Trackbed tales, p.1
Trackbed Tales, page 1
Also available from Book Guild Publishing by the same author:
Railway Fiction
Murder on the Santa Special
Sherlock Holmes Series
The Missing Earl
A Case at Christmas
The Russian Connection Disquiet at Albany
To a Country House Darkly
Novels
The Amazing Journey of Humphrey Wilkes
TRACKBED TALES
N.M. Scott
Book Guild Publishing
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by
The Book Guild Ltd
9 Priory Business Park
Wistow Road
Kibworth
Leics LE8 0RX
Tel 0800 999 2982
Email info@bookguild.co.uk
Copyright © N.M. Scott 2016
The right of N.M. Scott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.
A catalogue record for this book is available from The British Library
ISBN 978 1910878 989
Once again for Mother. . .
Also my cousins, Lyn Haward and Christine Allen plus Pat and Dave Gabriel
Contents
Acknowledgements
Lost Property
The Station Cat
Link with the Past
That Old Turquoise Car
Trouble at the Museum
The Railway Arms
The Tin Box
The Signal
Trackbed Terrors
The Old Comrades Club
Acknowledgements
Gratitude as always to all the team at Book Guild Publishing, also to Amanda and Sylvia – and in appreciation of all the many and varied preserved railways operating in the UK.
Lost Property
Here, in the heart of the countryside, upon the morning of the sixth of December, a little tank engine puffing out smoke was crossing points, busily shunting a rake of vintage carriage stock into the rural station, in preparation for the Santa Special run at half past ten.
The day remained crisp and very cold, sunny with a hard, penetrating frost which had settled overnight upon the icy platform and lantern-bedecked iron footbridge spanning the up and down lines. The station shop at this hour was closed until ten o’clock, but the seasonally decorated buffet was doing a brisk trade in cooked breakfasts and reviving hot cups of tea and coffee.
Biding his time, Mr Eades, the station master in charge that morning, waited in the ticket hall, occasionally glancing at his pocket watch to check the time. Young Hobbs, the junior porter, was timidly shaking a scuttle of coal onto crumpled up old newspaper and kindling in the grate, anxious to excite the flames and get the fire going. He had attended a dinner dance the night before and due to excess wine and beer had somewhat of a sore head.
The senior porter, Frank Davies, like the others smartly attired in standard 1950s’ BR uniform, including peaked cap, arrived from the car park fresh-faced and in good humour to take up his duties.
Outside the familiar red-brick station building, with its steeply-pitched slate roof and tall chimney pots, were anumber of bulb-festooned fairground attractions having their machinery greased and tested, the canvas tarpaulins having been dispensed with a half hour earlier.
The first of the coach parties would arrive presently and there was a buzz of expectation. A few early visitors to The Preserved Railway were already dawdling along the platform aiming their cameras, taking snaps before hastening into the welcome warmth of the buffet. The cold weather was indeed freezing and slippery: sheeny patches of ice had formed close to the platform’s edge, and a layer of thick-crusted frost speckled the wooden sleepers of the up and down lines.
Inside the station, the gnome-like countenance of Mr Ruddigore, clerk for the day, peered from the ticket office window. He began tapping the domed glass repeatedly to gain the station master’s attention.
‘Mr Eades, sir,’ he called out, ‘could you spare a moment? George Yardley in the parcels’ office has a particular matter he wishes to discuss about some lost property – urgently like.’
‘What’s that then?’ replied Eades irritably. ‘Mislaid brolly, bowler hat, forgotten coat? Really, Ruddigore, can’t you see I’m busy? Coach party’s due in five minutes.’
‘George is persistent, sir.’
‘Oh very well.’ The station master sighed. ‘I shall go along to the parcels’ office right away and see what he wants. Look, laddie,’ he barked at the junior porter, ‘no need to be so parsimonious with the coal. Heap it on, heap it on, the least we can do is offer our visitors a warm blaze in the ticket hall on such a chilly morning.’
The disgruntled Hobbs, simmering with youthful angst, somewhat clumsily upended the scuttle, causing an avalanche of coal to spill onto the fire. A door banged and a blast of freezing air announced the arrival of Beth Ryman, who helped in the station shop. She hurried past wearing her flapping coat, for it was close to ten and nearly time to open up. Mr Eades himself flung open the big brass-handled door that led directly onto the platform and was away.
In the interim, a malachite-green locomotive had been backed onto and coupled to the row of veteran coaches on Platform 2. The footplate crew were busy in the cab, the fireman leaning over and checking the colour and intensity of the flames in the fire box, the engine driver making certain everything was in good order before the Santa Special departed the station at half past ten.
A trickle of Santa-hatted and tinsel-bedecked passengers, a number of family groups among them, had begun arriving, many visiting the buffet before making their way up the steps and across the glossy black iron bridge to board the excursion, leaving a trail of mingled footprints embedded in the crunchy frost layer.
The distinguished figure of the station master had earlier disappeared through a side door.
‘Very queer, very queer indeed,’ admitted Mr Eades, leaning across the parcels’ office counter, studying a lost property hat box, or rather the peculiar item that had been placed inside it. ‘A human skull – a real one.’
