Bunburry--Murder at the Mousetrap Read online

  Never once had he seen Bernard’s family join him for the trip. Clearly, a trip on a steam train was not everyone’s cup of tea.

  Time for my own cup of tea, he thought. Maybe see what the Old Tea House has in the line of cakes and biscuits today as well?

  And he locked the ticket office, just as he did each and every weekend at this time, and walked down the platform to the station’s small tea room.

  He would have some tea and see if he might anticipate any questions trainee Tim might have about the whole ritual he had just observed.

  *

  Tim leaned out of the window of the last carriage and took in the view of muddy fields and woods as the train rattled through the Cotswolds countryside.

  Steam and smoke billowed around. On each slow curve – if he really leaned out – he could see the engine itself, ten carriages ahead, easily dealing with these shallow hills behind Cherringham.

  His wife Helen had been pressing him to find a weekend hobby, now that the kids had left home. He spent all week at a computer terminal in the village, selling insurance. Barely saw daylight in the winter.

  But Helen was right – this was going to be fun!

  “Mind you don’t get a smut in your eye, young man,” came a voice from behind him.

  Tim turned and recognised Archie from the station coming through the door from the guard’s van – he held out his hand for Archie to shake.

  “Archie? I’m Tim Waite. New volunteer.”

  “Ah, so you are! Pleased to meet you, Tim.”

  “Reg said I could take the run this morning. Said you’d show me the ropes.”

  “Hmm. Did he now?” said Archie, his face stern. Tim saw him raise one bushy eyebrow.

  Oh gosh, he thought. First day and I’m in trouble already!

  But then the other man winked and patted him on the shoulder.

  “Course I will. Tell you what – you follow me while I do the ticket check. Half an hour to Cheltenham, plenty of time – if you’re lucky I might even let you punch a few tickets!”

  Archie raised his antiquated ticket puncher and Tim laughed.

  “The buffet car should have a head of steam by the time we reach her. We’ll pick up a cup of tea and a Kit-Kat, eh?” said Archie, as he pulled open the sliding door that led into the carriage proper.

  “And when we reach Cheltenham I’ll get you onto the plate for the return leg – how about that?”

  “Gosh,” said Tim. And he followed Archie into the first carriage.

  *

  Twenty minutes later, as promised, they stopped for tea and a chocolate biscuit in the antiquated buffet bar.

  Although a lot of the passengers were tourists (and Tim noted that Archie had a little chat with everyone), Tim had also recognised a handful of Cherringham locals out for a family day on the train.

  Most of the travellers sat in the open carriages – faded bench seats in pairs facing each other, string racks overhead for bags.

  But some preferred the cloistered privacy of the first-class carriages – separate compartments with sliding doors that gave onto a corridor that ran the length of the carriage.

  These, it seemed, tended to be the older travellers. Retired couples. Enthusiasts.

  And, as Archie chatted, eventually Tim began to join in the conversations, warming to the friendly atmosphere that the steam train seemed to engender.

  In one such carriage, Tim saw Mr Mandeville. The old man sat alone, blanket over his knees, staring out at the countryside. Archie tapped on the glass and slid open the door.

  Tim expected a little conversation to ensue – Archie clearly never short of a gossip or a little joke.

  But Mr Mandeville nodded and just handed over his ticket to be clipped then turned back to the window.

  Not a word between them.

  Funny, thought Tim. But then he remembered – Mr Mandeville wasn’t at all well. Perhaps the poor old chap was in pain?

  And over their cups of tea, Archie confirmed that suspicion. “Mr Mandeville? The old boy in the tweed?” he said. “Never has been one for any idle chit-chat, to be honest, Tim. And I certainly don’t like to disturb him, poor chap.”

  Tim asked how long Mr Mandeville had been coming on the train, but before Archie could answer, Tim heard a loud blast on the whistle and suddenly they were in a tunnel!

  The chuff-chuff of the engine went up a notch and in the darkness outside the carriage, Tim could see billows of smoke and steam.

  “Winsham Tunnel,” said Archie, closing one of the windows tight. “Second longest tunnel on a steam line in the country.”

  Tim went to the window, thrilled at the rush of sound and the flickering reflections from all the carriage lights on the inside of the tunnel.

  It seemed to go on forever. But then, at last, another whistle from the engine and they emerged into bright sunshine again, the train rattling from side to side with the speed.

  “Four minutes exactly!” said Archie, checking his pocket watch. “Come on – two more carriages to check and then we’ll be at Cheltenham.”

  Tim drained his tea and set it back on the rocking buffet counter.

  “And when we get there,” said Archie, “it’ll be all hands on deck while we bring the locomotive round for the return trip. You just stay close to me, young Tim, and I’ll make sure you get a grandstand seat on the engine herself!”

  Tim followed Archie down the train as it swayed and rocked, thinking – Helen’s never going to believe this. On my first day, too!

  *

  Reg had just finished his paperwork when he heard the great blast of the steam engine’s whistle on its return from Cheltenham.

  “There she is,” he said to himself, checking his timepiece and nodding in satisfaction. “Bang on time.”

  Reg always liked to be out on the platform when the train returned, with the office and till all neat and tidy, and everything in readiness for the next departure.

  He stepped onto the platform and locked the door behind him.

  Two more volunteers were out there, in their deep-blue uniforms, perfectly knotted grey- and red-striped neckties, and matching classic conductor hats.

  Nods all around.

