Murder on the Cathedral Express (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 9) Page 3

  He asked the forensics’ substitute doctor to get the results of the autopsy to him as soon as possible. The usual identification procedure had proved easy. The dead man was a Professor Giddings from Goldsmiths College, and the address on his driving license was 3 Willow Drive, Basingstoke. He had one of those plastic photo ID tags around his neck of the standard type used at conferences. The victim’s wallet was intact and they had found a set of keys in his trouser pocket. That seemed to rule out robbery. No briefcase and no cell phone. Of course they could have been left on the train in the panic to get him off.

  He knew that he could rely on Sergeant Wilson to take care of the details. Wilson had already contacted the Basingstoke police and they were on their way to the victim’s home to inform the next of kin. They knew from the neat handwriting in his diary that it was his mother, Mary Giddings. As the investigating officer, he would have the onerous task of accompanying her when she identified her son’s body. It was not something he looked forward to. He often awoke some nights after a dream that involved the faces of mothers, fathers, husbands or wives who had to look on the lifeless body of their dead child or spouse.

  The expression on Professor Giddings’s face had stuck in Linham’s mind. He had seen that look before. He had also detected a faint odour. He could have sworn he smelt traces of cyanide. It was said to be odourless, but he had never agreed.

  He returned home confident that his Sergeant would make all the necessary arrangements to collect the names of witnesses and the like. The site of Professor Giddings last moments would now revert to a public concourse as though nothing had happened.

  It was after 10 by the time he got home and his wife had gone to bed. She had left a mug of cocoa and some digestive biscuits on the kitchen table. “I’ve been doing this job for too long,” he muttered as he put the cocoa in the microwave. It boiled over as it always did. He munched on a dry biscuit and switched out the lights before he went up to bed.

  ***

  Ralph had to admit that Nuffield’s had done a great job in setting up the gym and health centre at Seething Wells. It was the outcome of a considerate and sympathetic conversion of what had been a Victorian Water plant. No doubt the facility had been controversial at the time it was built, but the founders had managed to fight through and saved many Londoners from cholera and plague. Now it gave the locals a pool, gym, sauna, steam rooms, Jacuzzi and if you were stressed or had a sports injury, they even had sports therapists and masseurs on hand to give advice or massage away your aches and pains. A comfortable dining and relaxation area completed what for many was a great getaway and a chance to swap stories and gossip with pals.

  Having completed his work out and swum a mile, Ralph went into the steam room as a reward for his efforts. It was hot and misty with that eucalyptus scent that permeated even out onto the pool area. He could just make out his friend Allan lying supine on a pinewood bench. The Romans would have approved of this, he thought, as he shut the door to preserve the heat.

  “How’s that tour business going in London, Allan?” Ralph greeted his friend. “Still impressing the tourists with your creative historical anecdotes?” Ralph’s reference to Maggie Smith’s role as a tour guide in the play Lettuce and Lovage where she invented stories to increase visitor numbers to an historic home was made in jest. Allan had heard it a thousand times before, but it was the usual banter in the mens’ locker rooms. Allan grunted as he raised himself up on one elbow.

  “Actually it’s been a bit of a quiet season, funnily enough. Still plenty of Japanese, but the main parties come from the church groups. No surprise there, I suppose.”

  He and Allan shared a mutual interest in track and field athletics. In their twenties, Allan had represented his County at 200 metres and Ralph at 800. They often reminisced about the people they had known at that time in their lives. Allan had retired early from the travel business, having spent several years in Australia and on the Continent. Since then he had taken a history course at Kingston University, and then gone on to Goldsmiths, part of London University, to obtain his Masters. He now worked part-time as a tour guide and his specialist subject was Lambeth Palace, the London home of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

  “I’m looking forward to our rail trip next week, Allan. I think you’ll enjoy meeting some of my pals from the University; and Katie, of course. And we’re all interested in what you’ll have to tell us about the history behind it all.”

  “Don’t worry, Ralph. It’s meant to be enjoyable. My spiel won’t be heavy or anything.”

