On Track for Murder Page 5

  The foreman sat, a grin across his face. “Miss Sergeant. I would like to thank you for your visit. It has been most enlightening. The man is due here momentarily. I will take your advice and let him go. Thank you again, although I’m not sure, now, how I will replace Sleath on the Fremantle line.”

  Abigail creased her brow. “By the way, do you have any idea when Sleath may be likely to return to work?”

  “Not a clue, love. I must say, this isn’t the best way for him to retain his job either.” The foreman slowly shook his head. “Young people nowadays. Don’t know when they are on to a good thing.” He glanced at Abigail. “Sorry, miss. Present company excepted, I’m sure.”

  “That’s all right, sir,” Abigail responded. “No offence taken. I would dearly like to find Mr Sleath. Do you have any idea where he may be?”

  “Could be at home in bed. Happens more often than I would care to count.” He moved to a large table and sat, pulling out a small stack of papers. “If you have no further questions, I must be getting on.” He smiled at her. “I need to find a fireman from somewhere.”

  Abigail cocked her head. “I don’t suppose you have an address for Sleath, do you?”

  The foreman pointed to the door. “You’ll have to ask Harold about that. He keeps the books. He’s next door.”

  Abigail thanked the foreman and left him to his work.

  The visit to Harold was of no help. Sleath had not furnished the company with a recent address. All this secrecy was not endearing Abigail to Mr Prentice Sleath. She paused for consideration. Was it worth the effort? There must be plenty of eligible bachelors in the Swan River Colony. Why should she expend so much energy searching for this one? The vision of Sleath sliding up onto the buggy with Frances haunted her. It was the deception that upset her the most. What was he up to?

  Finding the top of the outside stair, she paused and gingerly peered around the door. The realisation that Stanley Larkin was likely around filled her with dread. She definitely didn’t want to come face to face with him. As she stood, a muffled argument could be heard coming from the foreman’s office. The voice sent shivers down her spine. It was Larkin. Hurriedly Abigail sped down the stairs. She trotted along the outside pathway as quickly as possible without breaking into a run. As she approached the large shed doors, loud voices rang out from above.

  “You bastards,” yelled Larkin as he stormed from the glass fronted rooms. “I won’t let this drop. You’ll get what’s coming to you … all of you.” He stomped down the inside stairs and stormed directly towards the doors where Abigail stood. She began to panic. He mustn’t find her here. Without thinking, Abigail ducked into the sheds and around the side of a waiting locomotive. As Larkin neared, Abigail hauled herself up the steps of the engine. Pulling herself into the shadow of the cab, she gasped as the fuming man strode angrily past. Abigail’s heart was pounding. She had not mentioned to anyone the way Stanley Larkin had scrutinised her at the jetty in Fremantle. She had assumed he would never be seen again. Yet here he was, mere feet away, and in an extremely angry mood.

  “Oy, you two.” The shouting figure of Stanley Larkin loomed at the top steps of the next locomotive over. Involuntarily Abigail lurched back, the sheer fear of the situation gripping her in stunned silence.

  “What?” One of the two men aboard was less fazed by the intrusion.

  “You tell your boss, Albert Sergeant, that if I get my hands on his precious daughter, Abigail, I will knock her clear into next week. Telling tales and costing me a good wage is more than any man should have to put up with. You tell him that. Got it?”

  “If you say so. I’ve got it.” The driver seemed a bit taken aback with the anger towards Albert, but placating this man would get rid of him quicker than arguing. “What did she do?”

  Larkin pulled himself up another step. “Tattling like an old washer woman, that’s what she did. Telling tales about my behaviour on the ship … what’s it to you anyway? You just tell him.” With that Larkin slipped deftly back down the steps and was gone.

  Abigail remained in the cab of the engine for as long as she dared. Her heart pounded and her mind raced. She had made an enemy of this man and now, more than anything, wanted never to see him again. She waited, riveted to the locomotive cab like an installed accessory.

