The Mitford Murders Page 4

  ‘I’ve got friends we’ll be staying with for a while. Now shut up.’

  Louisa went quiet, she needed to focus on the letter that she had to get from Stephen’s pocket. If that letter was offering her an interview for the nursery maid’s job, that was her lifeline. She had to grab it.

  She kept silent while he manoeuvred her to platform nine, where there was a train already waiting. Stephen chose a rear compartment, with just one other passenger – an old woman who quietly wept into her handkerchief and barely seemed to notice them. With a whistle, a hiss and a jolt, the train set off and only then did Stephen relax his hold on his niece. They sat beside each other, Louisa bolt upright and stiff, telling herself not to glance at Stephen’s pocket. Her uncle pulled his hat down lower, folded his arms and stared out of the window.

  As the train steamed along, Louisa looked out at the disappearing London skyline, the grey net curtains in the windows and the blackened bricks of the houses south of the river. It wasn’t long before they gave way to Sussex’s flat fields of stubbly brown earth, neatly divided from the pale sky by even lines of hedges. Farmhouses were dotted both near and far from the train line, sometimes allowing passengers a close up of milk churns by a barn door waiting to be loaded on a cart, at others revealing only a smudge of chimney smoke. Emerging from the first tunnel, Louisa couldn’t help but admire the sight of a group of brown and white cows lying together in the corner of a field with a single bull standing before them, like a lazy parliament and its prime minister. There were two more tunnels, each pitching the train into near darkness, making the sound of the train wheels oppressively loud in Louisa’s ears.

  Now, thought Louisa. Take the letter now.

  Her left hand lifted slowly and with her fingertips she faintly felt the thick wool of Stephen’s coat. She traced upwards to the edge of his pocket, her elbow pressed against her waist, her heart beating so hard she felt sick. But just as her forefinger and thumb came together to pinch the corner, the compartment was thrown into light again and she jerked her hand down.

  Stephen felt the movement and looked at her sharply, but she settled her face in repose, staring ahead. Patting his pockets as if looking for something, she saw him stealthily check the letter was there before he pulled out his tobacco pouch and started to roll a cigarette. Soon grey clouds of smoke filled the compartment. The old lady gave a small cough but did not interrupt the rhythm of her weeping. When Stephen was almost down to the stub, the red glow threatening to burn the tip of his thumbnail, Louisa became aware that the train had started to decelerate. As the wheels turned more slowly, her heart drove a faster beat, reverberating in her chest until she could feel it pulsing in her throat. The train stopped and Louisa stood up suddenly.

  ‘Really, Uncle,’ she said, all sunshine and smiles, ‘you’re being very rude. This poor lady can hardly breathe.’

  The old lady looked at Louisa. Stephen reached up an arm but Louisa pretended not to notice and opened the window, smiling at her fellow female passenger as if in mutual sympathy. She could feel the bangs of doors opening and closing further down the train as various passengers got off and on, then the platform guard called out the name of the station – Lewes. Louisa pushed the window as far down as it would go and, turning sideways, slipped her right arm outside to grab the handle.

  ‘Siddown!’ said Stephen, standing, as she knew he would, and stepping towards her as he flung his cigarette to the floor. Socks leapt up. Louisa heard the guard’s whistle blow, long and loud. The train gave a whistle in reply and she felt the bump as the wheels started slowly up again.

  There was no time to think. Louisa took the letter from her uncle’s pocket as he came near, just as he’d taught her, then pushed open the door and jumped down on to the tracks, rolling away as the train built up speed, the train door flapping and her uncle standing at the gaping doorway, his face crumpled with fury, his mouth opening and closing meaninglessly as the hiss of steam drowned him out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  12 January 1920

  In their laughter, Harry and Guy hadn’t noticed a guard run in through the doorway of the stationmaster’s office. ‘Sir, sorry, sir, there’s a girl on the tracks,’ he babbled, then pulled himself up straight when he saw their uniforms. ‘Sorry, Sarge,’ he said to Harry. ‘I thought you were Mr Marchant. Can you come? We need help.’

