Murder on the Flying Scotsman (7 page)

The atmosphere in Mr. McGowan’s compartment must be unbearable by now, she thought as more footsteps went by. The angry men succeeding each other in the airless space must exude heat.
Perhaps he’d invite his unwanted visitors to take off their jackets as he had Dr. Jagai.

‘They’re all in such a stew.’ Belinda had returned to echo Daisy’s thoughts. ‘Please, Miss Dalrymple, may I go along to third class and see if I can find Dr.
Jagai?’

‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’

‘
Pleeease!
I expect he’s bored, too. I’ll take my draught board and see if he wants to play.’

‘Oh, all right. But don’t wake him if he’s dozing, don’t pester him, and not more than one game, then you come straight back here.’

Belinda hurried off before Miss Dalrymple could change her mind. Gran would never have let her go, but then, Gran would not have let her talk to an Indian man at all, and anyway they would have
been in third class in the first place.

From Mr. McGowan’s compartment came an irritable roar which could only be Mr. Smythe-Pike. ‘. . . No loyalty to the family . . .’ Belinda heard as she scurried past. She hated
all the loud, angry voices and red, scowling faces. Daddy never shouted however cross he got. He got quieter instead, and his eyes looked as if they would go right through you like a spear, and
then you knew he really meant it, but it wasn’t frightening.

She found Dr. Jagai. Luckily his compartment wasn’t full. He was glad to see her and let her win at draughts, which was jolly decent of him even though Daddy always said she’d never
learn to play better if she didn’t really have to try.

While they played, Belinda told the doctor about stowing away on the Flying Scotsman because she wasn’t allowed to meet Deva during the hols.

‘I’m afraid your grandmother would not like your talking to me,’ he said, looking sad.

‘She might, ’cause you’re a doctor, after all. Anyway, Miss Dalrymple said I could, and Daddy would’ve let me. Daddy’s a detective at Scotland Yard and he says
everyone’s the same before the law, Chinamen and Hindus and Africans and Red Indians and
every
one. So you see!’

Dr. Jagai smiled. ‘I see.’

Belinda smiled back. Moving a counter, she glanced out of the window while he took his turn. ‘Oh, look!’ she cried. ‘A castle.’

Perched atop a steep hill, castle ramparts towered over the roofs of a town. ‘Durham,’ said the doctor. ‘The tallest towers are not part of the castle, they’re the
cathedral, one of the oldest in Britain.’

‘Golly, it’s simply enormous. D-u-r-h-a-m,’ she read out as the train sped through a station without stopping. ‘But you said Durrem. It’s spelt funny.’

‘You never can tell with English.’

They finished the game. ‘I’ve got to go now,’ Belinda said regretfully. ‘Miss Dalrymple said only one game. Thank you very much for playing with me.’

‘Thank
you
, Belinda. I hope you won’t get into too much trouble for running away, and I hope you will never do such a thing again, or you might really find yourself in the
soup.’

‘I won’t. It was scary till I found Miss Dalrymple.’

She made her way back to the first-class carriage. It was fun – and a little bit scary – crossing between carriages on her own. The floor shuddered and shifted under her feet and the
noise of the wheels was so loud she could hardly hear herself think. One of the doors was extra stiff. She was afraid she wouldn’t be able to open it, but the ticket man came along just then
and did it for her.

It was a different man, fat, red-faced, and cheerful. ‘Hallo, young miss, you must be our stowaway,’ he said, winking at her. ‘Your friend showed me your ticket.’

‘Does it say stowaway on it?’

‘No, but it shows it was issued on the train, and the King’s Cross inspector told me about you at York. You mind you behave yourself now, miss.’

‘I will. Thank you for opening the door.’

Belinda went on. Outside Mr. McGowan’s compartment she heard a raised voice again, and she was shocked to realize it was her kind goblin friend himself who was shouting now. Miss Dalrymple
had said he might be ogreish to people he didn’t like, she remembered. She didn’t understand what he was saying, but he sounded absolutely livid.

The door started to open. Head down, Belinda sped onwards. Past one more door, and then, thank goodness, there was Miss Dalrymple, unruffled, pretty as ever, and smiling at her.

‘How is Dr. Jagai?’

‘He let me win. He’s ever so nice. But I heard Mr. McGowan screeching at someone. I don’t want to go to tea with him after all.’

‘Poor Mr. McGowan has had a lot to bear this afternoon. It would be a wonder if he hadn’t reached screeching point. You must go, darling; you accepted his invitation, but you need
not stay long.’

