Murder on the Liverpool Express (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 17) Read online

  The Liverpool Express was approaching London one morning in March, when it became known to the occupants of the sleeper that there was something amiss in the carriage.

  The train was travelling the last stage, between Leicester and London, a run of about a hundred miles without a stop. It had halted in Leicester for early breakfast and many, if not all the passengers, had made use of the opportunity. Of those in the sleeper, seven in number, six had been seen in the restaurant or about the platform. The seventh, a lady, had not been seen. All had gone back to their berths to doze when the train went on, but several were on the move as it neared London, taking their turn at the lavatory, calling for extra towels, making the usual stir of preparation as the end of the journey was near.

  There were many calls for the conductor, yet no conductor appeared. At last the conductor was found, asleep, snoring loudly in his little bunk at the end of the carriage. He was roused with difficulty and set about his work in an unwilling, lazy way, which promised badly for his tips from those he was supposed to serve.

  By degrees all the passengers got dressed, all but two, the lady occupying 9 and 10, who had not appeared as yet and the man, who occupied a double compartment next to her, numbered 7 and 8.

  As it was the conductor’s duty to call every one and as he was anxious, like the rest of his colleagues, to get rid of his travellers as soon as possible after arrival, he knocked on each of the two closed doors behind which they were presumably still sleeping.

  The lady cried, “I hear you,” but there was no answer from No. 7 and 8.

  Again and again the conductor knocked and called loudly. Still meeting with no response, he opened the door of the compartment and went in.

  It was now broad daylight. The blind was up. The one narrow window was open wide. The whole of the interior of the compartment was plainly visible, all and everything in it.

  The occupant lay on his bed motionless. The conductor wondered if he was sound asleep. He looked at the twisted unnatural position of the limbs, the contorted legs, one arm hanging stiffly over the side of the bed. It was clear. The man was dead. He took a closer look and saw the blood-stained blanket. The man had a gaping wound in the chest. His face was battered and mangled.

  “Murder!” he mumbled. “Stabbed through the heart.”

  With a wild cry the conductor ran out of the compartment. To the eager questions of the passengers, who surrounded him, he could only reply in a trembling voice, “There! Murder in there!”

  Soon the murder became known to every one by personal inspection. Every one, even the lady in 9 and 10, looked into the berth, where the body lay. The compartment was filled for some ten minutes by an excited, wildly gesticulating group of half a dozen passengers.

  The first attempt to restore order was made by a tall man, erect in his bearing, with bright eyes and alert manner, who took the conductor aside and said, “I say! It’s your business and all. But no one has the right to be in that compartment. There may be clues, fingerprints and proofs to remove. Better get them all out, old boy and lock the door. Remember you will be held responsible by the police.”

  The conductor startled. So did many of the passengers, who had overheard the tall man’s words.

  The police was an institution not to be trifled with. Least of all in London, where the superstition prevailed that every one, who could be reasonably suspected of a crime was considered guilty of that crime, until his innocence was clearly and expensively proved by his solicitor.

  All six passengers and the conductor were now under suspicion. They and they alone, because the murdered man had been seen alive in Leicester and the foul act must have been committed after that, while the train was underway, that is to say, going at very high speed, when no one could leave it, except at the cost of his life.

  “Bad turn for us!” said the tall man, Lord Barry Henderson, to his uncle a prison warden, when he had gone back into their compartment and shut the door.

  “I can’t see it. In what way?” asked the Warden Timothy Spall, a typical English prison official with a red face and white whiskers, dressed in a black suit and wearing a white tie.

  “Because we shall be detained, of course. Arrested, maybe, but certainly detained. Examined, cross-examined, bullied. I know Scotland Yard and their ways.”

  “If they stop us, I shall write to the “Daily Mail” cried his uncle, by profession a man of peace, but with eyes, which revealed an angry temperament.

  “By all means, my dear Timothy, when you get the chance. That won’t be just yet, for I tell you we’re in a tight place and may expect a good deal of trouble.” With that he took out his cigarette case and his match box, lit his cigarette and calmly watched the smoke rise with all the affected coolness of an old soldier accustomed to the dangers of life. “I only hope to goodness they’ll keep moving straight on to London,” he added. “No! By Jove, we’re slowing down.”

  “Why shouldn’t we? It’s only right that the train driver or whatever you call him, should know what has happened and inspect the damage.”

  “My dear fellow, can’t you see? While the train is travelling at high speed, everyone must remain on board. If it slows down, it is possible to jump off and disappear.”

  “Who would want to leave?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said the lord, rather testily. “Anyway, the thing’s done now.”

  The train had slowed down and stopped in obedience to a signal of alarm given by someone in the sleeper, but by whom it was impossible to say. Not by the conductor, for he seemed greatly surprised, when the train driver came up to him.

  “How did you know?” he asked.

  “Know what? You stopped me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Who rang the bell, then?”

  “Not me. But I’m glad you’ve come. There has been a murder.”

