Free Blood From a Stone by Dolores Gordon-Smith

guard heavily. ‘He was murdered.’
    Isabelle gaped at him speechlessly.
    The inspector shook his head. ‘He can’t have been, Sam. Not on our train.’ His voice was pleading.
    â€˜He’s got a knife through his ribs,’ said the guard shortly. ‘I saw it,’ he added. ‘I got him back inside and I saw it.’
    There was silence for a few moments, then the driver sighed heavily. ‘What next, Sam?’ he asked the guard. ‘You’re officially in charge, but we can’t keep the train stopped for much longer. It’s blocking the line.’
    The guard took off his cap and rubbed a hand through his sparse hair. ‘I think you’re right. I don’t know what to do, and that’s God’s own truth. We’d better take her on to Turnhill Percy and telephone the police from there.’
    â€˜Turnhill Percy?’ questioned the ticket inspector. ‘We don’t stop at Turnhill Percy, Sam. What about the timetable?’
    â€˜The timetable’s up the spout good and proper, Arnold. You can’t worry about timetables with a murder on our hands. That’s gone west, good and proper.’ He looked at Isabelle. ‘The police will want to talk to you, Miss. To all of us, I suppose.’
    â€˜We’d better get on,’ said the driver. ‘The police will know what to do.’
    He opened the door and, with a grunt, clambered down onto the track and crunched his way along the line back to his cab.
    A few minutes later there was a shout from the driver’s cab, a noisy whoosh of steam followed by a blast on the whistle, and the train chugged on its interrupted way to Turnhill Percy.

FOUR
    F lanked by two uniformed police constables and a sergeant, Inspector William Rackham stood by the gate of platform four, Charing Cross station. He raised a hand in greeting as Arthur Stanton and Jack Haldean walked through the barrier.
    â€˜Thanks for meeting us, Bill,’ said Jack, raising his voice above the noise of the station.
    â€˜It’s a pleasure. It’s a bit tough on your wife, Stanton, being caught up in something like this. Was she very upset?’
    â€˜She said she was all right in her telegram,’ said Arthur, ‘but you know what Isabelle’s like. She doesn’t like to make a fuss.’
    Isabelle had telegrammed Arthur from the station master’s office in Turnhill Percy. Arthur telephoned Jack and Jack immediately contacted his old friend, Bill Rackham, who, after talking to Sir Douglas Lynton, the Assistant Commissioner, was despatched to Charing Cross.
    â€˜It sounds,’ said Jack, ‘a horribly messy sort of murder.’
    â€˜I understand it was,’ agreed Bill. ‘It doesn’t sound as if there’s much of what you might call the doings inside the compartment, but the bloke is plastered fairly liberally across the coachwork and window.’
    â€˜That,’ said Jack, drawing his breath in sharply, ‘is revolting. It makes you realise the thinking behind those notices you get on the train. Passengers Must Not Lean Out Of The Window. Granted that our victim is spread across a fair bit of Sussex, I don’t suppose the Railway Police have identified him, have they?’
    â€˜No, they haven’t. They’re leaving that to us, God bless’ em.’
    â€˜Whose responsibility is it to investigate the murder?’ asked Jack curiously.
    Bill clicked his tongue. ‘That’s a nice question. Strictly speaking, the Railway Police have the authority, but they’re more than happy to hand it over to us at the Yard. Their chief concern is to ensure the railway runs smoothly. They can deal with most incidents, but a murder investigation is a bit more than they want to bite off.’
    â€˜So you’re in charge?’
    â€˜When the train arrives, I will be. Ideally, I’d like to have had the coach uncoupled and all the passengers detained at