  Eventually a loud bell ringing announced lunchtime for the workers. It was then that Abigail felt she could leave without explanation. Her mission to find Sleath was destined to fail, but her part in denying Larkin work on the railway gave her an odd sense of satisfaction.

  She strode purposefully back to the general store. Asking whether anyone had seen Prentice Sleath met with the expected blank looks. Detouring to a nearby jetty on the river netted the same response. She was running out of options. Abigail considered catching a carriage to the railway station in Perth but, knowing the Albany service departed at eight in the morning, it would surely be a wasted journey.

  Dejected, Abigail pushed her sleeves up to the elbows, pulled off her gloves and began the long trek home. There remained the question of whether to tell Father about Frances’ night-time rendezvous. If there were some sort of skullduggery going on, waiting to relay such information would be wrong. Then there was Larkin and his threats. Abigail reluctantly decided she would have to tell Father everything.

  Nearing the house, as the afternoon sun began its slow decline, Abigail felt a pang of nervousness course through her body. She wasn’t looking forward to telling Father what she had seen. How upset will he be? Maybe he already knows? The vain hope that this would be easy disappeared as Abigail considered the facts. Of course Father doesn’t know.

  Reaching the gate, her stomach growled audibly. Abigail had not eaten since breakfast. She realised it was now her role to prepare meals, and she had neglected her family through two of those meals on her first day. She hoped Father had not tried to cook anything himself. She loved him dearly, but a cook he was not.

  The house was not burned down, that was something at least. Abigail paused at the gate. She could feel the creases on her brow growing deeper by the second. An odd feeling hung over the property. Abigail couldn’t put her finger on it, but something seemed amiss. She felt her heart rate rise as she approached the front door. What is the problem? Why do I feel so nervous? The stillness in the garden seemed uncharacteristic for that time of day. Mid afternoon would normally see the crows squawking at each other across the treetops, with flocks of ibis banking around dramatically. This afternoon there was nothing. All was quiet, all was still. She glanced around, looking for anything to provide a reason for the stillness. As she took in the far side of the house, her eyes widened at the sight. There, standing outside the stable block to the left of the house, was the buggy. The horse was still attached and had been given a mound of hay to keep it occupied. What?

  Pushing open the front door, Abigail’s pounding heart pulled at her chest. What is going on with me? There was no smell of burned toast issuing from the kitchen. No muffled chatter from the front room. In fact, the coldness of the interior suggested the fire in the kitchen stove had gone out completely. That was most strange. If Father was fastidious about anything it was keeping the stove hot in winter.

  She pushed open the door to the front room. Nothing. Moving further down the hallway Abigail became confused. She would normally be hearing the dining room clock ticking away loudly, but was struck by its absence. Straining for any sound at all she could just make out a low sobbing noise. It was rhythmic and extremely quiet but she recognised it immediately. Bertrand.

  Abigail broke into a run. Skidding into the kitchen she found it empty. Oddly, several knives were scattered haphazardly across the bench. No time to waste on further questions. She needed to find Bertrand. Doubling back she flung open the dining room door.

  Abigail stopped dead in her tracks. Her breath caught in her throat. She felt the colour drain from her face. For a moment she was unable to take a breath, unable to utter a sound. Then it came, “No! Be
rtie, no! What have you done?” She went to leap forward, reaching out for Bertrand’s arm, but halted. Her overloaded senses prevented further action. She was racked with confusion. All movement froze. The world closed in.

  Before her stood her brother holding a large bloodied meat cleaver. He was moaning, slowly rocking back and forth. He hadn’t even acknowledged Abigail’s arrival. As far as she could ascertain, he had mentally shut down. Below Bertrand, lying in a pool of blood, was Father. His eyes stared lifelessly out past the broken clock on the floor. The back of his noble head seemed to have been opened up like some sort of handbag, its contents spewed out for all to see. There was a gash across his face and his right hand had been severed clean off. Blood splatter up the wall had even made it to the ceiling, forming a red starry effect across the whole room.

  Time seemed to stand still. Abigail felt her heart pleading for action, yet her mind refused to cooperate. She realised her mouth was gaping open, her breath more like a panting dog than a human being. Her legs turned to lead, welded to the bloody floor.