  “Great Scot!” cried the train driver, jumping up onto the carriage. His business was only to verify the fact and take all necessary precautions. He was a burly, brusque man of few words, who knew what to do and did so without hesitation or apology.

  “No one is allowed to leave the carriage,” he said in a tone not to be misunderstood. “Neither now, nor on arrival at the station.”

  There was a cry of protest and dismay, which he quickly cut short.

  “You must arrange it with the authorities in London. They alone can decide. My duty is simple. Detain you till then. Afterwards, we will see. Gentlemen, Madam.”

  He nodded with an instinctive gallantry to the female figure, who now appeared at the door of her compartment. She stood for a moment listening, obviously greatly agitated and then, without a word, retreated hastily into her own private room and locked the door.

  Almost immediately the train resumed its journey. The distance remaining was short. Half an hour later the train reached Waterloo Station in London. All passengers were urged to leave the train and either continue into the city or onto another train to their intended destination, except for the occupants of the sleeper. The latter were again asked to remain, where they were, while a group of Scotland Yard officials came and guarded the train. Then they were ordered to leave the carriage one by one. They were not allowed to take anything with them. All their handbags and belongings were to remain in the berths, just as they were. One by one they were escorted to a large and bare waiting room, which had been prepared for them.

  Here they were asked to sit down on chairs, which were placed at some distance from each other. They were forbidden to talk with each other. This order was enforced by a fierce-looking policeman
in uniform, who stood facing them with his arms folded, gnawing on a cigar and looking severe.

  The conductor was also brought in. He was treated like a prisoner. He had a policeman all to himself. It seemed as though he was the object of particular suspicion. It didn’t have a great effect on him, because, while the rest of the party were very sad, the conductor sat unmoved, with the unconcerned attitude of a man just woken up from a deep sleep and peacefully relapsing into slumber, who takes little notice of what is happening around him.

  Meanwhile the platform with the sleeper, with its contents, the corpse of the victim included, was cordoned off and policemen were placed at both ends. Seals had been glued onto the entrance doors, so that the interior might be kept safe until it could be examined by an inspector of Scotland Yard. Every one was awaiting the arrival of this all-important functionary.

  Inspector Watkins was an early bird and normally was at his office at Scotland Yard at about 7 A.M. He lived in North London and took the underground to the police station. Even then, soon after daylight, his suit was crumpled and looked worn. He wore a long Burberry coat and a tie. Under his arm he carried a portfolio, stuffed full of reports and documents dealing with the cases at hand. He was altogether the exemplary cockney policeman, whose keen mind and experience had allowed him to rise to the level of inspector. But when things went wrong, when he had to deal with fools or the enemy was within his grasp, he would become as dogged and fierce as a terrier.

  He had just taken his place at his desk with a cup of coffee and a newspaper, when he was called to the telephone. His services were needed at the Waterloo Station.

  “Sir,” said the policeman on the other side of the line, “there was a murder on a sleeper train. We’re holding all the passengers at Waterloo Station. Please come immediately.”

  A police car was called instantly and Inspector Watkins, accompanied by Sergeant Jones and Policeman Noble, was driven with all possible speed across London to the scene of the crime.

  He was met outside the station by a policeman, who gave him a brief outline of the facts, so far as they were known.

  “So the passengers have been detained?” asked Inspector Watkins immediately.

  “Only those in the sleeper, sir.”

  “Ah, they should all have been kept here. At least until you had taken their names and addresses. Who knows what they might have seen or heard?”

  The policeman, getting red in the face, suggested that as the crime was committed while the train was in motion, only those in the sleeping carriage could have done it.

  “We should never jump to conclusions,” said the inspector angrily. “Well, show me the list of the passengers in the sleeper.”

  “We can’t find it, sir.”

  “Don’t tell me that! It’s the conductor’s job to take it at the end of the journey to his superiors and under the rules to provide a copy to us. Where is the conductor? In custody?”

  “Yes, sir! There is something wrong with him.”

  “Good thinking! Nothing of this kind could occur under his nose without his knowledge. If he had been doing his duty, but of course, he… Let us avoid hasty conclusions.”

  “He has also lost the passengers’ tickets, sir. He should keep those at least till the end of the journey. After the murder, however, he was unable to find his pocket-book. It held all his papers.”

  “When it rains it storms, doesn’t it? What’s your name?”

  “Vickers, sir!”

  “Vickers, there is something behind all this. Take me to him. Prepare a room for me close to the other, where the prisoners, I mean, those held on suspicion, are. It will be necessary to question them, take down their statements.”

  Inspector Watkins was soon seated in a room connected to the waiting room and the first point on his schedule, taking precedence even over the examination of the sleeper, he ordered the conductor to be brought before him to answer certain questions.

  The man, Kevin Swift, as he gave his name, thirty-two years of age, born in Newcastle, looked like such a lazy slob that Inspector Watkins began by sharply rebuking him.

  “Now then, Sharp! Do you always look like this?” cried the inspector.

  The conductor kept staring straight before him with sleepy eyes and made no effort to answer him immediately.

