture, it was a representation of biblical retribution. Christ seated on a throne was passing a group of smiling souls up to a light filled cloud, while other despondent looking characters were cast down to a fiery darkness. What a pleasant subject for a tapestry.

  “We’ll have a cup of tea when your father arrives home,” Frances finally deigned to address the pair. “I have a roast lamb cooking, which we will enjoy for dinner.” She strode over to the small table and nonchalantly slipped Jacobson’s letter into her pocket. “You’ll want to wash up and change I assume?”

  “A wash would be most appreciated,” ventured Abigail. She cast a look at Bertrand. He seemed to have closed himself off to his surroundings and now sat, staring at the floor, rocking gently in his seat. Abigail knew this behaviour was Bertrand’s way of dealing with stressful situations.

  Its effect on Frances was immediate. “What’s wrong with him? I assume he’s still demented? Is this his way of saying thank you for having him?” She could be so cutting.

  “It’s been a long journey and I’m afraid he is tired. Once he has recovered with a good nights sleep I’m sure he will be happier.”

  “He’d better. I can’t be doing with this sort of carry-on in my home.”

  Abigail pursed her lips, fighting back the urge to respond. An argument on her first night would be a poor move indeed. “Come on, Bertie, calm down.” She leaned across to pat his hand. “We have no further travel to undertake. We can relax now. Father will be home momentarily and then we can all have a nice cup of tea. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Bertrand rocked, staring fixedly at the floor.

  Abigail turned to her step-mother. “I must apologise for Bertie’s reaction. He reverts to this behaviour when he’s tired.”

  “Just leave him then. If he doesn’t make any noise I will tolerate the jiggling around.” She picked up her tapestry frame and fumbled for a thread. Abigail sat in silence, watching.

  Sensing the observation, Frances turned and aimed a pointed stare directly at Abigail. Her black hair shimmered in the last of the sun’s rays. Those piercing blue eyes bored into Abigail’s soul without resistance. “Do you want something?”

  “No, not at all. I was wondering if you would like me to help with the tea or dinner?”

  “I don’t need any help thank you. Tomorrow we will discuss your duties. For now, just be quiet and keep the boy away from me.”

  “I assure you he’s completely harmless. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Oh, and I’m supposed to accept the word of a witch, am I?”

  Abigail bolted upright. “A witch?”

  “Well, you still read those heretical books don’t you? And I would guess you haven’t attended service lately?”

  “Those books were a gift from my mother. Science is proven fact, and the novels are fiction, just made up stories.”

  Frances remained unnervingly calm. “That you read lies from the evil one sends shivers down my spine.”

  “I don’t read anything from any ‘evil one’.” Abigail could feel her anger rising. Any more of this goading and she was destined to erupt. Her tensed shoulders and wide eyes must have been a sure sign of impending fury. This wasn’t good.

  As the door opened, the volatile atmosphere in the room was near breaking point. Another second would have seen Abigail and Frances engaged in a blazing row. The interruption extinguished the tension, like throwing water onto a fire. Albert’s cheery voice broke down any sinews of stress; the hissing of dying flames held at bay for his benefit.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” Albert beamed as he took in his two children. “I believe the best son and daughter in the world have finally arrived.”

  “Father.” Abigail rose and stood awkwardly beside her chair. Bertrand halted his rocking, glancing sideways at the new arrival. Abigail was quickly reminded where Bertrand’s looks came from. Father was a stout man with a cheery face and receding hairline. The slight hunch was obviously passed down the male side of the family.

  “Come now, don’t just stand there.” Albert flung out his arms. “How about a hug for your father? I haven’t seen you in such a long time. Look how much you’ve grown.” As Abigail embraced her father she noticed a second man standing behind him. He was young and his amber eyes caught Abigail off guard. She found it hard to avert her gaze.

  Noticing Abigail’s pending embarrassmen
t, Father stood tall and turned to the man. “I am terribly sorry,” he said, smiling widely. “Please allow me to introduce Mr Prentice Sleath. Mr Sleath is a fireman from work. We took a new engine for a run today. It was pretty tiring work so I have asked him to join us for dinner,” Albert took his look to Frances. “I hope that’s all right, my dear?”