  Bertrand stood, continually rocking. His moaning, the most disturbing sound Abigail had ever heard him utter. Questions blurred like trees past a speeding train. None would take form; a flashed hint of vision, then they were gone.

  Wetness on Abigail’s face momentarily drew her attention away from the carnage. She was crying. Not mere sobs, cascades of tears were running down her face. The emotional release allowed pause for decision. She turned and ran; out of the house and into the street. Only when free from the grip of the terror did Abigail finally regain her true voice.

  The resultant outburst flowed like water through a broken dam. “Help me! Help, somebody, help me! It’s terrible, please!” The sound reverberated around the neighbourhood. It gushed independently of Abigail’s control. She wasn’t there. She felt like a spectator in her own life.

  A passing rider leapt down from his mount and ran over. “Are you all right, miss?” He stood several feet away, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of trouble. “What’s wrong? What has happened?”

  “I … I … it’s Father. He’s … he’s …”

  “He’s where, miss?” The man, sensing no immediate threat, moved closer. He reached out to touch Abigail but she pulled away, shaking.

  “Inside … inside the house … Father … is dead!” Abigail blurted the last words. “Get the constable. Get help … please … help me.”

  “You sit here on the grass, miss, and I will fetch a constable.” The man assisted Abigail to the ground. Her jelly knees gave way at the first sign of bending. Abigail collapsed to the grass. Relieved of the effort of standing, the sobbing recommenced. Abigail’s body shook violently with each wail. This couldn’t be happening.

  An older woman arrived, manoeuvring her corpulent body down to the grass beside the distraught girl. She put her arm around Abigail and spoke in the most sensitive voice. “There, there, dear. It’s all right now. It’s Mrs Wallace from next door. I’ll stay here with you while Bert goes to fetch the police.”

  Abigail wailed loudly, thrown by the contrast of disarming tenderness.

  “Come now, dear. I’m here with you now. There, there.”

  “It’s … it’s Father. He’s … he’s dead. He’s just staring out into nothingness.”

  “I know how you feel, dear. It’s pretty distressing when someone passes on. You must be strong.”

  Abigail’s eyes popped. “No! No, you don’t understand. He’s been killed. Blood is all over …” a deep guttural moan saw Abigail double over. Mrs Wallace rubbed Abigail’s back. It helped stem the convulsion. “There’s blood … everywhere. And a cleaver … and …” Abigail’s eyes grew wider as her mouth opened silently. The next comment stuck in her throat. She lurched forward before the words would flow. “Bertrand. He’s still in there. He has the knife. Don’t go in … it may not be safe. Oh, Bertie!” The moan turned to sobbing again before Abigail turned sideways and vomited across the lawn. Mrs Wallace remained staunchly by her side, only looking up to acknowledge the arrival of two policemen.

  “I believe Mr sergeant is dead inside, constable.” Mrs Wallace almost barked out the statement as instructions. “The young lady says her brother is still in there. With a knife. I’d be careful if I were you.”

  Abigail, hearing this, burst into further inconsolable wailing. “Why? … Bertie, why?”

  The taller of the two constables paused. “Leave it with us, miss. We’ll get to the bottom of this.” They crossed the lawn to the door and slowly entered the home, batons pulled ready for strong resistance. They met none.

  Five minutes later, the smaller constable trotted out from the house waving a message and asking for it to be delivered to his station sergeant immediately. “We have the situation under control,” he called out. “Get a detective here as soon as possible. We will secure the scene until he arrives.” He then strode back and positioned himself in the open doorway, standing as upright as possible.

  Abigail pulled herself up, accepting the embroidered handkerchief offered by Mrs Wallace to wipe the vile taste from her lips. Looking around she noticed a small crowd had gathered, the spectacle of a screaming woman too much to ignore. They whispered loudly and pointed to the house. A constable guarding a home in this part of town was a rarity not to be missed.

