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West Coast. East Coast. August 20th 4.58 5.11 August 21st 4.51 4.40 August 22nd 4.32 6.23Also I have it on reliable information that on the night of the 21st an L. and N.W. engine broke down in some way between Bletchley and Crewe and considerably delayed the train. I mention the coincidence as a remarkable one. Perhaps "Koravitch" has explained another railway incident!
London (dep.) 8 45 p.m. Muggridge (stop) 9.10 p.m. Barton (stop) 9 37 p.m. Manningford (stop) 10.15 p.m. Porthaven (arrive) 10.30 p.m.So that the only stops between London and Manningford were Muggridge and Barton. The body, so the Colonel had heard, had been found about two miles on the London side of Barton. The red-faced stationmaster was in his office when we arrived at the station. "Sad job this, Mr. Monk," said the Colonel. "Terrible, sir. It regularly upset me when the down train brought the news this morning. Poor Mr. Anstruthers! I knew him well, sir. I'd seen him go up in the morning, and wondered why he didn't come back by the 10.15 as usual. Are you going by the up train?" "Yes. We're going to Barton to inquire into this awful affair. Two first returns, please." The stationmaster reached to his rack for the tickets. Now, as often happens in small country stations where the supply of tickets to various stations on the line is limited and becomes exhausted, he did a very common thing. Selecting two blank tickets he dipped the pen into ink and wrote on their respective halves,﹃Manningford to Barton,﹄"Barton to Manningford," and the fare, 7s. 8d. Then he passed them through the window and I took them up. He had written the names in red ink! "I hope they'll catch the wretches, sir," said the stationmaster a few minutes afterwards, as he opened our carriage door for us. Arrived at Barton, we took a trap and drove to the scene of the tragedy. The body, we were told, had been removed to an inn close by the railway, but at my request we went first to the line, as I was anxious to see the exact spot where Mr. Anstruthers had been thrown out of the train. We found a local policeman and two platelayers at the place, which was in a cutting. One of the latter told us that he was the man who had discovered the body. "He was lyin' just here, gentlemen," he said, pointing to the six-foot way between the two lines of metals. "Of course he was dead when you found him?" I asked. "Yes, sir, but it's my opinion he wasn't altogether dead when they threw him out." "Why?" "'Cause he seemed to have moved afterwards. One of his arms was just restin' on the down rail." "Well?" "Well, sir, he couldn't ha' fallen like that in the first place, cause the wheels o' the train would ha' cut his arm." "Stop a minute," I said. "What time did you find him here?" "'Tween three and four this mornin', sir." "And he was thrown out about 9.30 the night before?" "Yes, sir." "Was that train the last down one?" "The last passenger train, sir." "Was there a down goods train after that?" "Yes, sir, between half-past one and two." "Ah, then, why didn't that train crush his arm?" The question staggered the platelayer and the policeman too. They evidently hadn't thought of this. "I s'pose 'e must ha' bin alive when the goods train passed, and moved afterwards," said the platelayer presently, and the policeman entered a note to that effect in his pocket-book. "What are you driving at?" said the Colonel. "Never mind yet," I answered. Then, turning to the platelayer again, I said, "He was stabbed, wasn't he?" "Yes, sir." "Where?" "In the chest, sir." "Any bloodstains?" "Yes, sir. He was wearin' a white weskit, and it was quite red when I turned him over." "He was lying on his back, then?" "Yes, sir." "Well, where are the blood-marks on the stones here? Have you cleared them up?" "There wasn't none," said the man. "Strange!" I murmured to myself, as we left the spot.﹃You'd make a good detective, Forbes,﹄said the Colonel. "Not a bit of it," I replied. "It's simply because there is a mystery connected with my hobby—railways. That's what makes me a little extra sharp." "A mystery?" said the Colonel. "Yes," I replied, "more than you think. But now let's see the poor fellow." Mr. Anstruthers was lying on a bed at the inn, just as they had found him. The neighbouring police inspector was there, very imposing and important. The Colonel gave his card, and we were allowed to see the body. It was a gruesome sight, and my friend turned away to ask some questions of the inspector. I looked at the dead man carefully. There were signs of a struggle. His clothes were torn, and one of his hands was tightly clenched. Then I saw what, apparently, the wily country police had passed undiscovered—a shred of paper clasped in his hand. Without exciting the inspector's attention, I wrested the fingers open and drew from them a tiny scrap of torn paper, evidently clutched by a dying hand. It bore the following in writing:—"ord—on." It was such a tiny scrap, such an insignificant thing to go upon, but I slipped it into my pocket-book nevertheless. "Come," said the Colonel, "I can't stand this any longer. Well, inspector, I hope you'll get the villain." "Ah, we're on the track," said the officer, sagaciously. "They got out at Barton, that's about it; and we'll have 'em yet." "Do you want to see anything else, Forbes?" asked the Colonel. "Yes. I should like to see the doctor who examined the body." "It's Dr. Moore," said the policeman. "He lives at Barton." So we called on Dr. Moore on our way to the station. He declared that he had seen poor Anstruthers at six o'clock in the morning, and was positively certain that he must then have been dead seven or eight hours. The mystery was thickening. Passing on to the platform at Barton, we had to show our tickets. As I took mine back I gazed at it in a listless sort of way, when suddenly I gave a start. The last three letters of "Manningford"—where had I seen them? That peculiar elongated "o" and the curiously tailed "d"—Ah! I remembered! Hastily I drew the scrap of paper from my pocket-book, and compared it with the ticket. The "ord" was in the same handwriting! It was