  Harry and Guy quickly straightened their helmets and Guy did up the top button of his jacket. They attempted to mask their disarray with an overly serious tone.

  ‘What’s the problem, sonny?’ said Harry, even though the guard was, at most, only two years younger than he was and a good six inches taller.

  ‘It’s a young lady, sir,’ said the guard, moving back towards the door. ‘She’s on the tracks. We think the train had already started moving when she jumped and she’s in pain. We need to move her quickly.’

  The two policemen started to run and the guard pushed ahead of them, eager to lead the way. It didn’t take them long to get to the end of the platform, where they spotted the woman in question – she was a hundred yards away, down on the ground, one leg splayed, the other bent inwards. She was clutching her leg and her face was scrunched in pain, though she wasn’t making any noise. Her hat had slipped down the side of her head and Guy could see strands of dark brown hair straggling at the back of her neck. Her boots were scuffed and she wore no gloves. She looked wretched but also, thought Guy, clocking the fact in the way that a young man must, she was pretty.

  It didn’t take long for the men to heave her up to her feet, slight as she was.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, shaking with the shock of the fall. ‘I didn’t realise how fast the train was going.’

  Before long, she was up on the platform and sitting in the station café with a cup of sweetened hot tea before her. While the guard went to find the nurse, Harry stood by the door – on lookout, he said – while Guy pulled up a chair next to her.

  ‘Right, miss,’ said Guy. ‘We’d better take down a few details.’

  ‘Why? I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, no, miss. But it was a dangerous thing to do. And we need to write a report,’ said Guy, reddening very faintly. ‘So could you tell me your name, please?’

  ‘Louisa Cannon.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘Flat forty-three, Block C, Peabody Estate, Lawrence Street, London.’

  ‘Occupation?’

  Louisa gripped the letter in her hand – she hadn’t had a chance to read it yet. ‘Washerwoman. That is, I help my ma out. But it’s not what I’m always going to do.’

  Guy smiled. ‘No, Miss Cannon.’ He paused. ‘It is miss, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The blush went a little pinker.

  ‘Where were you travelling to?’

  ‘Hastings but I …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I was going to Hastings.’

  ‘Why did you jump out of the train, then? Did you want to get out at Lewes? Sometimes people don’t realise the platform is shorter than the train. It’s happened before.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I mean … yes, I was going to Lewes …’ Louisa’s voice trailed off again.

  Guy looked at her kindly. ‘And you nearly missed your stop? Was that it?’

  Harry gave him a sharp look.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. Ow.’ She winced and gripped her leg.

  ‘The nurse will be here soon, miss,’ said Harry. ‘Try not to move too much.’

  ‘I don’t need a nurse,’ said Louisa. ‘I need to go.’

  ‘Just a few more questions, Miss Cannon,’ said Guy. ‘Were you travelling alone?’

  Louisa looked at him. ‘Do you really need to know all this? I have to go.’

  Guy put down his notebook and pencil. ‘Harry,’ he said, ‘could you go and find out what’s happened to that nurse?’

  Harry understood. He left.

  ‘Tell me what’s happened,’ said Guy. �
�You’re not in any trouble, we just need to make sure nothing is wrong.’

  The soothing tone was almost too much for Louisa. She felt as if she hadn’t heard someone talk gently to her like that for months, if not years. She was still holding on to the envelope, which was addressed to her. ‘I need to read this,’ she said.

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Guy. ‘Take your time.’

  Slowly, Louisa drew the piece of paper out of the envelope and started to read the looping handwriting in black ink. She gave a start. ‘What day is it? It’s Monday, isn’t it? What time is it?’

  Guy looked up at the clock in the café. ‘It’s three o’clock, almost exactly. Why?’

  Louisa lost her composure altogether at this. ‘I’m never going to make it!’ she cried. ‘My one chance to get away, to do something – and now I can’t. I can’t. Ow.’ She clutched her leg and took a deep breath. ‘Look,’ she said, and gave Guy the letter.

  He read it. ‘I think you can make it,’ he said.

  ‘But I’m such a mess – look at me!’

