On Track for Murder Page 6

  “Frances doesn’t like Father either.”

  “I know, they argued last night. She’s gone now. She’s gone to Albany.”

  “Frances doesn’t like us.” This was getting them nowhere.

  Abigail sunk her head into her hands. “Did you see who did this, Bertie? It’s very important.”

  “Frances …” He stopped, staring at the wall of the study, and began rocking once again. “Frances …” he repeated, before continuing the awful moaning.

  “I don’t know that this is helpful,” Dunning said. “He appears to be experiencing some sort of mesmeric withdrawal.”

  “It is pretty disturbing … to see your father cut up like that …” Abigail burst into tears once more.

  “Take him away.” Hobbs waved a hand at Dunning.

  “What will happen to him?” Abigail sobbed the words as Bertrand was led out.

  “He will spend the night in the cells. If there is no evidence to the contrary, he will be charged with the murder of your father.”

  “No! That cannot be right!”

  “I’m afraid, miss, that evidence is evidence, and your brother was caught red handed, the murder weapon still clutched in his hand.”

  “But Inspector. There must be some mistake. Bertie wouldn’t …”

  “I’m afraid the evidence is pretty convincing.” Hobbs finished adding to his notes and slipped the stubby pencil in behind his ear.

  “What will happen then?” Abigail’s mouth was setting to a solid scowl.

  “The lad will go before the magistrate and be sentenced.”

  “And?”

  “And … the penalty for murder is hanging.”

  Abigail’s hands flew to her mouth. “No! Bertie, no!”

  “I’m sorry, miss,” he said. “I need to go and look around the room; search for any further evidence.” As Hobbs stood, Dunning reappeared.

  “He didn’t do it.” Abigail slid forward in her seat.

  “Well, if you can prove who did, your brother will be a lucky man.” Hobbs moved towards the door. “Just don’t tamper with any evidence.”

  “As if …” Abigail sat upright and pursed her lips.

  “It has been done before, miss. By well meaning relatives.”

  “Well, not by me.”

  “That’s good.” He paused beside Dunning. “Constable Dunning will remain here tonight to protect the scene. If you think of anything, please speak to him.” He turned back to face Abigail. “Oh, I forgot to say. You will need a place to stay tonight. This house is, naturally, a crime scene.” He left, leaving Abigail staring after him with her mouth open.

  As the door clicked shut, Abigail looked up to Constable Dunning. “He appears to be convinced of the circumstances all ready.” She sniffed in a most unladylike manner.

  “He will do his duty.” Dunning smiled as he moved closer. “Now, do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.” Tears welled up. Her vision of Dunning blurred.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll look into it for you.” He gazed at the ceiling, chewing on his pencil. “I know. I will ask that Mrs Wallace if you might stay with her. She seems genuinely keen to help.” He held out his hand for a second time to assist Abigail to her feet. “Please.”

  The following day Abigail rose early and made her way across the expanse of lawn to her family home. The air was cooler and she clutched her shawl tightly around her neck as she approached the door. A policeman she hadn’t seen before barred the way, insisting that no-one enter until Detective Inspector Hobbs arrived. There was no argument. Abigail waited, shivering.

  “Constable.” The familiar voice broke Abigail’s trance. “What’s that girl doing standing around outside? Can’t you see she’s positively shaking with cold?” Detective Inspector Hobbs strode past her and up to the door. “Anyway, Dunning’s inside. Let her in.” He turned before disappearing through the door. “Coming?”

  It took Abigail several seconds to realise she was now permitted entrance to her home. It took a further half a minute for her legs to respond to the move command. She hadn’t realised how numb her feet and hands had become.

  The warmth in the front room hit her immediately. Unthinkingly, she crossed directly to the fireplace and held her hands out, sighing and closing her eyes.

  “Miss Sergeant.” The inspector’s voice cut her heat filled distraction. “Does Mrs Wallace not have a fire on such a cold morning?”

  “Oh, I apologise. Yes, she has a lovely fire going.”

