The Bagington Hall Mystery Read online

  His head moved in confirmation as he flexed his fingers. "Nothing but dark days and long nights for what seemed like an eternity."

  Peter Thistle came back from the war angry and violent, ending his days at the end of the hangman's noose for the murder of an elderly parlour maid.

  The man swayed with the rock of the train and cracked his knuckles. "War changes a man, brings out the savage in him."

  I glanced at his hands. They looked too small to grasp my neck, but his little arms looked solid, and I knew strength increased in the crazed.

  I put on a positive voice, eyes on the alert, body tense. "Every morning brings a fresh start, another day of life to enjoy, don't you think?"

  He opened and closed his fingers as if exercising them for some devious purpose. "We shot the cowards, and that was too good for the yellow-bellied buggers. They should've been dispatched with the sword!"

  Out of the side of my eye, I noticed the train hallway remained dark and empty. "I suppose the guard will pass by any moment to collect our tickets."

  He hesitated, and I waited, watching his long, narrow face, pencil clutched tight in my hand, ready to defend myself should his hands move towards my throat. The train rocked back and forth gently, like a baby's crib.

  "Ah!" he cried. "Voting is like hunting or war."

  "My, the guard is late in checking our tickets."

  "Not everyone enjoys a good hunt or a good war."

  "I shall write and complain to the train company."

  The little man took off his hat. He turned it round and round in his hands, pinching the crown in and punching it out. Again, he flexed his fingers. "Touch of arthritis, don't you know. Makes the hands stiff, almost useless."

  "Oh!" My body relaxed.

  "It was not easy being an officer in the war office in London."

  "You served in London?"

  "It takes nerves of steel to send working-class men to their deaths, but someone had to do it. Caviar and bubbly were in short supply. We had to make do with cod roe and plum wine."

  "Goodness, that must have been a challenge."

  The man's owl-like eyes narrowed. "If I had my way, I'd take the vote from working men. Why should we let a bunch of uneducated yokels set the direction of our country?"

  The polite thing to do would have been to nod and smile and turn my eyes back to my journal. But the man had crept under my skin, his words dancing on a raw nerve. I kept my voice steady and positive. "Surely you don’t believe working men who fought for their country have no right to vote?"

  The man's eyes darkened, his lower lip turned purple. "Farmworkers here in Norfolk are agitating for higher wages, and when they get in an accident due to their incompetence, they want compensation!"

  "Really?"

  "It happened again last harvest to a young lad about eighteen years old, I believe. The boy was nothing more than a disreputable, drunken loafer who never did an honest day's work in his life. And now he wants compensation for his own stupidity! Landowners overpay the lazy dogs as it is." He placed the hat on his head and batted the newspaper in his lap as if swatting a fly. "The ballot belongs in the hands of the ruling classes and not the masses—men or women."

  Fury boiled in my stomach. The man was positively Victorian in his attitude. My mouth got the better of my judgement. "Are you saying only hereditary lords should have the vote?"

  "And the wealthy business class."

  We were plunged into sudden darkness as the train entered a tunnel. I let out a quiet gasp, startled by the muffled roar of the wind, the racket of the wheels, and nearness of the blackened brick tunnel walls. Just as quickly, we burst back into the afternoon sunlight and upward along a steep incline with lush, green hills rising all around us.

  With only two stops until my destination, I decided to ignore the pompous oaf. I shook my head, chastised myself for choosing an empty carriage, and turned back to my journal.

  Chapter 4

  "Governess?"

  It was only a single word, but in the man's snooty voice, it seemed to capture, characterise, and belittle all at once. I tried to ignore the question, but I sensed his beady eyes still watching me. I glanced up and caught his cold stare. Annoyed, I said, "Whatever gave you that impression?"

  "Ah!" he said as if he'd finished a challenging crossword puzzle. "I am an excellent judge of a person's position in life. And your dress and manner show a degree of refinement. Add to that the lack of a wedding ring, the fact you are riding single in a first-class train carriage, and the answer to the question is almost certain. You are most definitely a governess." He leaned back and smiled, satisfied with his inference. "Which family are you in the employ of?"

  My eyes narrowed. "Sir, your powers of deduction need a little work. May I suggest you reread your Sherlock Holmes. The Hound of the Baskervilles seems like an apt choice."

  There was a pause while the man looked long and hard into my face. "You don't work for a local household?"

  "Goodness, you'll next be asking if I till the land with a hoe!"

  "And you are not a governess?"

  "If that's an offer of employment, the answer is no. I am not in so desperate a need."

