On Track for Murder Page 4

  Abigail tried, in vain, to catch his eye. “Mr Sleath, I see a true gentleman lurks beneath that hard working exterior.” She smiled at him. “I do thank you for putting up with my attempt to prove myself.”

  Raising his eyes just enough to avoid direct contact, Sleath smiled back. “It was a pleasure. I hope we may spend more time together in the future.” He cast a sheepish look around the table. “I mean, it would be nice if you would—”

  Frances cut in. “I think we all know what you mean, Mr Sleath.

  “Now, now,” responded Albert, calmly taking out his pipe. “We ought not be too harsh on the youngsters. They have only just met.” He turned to Sleath. “Mr Sleath, I believe we have spoken enough of engines and railways for the time-being. Do tell, what other exploits have you been up to lately?”

  Sleath broke into a beaming smile. “Well, sir, I did go to the theatre.” He turned to Bertrand who was seated opposite him. “So, Bertrand, do you like plays?”

  Bertrand’s face lit up. He was finally being included in the conversation. “I haven’t ever seen one.”

  “Well, let me tell you.” Sleath glanced at Abigail before continuing. “I saw the latest murder mystery last week; put on by a travelling drama troupe. It was marvellous. Had me on the edge of my seat throughout the whole play. I won’t spoil it by telling you who commits the murders, but let me say it was very realistic. They were stabbed, you know. On stage.”

  “I’d like to see it.” Bertrand bounced in his seat.

  “Perhaps Mr Sergeant might take you, and Miss Sergeant too?” He glanced at Albert questioningly.

  “Maybe I will do just that,” Albert replied, turning to face Frances. “Wouldn’t you enjoy a play too, my dear?”

  “Oh, I think not.” Her reply was of no surprise. “Murder … on stage,” her brow furrowed deeply. “I couldn’t bear to face such inhumanity. But I won’t stand in your way if the children would like to see it.”

  “I want to see it.” Bertrand blurted out.

  “What about you Abigail?” Frances addressed her directly. “Does a good murder appeal to your sensitivities? With your scientific mind you should be able to discern who did it before the half time break.” Whether she was engaging in an odd joke, or being pointedly obtuse, Abigail couldn’t decide. Fortunately, Father cut in with an attempt to quell the building tension.

  “Now, now, let’s be pleasant at the dinner table, shall we.” Albert puffed a plume of pipe smoke into the air. “Perhaps you would all like to come on a trip down to Albany? We could treat it as a short holiday?”

  Frances mouth pursed. “You know I don’t like it down there, dear. I’m sure the children may enjoy a trip, but I shan’t be joining you.”

  Abigail piped up, attempting to quell a building argument. “Where is Albany, Father?”

  Albert waved his pipe in the air. “It’s at the end of the line, my darling. That is the new route that we installed only a few months ago.” His pipe exaggerated the distance. “It takes two days to get there as we can’t yet run at night. The trains have to stop in Beverley, which is about half way.”

  Abigail looked up at the ceiling, remembering that Father was brought to the colony for that very purpose. “Two days?”

  “I took the inaugural train down and back.” He smiled. “I like it in Albany. Good people down there. Unfortunately my work is mostly in the Guildford office nowadays. The engines are my true joy, though.” Father glanced at Frances. “I think you can see why—”

  She cut him short. “Well, it’s no place for a woman.” Frances stood to collect the dinner plates. “If I had known you were going to let her actually drive the thing back in England I would have forbidden the outing completely. Young ladies are not made for that sort of thing.”

  Abigail’s face reddened. “But it is the future of travel and we ought to be interested.”

  “Oh, yes, you’ve seen the future haven’t you. And it’s full of steam trains is it? Maybe you’ve even seen them flying around like birds?”

  “Don’t be silly.” Abigail immediately wished she could retract her last statement.

  Frances spun to face her. “Silly … silly … just who do you think you are young lady—?”

  “Come now,” Father cut in. “This talk will only lead to an argument. Might we finish our meal in a civil manner?”