  “So, what brings you out so early?” Hobbs pulled a hard-backed chair around to face the fire, beckoning Abigail to be seated. He followed suit.

  Abigail shuffled. “I need to know what is going on.”

  “Did you have any further information for us?” Hobbs slid open his notebook.

  “I wasn’t likely to find much at Mrs Wallace’s, was I?” Abigail felt the anger rising.

  “That’s all well and good, Miss Sergeant,” Hobbs stared coldly at her. “But without any evidence to the contrary, I’m afraid your brother is going to be held accountable for his actions.” He spun as Constable Dunning entered the room. “Yes?”

  “Sir,” Dunning looked tired. “May I be relieved now?”

  “Not yet.” Hobbs’ face set hard as he returned his attention to Abigail. “What is it you want, Miss Sergeant?”

  “I want the chance to prove my brother innocent.” Abigail could feel the tears welling.

  “Look.” Hobbs jammed his pencil back behind his ear as he stood to face Dunning. “Constable Dunning here is due to go off duty. If you can convince him, I will pay the overtime for him to oversee proceedings as you look around. If you find anything at all you must bring it directly to me. Do you understand?”

  “Oh, thank you.” Abigail forced back her tears. “Thank you, inspector.” She rose from her seat and looked at Dunning, watery eyes glistening. “Constable?”

  Dunning gave a sigh. “I suppose I could give up an hour to help.” He smiled at the tearful Abigail. “Where to first?”

  Abigail gathered herself and strode to the door. She wasn’t about to let Hobbs change his mind. “Come. I will show you.”

  The hallway seemed longer as Abigail led Dunning towards the dining room; the scene of the murder.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Dunning spoke softly.

  “I have to find something to help Bertie.” Abigail eased herself into the dining room, keeping well back from the drying blood stain.

  Dunning stood in the doorway. “Well?”

  Abigail gazed around, taking in as much as she could. Blood splatter covered the room. Two spots remained clear, the ground where the body had fallen and a patch in front, obviously where the killer had been standing. She cast her mind back to Bertie, standing dumbfounded. Had he been covered in blood? She couldn’t recall but knew it hadn’t caught her attention. The broken clock remained on the floor, covered with dry blood, its hands stuck at twelve-fifty.

  Dunning spoke softly. “Anything?”

  Abigail sighed. “Well, I didn’t notice before but the table is set for two and the meal has been eaten, yet the dishes have not been removed. They were obviously disturbed immediately after lunch.”

  Dunning nodded. “Good observation. The inspector has already noted that detail, along with the time on the broken clock.” Dunning’s sleep deprived delivery grew slower. “But it doesn’t alter the implication of Bertrand’s guilt.”

  “How much blood was on Bertie’s shirt? I don’t recall that much blood.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t recall. The inspector will have noted it.”

  “He’s not guilty.” A sob broke her demeanour. “There must be something, somewhere, to prove that.”

  “Look,” Dunning moved in beside her. “If it was someone else, maybe they took something?” He was trying to help. “Would you be able to tell if anything were missing?”

  Abigail scanned the room. “We have been here but a ma
tter of days so I couldn’t say with certainty, but I would like to check. I don’t see anything out of place in this room. Did you check Father’s study?” Abigail bit her lip as she gazed at the floor. She had been in the study only twice before and both times had not stayed long. It was doubtful she would notice anything missing, but if it could help Bertie, it was worth a look.

  The study was cold and dark. Dunning pulled open the curtains to let in some much needed light. The room was transformed. Father’s desk sat in the middle of the room, facing the door. Behind it sat a bookcase laden with fascinating volumes that piqued Abigail’s interest. She was certain Frances must know nothing of their existence. The woman would have had the entire collection cleaned out had she discovered them. A tall window occupied most of the left wall, while a bureau, with its front open, sat along the right.

  “Have you been through the bureau?” Abigail said, gazing down at the mess of papers spilled onto the floor.

  “No, we haven’t. It was like this when we arrived.”

