Read Online Murder on the Flying Scotsman by Carola Dunn - Free Book Online Page B

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.
    ‘He was afraid of draughts’ she stated.
    ‘Gorlummecharlie,’ gasped Weekes, ‘the master wouldn’t never in a million years’ve opened that winder!’
    ‘That’s what I thought.’
    ‘If you ask me, miss, there’s something fishy here!’
    ‘Positively piscatorial.’ The decision was easy. Yielding to the temptation of years, Daisy reached up and yanked on the emergency brake chain.
    Brakes squealed. Shuddering, the Flying Scotsman slowed.
    As the train came to rest in a jolting clash of buffers, Dr. Jagai entered the compartment.
    ‘So the poor old fellow’s gone,’ he said sadly, reaching for the bony wrist. ‘No sign of a pulse. Well, at his age it was to be expected. The heart simply wears
out.’
    As he leaned forward to close his benefactor’s staring eyes, Daisy said sharply, ‘Don’t!’ She exchanged a glance with the manservant, who nodded. ‘I’m afraid
Weekes and I suspect dirty work. Nothing must be touched until the police arrive.’
    ‘Police!’
    ‘Where’s the master’s pillow, sir, I ask you? You know as well as I do he wouldn’t never have laid down flat like that, not with his stomach trouble.’
    ‘True.’ Dr. Jagai’s forehead wrinkled. ‘But why should anyone dispose of his pillow?’
    ‘The only reason I can think of,’ Daisy said tentatively, ‘is that he was smothered with it and the murderer disposed of the murder weapon in a panic. Is it
possible?’
    The doctor’s frown deepened as he peered at the dead man’s face. ‘I don’t know. I’m no forensic expert. His lips are bluish, which could indicate asphyxiation, but
could equally well be simple heart failure. An autopsy might be able to tell the difference. I imagine there will be an autopsy if there’s the slightest suspicion of murder.’
    ‘Murder?’ bleated someone in the corridor. The stout ticket-inspector was now neither florid nor cheerful.
    Another railway official elbowed him aside. ‘All right, all right, all right, what’s going on in here now? I’m the guard. Who was it stopped my train?’
    ‘I did.’ Daisy squeezed past Jagai and Weekes.
    ‘Are you aware, madam,’ the burly guard enquired, scowling down at her, ‘that to engage the emergency braking system without good cause is a punishable offence under the
Railways Act?’
    ‘I have good cause.’ She drew herself up to her full height, wishing she were as tall as Lucy, and as capable of withering hauteur. ‘A man has died, and I am very much inclined
to believe it was murder.’
    ‘Murder!’ Daisy heard the horrified murmur run down the corridor, by now crowded with curious travelers. She wished she had spoken more quietly.
    ‘Murder, madam?’ The big man gazed sceptically over her head. ‘I don’t see no blood.’
    ‘For a number of reasons, which I shall be happy to relay to the police,’ she said in a hushed voice, ‘his manservant and I fear Mr. McGowan was smothered to death. Dr. Jagai
– this gentleman is a doctor – agrees that it’s possible. I happen to know there are a number of people on this train who may hope to benefit by Mr. McGowan’s
death.’
    No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Daisy appalled, realized their truth. That was why she had taken Weekes’s qualms seriously. In the back of her mind had lurked the knowledge
that the Gillespies especially, but also the Smythe-Pikes and Brettons, all had their hopes of wealth from Alistair McGowan vastly increased by his brother’s death.
    She must have paled, for the guard asked with concern, ‘You all right, madam?’
    She nodded. ‘What are you going to do?’
    ‘Well, madam,’ he said, resigned, ‘if you claim it’s murder I’ve got no choice but to call in the busies. Seeing the old gentleman