On Track for Murder Read online

  The first water stop went without a hitch. Sleath remembered where the tower was and stopped short to enable a check of the area before filling. A couple of hours later, the second effort ran nowhere near as smoothly. Sleath had felt the location was close, but cursed loudly as the tower went flying past. Stopping several hundred yards down the track, they both crept back along the line, scanning the surroundings as they went. All was calm, a distant house remaining totally dark.

  The water tower stood some way past the small station, hidden by three large wattles, planted years ago to improve the tower’s appearance. Abigail managed to reverse the giant engine gently back, stopping perfectly under the tower. She clapped herself as the hiss from the brakes confirmed they were still.

  “See,” she said. “I can drive as well as any man.”

  “You are not a normal woman,” Sleath replied, leaning against the cab side, breathing heavily. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me you have invented a way of making the engine run with less water.”

  “Well, actually.” Abigail swung around on her seat, grinning. “I have been thinking about that. There is a lot of waste going out that funnel. If we could reclaim some of that steam and condense it back to water, like on ships, we could run for longer. Also, there is a deal of heat in that steam. I’m sure that could be used as well.”

  Prentice stood with his mouth wide. “I’m amazed you understand all that stuff,” he said, as he disappeared down the steps.

  The fill complete, Sleath slowly pulled himself back into the cab. He leaned back against the tender, panting.

  Abigail smiled at him as she pushed forward the reverser lever. “How do you feel?”

  He stood up straight. “Tired but I’m still in fighting form.” He reached for the shovel. “That evening, at dinner, you seemed to understand everything Albert said. Are you really interested in all that?”

  “Shall we get underway? We can discuss it as we go.”

  “Very well.” He opened the firebox door and shovelled like a madman.

  Abigail felt he was trying to buy himself time to listen to more of her story. She worked the controls with ease, her confidence growing.

  As the rhythm of the engine calmed once more, Sleath set down the shovel and gazed at Abigail. “So? What is it that makes a girl like you so interested in engineering?”

  Abigail left the controls and swung to face him. “Mother tried to encourage reading at an early age, so bought me quite a lot of books. I loved reading.”

  Sleath slowly sunk to a seated position on the cab floor. “I don’t read. Never had the time.”

  She continued, nervously gazing at Sleath’s wounds. “Before Mother died I had a lot of time. I used to read to Bertrand every day.”

  “So, how do you come to know so much about the theory of engines?”

  “When Mother died I was sent off to boarding school in London. Bertrand was sent away, too. He went to a special institution. He was quite difficult back then.”

  “Has he always been a bit simple minded?”

  Abigail sighed. “From birth he has been slow, yes. So anyway, I was stuck away from home in boarding school. Father knew I loved science, so sent me as much reading material as he could. Fortunately for me, most of it was about engineering. It was his area of expertise, you see.”

  “So you sort of studied engineering in your spare time?”

  “You could say that. Father also furnished me with a number of fictional works. Jules Verne and Edgar Allan Poe were my favourites, but I was inspired by Mary Shelley’s work. A woman succeeding in a man’s world. Now that is something.”

  Sleath wiped his brow with a sooty sleeve. “I don’t know any of them.”

  “I’m sure that is not your fault. You just haven’t been given the chance to read them.”

  “I’m not good at reading. I can do signs and work rosters but I would struggle with a whole novel.”

  “You poor thing. We will have to do something about that.” Abigail smiled at him. He seemed more vulnerable in the dim light. His hard exterior, the superior male facade, now exhibited deep cracks. Abigail squinted. He didn’t look well. In fact, he looked positively unwell, his face turning whiter as Abigail stared.

  “More coal?” He gathered an obviously forced strength and began hauling in shovel loads of fuel. After just four loads he halted, dropping the shovel and leaning back against the tender.

  Abigail slipped down from her seat. “You’re exhausted. Just rest a while. We have enough pressure and I can put more coal in if needed.” Abigail wasn’t sure whether she could shovel coal, or not. She had never shovelled anything except sand for a seaside castle. Time would tell.