  Abigail turned away from the onlookers as Mrs Wallace swapped the soiled handkerchief for a fresh one. They sat in silence.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The detective arrived with a third constable in tow. He strode purposefully past the crowd and directly into the house. It seemed hours passed before the front door was filled with the frame of the third police constable, moving toward Abigail and Mrs Wallace.

  “Miss Sergeant, is it?” He spoke gently.

  Abigail looked up. “Yes, constable, but how do you know my name?”

  “We met at the jetty when you arrived. I’m Constable Dunning.”

  Abigail attempted a smile but her angst ridden face refused to cooperate. “Yes … yes, I remember. Um …” she took her attention away from Dunning.

  “I’m afraid, Miss Sergeant, that Detective Inspector Hobbs would like to speak with you.”

  Abigail’s mouth tightened as she glanced toward the gathered crowd.

  “I’m sorry, miss. In the house if you don’t mind. He’s in the front room away from the … ‘situation’.” Seeing Abigail shuffling in her position on the lawn, Constable Dunning held out a hand. “Please, allow me.” He was strong and pulled her to her feet with ease. As their faces passed altogether too closely for strangers, Abigail could smell Coal Tar Soap on him. It reminded her of home in England. For a brief moment she paused, drinking in the memory. “Please, miss.” Dunning gesticulated towards the door.

  Reality returned with a vengeance as Abigail moved away from Mrs Wallace’s calming hands. The handkerchief was pressed into action once again as Abigail moved to face the questioning.

  Upon entering the hallway, Abigail caught sight of a handcuffed Bertrand being led into Father’s study out of the way. “No!” she cried, stopping to watch him disappear. “He can’t have done it. He just can’t.” She turned to Dunning. “He’s not like that. He wouldn’t harm anybody.”

  “Best talk to the detective about that, miss. He will take a full statement from you before arriving at any conclusions.”

  “May I speak with Bertrand?” Abigail felt like a schoolgirl standing before a schoolmaster.

  “Possibly, miss. After Inspector Hobbs has spoken with all concerned.” He ushered Abigail into the front room.

  Hobbs was seated in one of the hard backed chairs. A second had been turned around and positioned directly opposite. “Miss Sergeant. Please, sit down.” Hobbs raised himself inches from the chair in a weak attempt at propriety. Quickly slopping back down, he began his questioning before Abigail had even settled. “Now, I understand it is you who discovered the body?”

  Abigail took a deep breath, the first decen
t air for a while. “I found my father dead, yes.”

  “Could you tell me what time that was please?”

  “I’m not actually sure. The clock was smashed on the floor when I came in. It was mid afternoon, I know that. I was thinking about getting dinner started.”

  “Would that not be your mother’s job?”

  Abigail rubbed her reddened eyes. “Step-mother. Yes, normally. But she left for Albany yesterday.”

  “Oh, I see. So she is not here then?”

  “No. Just Father, Bertrand and myself.” The words were hard to say.

  “Did you see anyone else as you arrived?”

  “No, I didn’t see anyone. Everything was quiet when I got home.”

  “So, Miss Sergeant, to the best of your knowledge your father and Bertrand were home alone today?”

  Abigail glanced up at the sly look on Hobbs’ face. “He didn’t do it. I’m sure he didn’t.”

  “We’ll see, miss. Is there anything else you would like to add to your statement?”

  “Might I speak with Bertie? I’m sure he will tell me what happened.”

  Hobbs looked over at Constable Dunning and nodded. “I suppose it can’t hurt. Constable Dunning will bring him through.”

  Abigail’s hand clapped over her mouth as Bertrand was led, handcuffed, into the room.

  “Bertie … oh, Bertie, what happened?” She leaned towards him but stopped before getting too close.

  Bertrand stared at the floor. “Father is hurt.”

  “I know Father is hurt, Bertie. What happened?”

  “Frances doesn’t like us.”

  “I know that too, Bertie. But what happened to Father? Was it you who hurt him?”

  “Frances …” he paused. “Frances …”

  Abigail went to move closer but, again, uncertainty stopped her. “She doesn’t like us. I know that, Bertie. But what happened to Father?”