Ghost Walk Read online

  ‘Did your Newcastle passenger have anything to say about the man who fell? Was he behaving oddly? Did he seem depressed?’

  Fraser shook his head. ‘No, not in the least. That’s what’s so strange. The Newcastle traveller was very upset, apparently the man who jumped off the train had just sat there reading a book, minding his own business and ignoring him while the Alnmouth invalid grumbled about pipe smoke. Obviously that didn’t bother him but Alnmouth apparently got off at Berwick when we stopped after the accident.’

  ‘Surely that was odd?’

  Fraser shrugged, he didn’t seem surprised. ‘If he was feeling ill as he said, perhaps he decided not to continue his journey and catch the next train back to Edinburgh.’

  ‘I’m intrigued by this missing jacket and shirt – why the man discarded it we will never know, but if he left it behind, how did it vanish from the compartment? And there must have been other belongings, surely?’

  Fraser shook his head. ‘Nothing was found. The police searched but the compartment was empty.’

  That was distinctly odd. Train passengers usually carry some possessions on even a short journey.

  I could feel the Lady Investigator taking over, as I said: ‘He had boarded the train at Edinburgh. What about his ticket?’

  ‘It was a return half from Inverness to York –’

  ‘So he was going back to York.’

  Fraser shook his head. ‘Aye, possibly. But you can never be sure – returns are valid for three months and business folk who find they aren’t going back after all, often hand them on or even sell them cheap to someone else. The railway company tries to be helpful, but as he didn’t buy his ticket at the Inverness station, just boarded the train there, they couldn’t tell the police much.’

  ‘What about his luggage?’ The lack of it bothered me. ‘Surely there would have been some clues to his identity.’

  ‘Nothing was found, as I said. He might have had a trunk in the luggage van, of course, but they were all claimed and accounted for at London.’

  ‘He could have put it on the train at Inverness.’

  Fraser shook his head. ‘The porter there was just a young lad and he couldn’t remember anything about a trunk being loaded, it was a busy train and he couldn’t identify the description the police gave of the poor fellow either. As for Edinburgh, it was the same story. I’m afraid porters only remember passengers who give generous tips.’

  ‘Surely he was carrying some hand luggage, a valise, perhaps?’ I insisted.

  ‘He had a small brown attaché case, the kind gentlemen carry when they attend meetings, but presumably that fell out with him. The only thing that I picked up – that had fallen under the seat – was the book he had been reading – poor gentleman.’

  ‘Did it have a name inside?’

  ‘No. It looked new and it was in some foreign language. I can’t speak any other than the Queen’s English. Never learned it in the school I went to, foreign languages were just for rich folk, not working men.’

  ‘What did the police say?’

  He shook his head. ‘They were pleased I had found it, but it didn’t help much in identifying the dead man.’

  My mind working rapidly over the evidence so far, I thought I had found another reason for the dead man’s lack of interest in the two passengers who were arguing.

  Was it possible that he had been a foreigner? If only the guard had been able to recognise the language of the book.

  We had reached the farm track and I parted from Ned Fraser very reluctantly, regretting that with Jack’s mother at the open door, there was no time for all the questions I still wanted to ask.

  Fraser saluted, handed over my valises and said he would tell Ina he had seen me and that it had been a great pleasure having my company.

  Thanking him, I thought it was more than a great pleasure, here was the kind of intriguing mystery that, with more time on my hands, I would have loved to solve.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Andrew Macmerry appeared from the direction of the stable yard and Thane bounded over to meet me, his effusive greeting a blessed relief. His absence from the barn when I left for Edinburgh had been faintly disturbing.

  ‘We were in the up-by field – he must have known you were on that train, for the last half hour, not a minute’s peace would he give me.’ And pausing to gather breath, he added, ‘I’m right out of puff. He had me racing back to the house here. What a dog, what a companion he is turning out to be.’

  ‘How does Rex react to his presence?’ I asked curiously, for the sheepdog had always been at Andrew’s heels.