part of the words "Manningford station." In a moment a clue flashed across my mind, and I searched for a porter. "Is there any official about the station with whom I can have a word? It's about an urgent matter." "Yes, sir; Mr. Smart, the district superintendent is here; he came down about that murder. You'll find him in the stationmaster's office." "Come with me, Colonel," I cried, turning to the office. Hastily I introduced myself to Mr. Smart, telling him my errand was connected with the murder. "Tell me," I asked, "is there any train from Manningford to London after 10.15?" "Only a goods," he said. "Exactly. What time does it leave Manningford?" "About midnight." "And Barton?" "It stops here for shunting. Generally starts on about 1.45 a.m." "Mr. Smart, can you lay your hand on the men who worked that train last night?" He consulted some return sheets. "Driver Power and fireman Hussey," he murmured. "They're on the Slinford branch to-day—they don't often run on the main line—and brakesman Sutton. He works a goods back to Porthaven to-day. He'll arrive there in half an hour." "Does he always work main line trains?" "For several months past he has." "He's the man then, Mr. Smart. It's of the utmost importance that you should wire to Porthaven to have him closely watched. I'll explain presently." The district superintendent hastily scribbled a line on an official telegraph form and rushed out with it. When he returned I said—"Have you any of the company's detectives at hand?" "Yes, two," he answered. "Bring them then, and come along." "My dear fellow," said the Colonel, who had been patiently silent up to this point, "what does it all mean?" "Yes," said the superintendent, "I'm in a fog." "I hear the down train coming in," I cried.﹃We must all return to Manningford—quick, sir—I'll explain everything in the train.﹄A few minutes, and the Colonel, the superintendent, and his two detectives and myself were in the train bound for Manningford. "Now, sir?" said Mr. Smart. "Well," I replied, "we're going to arrest the murderers, or one of them I think, at all events." "And who's that?" "Monk, the stationmaster at Manningford," I answered. "Monk? Impossible. Why, the murder occurred forty miles away." "No," I replied,﹃it occurred at Manningford station last night shortly after 10.15. Listen. Poor Anstruthers came down from town, got out of the train, and was done to death by the stationmaster, who was alone on the station, for the sake of his money. In the struggle the murdered man clutched a letter that Monk had written and was probably carrying in his breast pocket. This scrap of it I found in his hand just now. It is in Monk's handwriting. Look!﹄and I compared it with the ticket. "But how about the body being found where it was?" asked the Colonel. "It was taken there afterwards, probably in Sutton's brake van, and thrown out. This would account for two facts: first, that no blood was found on the permanent way, although Anstruthers had bled; and, secondly, that his arm was lying on the down rail. The down goods had passed before he was thrown from the up goods brake van. That's my theory, gentlemen. Here we are at Manningford, and the least you can do is to arrest the stationmaster on suspicion." The latter was on the platform when we arrived. I noticed he gave a start as he saw so many of us get out of the train. The superintendent went up to him. "Mr. Monk," he said, "a very painful duty brings us here. These two gentlemen are members of our police force, and they will have to detain you on suspicion." "Of what?" gasped Monk, his red face growing paler. "Of participation in the murder of Mr. Anstruthers last night." "But he was killed in the train," said the stationmaster. "That remains to be proved. At all events we are going to detain you, and to search your house." "I won't submit to it," began the man; but he subsided when a pair of handcuffs were slipped over his wrists. Then we all repaired to his little house, just across the road. Again he proved turbulent, but it was no use. With skeleton keys one of the detectives opened a box in his bedroom. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as he drew out a brief bag, "this seems rather heavy. No wonder. It's full of money." "That's Anstruthers' bag," exclaimed the Colonel. The wretched man saw the game was up, but, wretch that he was, he exclaimed— "It's not me—it's Sutton—the brakesman of the up goods train. He had as much to do with it as I did. He took the body away; and he's got a lot of the gold." "All right," said the superintendent,﹃we're seeing after him. You have to thank this gentleman,﹄pointing to myself, "for unravelling the mystery." "Curse you!" yelled the stationmaster at me. Sutton turned against Monk, and between the two of them the whole story came out. Monk's accounts were short, and he owed money all round—the usual story—racing. He had half planned to murder Anstruthers several times, and at last the opportunity presented itself. He was the only passenger to alight that night, and Monk noticed that the guard had not observed him. So he asked him to step into his office for a moment under pretence of something, and then went for him. There was a struggle, but Monk was the stronger man. In this struggle Anstruthers hid grasped the bit of paper, but without the other's knowledge. Then came the disposal of the body. Sutton was a man of doubtful character, and Monk knew enough about him to ruin him if he disclosed certain cases of goods stealing. So, when the goods train came along, he gave Sutton twenty pounds, and promised him another thirty to take the body in his van and pitch it out so that people would think Anstruthers had been murdered in the train. It was the easiest thing possible on a dark night to halt the train with the brake van opposite Monk's office, and to slip the body in without driver or fireman knowing anything about it. The sequel was the gallows for Monk, and fifteen years at Dartmoor for Sutton. "There was something uncanny after all, Forbes," said the Colonel, after dinner on that eventful day, "about your blood-red impression of Manningford station and its master!"