Free Blood From a Stone by Dolores Gordon-Smith Page A

Turnhill Percy, but it wasn’t practical, I’m afraid. Turnhill Percy is a one-horse place with a single platform and no facilities to speak of, so they kept the compartment coupled to the train. The police sealed off the compartment, stuck a canvas sheet over the outside, took a note of the names and addresses of everyone who was on the train and that’s about it.’
    â€˜Couldn’t the murderer have left the train before the police did their headcount?’ asked Jack. ‘I think I might be tempted to make a jump for it if I found myself with a corpse on my hands.’
    â€˜He might have done,’ agreed Bill. ‘An examination of the tickets will tell us if there’s any tickets issued that can’t be accounted for. The Railway Police don’t have a great many options. We can’t detain people indefinitely while we ponder over the niceties of who did what. I imagine there’ll be enough complaints for the railway company to deal with as it is. There’s a limit to how long a train can block the rails.’
    â€˜Do you know when it happened?’ asked Jack.
    â€˜Just after West Hassock, apparently. The passengers – including Isabelle – felt a terrific jerk just before the train ran under the West Hassock road bridge. The Railway Police checked the permanent way back from where the communication cord was pulled and found fairly unmistakable evidence on the wall of the bridge. That means we’ve got a definite time for the murder, which is something, I suppose.’
    â€˜A definite time for when the bloke got his head knocked off, anyway,’ said Jack thoughtfully. ‘Not that there’s any reason to think there’s much difference. The murderer wouldn’t want
to hang around with his victim longer than he could help.’
    â€˜Do you know when the train’s due?’ asked Arthur.
    â€˜It should be here soon,’ said Bill Rackham with a glance at the clock. ‘The railway people said it shouldn’t be long.’
    As if on cue, there was a deafening squawk from the public address system above their heads as the arrival of the delayed Two Fifteen from Hastings was announced, followed by a series of puffing wheezes as the train grunted its way into the station. There was a final burst of steam, a long sigh from the air brakes, and then, with a slamming of doors, the passengers alighted.
    Two of Rackham’s constables walked down the length of the train and took up guard beside a compartment draped with a green canvas sheet. After listening to Bill’s account of the murder, Jack was heartily glad it was covered.
    A uniformed police inspector stepped down from the train and, extending his hand, helped Isabelle onto the platform. A tall man in a shabby trench coat alighted next, followed by two Railway Police constables.
    â€˜Isabelle!’ called Arthur, striding towards her.
    Isabelle’s shoulders sagged in relief.
    â€˜I’m so glad to see you,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek. ‘Poor Arthur, you must’ve been worried silly when you got my telegram.’
    She turned to the inspector beside her. ‘Inspector Whitten, this is my husband, Captain Stanton, my cousin, Major Haldean, and this is Inspector Rackham of Scotland Yard. And this,’ she added, turning to the man in the trench coat, ‘is Mr Leonard Duggleby.’
    Jack rather liked the look of Duggleby. He had a lean, scholarly face, dark hair flecked with grey at the temples, mild blue eyes and a hesitant, slightly shy, manner.
    â€˜Pleased to meet you,’ said Duggleby. ‘I could wish the circumstances were different, though. I didn’t,’ he added with an ironic lift of his eyebrows, ‘intend to get caught up with the police.’
    â€˜I hope we won’t have to detain you for very long, Mr Duggleby,’ said Bill in a reassuring sort of way. ‘We appreciate your help.’ He raised his