  Andrew shrugged. ‘I was a wee bit worried about that too, ye ken. But Rex ignores him, doesn’t seem aware of his presence.’

  Fondling Thane’s ears, he frowned. ‘Aye, Rex was always a possessive animal, growling and warning off any other dogs that came near me. But not Thane. I’ll be right sorry when you take him back to Edinburgh with you.’

  ‘Well, I expect Rex will be pleased.’

  Shaking his head, he pushed back his cap and scratched his forehead in that characteristic gesture of puzzlement, he looked at me intently. ‘It’s as if – I dinna quite know how to describe it – as if Thane doesna even exist.’

  And I thought, perhaps for Rex – he doesn’t!

  Jess Macmerry had come to the door and the two labradors, aroused from their lethargy by the fuss and hoping that it meant food, stared round her ankles somewhat defiantly in Thane’s direction. Arms folded, Jess’s expression said That Dog was still barred from the sacred precinct of the kitchen.

  I said I’d take him back to the barn.

  He was glad to have me back again, running round me in little circles, whining with delight, with an exuberance rare in him. And I must confess the delight was mutual.

  I sat down beside him and told him all about Edinburgh and the guard’s tale of the suicide. I realise that to normal people confiding in a dog is considered very odd and would be eyed askance. But Thane was more than my deerhound, he was my friend and I would have sworn that he understood every word I said to him, listening intently, his head on the side, occasionally raising those magisterial eyebrows in a puzzled expression.

  I kissed the top of his head. ‘If only you could speak, Thane – if only you could talk to me. I’m sure you know what I’m saying, and I’m sure you’re clever enough to advise me.’

  Andrew appeared at the door to say that supper was ready.

  Walking toward the house with him, I asked if he still had the newspaper with the story about the man who had committed suicide from the London train at Berwick.

  Andrew shook his head. ‘We never keep old papers, lass. Jess uses them to wrap the eggs, or to light the stove, like as not.’ And with a curious look. ‘Why are you so interested?’

  So I told him about Ned Fraser and his account of the suicide’s strange behaviour, of removing his jacket and shirt.

  That was as far as I got. We were at the kitchen door and I never reached the odd behaviour of the muffled up passenger with the Alnmouth ticket who presumably left the train at Berwick.

  Jack’s father roared with mirth and I looked at him indignantly.

  ‘Lassie, lassie,’ he chuckled. ‘Never take a word Ned Fraser tells you seriously. He’s a terrible gossip, every one in the village knows all about his tall tales. What he doesna ken for fact, he’ll invent just to impress his audience.’ As he was removing his boots on the doormat, I felt suddenly angry at having been so gullible. But whatever Andrew’s reactions, it sounded beyond the bounds of possibility that the guard had made it up on the spur of the moment, just to impress me.

  As we opened the kitchen door, ten o’clock was striking, and looking at the table groaning with good things, I realised that my delicate state of digestion would rebel horribly and would make me suffer cruelly for eating a large meal at this hour.

  However, I had no option but to take my place at the table as I realised that this special effort by Ja
ck’s mother was all for my benefit.

  The heaviest meal in the farm was at the middle of the day. For all farmer’s wives, Jess included, this was the tradition. Their men and the farm hands had a hearty breakfast at six or earlier to set them up before venturing out to the fields in all conditions of weather, all year round.

  After the lunchtime meal there was a break at five or six, another cooked meal, something substantial fried or baked, and quite different to the dainty sandwiches and tiny cream cakes, the afternoon tea, consumed in Edinburgh stores like Jenners by middle class ladies and their friends in all their finery.

  Supper hardly existed, a sandwich or piece of bread and jam for any with hearty appetites, particularly Andrew or Jack, who were always hungry and whose constant nourishment was Jess’s main concern. Missing a meal drove her into paroxysms of despair: they were sickening for something or they would starve to death, go into a decline, by morning.