  Allan had organised a trip on the Cathedral Express from London to Canterbury for a European tour company. His role was to link the history of Lambeth Palace to that of Canterbury. Ralph and Katie had decided to go along with some of their friends from the University.

  They both gasped for breath as a new blast of steam shot into the room.

  “The food on the train’s excellent and the Carol Service only lasts around 40 minutes or so.”

  Allan was conscious of his tendency to go on at length about historical events and worried that others might find his enthusiasm a bit of a bore.

  “I could do with a bit of a chance to relax and let someone else do the talking,” Ralph joked. “I had a nasty experience the other night.” He paused as another friend, Stewart, a London cabby, came in and sought out his favourite spot in the opposite corner .

  “We were just talking about the tourists in London, Stewart,” said Ralph.

  “Tell me about it,” Stewart replied. “I had a bunch yesterday who wanted me to take them to the station where Harry Potter walked through that brick wall to catch his train to Hogwarts. Bloomin’ crazy. Guess them foreigners think he’s a real person.” Stewart lay back and covered his eyes.

  “I was just telling Allan that I had a shock when some guy sitting just opposite me on the train at Surbiton keeled over. Not a good way to end the day.”

  “I don’t suppose the bloke enjoyed it either,” said Stewart as he drank from the bottle of water that he always carried around with him. Ralph started to laugh, but then stopped himself when he realised that he might sound a bit callous.

  Stewart was a bit of an enigma. Ralph assumed that all cabbies talked ten to the dozen, but Stewart was often quiet. Ralph concluded that the gym was his opportunity for a bit of ‘time out’.

  “I heard about it on the local news,” Allan commented. “Crikey, you were there? You know he died. Small world. He taught at Goldsmith’s when I was there. I can’t remember the poor chap’s name, but I remember he knew his stuff. Good lecturer. He taught curating, I believe. Some big organisations funded some of the people on the programme. A lot of those students went on to get top jobs organizing exhibitions at the Royal Academy, the British Museum and all over the world. I heard of one bloke who got a big job at the Guggenheim.”

  “Did you know him?” Asked Stewart. “The bloke who died, I mean.”

  “Only by sight. But my wife and I saw him on TV the other night judging the Turner Prize at the Tate. Awful way to end up. I think he was only about 45. Wait, now I remember. Professor Anthony Giddins – no Giddings, that’s it. Taught curating in the Arts Department. I knew it’d come to me. Terrible about James Riggs. You know he was in an accident after the Prize giving ceremony. I met him at the Royal Academy last year. He told me that he planned to use one of their sculptures for an animation he had in mind for the exhibition at the Tate. I was surprised he didn’t win.”

  They chatted on until the steam drove them out. Refreshed after a cold shower and a burst of singing that would have been better if they could have remembered the words or the tune, they made their way to the locker room. As he dried off and began changing, Ralph thought about the man in the yellow bowtie. He felt a twinge of guilt when he recalled his uncharitable thoughts about the poor chap during the journey. He wondered how whoever he had spoken to on the train was coping with it.

  “See you and your pals at Victoria station,” shouted Allan as
he walked past the end of the row of lockers and tossed his towel into the bin. “You’ve got reserved seats, so no need to rush. Platform 9 back behind Smith’s. I’ll be the bloke waving the umbrella over my head to gather my flock.” They both laughed at the imagery. “Oh, and don’t forget to tell your pals that brunch is served on the way to Canterbury.”

  ”Cheers, Stewart.”

  “See you,” grunted Stewart as he vigorously towelled off.

  ***

  Two days later the Inspector’s phone rang.

  “Yes Sir, Linham speaking.” He held the phone away from his ear.

  The Superintendent was obviously under pressure. Linham gave his boss an update on the events at Surbiton. An officer opened the door and handed him a blue folder which Linham recognised as the preliminary autopsy report. He glanced at it and the words ‘Likely cause of death: poisoning’ leaped at him from the page - ‘strong traces of cyanide found in the body’. He relayed the information to his Superintendent.