  She knelt down beside him. “So, Prentice Sleath, you know about me. Tell me a little about yourself.”

  “What do you want to know?” His voice was softening, becoming difficult to hear over the engine noise.

  “Tell me about your parents.”

  “My father died when I was five. My mother brought me up in a backstreet London slum. She worked for a group of nuns, washing clothes from dawn until well into the night. We shared one bed but we ate well.”

  “Oh, you poor thing. I didn’t know.” Abigail thought she saw a glisten in his eye as he spoke. It was hard to see much. She may have been mistaken.

  He continued, “Mother died when I was sixteen. There was nothing for me there with the nuns, so I took a job as a hand on a sailing ship.” He slowly shook his head. “I hated it. Never got my sea legs so I left the ship in Africa. I didn’t have the right approvals, though, so the authorities forced me to leave. I ended up on a steamship bound for Albany. They put me to work stoking the boilers and hauling coal.”

  “So, that’s how you came to be a fireman.”

  “It served me well when later I sought work in Fremantle. I wasn’t getting back on another ship. Hated it.”

  Abigail’s ears pricked up at this. Something had been playing on her mind. She had debated whether to bring it up or not. She sat up on her knees. “Tell me something if you would. That night … after dinner at our house. I saw you climb into Frances’ buggy as she was leaving.”

  “Oh.”

  “What were you doing? I thought you may have been planning to follow her to New Zealand.”

  “Well … she had confided in me that she was leaving home. She said she needed help. I offered.”

  “But why hide in the bushes?”

  “Frances said it would not look good if she was seen running off with another man.”

  “She was correct with that statement.”

  “So I helped her to an inn and left. All I had to do was return the buggy and that was it.”

  “Return the buggy? So you returned the buggy?”

  He hesitated. “Yes. The next day as she requested. I replaced it about lunchtime.”

  Abigail’s mind reeled. “So … you were at the house … around lunchtime?”

  “Yes. Is that … is that when he was killed?”

  Abigail stood and moved back to her seat. “Then what happened?” She leaned forward. “How did you come to be in Beverley?”

  “What is this?” He turned away and stared at the firebox. “Am I now under suspicion? Will you accuse me of the murder next?”

  “It’s …” What to say now? “It’s just that you may have seen something. The murderer walking away? Or anything?”

  “I saw nothing.” His voice began to slow and his eyes glazed before rolling back in his head. He collapsed across the cab floor, his head hitting the metal grid with quite a thump.

  Abigail slid quickly off her seat and knelt down beside him. He was breathing. This was not a good situation to be in. They would be approaching Albany within the hour and she had no idea what to do. Drive slowly until something gets in the way? Maybe. She pulled out the rest of her torn underskirt and balled it up under his head. There was little else she could do for him. She took her attention back to the controls.

  She would
now have to maintain the locomotive’s power alone. If Sleath was to get help in time, she had to ensure they made it all the way to Albany. He had lost a lot of blood. Outside help was crucial.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Shovelling coal was harder than it looked. After the pressure gauge began to fall and the speed dropped, Abigail realised it was her only course of action. Merely getting the black stuff onto the shovel was difficult. As she drove the shovel in through the hatch in the tender, each solid lump seemed rigid, preventing the shovel from moving further. Shaking the handle seemed to allow a few pieces to come away. They could then be transferred to the firebox. After only three small loads, Abigail was sweating profusely. Maybe women should leave some things to the men? No. She could do this.

  Abigail found that constant small amounts hefted into the boiler was sufficient to maintain a low pressure and keep up a slow speed. Keeping a constant vigil forward was thus impossible, but as time slipped by Abigail felt a growing need for greater alertness. Darkened houses slipped past on both sides of the locomotive. The occasional lamp glow suggested an early worker, probably enjoying a cup of tea before heading off. Abigail slow blinked. It hadn’t crossed her mind until now that she had not slept all night. The stressful situation she found herself in had been more than enough of a stimulant. But tiredness was definitely creeping up.