  And so in my honour, here was a table spread with a mammoth meal of soup, beef stew, apple tart and rich thick cream.

  Struggling through the first courses, I was urged to second helpings. Refusing I was told, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve eaten anything all day but those few sandwiches I packed for you.’ That was true. ‘Then you must be hungry,’ Andrew insisted.

  Watching me eat, both of Jack’s parents were full of admiration for Vince whose visit was destined to be a constant topic among their local friends.

  How were the children – and Olivia, Jess wanted to know. And had I ever visited their apartments in St James’ Palace?

  Between mouthfuls I shook my head. Jess seemed taken aback at this lack of seizing a great opportunity to glimpse how the Royals lived.

  Eyebrows raised. Surely your brother has invited you. My reply: Yes, of course and I hoped to go some day.

  ‘You should have gone before you got married. You’ll be busy then looking after a husband and a home,’ she said sternly.

  At last I sat back and insisted I couldn’t eat another morsel, not even a piece of her delicious chocolate cake.

  Disappointed at this lack of appetite, Andrew yawned. ‘Well, you’ve had a busy day in Edinburgh, lass.’

  With no more anecdotes of Vince forthcoming, Jess said, ‘Time we were all off to our beds.’

  At that moment there was nothing I wanted more.

  ‘Before you go,’ she added, ‘you’d better unpack that dress for your wedding and let me see to it for you. It’ll need hanging and pressing.’ Cutting short my protests, which weren’t very strong, she said: ‘My irons need a bit of handling. You have to know when they’re too hot.’

  ‘Aye. Many’s the shirt that’s been sorely scorched.’ This admission from Andrew earned him a dagger-like glance.

  So I did as I was told, trying not to think uncharitably that I was being taken over. After all, I hated most domestic tasks and ironing in particular, so that warning was very timely. Poor Jack had been known to tackle his own shirts and collars in weary desperation, a fact I hoped would never reach his mother’s ears.

  Despite being weary I slept badly that night. Something more than Jess’s supper was lying heavily upon my stomach.

  I still could not believe Andrew’s dismissal of Ned Fraser’s story. As I went over the details, I knew there was a core of truth buried somewhere, some fact I was sure he had not invented.

  The man with his face all muffled up ‘like he had toothache’. Was there a link here? I had an uneasy feeling that the unknown suicide might have been the victim of a murderous attack – by the man who had a ticket to Alnmouth, but according to Fraser had disappeared from the train.

  I remembered Ned’s words about feeling ill, and deciding to leave the train at Berwick, to continue his journey when he felt better.

  Or his mission accomplished, I thought grimly, had he merely slipped off the train and disappeared after making sure the train would stop by pulling the communication cord?

  The scene persisted like the pieces of a jigsaw I sought in vain to set in order. I kept waking and remembering, sleeping and dreaming that I was on a train, a man was leaping from the door, pushed by a shadowy figure, his face concealed…

  I sat up in horror. There was something, something important in that earlier conversation with Ned’s wife Ina, that I should remember.

  I groaned. Jess’s apple pie was making its presence felt. Small wonder I was having nightmares for it lay like lead on my stomach. Gulping down some of Dr Dalrymple’s remedy for heartburn with a glass of water and lying prone, I tried again to sleep.

  Tomorrow morning I would tell Constable Bruce about Ned Fraser’s version of the suicide. I would be very interested in what reasons the constable might produce for a man who removed his jacket and shirt first before leaping to his death.

  A man who carried no luggage on a return ticket from Inverness to York. A long journey, to have no possessions beyond a tiny attaché case which disappeared with him, and a book. A book he had been observed reading when the train left Edinburgh which had fallen under the seat. Recovered later by Fraser who described it as being ‘in a foreign language’.

  But by morning I had changed my mind. In the light of Andrew’s reactions my conclusions seemed too far-fetched to tell anyone, especially the disappointing Constable Bruce of whom I had had so many hopes, but who now seemed to be heavily involved in a domestic drama of his own.