  “Yes, Sir. I’ll get back to you within the hour. Thank you, Sir.”

  There followed a silence which Wilson had learned over the years to respect.

  “Damn it, Wilson. Now we have a full blown murder and the Superintendent tells me that our Professor Giddings was well connected. He was also a judge on some Turner Prize panel. That means that the papers and the media will be all over it like a rash on a pig’s bum.” Wilson thought it was a baby not a pig and bottom, not bum, but he knew when to keep quiet. It was not the sort of expression his boss generally used. Wilson put it down to Linham having been made a grandfather recently. Must have brought back memories of when he was younger, he mused.

  “So what have we got, Wilson? A well-known academic either took or was administered poison on his way home from somewhere. Do we know where?”

  “No. Only that it was a crowded commuter train from Waterloo to Basingstoke. The University said that they thought he had been at an art gallery in Mayfair, but didn’t know which one. The local police at Basingstoke said that his mother always got a phone call when he was on his way home. He had called her from the train. It looks as though that was the last call he made.”

  “Did we find his mobile?”

  “No. And the railway police said that there was nothing found on the train when it arrived at Basingstoke. They’re trying to interview all the people who were on the train when it got to Basingstoke. Some passengers alighted at Surbiton, of course. It was the first stop. And a few passengers got on at Surbiton as well. So it’s all a bit of a mess. We have the names and addresses of the people that helped get Professor Giddings off the train at Surbiton in the file. The duty officer had them typed and printed out first thing, Sir. There must have been at least a dozen who got off the train there and just walked away. We’ve put a notice up at both Surbiton and Basingstoke stations asking for witnesses. That might bring a few in but I expect that most won’t bother. But you never know.”

  “So the poison could have been administered on the train or he could have taken it himself. Suicide would make our lives a lot easier.” Linham realised that he sounded callous, but suicides were common during the run up to Christmas. People got on a downward spiral, what with the short days, the cold and rain. And office parties did not help. He knew how it went with everyone having to pretend that life was great no matter how bad they felt. The Inspector had enjoyed Christmas as a kid, but now he saw it as nothing more than a commercial bonanza and religion was only touched on when people sang carols. He realised that he had become quite a cynic.

  “Unlikely someone would commit suicide on a train, Sir. And even if that was his plan, he knew the train would stop at Surbiton and someone could have intervened. His mother told the local police that he sounded fine when she spoke to him a few minutes earlier. Evidently he’d been to some gallery where they were exhibiting some modern art. You said he was a judge for the Turner Prize. It was on the TV the other week. Some woman won it with her paintings of wounded military. Iraq and Afghanistan heroes.”

  “Isn’t that Turner thing the one where some bloke won it one year for an exhibit about sharks in formaldehyde? And I believe another year some woman won the prize for putting her unmade bed on exhibit. Oh yeah, and that bloke who just put a row of dots on a page and then sold it for millions.”

  “Something like that, Sir.”

  “If someone did poison him then we have to find out when and how. We need to find someone with a motive and an opportunity. Someone who hated him enough to go to such lengths. Most people drink coffee on trains nowadays. Did the police find a cup or signs of spilled coffee or anything on the train?”

  “No unfortunately the train was cleaned before forensics could get to it and anyway there’s so much rubbish on the floor by the time it gets to Basingstoke that any evidence would have been lost. If the murderer was on the train he would have picked the cup up and put it in a waste bin.”

  “My bet is that our killer was unknown to Professor Giddings. Whoever it was could have followed him into the coffee bar at Waterloo station and then slipped the poison into his cup. It would have been too hot to drink straightaway. He must have drunk it somewhere between Waterloo and Surbiton,” said the Inspector. “Cyanide acts quickly.”

  “There is one thing, Sir.”

  “Well?”

  “We found a ticket in his wallet for the Cathedral Express train to Dorset.”

  “So. Go on Sergeant, don’t just make bald statements,” Linham said. His level of frustration was beginning to show.