  “I apologise, Father,” Abigail took her gaze respectfully down to the table and clasped her hands in submission. “You have worked hard for this family and I am truly grateful.”

  Frances appeared miffed. She banged the plates loudly as she swept them up. Tension hung in the air.

  Tea was taken in silence, save for Bertrand’s attempts to confirm their visit to the murder mystery. Subtlety was never his strong point. Abigail had tried on many an occasion to school him in the art of diplomacy, but failed every time. She knew he struggled with the most basic concepts of life in the nineteenth century. To worry about how others felt was pushing the limits too far. Yet he could be so caring and Abigail knew he loved her very much.

  Finally, Father invited Sleath to join him for an after dinner port in the drawing room. The offer was quickly accepted, leaving Abigail alone with Bertrand and Frances. They sat in silence. Frances picked up her macabre tapestry and sunk into the armchair, thick reading glasses perched on the end of her rather pointed nose. Abigail pictured her wearing a pointed black hat, and was amazed at the result. For all the accusations of witchcraft levelled at Abigail, Frances appeared to suit the role better than Abigail ever could.

  Abigail began to occupy her mind with a fiction about Frances the witch, casting spells on everyone in an attempt to make the world perfect. A chuckle began to surface but Abigail stifled it. Images such as that were best held in her memory, to be recalled for her journal later that night. Abigail’s mind then slipped into thoughts of herself, true to Frances’ accusations, able to conjure up anything she wished. She would produce a flying machine, so well made that she would become an instant heroine. — The crowds roar as Abigail Sergeant becomes the first person to pilot a powered flying machine from Perth in the Swan Colony, all the way to Sydney. A parade is to be held in her honour, and the machine that made the historic journey is to be displayed for all to marvel at. Read all about it. —

  “May I go to bed now?” Bertrand’s voice wafted through the dream as a morning mist creeps up on a harbour.

  “What was that you said, Bertie?”

  “May I go to bed now? I want to go to bed.”

  “Of course you may.” Abigail placed her hand on his shoulder. “Would you like me to come up and read you a story?”

  Frances’ head spun to address them. “Boy should be able to read his own stories at his age. Still, if it gets him out of my hair then take him up. I’ll tell Albert you’ve both retired for the night.” She wasn’t about to take up civility with Abigail or Bertrand any time soon, that was obvious.

  “Come on, Bertie. I’ll read your story for you.” Abigail stood and motioned Bertrand to the door. Escape from the coldness was welcome, as was the chance to reengage in the journey of Captain Nemo and his undersea adventures. Father would understand.

  The children had been allocated three attic rooms as their own. Bertrand was assigned the small room at the front of the house, Abigail the larger at the rear. A small sitting room with a view over the river sat between, at the top of the steep stairs. After seeing Bertrand washed and ready for bed, Abigail spent half-an-hour reading to him. The sound of a light snore enabled her to finally tuck him in. She headed back downstairs for her evening ablutions.

  Passing through the kitchen to get to the lavatory beyond, Abigail marvelled at the array of pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. Beneath them, set in a wooden block screwed to the wall, was a very impressive array of knives, ranging from a giant cleaver, to small vegetable knives. There would have been at least a dozen set out on display. Frances obviously took cooking seriously. Abigail hoped she would not be asked to
show off her own prowess in the kitchen. Cooking was not her favourite activity.

  As she climbed the stairs to her room, the ticking of the dining room clock filled the hallway. Occasional bouts of laughter from the drawing room slowly faded as she reached the top of the house. Sleep would be welcome tonight.

  Mere minutes after Abigail heard Prentice Sleath leave the house, the argument started. At first the house filled with the muffled sound of a vigorous discussion. Then a door banged and all fell silent. In an attempt to reduce her stress, Abigail crept to the window and opened it wide. A dog barking in the distance provided a welcome distraction. With no breeze to ruffle the gum leaves, distant sounds were easily heard through the stillness. The three-quarter moon shone brightly. Its silvery glow across the rear garden reminded Abigail of the stage lights used when actors put on a play, or a variety troupe sung their cheerful songs. The barking dog and a handful of slowly croaking frogs became all the players in this show tonight. No great murder mystery to solve here.