  With an uneasy feeling that he too might find Ned Fraser’s story a subject for mirth and hint that I had been too gullible, I decided that first of all, I would look closely at all the facts.

  I would write them down, all exactly as I remembered, as Ned Fraser had told me. This was my normal procedure when trying to solve a crime, a procedure Pappa had used when working on murder cases long ago.

  Doing so, I had learned, triggered off memories and scenes that lay dormant and then rose to the surface. So often the result had been perfect. Perhaps this time it would work again and that frail elusive fragment, the clue to unravel the reason for the two murders, would emerge.

  However, before I could write anything down there was a late breakfast ready waiting for me on the kitchen table. This was now standard procedure and as I struggled with porridge and bacon and eggs, Jess sat across the table and watched me kindly instead of busying herself about the kitchen.

  She wanted to talk about Vince, all my earliest memories. What had he been like as a student? Was he clever? And every time I said his name she managed a few smiles, lost in admiration for this clever doctor, the stepson of a police inspector who had risen in the world.

  I also discovered that I had risen in the estimation of Jack’s mother. My popularity had gone up several notches, a claim to fame worthier by far on account of an illustrious stepbrother with Royal connections than for my famous father. And to cap it all, when she asked what I was doing for the day, I said I was going to Verney Castle.

  I had promised Alexander I would be at his birthday party.

  ‘Then you must take him a cake I’ve just baked,’ she said. ‘An iced one with his name on it.’

  I agreed that this was a kind thought indeed, but with a horrible feeling that the cooks at Verney would have thought of that already. I refrained from hurting her feelings by mentioning such a possibility.

  When I said I would be taking Thane with me, that Alexander had met him and specially requested I bring the big deerhound, her eyes widened in horror.

  ‘A beast that size in a great big castle. I’ve heard they have lovely rugs on their floors, not just linoleum and handmade rag mats like the rest of us,’ she added darkly. ‘I just hope he doesn’t misbehave and make a mess on their expensive carpets. That would shame you, a body wouldn’t know where to look.’

  I assured her that Thane would behave perfectly, but she was still doubtful, shaking her head when I set off to find him. Once again he hadn’t accompanied Andrew and was waiting for me in the barn.

  We went for a walk to the Abbey and I considered returning th
e Claddagh ring in the hope that some visitor had lost it. How that would console me, for its presence in my jewel box was a haunting reminder of Danny.

  The grounds were empty apart from a couple of gardeners. This time there was nothing of interest to Thane and on our way back to the barn, he saw Andrew walking across the yard and greeted him joyfully.

  ‘A walk with you, eh? So that’s what he was up to,’ said Andrew stroking his head. ‘Didn’t want my company this morning. He just sat here and looked at me.’ He laughed. ‘His expression was almost human, I swear, as if he was telling me he had something more important to do. I expect it’s just because he missed you when you were away and doesn’t want to let you out of his sight.’

  Maybe, I thought, just maybe that was the reason.

  Jess was gathering eggs and poked her head round the door.

  ‘Did Jess show you the nice brush she’s bought for Thane?’ asked Andrew. ‘Just in case we were persuaded to change our minds and put him into the Dog Show?’

  He grinned at her and she shrugged uncomfortably. ‘Nothing of the kind, Andrew. I thought his coat might need a bit of brushing, going off with you to the fields every day in all kinds of weather.’

  ‘His coat looks good. Have you used it on him?’ I added, wondering how Thane would react to such attention.

  Heads were shaken. ‘No, we thought you would be the right one, Rose, he’s your dog after all.’

  ‘We’ll leave you to it,’ said Jess.

  I was glad she wasn’t expecting some sign of gratitude from Thane. Although he seemed devoted to Andrew, as if conscious of Jess’s disapproval and calling him ‘That Dog’, he ignored her completely.

  But to please her, I took the brush. Thane eyed it askance with a faint shudder. He always looked quite immaculate, so whispering ‘Sorry’ I laid it beside Alexander’s toy dog.