  “Sorry, Sir. Well there’s an outfit called Steam Dreams who offer a number of excursions to cities where they have cathedrals. You know like Norwich, Nottingham, Exeter and Winchester. They use old steam trains. A bit like the Orient Express but a lot cheaper.”

  “I get the picture Wilson.”

  “Well the ticket was dated a few days earlier, so he can’t have used it.”

  “What’s so unusual about that?”

  “But why one ticket? I know First Class with meals costs about £200 each. It seems an odd thing to do. Just go on one of those excursions on your own.”

  “Probably wanted a day at the seaside.”

  “In December, Sir?”

  “Okay Wilson, that’s enough about steam trains. Let’s see if any of those people who helped Giddings off the train at Surbiton can tell us anything.”

  The Inspector opened the folder that Wilson had placed in front of him.

  “Well I’ll be blowed. It’s either Christmas come early or the good fairy that looks after policeman is on our side for a change. The first name on this list is our friend Professor Chalmers. If I know him, he’ll have seen everything and probably solved the case already. Give him a ring Wilson and get us some more tea. Things are looking up.”

  ______________________

  Chapter 4

  Katie was muffled up against the cold in a Navy blue jacket and a red beret with matching knitted scarf and gloves. Ralph had no problem finding her as she pushed her way through the crowd.

  “It’s just like one of those old black and white movies. Boy comes back from the war and meets swooning girlfriend on Victoria station.” She stood on her toes and gave him a hug. She ignored his lack of enthusiasm and accepted the fact that the English simply had no capacity for any public display of affection. She also knew that he would be disappointed if she did not show hers. She imagined that their exclusive relationship was more solid than that of many married couples. She had been married twice and been widowed twice. She was not about to test the ‘third time lucky’ premise. Besides, she was happy the way things were and felt that Ralph was, too.

  “Hey, I like the hat. You look ready for this weather.” For Ralph that was quite a step forward from the greeting she had from him when they had been colleagues at Gypsy Hill. All that had come to an abrupt end when she got involved in an incident that landed her in Holloway Women’s prison. Now she had a good position at University College London and had r
ecently had her post as Professor of Education confirmed. She smiled when people referred to her as a career woman. Now on the wrong side of forty-five, she was unlikely to choose full-time homemaker as an alternative.

  “Hey you guys what do we do now?” Marcia called out as she grabbed Katie by the arm and waved a leather gloved hand at Ralph. “Isn’t this fun?”

  In spite of having to cope with the raw wind that blew around Victoria station on a cold morning in December, Marcia looked like she had just stepped out of a bandbox. She had obviously dressed carefully for the occasion. She wore a black leather overcoat, a small fur hat that would have been perfect for the 1930’s and would no doubt become the next ‘must have’ item for her followers, and high heeled black boots. She had been a model in her younger days and had recently re-invented herself for a top fashion house whose market was ‘the ‘mature lady’. Marcia was married to Ralph’s best friend Peter Cavendish, Dean of the School of Music at Gypsy Hill. Peter strode up. Tall and raffish was a fair description. His students adored him; especially the young ladies. After years as a philanderer and a bit of a rogue, he had finally come to realize that he had quite a prize at home, and in recent times he had become a faithful husband.

  “By heck Ralph, you certainly know how to get a chap up early. Anything less than a trip on the old steam train and I would still be in bed and thinking about staying there all day, eh Marcia.”

  He gave Ralph a hearty thump on the back as he moved across to give Katie a hug. Peter was obviously out to enjoy himself, thought Ralph. It was something that he admired in people and had on the odd occasion tried to emulate.

  “Where’s our curator? Probably sporting a bikini or at least a mini skirt on this fine wintry day, I’ll be bound,” said Peter as he looked around the growing crowd who waited to board the train.

  Cynthia and Lance were the other couple that made up Ralph’s party. Cynthia was curator of Dorich House, the University owned Museum. She had recently married Lance, who taught marketing in the Business School and was Ralph’s colleague. Ralph had to admit that Cynthia’s wardrobe presented a bit of a puzzle. At work she was the archetypical tweed-suited academic, but in her own time she was liable to shock, or at least turn a few heads.