Belinda heaved a sigh. ‘All right, but I wish he’d invited you, too. Miss Dalrymple, what does “norbit” mean?’

‘“Norbit”?’

‘Yes, a “norbit.”’

‘An orbit, I suppose.’

‘I think I’ve heard of that. What is it?’

‘It’s something to do with the earth going round the sun. I’m not sure exactly what; we didn’t do much science at school. Why?’

‘That’s what Mr. McGowan shouted out.’

‘How peculiar!’

‘And about someone called Miss . . . Miss Probation. Do you know who she is?’

‘Another relative, one we haven’t met, perhaps,’ said Miss Dalrymple, laughing, ‘but I suspect you heard wrong. “Approbation” means approval.
“Disapprobation” means disapproval.’

‘He certainly sounded jolly disapproving!’ Belinda admitted.

‘Don’t worry about it. He has no reason to disapprove of you, darling.’

Belinda hoped not.

She didn’t want Miss Dalrymple to disapprove of her, either, so she’d better stop pestering her. Outside the window, she saw, was now a grimy, smoky city, ugly but quite interesting.
The train rumbled through a station with a sign saying
Gateshead
, then across a bridge, high over a river. Next came another station, Newcastle-upon-Tyne, then more dingy city, on and on.
Belinda picked up the book Kitty had lent her, which was stories about horses. The trouble was, she had read
Black Beauty
not long ago and it made her so sad that now she felt sad whenever
she read about horses.

Finishing a story, she returned to the view outside the window. The sun had gone in. There were hardly any houses now, just an occasional isolated farm-house and sometimes, right beside the
track, a level-crossing keeper’s cottage. Now and then, in the distance, Belinda glimpsed a dark grey line she guessed must be the sea. The fields and trees were still quite wintry this far
north. She was an awfully long way from home.

She shivered.

‘Are you getting chilly, Belinda? Close the window a bit, or put on your coat. We may yet be glad of the heating.’

Belinda struggled with the window. As Miss Dalrymple stood up to help her, Mrs. Bretton came in, with Tabitha and the baby.

‘It is cooling down a bit at last, isn’t it?’ Mrs. Bretton said, sitting down. ‘Thank heaven. Baby is so fretful when he’s too hot, I’ve had to leave him with
Nanny almost all the way.’

Baby Alistair whimpered.

‘He doesn’t seem frightfully happy now,’ said Miss Dalrymple.

‘Nanny thinks he’s teething. I’ll take him back in a minute. I only fetched him because Harold hoped Uncle Albert might take pity on the poor mite.’

‘He didn’t?’

‘We didn’t go after all, and after I’d walked all the way along the train to fetch him, and Tabitha insisting on coming, too!’

‘Why not?’ Miss Dalrymple asked.

‘Daddy started creating. He said a bawling baby was as likely to win Uncle Albert over as presenting the fox’s brush to a farmer whose fields have just been trampled by the hunt.
Particularly as Baby was named for Grandfather, not him. He really is the most disagreeable old man. Belinda, dear, will you look after Tabitha for me while I take Baby back to Nanny?’

‘Of course, Mrs. Bretton.’

Belinda was very soon sorry she had agreed. Tabitha was being difficult. She didn’t want to listen to stories, or look at pictures in
School Friend
, or undress her dolly and dress
it again, or do any of the things Belinda had amused her with before. When Miss Dalrymple said it was time to go to tea with Mr. McGowan, Belinda was actually glad.

‘Just tidy your hair, darling. One of your ribbons is coming undone. Here’s a comb. I’ll keep an eye on Tabitha till Mrs. Bretton comes back.’ Miss Dalrymple looked as if
she wished that would be soon! ‘Off you go, then, and I hope he gives you a good tea.’

Remembering the shouting, Belinda thought she’d better knock on Mr. McGowan’s door. There was no answer – but he might not have heard over the noise of the train, and she
had
been invited. She opened the door.

He was lying down. Belinda saw the yellowish, blotchy top of his head with its few strands of hair. His face was turned to the seat back so she couldn’t be sure if he was asleep. He had
said she must be on time, though, because he needed to eat at the right time. Perhaps he wanted her to wake him up? Or should she just sit there till someone brought their tea?

Stepping into the compartment, she conscientiously closed the door. Something moved on the floor and she bent down to pick up a feather. While she tried to decide what to do, she inspected it.
It was quite a pretty one, curly and speckled white and brown, so she put it into her pocket to show Tabitha.