‘Wearing a red and white Santa hat and wrapped in festive tinsel. Whoever put it there evidently wanted to amuse us.’
‘A practical joke you infer, Mr Yardley. Who on earth found this hat box – discovered it in the first place?’
The parcels’ office clerk thought for a moment. ‘Cheryl, one of our waitresses. Last evening’s Pullman service, the Christmas Wining and Dining Special, returns here about nine o’clock. She informs me it was left beside a table seat.’
‘Look here, and somebody’s scribbled in wax crayon “117–180B” over the cranium.’
‘Yes, I noticed that myself.’
‘So, we have us a practical joker, eh, on board one of our trains? The skull looks very old, prehistoric. I don’t quite know what to make of it, Mr Yardley.’
‘Well, Mr Eades sir, somebody’s planted that there hat box deliberately where it would easily be found. But it’s a darn mystery all right.’
The station master lost no time and hurried off back to the ticket hall where young Hobbs and Mr Davies were helping to assist a young mother with her baby-buggy through the door onto the platform. An announcement came over the station tannoy: ‘Please board the train, the Santa Special leaves Platform 2 in just under five minutes. Thank you.’
* * *
And so it came to pass that George Yardley’s wife Pam had a friend, Madge Wickham, who was a clay potter of renown living in the nearby village and who, for a laugh, decided to create out of plasticine one of those ‘forensic makeovers’ and give the old skull a human face, revealing the features of the prehistoric man, or woman, to whom it had presumably belonged.
A quantity of plasticine, skilful use of modelling tools and Madge’s undoubted talent as a potter eventually paid dividends, for on the fourth of January, a snowy day with many roads impassable and no trains running, she visitedthe offices of The Preserved Railway and presented to the station staff, unveiled for the first time, her masterpiece of forensic facial reconstruction. George Yardley was gobsmacked. ‘By ‘eck, it looks just like . . .’
‘It’s that, that football manager, Larry Plover, who took our team “The Gannets” up to Division One a few seasons back,’ interrupted Mr Eades, at once recognising the podgy nose, the rubbery lips enhancing an over-wide mouth, giving the face the look of a gormless frog. Even a fine detail such as the flesh colour, a vivid pink due to excess stress and dangerously high blood pressure, so much the lot of the modern game, had not been missed.
As praise was heaped upon her, Madge merely gave a curious little smile, watching snowflakes pattering against the office window.
George was lost in admiration for the local potter’s startling reproduction head. ‘You’ve caught his likeness to a tee, Madge. Even the wig’s the right colour.’
‘Well, what this reveals,’ suggested Madge, helping herself to a milky coffee and a biscuit from the proffered tray, ‘is that the skull belongs to a modern person, not the pre
‘What did you make of that “117–180B” scrawled across the top of the skull in purple wax crayon, Madge?’ asked Eades, striking a match and lighting his Falcon pipe.
‘I thought it might be a reference number, you know, a local museum exhibit, part of an anthropological collection, but, now we know otherwise, I’ve no idea.’
While everyone in the office pondered the wax crayon conundrum, the weather outside intensified, the gently falling snow transformed into a blizzard. Soon the country station, the engine shed, the carriage works beyond and the up and the down lines themselves would be blanketed in a further two feet of snow at least, which would stay put for a whole week.
The plasticine likeness reminded Mr Eades of a guilllotined head straight out of Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors, and while Larry Plover’s gormless, bright-pink features once more disappeared into the hat box and the lid was replaced, he could not overcome the unpleasant feeling that he had been an unwilling participant at some gruesome public execution. Puffing reflectively on his metal pipe, hoping to lighten his heart, he thought through certain trivia concerning The Gannets’ ex-manager.
Larry Plover had been deposed three seasons ago. He, a man of sworn allegiance and long and loyal service to the club, who had at the time appeared in many a tearful interview, was rumoured to have received a record compensation package, a pay-off worth half a million quid from the new owners, a Russian conglomerate, a group of wealthy businessmen who wanted The Gannets to have a new stadium, new players and, above all, a new manager – pronto!
Larry had been ousted. Juno Ponti from Rome was brought in to oversee the team’s pursuit of Premiership football.
But to return to skulduggery: was Madge Wickham simply leading them on for a laugh? It was hard to say. Nothing was conclusive. Did she, for example, simply copy the facial features of Larry Plover from some media source, images on the internet, as a joke? Time would tell . . .
* * *
The match on Saturday afternoon was packed. The stadium over at Castleridge was the new home for The Gannets and Juno Ponti ruled. He was the best; Premiership football was tantalisingly within the fans’ grasp. The team mostly consisted of foreign players – Brazilian, Italian, Spanish, Russian, with one English player in the reserves, but nobody cared because the pace of football was fast and exciting and The Gannets won games, loads of them. They were at the top of their division, poised for the big time.
Mr Eades could never remember a better team, and he had been attending games for many years. Today he was accompanied by his grandsons Pete and Clem and, like everyone else at the stadium, they chomped on hot dogs and slurped scalding hot tea from wobbly paper cups, while cheering on their team.