  Frances glanced at the young man and smiled. “Of course, that is fine with me. I’ve made a large roast lamb dinner, more than enough for all you men.” She took her look from Sleath, across to Albert and finished on a bemused Bertrand. Frances moved to the door, turning to comment before leaving, “I’ll fetch us a cup of tea. Dinner will be in an hour. Welcome home, dear. Mr Sleath, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Frances disappeared. Albert gestured for Sleath to sit before turning to his children with a beaming smile. “Now, let me get a proper look at you both.” Albert strode over to Bertrand and flung out a welcoming hand. “Bertie, my boy. It’s so good to have you here. My, how grown up you look.” Bertrand rose to shake his father’s hand, his gaze remaining firmly fixed to the floor.

  “He’s exceptionally tired,” ventured Abigail.

  “I expect it’s all a bit overwhelming for him.” Father turned to Abigail. “Have you been up to your room yet?”

  “No. We only arrived about half-an-hour ago.”

  “What kept you? Did Frances have some errands to run on the way home?”

  “No. There was no-one at the jetty to greet us. We caught a carriage with the help of a nice police constable.”

  “What? Frances wasn’t there?” A frown grew across Albert’s brow.

  Abigail could see where she inherited that particular trait. “I’m afraid not. She did greet us when we arrived here. She said you would be able to bring in our luggage. That is why it is still out on your front lawn.” Abigail noticed Father’s face drop as she spoke. Obviously this was not the original arrangement.

  A shuffle from beside the fireplace made both turn. Bertrand had twisted his body in the chair to face the pair. “She doesn’t like us.”

  “Come now, Bertie. Don’t be too hasty, and in front of company, too.” Abigail moved in beside him and stroked an errant hair away from his eye.

  “She doesn’t like us.” Bertrand wanted this to be acknowledged.

  Albert moved over, placing an arm around each of his children. “I can see we have managed to get off to a rocky start. I overheard your discussion as I came in and I’m terribly sorry about that. It may take a day or two for us to become properly acquainted. I’m sure once Frances gets to know you properly she will see reason.”

  “She was always scathing of Bertie and I.” Abigail could see this wasn’t going to be easy. “And I am sorry for arguing. This is Frances’ home after all, and I had no right—”

  “You had every right, my precious. This is as much your home as mine or Frances’. Let’s get tonight over with and in the morning we’ll sit down as a family and discuss this.”

  Abigail smiled. “I would like that very much. It will allow Bertie to get a good night’s sleep too. He is so tired.”

  Father squeezed Abigail’s shoulder as he turned to Sleath. “These two have been through quite a lot over the past three days.” He turned to Abigail. “I heard there was a terrible storm. The talk is that your ship was lucky to come through it.”

  “I think that may be an exaggeration but it was terrifying nonetheless. We were knocked completely sideways by a freak wave. Terrible damage. Two masts broken and several crates of provisions washed overboard.”

  Sleath spoke up for the first time. “That must have been awful?”

  Abigail sat upright, telling the story was a great unburdening. “It was awful. Even the crew struggled.”

  Albert sat back in his chair and nodded knowingly. “The sea can be a cruel mistress. Tell me, how was Bertie?”

  Abigail leaned forward to perch on the edge of her seat, speaking quietly to avoid Bertrand overhearing. “Petrified. He sat in his bunk for two days. I was so worried. Even though I assured him she was a sound vessel, he couldn’t accept it.”

  Realising Bertrand may become upset, Father quickly changed the subject. “So, was she a good ship?”

  “Oh, yes.” Abigail relaxed into her chair. “The captain showed me around and I was quite impressed. She has a new refrigeration system on board that keeps meat from New Zealand cold on the return journey back to England. The meat remains fresh the whole way. It’s amazing.”

  “Did you see it?”

  “Yes. And I also got to see the engine working. All that power harnessed in such a way. It was truly impressive.”

  The sound of teacups rattling through the door stopped Abigail. Seeing Frances entering, she stood respectfully, positioning herself in front of the chair with her hands clasped behind her back. Despite the cold reception and thwarted argument Abigail had to admit that she was looking forward to dinner. The opportunity to discuss trains and engineering things with Father and one of his staff was enticing. On top of that, the freshly brewed tea smelled divine.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Abigail perched on the edge of her dining chair. She stared as Prentice Sleath followed Bertie into the room. He was taller than Father and stockily built. His muscular arms and huge chest were engaging. As he sauntered in and took up the seat beside her, Abigail felt a flush of redness colour her face. Sleath merely smiled at her embarrassment. Maybe women blushing is a common occurrence for him? Father sat at the head of the table, with Frances to his left alongside Bertrand.