Mr. McGowan hadn’t moved. His arm was hanging down off the seat, looking awfully uncomfortable. Granny always woke up with a stiff neck if she fell asleep in a chair in an awkward
position. Belinda decided to make Mr. McGowan more comfy – if he woke up when she moved his arm, she could explain and he wouldn’t be angry.

She took his hand. It was cold and clammy. His arm seemed very heavy, considering how skinny he was. She folded it across his chest so it wouldn’t fall again.

He didn’t wake up, didn’t even stir. He must be awfully sound asleep. Leaning forward, she glanced at his face.

His pale eyes were wide open, staring at her.

But she could tell he didn’t see her.

CHAPTER 6

Belinda’s freckles stood out against her stark white face.

‘What is it, darling?’ Daisy asked, holding out her hand. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s him.’ The child’s whisper trembled.

‘Mr. McGowan? Is he ill?’

‘I think he’s dead.’ With a dry sob, Belinda launched herself into the shelter of Daisy’s arms. She was shaking all over. ‘His eyes are open, but . . . I touched
him. I moved his arm, to make him comf’table, ’cause I didn’t realize . . . I feel sick.’

Daisy stroked her hair. ‘Are you going to
be
sick?’ she enquired, deciding a matter-of-fact tone was most useful in the circumstances.

‘N-no, I don’t think so.’

‘I was sick once,’ Tabitha announced with unwarranted satisfaction, ‘when I ate too many sweeties.’

‘I’m cold,’ said Belinda.

‘Then let’s get your coat on.’ Taking it down from the rack, she steered Belinda’s arm into the sleeve. ‘He was a very old man, you know, darling. You’ve had
a frightful shock, but it’s not really very surprising. Oh, Anne, thank heaven you’re back. Belinda’s found Mr. McGowan dead, or at least very ill. Could you . . .’

‘Dead?’ Anne shrieked, hands clapped to her horror-stricken face. Tabitha promptly began to cry.

‘For pity’s sake, pull yourself together! It might be a paralytic stroke, I don’t know. I must go and see, so could you please take care of Belinda – she’s had a
nasty shock – and arrange for someone to go and find Dr. Jagai?’

‘That man!’

‘I’ll go,’ Belinda said with a disdainful glance at Anne. Daisy scrutinized her, mistrusting her rapid recovery. ‘Honestly, Miss Dalrymple, I’m all right now, and I
know where he is. It won’t take a minute.’

‘Bless you, darling. Don’t tell anyone else, please, Anne,’ Daisy added sharply. ‘Not until I’ve found out what’s happened.’

When they reached the open door of Mr. McGowan’s compartment, Belinda turned away her head but she went on without faltering. Steeling herself, Daisy turned in.

Albert McGowan certainly appeared dead. His chest was not rising and falling. Stretched out on his back on the seat, with his head towards the door, his body looked lifelessly limp, untenanted.
Shoeless feet in black silk socks stuck out from the tartan lap rug which covered him to the waist. Daisy bent to see his face. The open eyes glared at her. The blind mask of fear and fury made her
flinch.

As she reached for his wrist to try for a pulse, a neat little man in black, carrying a tea tray, arrived in the doorway.

‘What’s up?’ he demanded. ‘’Ere, miss, what’s ’appened?’

‘You’re his manservant?’

‘Weekes is the name.’

‘I’m afraid Mr. McGowan seems to have died in his sleep.’ In spite of the ghastly eyes, it seemed the correct, soothing thing to say.

‘In ’is sleep? Not bloody likely, if you’ll excuse me saying so, miss. The master wouldn’t never’ve laid ’isself down flat like that without ’is pillow.
Arsking for trouble that’d be, with ’is dyspepsia.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure as bloody eggs is eggs.’ The gentleman’s gentleman recollected himself. ‘Yes, miss, I’m quite sure. I took his pillow down from the rack for him myself, after
luncheon, so’s he could nap whenever he wanted.’

Daisy looked around the compartment. ‘Then where is it?’

‘That’s what I’d like to know, miss. Nor he wouldn’t have laid down with his head to the door. See the camp-stool there under the window? I put his medicine and that
glass of water there for him with me own two hands. Bismuth, it is, for his stomach, He always had it within reach.’

There was a small puddle on the floor beside the stool. Daisy moved to look at the glass, her hands be hind her back to avoid the temptation of touching it. Fingerprints on glass had played a
considerable part in the dreadful business of the Albert Hall murder.

The tumbler was upright but empty. She frowned.

Her frown deepened as she felt the chilly breeze from the open window playing on her hair.