  Abigail had just dipped her pen in the ink-pot for the first time that night when the shouting recommenced. From the words that were discernible, it appeared that Frances vehemently disagreed with Father’s encouragement of Abigail towards invention. The name Albany was shouted several times, along with a reference to New Zealand. Was Frances planning to ship Abigail and Bertrand off to New Zealand? Heaven forbid. Abigail doubted she would be able to convince Bertrand onto another ship. Besides, she had found Prentice Sleath quite captivating and felt she would like to take that relationship further. Given time, it might even lead to a courtship. It would be marvellous to marry a man with a mechanical bent.

  Banging noises from downstairs interrupted Abigail’s thoughts. A door slam was quickly followed by the unmistakable sound of breaking glass. A vase or decanter saw the end of its useful life. Raised voices grew louder as the combatants stormed into the downstairs hallway. Abigail paused her attempt at writing and sat still in the chair, staring at the open window.

  The fight below became clearer and more easily understood.

  “I can see now that you are backing that daughter of yours in preference to me.” Frances wasn’t pulling any punches.

  “That is a hurtful lie. I love Abigail … and Bertrand too. They are my children. What sort of father would I be if I ignored their futures.”

  “You would be a caring father if you took a strong hand with them. Especially her and her ideas about science and the future.”

  “But all she is interested in is advancing human knowledge and understanding. Making things better for us.”

  “And what about her wanting to subvert all that is natural. That’s witchcraft and you can’t argue with that.”

  Father’s voice grew noticeably louder. “I can say emphatically that my daughter is not a witch.”

  “She doesn’t go to church.”

  “A lot of people don’t go to church.”

  “A lot of people don’t fantasise about machines taking over the world, either.”

  “Oh, Frances, you are being irrational. Why can’t we—”

  “Irrational now is it? First she calls me silly at my dinner table, and now my husband accuses me of being irrational. What next? The men in white coats to take me away? Is that what you would like? Is it?”

  “Of course not, my dear. Please, let’s discuss this in a civil manner.” Father calmed his tone.

  “You can be civil all you like. I’m going away for a while.”

  “What do you mean, you are going away? Away where? For how long?”

  “Away to New Zealand. I’ll catch the train to Albany. A ship leaves from there in five days’ time.”

  Abigail heard Father take a deep breath and blow it out loudly before continuing his calm response. “So, you weren’t talking of sending the children away. The plan all along was actually for you to leave?”

  “Yes, I’ve planned a break from the heresy that has entered my home.”

  Father increased his volume again. “Heresy? What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t stay in this house while you are siding with evil.”

  Father laughed. Not a good idea.

  “Oh, so you think it’s funny do you? That’s it. That is all I will hear on the matter. There will be no further discussion. My mind is made up. I will forward an address where I can be contacted. Right now, you might be a gentleman and fetch my luggage. It’s ready to go out to the buggy.”

  “What, now? You’re going right now? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “There is an inn in town. I will be staying there. It will allow me an early start in the morning. I will see that the horse and buggy are returned to you.”

  “But—” The argument died right there amidst further banging and thumping.

  Abigail sat as still as possible, not daring to make a sound. Thank goodness Bertrand was a sound sleeper or he would be wailing by now. What will Father do? Will he ask Bertie and I to leave? Where might we go? Images of the three of them living a happy life in this house, without Frances, danced through Abigail’s mind. The possibility existed, but would Father want that? He was married to Frances after all. As quietly as she could, Abigail stood up and crept to the open window.

  The fresh air was restorative. Taking in a deep breath, she held it for longer than usual. Tension washed out as the air was slowly released. She stared at the rising moon. The dog continued barking. Life goes on.