  Guy looked at Louisa. He saw the slim figure, the fine, pale complexion, the shine on her cheekbones and large brown eyes, wet with tears. But he was a policeman – he also saw the bedraggled hat, half of its brim coming away, the cheap coat and boots that needed new laces and a polish.

  ‘Do you really want this job?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, looking at him directly. ‘Very much.’

  ‘Right,’ said Guy. ‘In that case, we’d better do something about it. Wait here.’

  ‘It’s not as if I can go anywhere, is it?’ Louisa grimaced but there was a gleam in her eyes.

  As Guy was going out, Harry returned, this time with the nurse in tow, and while Louisa was being examined, Guy went to the stationmaster’s office to make some enquiries. By the time Louisa’s bandage had been wrapped around her sprained ankle, Guy was back, waving a small piece of paper.

  ‘I’ve got the train times for you; you can definitely make it,’ he said.

  ‘Make it to what?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Her job interview,’ said Guy, suddenly aware he knew far more about this young lady than his policeman’s duty warranted.

  The nurse stood up and packed the last of her things into her bag, gave Louisa a few brief instructions on looking after her ankle and left.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Harry, noting the colour on his friend’s face. He gave him a broad grin, which Guy didn’t return.

  ‘Miss Cannon,’ began Guy, ‘I don’t want to cause you any offence but I think perhaps you need to … well, if I might suggest, you …’

  ‘What?’ said Louisa.

  ‘Yes, what?’ said Harry, thoroughly enjoying himself.

  ‘I think your boots need a polish, miss,’ Guy blurted. ‘I could do them for you at Victoria station; I’ve got all my kit there. And Harry and I … I mean, Sergeant Conlon and I are on our way back there now. Aren’t we, Harry?’

  Louisa suppressed the urge to giggle. Guy saw this and tried not to look offended. He knew most men his age had a sweetheart and Harry had tried to fix him up with a dancer or two from the 100 Club, but he’d never got further than choking his way through a Whiskey Sour and going home.

  ‘Why would you do this for me?’ said Louisa.

  Guy’s cheeks flushed again. He cleared his throat. ‘Humph, well, call it civic duty. But we’d better get going if you’re to get the right train. You see, you need to get the …’

  He rambled on about trains to London and across London to Paddington and out again to Oxfordshire, in time to meet the groom at half past five, but Louisa wasn’t listening. The idea that she might be able to do this, that she had been given a chance to change her life, was overwhelming in its richness of possibilities. Like trying to eat an entire chocolate cake in one sitting – it was glorious but it threatened to be beyond her ability to achieve it.

  ‘Stop, Sergeant …?’

  ‘Sullivan.’

  ‘Sergeant Sullivan. Thank you for all this. Truly.’ She gave him a brief smile. ‘There’s no need to take me anywhere. I can get there by myself. I’m very grateful to you. Goodbye.’ Louisa stood up, wincing only slightly and started to walk out.

  Guy made a movement as if to stop her but Harry gave him a look and the two men let her go.

  ‘If you’re sure, Miss Cannon. Here, take this,’ said Guy, and he handed Louisa the train times he had written down.

  Louisa took it with a nod and put it in her pocket, next to the letter. She had nothing else on her but a handkerchief and she knew she didn’t have long – her uncle Stephen would be catching the next train back to Lewes to find her.

  A few minutes later, Louisa was waiting for the next train back to London. Looking up and down the platform, her eye soon fell upon a well-dressed middle-aged gentleman, clearly bound for the City. He was wearing the uniform of a man who worked for a bank: bowler hat, tightly furled umbrella, leather briefcase, spats. She waited for the signal she needed – yes, there it was. Every man could be relied upon to do this as he waited for a train to arrive: pat his coat pocket to check his wallet was still there. Louisa walked towards her quarry, her heart beating fast, trying not to limp. She didn’t want to do this but unless she did, she wasn’t going to get a bite of that cake.