  Panting from a prolonged stoking effort, Abigail gazed out to the approaching countryside. It seemed darker. Maybe tiredness was effecting her sight, or maybe the moon was sinking away? She glanced to the right. Sure enough, the moon’s shadows grew long as it hung low in the sky, occasionally disappearing altogether behind stands of tall gums. They must be close to their goal. In the distance, a dim glow was faintly visible. It seemed to be growing rapidly. Then it shot past; a lamp attached to a small railway shed. Then a house, then another.

  Abigail’s heart jumped. They must be entering Albany. She reached up and pushed forward on the regulator, grasping the brake lever tightly. They slowed. Impressing herself, she managed to produce a steady slow speed while maintaining a vigilant watch ahead. More houses and a siding disappeared behind them. Leaning out the open side window Abigail noticed her breath plume in a column of white as she blew out. ‘Dragon breath’, they used to call it as children. All she knew now was that she couldn’t be warmer if sitting in front of a roaring fire. Although, in effect that was exactly what she was doing. She laughed. It felt good. She laughed again, louder; deliberately louder.

  Groups of houses and sheds came into view. Most were dark, their occupants yet to begin the day. An odd glistening glow seemed to fill in the space to the right of the engine. The puzzle took Abigail’s attention for longer than was safe. The eventual realisation loomed at her through the sleep deprived haze. It was the sea. The moonlight, low in a cloudless sky, glinted off the waves. In her imagination Abigail could smell the salt. A white sail slowly cut it’s way across the shimmering light; probably an early morning fishing vessel setting out for a morning’s work.

  Abigail found herself shaking. Whether from dread or tiredness, she couldn’t decide, but the knotted feeling in her stomach, she definitely knew as fear. She strained her eyes to look ahead. The silvery track stretched out before her, seemingly unending. It was mesmerising. Abigail wasn’t sure how much time passed, but her next conscious observation was when a large warehouse appeared directly in front of them. It towered above the tracks. A tall derrick hung sideways over the siding that led to its interior. The engine clunked and rattled as they ran over the switch points. The sound was quickly repeated as additional points ran under the slowly moving locomotive. Abigail hung out the side window, desperate to define their destination.

  The engine lurched. This time Abigail felt it turn, slipping to the right down a siding away from the main tracks. The ocean grew larger and the buildings more densely packed. There was something ahead. A wagon, sitting on their track. She pulled on the brake, jamming the regulator forward as she had been taught. The engine slid to a halt, steam hissing from underneath. Now what?

  This was the end of the line for the machine that had saved them. Now, she needed to get Sleath away from the stolen engine to a doctor, or better still, a hospital.

  A groan from behind her revealed that Sleath was waking. The forced rest had done him some good. She looked around. Her ripped and filthy underskirt lay on the floor. Grabbing it, she tore off a second strip, then soaked it under the tender’s water tap. This was pressed into service on Sleath’s forehead in an attempt to revive him fully. Slowly he opened his eyes and stared directly up at Abigail.

  He smiled. “We’ve … we’ve stopped.”

  “Yes, we have. We’ve reached the end of the line.”

  “The town?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know how far we are from the town.”

  “We must go.”

  “When you are ready. I can’t have you falling from the cab and further hurting yourself.” Abigail dabbed at his forehead, then refreshed the cloth with more water.

  “Let me see.” Sleath raised himself to an elbow. “I need to get up.”

  Abigail reached her arm under his and pulled with all her might. He was strong and muscular but that made him heavier. It took avery ounce of her strength but she managed to grasp a side rail with her other hand and pull him up to his feet. Sleath leaned on the side of the cab, panting. The view from the right was of the sea, a couple of long, low buildings blocking only a small section.

  Struggling to the other side of the cab, Prentice gasped as he gazed out. “We are so much closer than I had anticipated. This is right by the docks. You’ve done well.” He attempted another smile but his mouth wouldn’t conform.