As a fantastic shot from the centre forward Tontino battered against the crossbar, rebounding and being headed into the net by Alberto Piazzo, The Gannets now led five nil. Hull Rovers were done for and this was still only the first half. Juno Ponti bathed in the rightful glory that was his. The Russian owners and their wives and girlfriends applauded from the posh executive box high above.
While applauding from the terraces, for some reason Mr Eades happened to twist round and glance at a row of bucket seats behind him; hinged, plastic blue chairs bolted to a long concrete block stretching as far as the exit, and it was at that point he knew for definite: Larry Plover had been part of a clever conspiracy and done away with.
* * *
The quiet of the country station on a winter’s afternoon, the lack of visitors or uniformed staff, the lull in train movements, was deceptive. Across at the lighted carriage works and restoration shed, business continued as usual. Teams of engineers, fitters, carpenters – some of them volunteering their expertise and time for free – remained busy overhauling boilers, reconstructing carriages, making certain the various locomotive types and rolling stock were maintained to the highest standards.
That same evening the annual Murder Mystery Special would depart Platform 1 at seven o’clock. The group, bent on sifting through clues and joining in a re-enactment of Lady Bessborough’s sudden and suspicious demise after sampling a glass of champagne, was adopting a 1920s/30s’ look and dressing up accordingly. Poirot himself would have felt perfectly at ease being wined and dined in a luxurious Pullman. The event proved very popular, having sold out.
However, on that overcast and dreary afternoon, while the Pullman coaches remained idle alongside the platform, a real murder was under discussion. Closeted in the brightly lit parcels’ office, George Yardley listened while the station master explained his case.
‘The police must be informed, I insist upon it, George. It is our duty to follow this up.’
‘The police?’ George answered, at a total loss to understand why his old friend was so serious. ‘Listen, that skull in the Santa hat was more likely a ruddy joke, the hat box a blessed red herring. Madge just joined in the fun, went along with it, played us for laughs.’
‘Listen carefully to what I have to say, George, and then you might change your mind. Got your spectacles handy?’
‘All right.’
‘Now, tell me what I have here laid out flat on the counter.’
‘Easy, the official brochure for The Gannets’ current season. Fixtures, home and away. I’ve got the same booklet back at home, ta.’
‘Now, I’ll open it here, on this page. Tell me what you see represented. Take yer time.’
‘Diagram, seating plan showing the stadium. Am I thick or what?’
‘That’s it, seat numbers, row numbers. Now fix your ugly mug on where I’m pointing.’
George Yardley swiftly repented, swallowing hard as memories came flooding back. Memories of the evening when Cheryl first passed the hat box over the counter and he took a butcher’s inside.
‘Blimey, I see where this is leading. “117–180B” – strewth!’
Fact: the new stadium, built a couple of years back, that at best resembled an upside-down cup and saucer, was constructed for the most part from tons and tons of liquid concrete.
Fact: reinforced concrete poured into wire mesh frames formed the terraces.
Fact: dozens of huge cement mixers on the go round the clock. George remembered visiting the site with supporters in the early days of development, seeing the land being bulldozed flat.
‘You mean, his headless body was encased in cement? Larry Plover is buried somewhere along that row?’
‘I’m afraid so. He never got no half-million quid payoff, that’s for sure. The Russian owners made certain of that. They decided on a much less costly option. That ruse, the press release about Larry taking up a coaching position with an obscure Spanish club no one had ever
heard of was “pure spin”.’
The Station Cat
At a quarter past ten on the thirtieth of October, Jane Langham burst into the station shop, all bling and black trouser suit, her pretty face bright and rosy cheeked due to a sharp wind that had been howling across the thatched roofs and chimney pots of the village all night long and which continued unabated.
She plonked a cardboard box upon the counter. ‘Dad’s books, he wanted you to have them, he insisted. A complete lifetime’s collection of railway books. Isn’t that marvellous? So many titles. I’ve got the first boxload here.’
‘Oh, that’s too lovely,’ squealed Beth. ‘Now other readers can share this rare and interesting collection. Fernley Fenton is over the moon. He was delighted when you phoned yesterday. How was the funeral?’
‘Went off perfectly, crematorium packed,’ Jane replied with a big smile. ‘Anyhow, we cleared out Dad’s caravan at the weekend and burnt the junk. But those books, honestly, that two-berth Bailey Maru was crammed to the gunnels with railway titles. How he managed to move about with so many books everywhere I can’t imagine, but he told me at the hospital: “Jane, I want my collection to be donated to the specialist second-hand book stall at Junction Station. Mr Dobsey will know what to do.” ’
‘And Fernley Fenton, our manager, will make sure this box is on the first train out, up the line to Junction Station. How about that?’
‘Well, the box is very heavy, Beth, and that’s just for starters.’ Jane suddenly paused, aware of another’s intimidating presence. Sly, emerald green eyes assessed her from over by the magazine section. A large cat plodded over, fur black as coal to match its mood.