  ‘Oh! I’m so sorry, sir! I wasn’t looking where I was going!’ Louisa burbled as the gentleman looked at her crossly, his briefcase knocked to the ground and papers spilling out. Louisa kneeled on the floor to pick the papers up, the city gent bending down with rather more difficulty beside her.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said gruffly. ‘Let me do it.’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ Louisa continued. ‘So sorry again, sir.’ In the midst of the confusion and her gabbling, she slipped her hand in his pocket and had just caught the wallet in her grip when she felt a light touch on her arm.

  ‘Miss Cannon?’ It was Sergeant Sullivan, looking at her, bewildered. ‘Is everything all right?’

  Hastily she pulled her hand out of the man’s pocket, without the wallet, and stood up. She looked down at the man, still reaching for his papers, and without thinking said sharply, ‘Excuse me, sir! I will not!’

  The city gent looked up at her, confusion on his face, but said nothing.

  Guy flashed a stern look at him before walking Louisa away, steering her by her shoulder. Harry was a few steps behind them.

  ‘What happened there?’ asked Guy tenderly. ‘Did he make an improper suggestion to you?’

  Louisa, flustered now at her lie and wondering why she had done it, shook her head. ‘It’s nothing,’ she replied. ‘Nothing I can’t manage.’ Much to her consternation, she could feel guilt rising.

  Guy threw a look back at Harry, then turned to Louisa, her hat askew, her leg bandaged. She looked like a sparrow with a broken wing. ‘Do you need some help?’

  Louisa turned away. She’d ask anyone but him. He was a policeman, after all.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m about to say this but why don’t I lend you a little money?’ said Guy. ‘I can issue you a pass for the trains; you don’t need to buy a ticket. And I’ve got a few coins on me so you can buy yourself a sandwich for the journey. Maybe a bit of boot polish, too.’ He grinned.

  Louisa relented. If it meant getting that job …

  ‘I’ll pay you back,’ she said. ‘I mean it—’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said Guy. ‘So long as you can get to that interview. Wait here, I’ll get the pass.’

  They had reached the stationmaster’s office, where Guy left Louisa sitting on the bench outside, Harry standing beside her. Embarrassment suffused her body; she could barely look at him. Guy came running out of the office a quarter of an hour later, though it felt much longer. He thrust the passes and some shillings into Louisa’s hand, dismissing her half-hearted protests.

  ‘We’ve got to go,’ he said to Harry. ‘The Super’s been on the telephone – there’s an incident at Hastings station. He wants us to find
out what’s happened. I don’t know any more than that.’

  Guy turned to Louisa and she could see he was distracted by this excitement. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I hope you make it to the interview. I hope you get the job. Perhaps—’

  ‘Yes, I’ll let you know,’ said Louisa, smiling at him. ‘I can write to you at Victoria station, I suppose? Sergeant Sullivan, isn’t it?’

  He nodded. ‘Thank you. Goodbye … and good luck.’ Guy turned to Harry and the two of them ran off, the tall and the small, answering the call of duty.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  12 January 1920

  It was a bleak scene that greeted Guy and Harry that afternoon. The sun had gone from the sky and an early evening chill had descended with the dusk in the twenty minutes it took for their train to pull into Hastings station. They hurried across over the bridge to the next platform – they had been told the incident was on number one – and saw the 3.20 p.m. from London Victoria that was not now going to reach its final destination. Infuriated passengers had been herded off and put on another train, diverted from the drama that had happened right beneath their noses by thoughts of missed appointments and suppers that would go cold.

  A cluster of men was standing on the platform by the last compartment, its door held open by a young porter. Most of the crowd were unashamed gawkers but Guy identified the stationmaster, Mr Manning, with his distinctive dark green livery and gleaming brass badge. He was talking to another man in a hat, a policeman. Close by them stood three working men in dusty clothes, caps on their heads, hands jammed in their pockets, whispering to each other.

  Guy quickened his step and broke up the conversation with what he hoped was an authoritative tone: ‘Mr Manning, sir, we’re Sergeants Sullivan and Conlon from the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway Police. Superintendent Jarvis sent us. What’s happened here?’

  Mr Manning looked up at Guy with a serious face that betrayed his upset. He opened his mouth to speak but was stopped by the man from the East Sussex force, Detective Inspector Vine, who wasted no time in introducing himself.