  “This isn’t like Father at all. He is a tidy and well organised man. I think someone has been here.”

  “Could it be Bertrand?”

  “To what end? He struggles to read children’s books. It would be impossible for him to read, not to mention understand, any of Father’s documents.”

  Dunning stepped over to the bureau. “But he wasn’t in his right mind. He may have been looking for something else.”

  Abigail joined him. “I can’t imagine what.”

  “Neither can I but that is no defence.”

  Abigail rounded on Dunning. “Constable Dunning. He is not guilty. Can you please stop saying he is.”

  “I’m sorry.” He gazed down at the bureau. “Well, well. What have we here?” He reached behind the cabinet and pressed a hidden panel. With a click, a shallow drawer slid out from the polished side.

  “Gosh,” Abigail said. “How did you know about that?”

  “The superintendent has a similar bureau in his office. We snuck in once when I was training and discovered the drawer open. There was nothing incriminating inside but we found it fascinating all the same. We invented all manner of nefarious activities after that, to tar the superintendent with.”

  “How positively childish.” Abigail frowned before allowing a grin to take over.

  “We were cadets. It was five years ago now.” He smiled back. Abigail was sure she caught the faint smell of Coal Tar Soap once again.

  Conflicting feelings drove her to break the moment. “So. What’s in this secret drawer?”

  Dunning reached in and pulled out a long brown envelope. Opening it, he carefully tipped its contents out onto the desk. A business card, several bank deposit slips and what looked like a bank account number lay before them. “Interesting,” he said, chewing the end of his stubby pencil.

  Abigail picked up the business card. “It’s from a solicitor in Albany.” Her brow furrowed. “Father said he spent most of his time here. He said he didn’t get to Albany much. Why would he engage a solicitor down there?”

  Dunning scooped up the deposit slips. “There is a substantial amount of money deposited in this bank. Interestingly, it’s located in Albany.”

  “Well, that provides us with the proof we need, does it not?” Abigail’s frown disappeared.

  “I don’t see how.” Dunning took on a more pragmatic look.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, all this proves is that your father had funds deposited in a bank in Albany. Nothing else.”

  “But it’s something.”

  Dunning looked puzzled. “I don’t understand. How is this relevant?”

  “Don’t you see. Frances went off to Albany. Prentice Sleath was with her too, and now he has disappeared.”

  “Prentice who? You haven’t mentioned a Prentice before.”

  “No. I haven’t. I’m not sure why.” Abigail shuffled awkwardly. She realised that everything that had happened could now be pertinent to the enquiry. She must tell them what she saw that night. “I saw something … the night before Father died.”

  “What did you see?” Dunning flipped over a page in his notebook.

  “When Frances left, she stopped the buggy a short way down the track. She picked up Prentice Sleath. He works for Father at the railway. It was the middle of the night. Very strange, don’t you think?”

  “It does seem odd.” Dunning scribbled as he spoke. “This Sleath worked for your father, you say?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Abigail turned to gaze out the window. “He had been here for dinner. I thought he had gone home. When Frances left, I watched from the window in my room. They didn’t see me.”

  Dunning paused his writing. “And you say they left for Albany the following day?”

  “That is my belief.” Abigail felt this may be relevant, particularly in light of Bertrand’s protestations. “Frances is due on board a ship bound for New Zealand. It leaves from Albany in a few days. I’m not sure why Bertie insists we speak to her, but she may have information that could help him.” It was a weak argument but the only lead she had.

  “Then we need to send a telegram to Albany asking the police there to interview this Sleath and your step-mother.” He stopped and began chewing his pencil again. “We need to tell the inspector.” Dunning gestured for Abigail to follow him back to the front room. Turning to leave, Abigail noticed the corner of a small folded piece of paper poking out of the envelope. She gently extracted it as Dunning called for her to hurry up. Deciding it may be important, she jammed it down into her pocket for reading later. She headed out the door.