  Abigail found the roasted lamb dinner delicious and openly poured accolades upon Frances for her skilled cooking. Bertrand scoffed his down in silence, accepting seconds without so much as a thank you. The gusto with which he attacked the meal became all the praise he was likely to offer.

  Conversation initially centred around the ocean crossing. In particular, the difference in journey times between the pure sailing vessel that Albert and Frances had travelled on twelve months earlier, and the steam powered vessel that carried Abigail and Bertrand.

  Abigail was delighted to expand on her description of the steam engine. “It was huge,” she began. “Three different cylinders, each utilising steam ejected from the one before it. The steam gets used three times before being condensed back to water.”

  Albert looked impressed. “Wouldn’t a railway engine that used such technology be a great idea?”

  Sleath piped up. “I believe some engineers are looking at such things. Cooling is the major problem. Ships use cold sea water but train engines don’t have that advantage. The steam remans too hot.”

  Abigail beamed. “A problem indeed. But I’ll wager there is a solution out there somewhere.”

  Albert spoke up. “I agree. I’m sure we will improve our technology tenfold over the coming years.”

  Sleath turned to Abigail with a quizzical look on his face. “You seem remarkably well informed for a girl. How do you come to know so much?”

  Abigail looked at Albert and grinned. “My father, here, has seen to it that I learned all about his business. He even let me drive a train. It was in England, just before he left to come here.”

  Sleath looked askance. “Oh, so you can drive an engine?”

  “I have.” Abigail took on a smug air. “It’s easy really.”

  Sleath scowled. “I’ll bet you didn’t stoke the boiler. That is definitely not easy. I don’t imagine there would be any woman able to undertake my job.”

  Albert shuffled in his seat. “Now, now, let’s not squabble. Mr Sleath has a very taxing job. But Abigail is correct. I did allow her to drive the locomotive. It was only a short run, but she did well—”

  Frances cut in. “Against my express wishes.” Her mouth grew tighter. “I do not approve of such things. Girls ought to be at home working on their deportment, not gallivanting around the countryside driving steam engines about. It’s hard enough for girls to find husbands these days without them wasting tim
e on messy machinery”

  “But she did such a good job,” Albert responded, obviously avoiding Frances’ gaze.

  “So,” Sleath turned to Abigail. “How do you make the engine go, then?” He wore a smug grin that Abigail saw as a mere challenge.

  She shuffled to get comfortable. “Well, once the pressure is correct—”

  “Can’t do that without me,” cut in Sleath.

  “True.” She smiled at him, a rather flat condescending smile. “Once the pressure is correct, you push forward on the reverser lever. That makes it go forward. Then you purge the cylinders and open the regulator.”

  Sleath grinned. “Why purge the cylinders?”

  Abigail responded as quickly as possible. “Gets the water out. If you don’t do that the cylinder can lock up and break.” She beamed with pride. “Anyway, once that is done, you are away.”

  Sleath wore a slight pout, but nodded approvingly. “Miss Sergeant, I can see I have been wrong about you. You do indeed know more than most. I must say I am impressed.”

  Abigail pulled herself up to sit higher in her chair. “Well, Mr Sleath, I see you can turn on the charm when you desire. This is a pleasant side of you we might see more of?”

  “I’ll admit I have been a trifle defensive.” Sleath crossed his arms. “I worked hard to get this job and you seemed to believe it was so easy. It’s hard work on the locomotives. I merely wanted to get that point across.”

  “Oh, Mr Sleath, I do apologise.” Abigail turned to face him. “I had no intention of belittling your expertise. I can see you work very hard indeed. I doubt I could undertake such a task. I would guess there are also many men who would struggle doing your job.”

  Sleath relaxed his arms. “Yes, there are men who take on the job and don’t last. I expect some women, those of a more robust stature, may actually be up to the task. You, though, are not like that.” He looked down to the table. “I think you are far too intelligent and well mannered to be content shovelling coal.”