The Body on the Train by Frances Brody

Author:Frances Brody
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

Chapter Thirty

I parked just beyond White Swan Yard. This is where my birth mother lives. Thanks to that fact, I had no difficulty in entering the Mucky Duck. The landlord recognised me as the woman who occasionally came to the out-sales counter to fetch her mam a jug of stout.

Sykes was seated in the corner, with a group of railwaymen. He gave a wave and came over. “Slumming it, Mrs. Shackleton?”

“All in a good cause.”

We found a seat by the window. Pale sunshine gleamed on the beaten copper of the table top. He set down his pint glass. “Do you want a drink?”

“No thanks. I need to get back, but I have news. An American visitor to the golf tournament, Mr. Espinosa, claims to recognise our man.” I handed him Dad’s note of the name.

He tried to conceal his excitement, but failed. “Let’s hope this takes us somewhere.” He lowered his voice. “I’m beginning to think whoever put that body on the train was paid handsomely, or met with an accident afterwards.”

“No luck with the rhubarb growers?”

“None whatsoever. They’re so taciturn, they ought to be employed by the secret service, only they’d never report to their own side or any other. Oh and I’m losing count of how many pints bought for railwaymen who know nothing.”

“Be sure to keep a note of expenses.” I stood. “I’m parked next to you. Wait with me while I order something at the bar.”

“Let me do it for you.”

It was tempting to let him, because I was already causing something of a stir simply by being there. But I would do this myself.

“Jug of stout please, Fred.”

“Right you are, Kate. Deposit on the jug.”

“I know.”

Sykes stared as the landlord pulled the drink.

I took it and paid.

Outside, we stopped by the entrance to the dingy yard. “Good luck, Mr. Sykes. It will be such a relief if this American golfer really does know our man.”

“Do you want me to wait with you?”

“No. It’s just a quick call. I’ll tell you another day.”

“Mrs. Shackleton, you never cease to surprise me.”

* * *

A stone’s throw from the Mucky Duck and my birth mother’s house, a framer of pictures scratches a living, working from a narrow shop called Picture This.

It was time to give him some business.

The clapper sounded as I opened the creaking door.

After a moment, Maurice Lewis shuffled in from the backroom. He wears carpet slippers, due to some unspecified problem with his feet.

He cheered up at the sight of me, which cheered me too. We exchanged pleasantries and then I asked, “Mr. Lewis, might you do some framing for me quite quickly? I’m a house guest at a friend’s and would like to leave something for them, photographic portraits.”

I took the pictures from my bag. He duly admired Gertrude and Benjie, and Gertrude with her horse.

Raynor the butler looked exceedingly smart and, on paper, less like Dracula than in real life.

A sign read that Mr. Lewis now developed and printed photographs. He saw me reading it.

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