  The news wasn’t good. The inspector informed them that the telegraph had been down for some days and didn’t look like being fixed any time soon. As pursuing this line of enquiry was going to be difficult, he was prepared to let it pass without further consideration. Abigail was not.

  Abigail could be most convincing. She determined that a trip to Albany was the only course of action. Frances must be spoken to. What’s more, she felt a burning need to interrogate Prentice Sleath.

  Anger, mixed with grief, drove her to seek the truth. Her Father was dead. On top of that, Bertrand now stood accused of his murder. She was convinced her brother was innocent but his current stupor prevented him responding to the accusations. The hurt inside was overwhelming. Abigail flipped from floods of tears, to accusatory anger, to deep melancholy. All she knew was that something was wrong and it needed to be corrected. Father couldn’t be brought back. But she could prevent Bertrand facing the noose.

  Detective Inspector Hobbs turned in his seat to face Abigail directly. “Miss Sergeant. I see that you are passionate about this and that you truly believe your brother is innocent.”

  “Oh, I do, inspector. I do.”

  “Well, in light of your discovery regarding the Albany bank accounts, and that your step-mother may possess relevant information, I will allow you five days to come up with some convincing evidence.”

  Abigail had to stifle a squeal of delight. She wasn’t sure whether the inspector genuinely believed in her mission, or just saw it as a way to get her out of his hair for a few days. It didn’t matter. Bertie asked her to speak to Frances, so speak to Frances she would.

  “Five days, mind,” Hobbs continued. “You will need to travel to Albany. If you leave tomorrow you might just catch your step-mother before she departs. If you miss her I’m sure the Albany solicitor will be able to settle your mind regarding the bank accounts. It wouldn’t be a completely wasted trip.”

  Abigail’s face dropped. “What about the funeral? I will need to organise Father’s funeral. But I want Bertie to be there too. I can’t let Father go without Bertie saying goodbye.” She began to sob loudly.

  Hobbs leaned forward, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. “There’s no need to worry about that. Albert’s body will remain in the mortuary until the investigation is completed. I’m afraid that means the funeral will be some way off yet.”

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sp; Abigail sniffed the last of the sobs away. “So, I have time to prove Bertrand’s innocence?”

  Hobbs sat back and crossed his arms. “Five days. Then I lodge the charges with the magistrate.” Hobbs glanced around the room. “I’ll tell you what. I can’t have a woman running all over the south west lands unaccompanied. I will send Constable Dunning with you. That way, if you do come across anything worthy of recording for evidential purposes, he can ensure it is done properly.” He glared at Dunning. “Make sure she stays out of trouble, constable. I am placing her safety in your hands.”

  “Sir?”

  “That is all, constable. Arrange the travel, then go home and rest.” He moved his attention back to Abigail. She was sitting open mouthed, tears streaming down her face. “Miss Sergeant. Please do not get your hopes up. It’s unlikely you will find anything. This is an unprecedented undertaking and I want your assurance that you will not harass anyone. Particularly solicitors.”

  “I don’t know what to say inspector. Thank you.” She rose to leave. “Thank you, inspector. You are a true gentleman.”

  Dunning saluted Hobbs, then turned to Abigail. “You need to go and rest,” he said, guiding her gently towards the door. “I will call at Mrs Wallace’s for you at seven in the morning.”

  Abigail had no response. She had been given an opportunity to help Bertrand and now had to prove she was right. His life was in her hands.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The train sat at the station, fifteen minutes delayed. Apparently that was not uncommon. The postal service was usually blamed for any delay, whether they caused it or not. Abigail had provided the money to pay for a private compartment. It was essential they discuss their mission without the worry of eavesdropping busybodies. Self righteous judgement would not aid her fragile emotional state.

  As Abigail settled into the carriage, a gang of rough workmen walked past, calling out provocatively. Memories of Larkin and his mates flooded back. She couldn’t imagine putting up with that all the way to the overnight stop in Beverley. Slowly, the workmen moved down to the third-class carriage. The extra cost of a private compartment was money well spent.