Free Murder on the Flying Scotsman by Carola Dunn

died in England, I reckon
we’ll have to stop in Berwick, afore we cross the border. Ah well, my schedule’s already all bug . . . shot to pieces.’ He gave a martyred sigh.
    ‘Don’t let anyone get off the train. And no one must touch anything in here.’
    ‘Right, madam. You’d better find yourself a seat elsewhere in this carriage, and these gentlemen, too. I’ll lock this compartment and all the exit doors.’ He turned to
the corridor. ‘All right, all right, all right, ladies and gentlemen! There’s nothing to see. Everyone return to your seats if you please.’
    Daisy took Dr. Jagai and Weekes back to her compartment. They were both down in the mouth, and she was glad to think poor Albert McGowan had at least two genuine mourners.
    Anne had gone, thank heaven. Belinda sat huddled in a corner, white and frightened. The sangfroid she had displayed in fetching the doctor had vanished.
    ‘They said it’s murder.’ She looked at Daisy with imploring eyes. ‘They won’t think I killed him, will they?’
    ‘Of course not, darling.’ Sitting down beside her, Daisy put her arm round the child’s thin shoulders. ‘Do you know, I bet they have to call in Scotland Yard, because
they can’t be sure which county poor Mr. McGowan died in. And your daddy – Belinda’s father is a detective, Dr. Jagai – as he’s already in Northumberland, he’ll
be in charge of the investigation.’
    Belinda let out her breath a shuddering sigh. ‘I hope so.’
    She seemed slightly reassured, but still – not unnaturally in the circumstances – frightfully pale. Daisy tried to distract her. Fortunately the Flying Scotsman had stopped at an
interesting spot, close to the sea. There were sand dunes, and then miles of sands crossed by watery channels, with a long, low, rocky mound beyond.
    ‘Look at that island,’ she said, pointing past Belinda at the window. ‘Or perhaps it isn’t an island, what do you think? The beach goes all the way there.’
    ‘That’s Lindisfarne.’ Dr. Jagai, seated opposite, exchanged a glance of understanding with Daisy. ‘Also known as Holy Island. At low tide, one can drive there on a
causeway across the sands.’
    ‘Have you been there?’ Belinda asked with more politeness than interest.
    ‘No, but I have read about it. I like to know something of the places I pass. There are ruins worth a visit, a monastery nine hundred years old replacing an earlier monastery destroyed by
the Danes. St. Cuthbert was buried there and when the Danes attacked, the monks fled the island, taking his coffin. . .’ The doctor pulled himself up as Belinda flinched. ‘Look at all
the seagulls. They must have good fishing in the shallows when the tide begins to cover the sands.’
    ‘Miss Dalrymple, do trains sometimes hit birds?’
    ‘Oh dear, I expect they must, but hardly ever I should think. The engine makes such a noise, they can hear it coming a long way off.’
    ‘Yes, I s’pose so. Only, I found a feather on the floor in . . . there .’ Belinda took a small, curly plume from her pocket and showed it to Daisy.
    Daisy caught Weekes’s eye. Mr. McGowan’s pillow, it said. He opened his mouth. She frowned at him.
    ‘Birds are always leaving feathers around,’ she told Belinda, ‘like dogs shedding hair. You know how one finds them on the ground. I expect the wind blew it in.’ She held
out her hand and Belinda automatically gave it to her. ‘I’ll keep it safe for you.’
    She tucked the feather into her handbag. It didn’t seem likely to be a significant bit of evidence, but one never could tell.
    The train started off again, rumbling slowly northwards. Belinda remained alarmingly subdued, and Daisy started to worry about her. She hoped it was true that Alec would be called in on the
case. She would suggest it to the Berwick police, and ask them to try to get in touch with him even if they didn’t request his help.
    Chandra Jagai continued to talk to Belinda, asking questions