  “Are you drunk? You got to be kidding me?” he said and suddenly suspicious, “What were you doing between Leicester and London? Sleeping or drinking?”

  The man roused himself a little. “I think I was sleeping. I must have slept. I was very tired. I had been up for two nights. But that is usual in my line of work and I’m not like this normally. I don’t understand.”

  “Hah!” The inspector thought he understood. “Did you feel drowsy before leaving Leicester?”

  “No, sir, I did not. Certainly not. I was fresh till then, quite upbeat I remember.”

  “Hmm. Quite,” and the large inspector sprang to his feet and rushed to where the conductor stood and sniffed and smelt him.

  “Yes, yes.” The large policeman moved around him, then took hold of the conductor’s head with one hand and with the other pulled down his lower eyelid so as to expose the eyeball, sniffed a little more and then sat back down on his seat.

  “Quite. And now, where is your passenger list?”

  “Pardon me, sir, I cannot find it.”

  “That is absurd. Where do you normally keep it? Look again, man, search! I must have it.”

  The conductor shook his head hopelessly.

  “It’s gone, sir and my pocket-book has gone too.”

  “Your papers, the tickets?”

  “Everything was in it, sir. I must have dropped it somewhere.”

  “Somewhere? Where on a moving train? Strange, Swift, very strange. However, we will return to it later.”

  The conductor seemed somewhat relieved.

  “Give me the names of the passengers.” Watkins took a pen and looked around for a piece of paper.

  “Well, sir, I cannot remember. At least not enough to distinguish between them.”

  “This is beyond the pale! Swift, you cannot be so stupid, such an idiot!”

  The conductor took off his hat and scratched his head.

  “But you know how the berths were occupied, how many in each and, which persons? Right? You can tell me that? Well, go on, Swift. One by one we will ask the passengers to come in and you can tell me what berths they occupied, after they tell me their names. Now, please, how many fit in the sleeper?”

  “Sixteen. There were two compartments of four berths each and four of two berths each.”

  “Let me make a drawing of the sleeper. Here, now, is that right?” and the Inspector held up the roughly drawn design of the sleeper carriage.

  “Here we have the six compartments. Now take these, with berths 1, 2, 3 and 4. Were they all occupied?”

  “No, sir, only two, by Yorkshiremen. I know, because they talked the talk and I understand it a little. One was an aristocrat. The other, I think, a prison warden.”

  “Good! We will verify that in a moment. Now, these here, berths 5 and 6, who were there?”

  “One gentleman. I don’t remember his name. But I shall remember him by his appearance.”

  “Go on. What about these two berths, 7 and 8?”

  “Also one gentleman. It was he, who, you know, who met his end. The crime occurred there.”

  “Ah, indeed, in 7 and 8? Very well. And the next, 9 and 10?”

  “A lady. The only lady in the sleeper. She came from Liverpool.”

  “One moment. where did the rest come from? Did any get on later on the road?”

  “No, sir. All passengers in the sleeper got on board in Liverpool.”

  “The dead man included? Was he from Liverpool?”

  “That I cannot say, but he came on board in Liverpool.”

  “Very well. This lady, was she alone?”

  “In the compartment, she was, yes. But not always.”

  “I do
not understand what you mean!”

  “She has her maid with her.”

  “In the sleeper?”

  “No, not in the sleeping car. The maid is traveling second class. But she came to her mistress sometimes, in the sleeper.”

  “To do her work, I presume?”

  “Well, yes, sir, the times I allowed it. But she came a little too often and I was forced to protest. You know how it is, one comes in and soon the first class is filled with the wrong kind of passengers. I had to speak to the baroness about it.”

  “She is a baroness, then?”

  “The maid addressed her by that title. That is all I know. I heard it myself.”

  “When did you see the lady’s maid last?”

  “Last night. I think in Sheffield. It was about 8 PM.”

  “Not this morning?”

  “No, sir, I’m quite sure of that.”

  “Not in Leicester? She did not come to the sleeper for the last stage of the journey, when her mistress would be getting up, to dress and likely require her aid?”

  “No. I would not have permitted it.”

  “And, where is the maid now?”

  The conductor looked at him with a blank stare.

  “She must be surely somewhere near, in or in front of the station. She would not desert her mistress now,” he said at last.

  “No matter. We will soon settle that.” The inspector turned to one of the policemen standing behind him.

  “Step out, Sergeant Jones and find her. No, wait. I’m becoming nearly as slow as this sleepy head. Describe this maid, Swift.”

  “Tall and thin, dark eyes, dark hair. Dressed all in black, plain white bonnet. I can’t say I remember more than that.”

  “Find her, Sergeant Jones and keep your eye on her. We may want to talk to her. Why, I cannot say, as she seems not involved in the murder, but still she ought to be available for questioning.” Then, turning to the conductor, he went on, “Continue, please. You said 9 and 10 was the lady’s. Well, 11 and 12?”

  “It was vacant all through the journey.”

  “And the last compartment, for four persons?”

  “There were two berths occupied both by men from Manchester, at least so I judged them. They talked Manc to each other and to me.”