  “How do you feel?” Abigail dabbed.

  “Well enough to get out of here.” It didn’t sound convincing but there was little option.

  Abigail climbed down first. Her leather bag was flung down, then Prentice struggled to the ground. She had managed to clean up his face and hands so that he looked vaguely presentable. As for herself, only a change into her skirts and bodice would come close to offering an acceptable image.

  “There,” said Sleath, pointing to a darkened alcove in the warehouse building. “Go in there to change. It will be dark but you won’t be seen.” The engine chuffed slowly, as if agreeing to the plan.

  After two return trips to the cab for cleansing water, Abigail finally emerged, clean and dressed in her normal clothing. Carefully, she led Sleath away from the hissing engine. The crunching of gravel underfoot sounded muffled after the noisy locomotive. Still, they stepped gently. A short walk between two more buildings saw them exit onto a wide street. A lamp lit up a set of steps that led to the doors of a building. A brass sign revealed that these were the offices of the harbourmaster. Sleath turned to look down the street but staggered. His eyes rolled up in their sockets and he collapsed in a heap on the steps.

  This time Abigail was not going to be able to move him. Gazing helplessly down at her runaway friend, images of Father lying dead on the dining room floor flashed through Abigail’s mind. The stark realisation of her predicament hit home, torrents of tears the result. She sank to her knees and flung her head into her hands. Tension released with a vengeance.

  “Excuse me madam.” The voice came from behind her.

  She spun around, tears still streaming down her cheeks. A dark figure stood over her. He leaned in and offered an arm to assist her to rise.

  “Might I be of assistance?” The police constable spoke in a stern voice. “Your client appears to have had too much to drink.”

  “No … no officer. He isn’t drunk. He’s had an accident.” Client? Was this policeman mistaking her for a woman of the night? “He’s lost a lot of blood. He needs a doctor.”

  “Let’s have a look then,” the constable said, kneeling down beside Sleath. “You’re right, madam. He’s in a bad way. What did you do to him? Is he your master?”

  “No, officer. It’s not like that. I�
�m not a prostitute. This is my friend. We’re from Perth. He was attacked.”

  “That’s as maybe. I’ll help you get him to the doctor, then you can tell me all about it. Were you attacked as well, madam?”

  “It’s miss, actually, and no, I …” She stopped to consider her answer. “I wasn’t hurt. I simply fell over while running away. I found Mr Sleath like this when I returned.”

  “Help me lift him up. It’s not too far.” The constable hefted Prentice across his shoulders like a spring lamb and strode off.

  Abigail followed in silence, her mind racing. What fiction would she spin for the benefit of the police? Lying wasn’t one of her strong points, so she decided to utilise as much of the truth as possible. Stanley Larkin’s attack on Sleath would be relayed in every detail but one; the location would move from Beverley to the Albany rail yards. Her own involvement would be an escape through the yards to the street where they were found. Sleath’s collapse would happen after they had reunited. The story grew in credibility with every twist and turn. This would work.

  It took an hour for the doctor to finish with Sleath’s wounds. He then insisted the lad remain there for the rest of the morning for observation. Abigail was sent off with the constable for breakfast at the police station. It felt odd being in such company after the dramatic train heist they had just undertaken. Still, it was better than the cold air outside.

  Policemen obviously took their breakfasts pretty seriously. Abigail was treated to eggs, bacon, fried bread with kippers and potatoes all washed down with a large mug of hot tea. Although ravenous, it was all Abigail could do to finish the large morning meal. She sat back in her seat and groaned quietly.

  Alone in a large office near the rear of the police station, she found little to occupy her mind. A poster on the wall warned of pickpockets working around the docks. A two month roster hung beside the door, several scribbled pencil marks revealing that they were in the habit of shift swapping in Albany. Through the window the clarity of day was beginning to take shape. This particular window, though, offered only the vision of a brick wall with a rather bedraggled lemon tree struggling in front of it.