Miles Burton - Death in the Tunnel (Miles Burton) (Literary Thoughts Edition)

“No, Sir Wilfred had only been up to London for the day,” replied the station-master. “He left here by the 9.50 yesterday morning, and was carrying that case then.”

The only other objects in the compartment were two newspapers, the Evening Standard and the Evening News, both of the previous day’s date. They had both been opened.

“One of them was lying on the seat next to Sir Wilfred,” said Mr. Cutbush. “The other was on the floor when I saw it, but the guard, William Turner, says that it was on Sir Wilfred’s knee, and that it fell off when he tried to rouse him. Inspector Marden asked me to arrange to have Turner here this morning. He ought to have arrived by now. You can see him in my office, if you like.”

Since there was nothing more to be seen in the compartment, they locked it once more, and went to the station-master’s office. Mr. Cutbush ascertained that Turner had arrived, and sent for him. “Well, Turner, what can you tell us about this business?” Arnold asked.

“I can’t tell you much, sir, and that’s a fact,” the guard replied. “The dead gentleman came up to me as I was standing on the platform at Cannon Street, about seven or eight minutes before the five o’clock was due to go out. I’d seen him before, travelling up and down, but I didn’t know then who he was. ‘Are you the guard of this train?’ he says. ‘Yes, sir, that’s right,’ says I. ‘Well, I want you to find me a first-class carriage to myself as far as Stourford,’ he says. And with that he slips a quid-note into my hand.”

“What, a pound note!” Arnold exclaimed. “Passengers don’t often give you pound notes to keep them carriages to themselves, do they?”

Turners eyes twinkled. “Well, sir, that depends. I won’t say but that now and then a young couple that don’t want to be disturbed might slip a note into my hand. But they like coaches with no corridors, mostly. I don’t mind that a gentleman like Sir Wilfred has given me a quid before.

“Well, I walks up the train with him, and looks into the first-class compartments. There was somebody in every one of them until we came to the last, the front one of the coach, if you understand me, sir. I put Sir Wilfred into that, and he took the seat farthest from the platform with his back to the engine. Then, since the corridor side of the coach was next to the platform, I locked the door between the compartment and the corridor. I didn’t worry about the other door of the compartment, since there was a blank wall that side of the line, and nobody couldn’t get in that side.”

“So that, when the train started, the door of the compartment leading into the corridor was locked, and the door on the other side unlocked?”

“That’s right, sir. And that’s how they were until just before we ran into Stourford. And then I went along to unlock the door, seeing that that was the side the gentleman would have to get out.”

“Did you see Sir Wilfred during the journey from Cannon Street to Stourford?”

“Yes, sir. I saw him while we was running through Blackdown Tunnel, after the check.”

“After the check?” Arnold asked. “What do you mean by a check?”

“Why, sir, the driver put on the brakes all of a sudden, and I went along the train to see if anything was wrong. And as I passed Sir Wilfred’s compartment, I saw him lying back in his corner, just as if he’d gone off to sleep. And he hadn’t moved when I saw him again here, poor gentleman.”

“You didn’t open the door, but just looked through the window?”

“That’s right, sir. I thought if I unlocked the door and pushed it back, I might wake him and he wouldn’t like it.”

“What time was this?”

“We ran through Blackdown Station at 5.29, sir. It would have been three or four minutes later that I passed Sir Wilfred’s compartment.”

“Did the train actually stop in the tunnel?”

“No, sir, but it slowed down to not more than a few miles an hour. The driver told me that he saw a red light ahead, and put on his brakes. Then, just before he got to it, it changed to green, and he went on. Some chap working on the line, he reckons. But I can’t make that out, for there was nothing about it in the notices.”

The station-master put in a word of explanation. “Drivers are always warned of the sections where they may expect to find men working on the line,” he said.

Arnold nodded. “You say, Turner, that Sir Wilfred had not moved between the time you saw him in the tunnel, and the time you went along to unlock the door. Are you sure of that?”

“Well, sir, he was in exactly the same position the second time as he was the first. He may have moved in between whiles. That I can’t say.”

“Are you perfectly certain that the door was still locked when you reached here?”

“Perfectly, sir, for I had to use my key to unlock it.”

“Was this the only door in the train which was locked?”

“Well, no, sir, not exactly. There was a door at each end of the first-class coach, and these were locked. Passengers have been known to walk along from a third to a first after the train has started. So, unless there is a restaurant car on the train, we always keep the doors in the corridor locked between the firsts and the thirds.”

“And these doors were locked from the time the train left Cannon Street until it reached here?”

“That’s right, sir. I unlocked them when I went along the train in the tunnel, and locked them again when I went back to my van. They weren’t unlocked again till I went through just before we got here.”

Arnold had nothing more to ask the guard. He thanked Mr. Cutbush for his assistance, and left the railway station with Marden, carrying the articles found in the compartment. “I’d better have a look at the body, I suppose,” he said. “I suppose you’ve looked through his pockets? No letter, or anything like that?”

“The body is in the mortuary, and so are his clothes and the things found in them. It’s only ten minutes walk from here. No, I found no letter. And yet it’s a pretty clear case of suicide. What the guard told us seems to settle that. Sir Wilfred was in a locked compartment by himself, all the time.”

“Yes,” said Arnold, with a faint suspicion of doubt in his tone. “But, do you know, I’m never quite easy in my mind about locked doors, especially when they are railway carriage doors. You know what a simple thing the key of these locks is. Merely a tapered piece of steel, of square cross section. You put it in a square hole, turn it, and the door is unlocked. Anybody could make a key like that. All they would want is a piece of metal rod and a file. Besides, the outer door of the compartment, the one opposite the corridor, I mean, was not locked.”

Marden smiled. “You’re not suggesting that somebody climbed along the footboard and got in that way, are you?” he asked.

“I’m not suggesting anything. But, before we can dismiss this affair as a case of suicide, we’ve got to think out all the possibilities. I must say I would like to know more about that slowing down of the train in the tunnel. I am rather struck by a coincidence in time. You tell me that Dr. Frant examined the body about twenty minutes past six yesterday evening, and gave as his opinion that Sir Wilfred had been dead hardly an hour. That’s a very vague expression, but I know that doctors can’t be exactly accurate in these matters. Let’s accept it for what it is worth. According to Turner, the train passed through Blackdown station at 5.29, and entered the tunnel a minute or two later. Doesn’t that suggest that Sir Wilfred’s death may have taken place in the tunnel, just before Turner saw him?”

“I think it does. But anybody who meant to shoot himself in a train would probably do it in a tunnel. I often go backwards and forwards to London, and I know Blackdown Tunnel pretty well. If the train is going at any speed, there is such a roar that you can’t hear yourself shout. Certainly nobody in the next compartment could possibly hear the faint crack those little automatics make.”