  Abigail couldn’t see the front of the house from her window. The sound of travel trunks being slid onto the buggy cut through the still night. She assumed Father was assisting. He was a gentleman to the last.

  Less than a minute after the front door slammed shut, faint sounds of horses hooves could be heard crunching across the ground. Abigail leaned out the window. By craning her neck sideways she could make out the road winding its way through a small stand of gum trees to the river’s edge. After that it disappeared into darkness. Barely a minute later, the buggy slowly drove into view, Frances at the reins. It seemed to be travelling extremely slowly. Maybe Frances is being overcautious in the darkness?

  Or maybe not? The buggy stopped just shy of the gums. Is she changing her mind? Although some distance away, Abigail could still hear the horse snort as it stood, restlessly waiting. Stretching further out to gain a better view, Abigail openly gasped as a dark figure sneaked out from the gums and made its way towards the buggy. What is going on? Straining to see who this mysterious figure was, Abigail froze as the pair turned back to stare at the house. They paused and whispered. Had she been seen? As they turned back to the buggy, Abigail reeled in shock. She recognised the figure. It was Prentice Sleath.

  A whispered hurry up saw Sleath slide up onto the buggy and settle in beside Frances. The reins jingled as the horse was coaxed forward. They disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The following morning Abigail rose early. Leaving a note for Father, she crept away from the house, the cawing of waking crows hiding her delicate footsteps. The walk to the railway workshops took longer than Abigail had expected. With no real idea of the township’s layout, she was relying on recollections from recent conversations to provide direction. It was two hours before she reached the general store. At least she was heading in the right direction. Half-an-hour later she was thrilled to finally spy the tall railway building looming into view.

  In her note to Father, Abigail had decided not to mention anything about Frances meeting Sleath. Father had enough to worry about. After lying awake for hours she had formulated a plan wherein she would go to the railway workshops and confront Sleath. It appeared he had some involvement with Frances’ flight, and Abigail felt she had a duty to discover what that was. After all, Prentice Sleath had hinted at the possibility of a relationship, and Abigail wasn’t about to place her trust in a man who harboured secrets. However cute he may be.

  The smell of hot oil wafted through the air as Abigail neared the large entrance doors. Steam billo
wed out as an engine chuffed through towards the rear. Abigail noticed deep pits cut in between the tracks. She remembered they were to allow workmen to stand underneath a locomotive and work on the underside with ease. Father had told her two men had been severely hurt recently after falling in. Something to be avoided. The entire workshop seemed like a giant maze, protected by hissing monsters and traps for the unwary.

  Now she was here, it was difficult to decide upon a course of action. Abigail assumed Sleath would be there somewhere. He had told her he was due on a locomotive that morning, but where to find him? Deciding to avoid the dangers of the workshop proper, she followed a wide path around the side of the building. This led to an outside staircase that ran up to the offices overlooking the interior. The office staff would know where Sleath was.

  “Sorry, love,” the foreman said, as Abigail stood gazing out the window to the workshops below. “Mr Sleath didn’t come in today. He’s supposed to be on the ten-fifteen to Fremantle. I’ve had an awful job finding a replacement. Had to get a sailor who just got off a ship. I just hope he is up to it. Most inconvenient.”

  Abigail looked puzzled. “What did you say the name of this new person is?”

  The foreman looked sideways at her. “I wouldn’t normally let that sort of information out, my dear. But since you are Albert’s daughter, I will make an exception. Why you need to know, I can’t think, but the man’s name is Stanley Larkin.”

  Abigail gasped. “Surely not.”

  “Are you all right, miss?” The foreman stood but stopped short of actually consoling her.

  Abigail took a deep breath. “Stanley Larkin was placed in the brig on the ship for abusing me and my brother after a storm. He is a wholly unpleasant fellow.”

  The foreman slowly shook his head. “Hmm, he didn’t mention that when he applied for work. That changes things immensely.”

  Abigail regained her composure. “I wouldn’t give him work if I were you. He will present you with no end of trouble. The ship’s officers were glad to be rid of him.”