  These platform volunteers tended to the passengers, with every day bringing a new lot, always with plenty of questions: about the rail line itself, the great steam engine, its history.

  And that was all well and good, thought Reg.

  But he still preferred his real job of selling actual tickets. Genuine travel commerce – just as it was done a hundred years ago.

  Now they all looked west, as a great, bellowing whistle – a blast that Reg found to be one of the most beautiful sounds on the planet – signalled the train’s arrival. Puffy white shocks of steam shot up from the smokestack, billowing away as the train – even at its sluggish pace – roared past each newly formed cloud. Round the bend – just past the nearby pasture where bored cows working their cud took no notice – the great locomotive itself could be seen.

  And Reg couldn’t resist giving one of the volunteers – another newish chap – a tap to the shoulder.

  Though the man had certainly ridden the train a number of times, that was different from working at the station, standing here, and then taking in its arrival in all its glory.

  “Quite a sight!” Reg said.

  “Certainly is, Mr Syms, certainly is.”

  And they both faced west, the last run to the station dead-on straight, the engine more like a roaring mechanical dragon, churning its way home, back from its rather simple round trip.

  Then – the engine slowing, brakes gently applied, accompanied by another great blast of its whistle – the creature bellowed its arrival proudly.

  Which is when Reg was distracted.

  To his right, to the car park where the black Merc
edes slunk in, its engine inaudible beneath the great steam train’s huffing and puffing, Reg watched as Mr Mandeville’s young relative hopped out, cigarette in mouth, and strolled over.

  *

  The steam engine slowed even more, now crawling into the station, like a great liner of the land coming to a slow and steady docking.

  Reg saw Tim, standing on the plate, his arm raised in a wave, his face blackened from the smoke and the coal, but flushed and bright.

  He waved to the new volunteer as the locomotive slid past, heading up the platform to its designated stop.

  Then he turned back to look down the length of the train and saw Mr Mandeville’s relative, now standing on the platform.

  Reg shot him a look that said: Don’t even think of tossing that butt onto the platform.

  For those who still chose to inhale the deadly smoke, there were a few sand-filled pots nearby.

  But the young man seemed oblivious, staring instead at the forest-green locomotive as it slowed – newly painted last year, colours precisely matching the way it looked the day it began service.

  Then, slower still, the chugging like a runner coming to an exhausted last step up by the signal stack.

  Until – three great whistle blasts in a row! And the train stopped, still sending smaller swirls of steam from its stack, as well as clouds escaping from the undercarriage and wheels.

  And they waited for the passengers to get off.

  First off, a young family, all smiles.

  That’s what it’s all about, thought Reg. A real adventure!

  Then a middle-aged couple dressed in what looked like serious hiking gear: boot-like shoes, khaki trousers with a dozen pockets, zippered plaid jackets, and skull caps.

  And then others … all the doors swinging open, all ten carriages, everyone coming off.

  A young mother and her son shouted “thank you” to him and the boy waved.

  Got a lot of them. Reg knew. Single mums trying to give their young boys an adventure, even though Dad was long gone.

  Reg always made an effort to tip his hat as he watched them get off.

  He kept watching until the stream of passengers stopped.

  But then, not far from him, he heard the man say, quite clearly …

  “Bloody hell …”

  *

  The suddenly frantic young man dashed down the platform, past the first-class car, to the others. Scanning them – all the way to the guards’ van at the back.

  And Reg knew what he was doing.

  Wondering …

  Where was Bernard Mandeville?

  Good question that!

  “Something wrong, Mr Syms?” said Tim, back on the platform and joining Reg.

  But Reg didn’t answer as the man came racing up to him.

  “D-did you see my father get off that bloody thing?”

  Bloody thing …

  There were times when it was hard for Reg to keep his professional composure.

  “No, Sir. I’m afraid I did not. Mr Waite, did you happen to see an elderly gentleman get off the train? Perhaps from the first-class carriage?”

  The question – merely for show. Still:

  “Mr Mandeville? Um, well, no, I didn’t Mr Syms …”

  “The old bugger fall asleep then? God—”

  Then Reg watched as the young man dashed to board the train.

  And to do that, without a ticket, well – that was quite unacceptable.

  “Sir, excuse me, but you can’t—”

  But then right at the doorway, the guard, Archie, stepping down, off to grab his own spot of tea before the next journey.

  In a perfect position to turn and block the young man.

  Instead of heading back to the ticket office, Reg took a few steps closer.

  Whatever was happening here was indeed curious.

  Archie remained standing at the carriage entrance.

  “My, um, father – he’s still on the train, probably sleeping, and—”

  But Archie shook his head.

  “I’m afraid, sir, after every journey, we walk the entire train. There’s no one on board. And – no one gets on board until the appropriate time.”

  “What? You gotta be bloody kidding me? He’s not on there? So, he got off at Cheltenham then?”

  And, his portal defended, Reg watched Archie take another step down to the platform.

  “Actually, no one got off at Cheltenham – least none that I saw. No races today, as you may know. Though a few people did board. Perhaps … you missed him?”

  And at that, Tim shot a look at Reg.

  Right, thought Reg. They had been standing here the whole time.

  No Mr Mandeville disembarking.

  And if he didn’t get off at Cheltenham, as Archie said, then …

  Well, what indeed had just happened?

  The answer to that seemed to be …

  The impossible had happened.

  The frail old gentleman, Bernard Mandeville, had somehow, some way …

  Vanished!