  He sat very still in his seat, hands on his knees, bent forward as if peering down a microscope. "So how do you spend your day?"

  What I did with my day, where I was travelling, and why, were none of his business. "I'm neither a governess nor a servant. My travel to Norfolk is on a matter of personal business."

  "Oh, come now, don't take offence." He shifted to the edge of his seat and fixed me with his owl-like stare. "Train travel is expensive, a good thing to keep out the hoi polloi. If you're not in the employ of a wealthy family, I am left to assume you're a woman of independent means?"

  If only that were true. With five shillings to my name, I could barely afford the train fare and was grateful Uncle Tristan paid for my ticket. "Sir, you can't expect me to discuss my financial affairs with a stranger."

  "Ah! It is not for me to try." His tongue licked the edge of his lips, but there was no mistaking the radiance that lighted up the man's sly face. "Madam, I happen to know of certain gold mines in Peru whose shares you can pick up for next to nothing. Guaranteed to triple in price over the next twelve months, possibly even more."

  I said, "Really, sir, I have no interest in the matter."

  The train slowed. And stopped.

  Bagington Hall!

  It was barely a station. A wooden shack set back from a single platform.

  The man stood to his feet, removed his hat, and made a low bow. "Sir Richard Sandoe at your service."

  My expression shifted from flat-out annoyance to shock. "Sir Richard Sandoe, did you say?"

  He fished around in his top pocket, pulled out a small square card, and pressed it into my hand. "Here, this is for you. I'd be happy to help you manage your financial affairs and tell you a bit more about the gold mines in Peru, if you so desire."

  He turned to open the carriage door.

  I watched him stride from the train and along the platform.

  Chapter 5

  I swallowed hard, my breath catching in my throat, my heart a steady thump against my chest.

  "So that was Sir Richard Sandoe!"

  I staggered to my feet, hurried to the door, lowered the window, and looked out onto the platform.

  But Sir Sandoe was gone.

  I slumped back into my seat and with trembling hands unfolded Uncle Tristan's letter. I scanned it with speed, my eyes settling on one line:

  You shall start with the Sandoe account—Sir Richard Sandoe and his charming aunt, Lady Louisa Herriman.

  How could I face the bigoted little man again, especially since he believed I was an independently wealthy woman?

  Beads of sweat bloomed on my forehead. I reread the entire letter.

  What could I do?

  Oh bother, bother, bother!

  I began to think. Ideas came quickly, and with the same rapidity, were found
wanting. The first vivid realisation was that my actions might cost my uncle his account. The second was that it might cost me my job. I hadn't yet touched foot in Cromer and might already have sealed the date of my return to London.

  Now, Maggie, I told myself, you can find a solution to this. There is a way through this maze. The answer came in a flash—I would persuade Uncle Tristan to assign me to another account. Perhaps one of his clients ran a pie-and-mash shop. He'd understand that I needed to start small, find my feet as it were. Yes, that is what I would do.

  "All change!" cried the guard in his dark railway uniform with shiny gold buttons and black cap. "Final stop, Bagington Hall."

  I leaned out of the window, waved at the guard, and shouted, "Cromer. I'm going to Cromer."

  The guard turned and walked to the carriage door. "What did you say, miss?"

  "I have a ticket to Cromer."

  "This is Bagington Hall."

  "Yes, I know that, but I have a ticket to Cromer."

  He tilted his head back, put his hands to his mouth, and yelled, "All change, please. All change."

  I stared at the man. Was he crazy? I thought for a moment. Or couldn't he hear properly? Determined to test my theory, I reached for my journal and wrote in large letters:

  CROMER. I'M GOING TO CROMER.

  He read the note, raised his hat, and scratched his head. "Ole hearing ain't what it used to be. I apologise sincerely, miss, but voices sound like the rumble of the train these days. Cromer?"

  I gave a warm smile and an exaggerated nod. "That's right."

  "You're on the right train."

  "Thank goodness!"

  As I paused to crystallise my next thought and write it in the journal, the train guard cut in. "But, miss, you have to get out here and walk to the back. Third class only to Cromer."

  Chapter 6

  With the guard's help, I settled into a third-class compartment. The carriage offered shelter from the elements but little else. It was a barren space with cracked windows clouded with age, and there were ten of us in a space smaller than the first-class carriage.

  The guard said, "Not as cosy, miss, but Cromer is only a short ride."

  I sat at the end of a bench that would comfortably sit three midgets.

  There were five of us.

  My arm pressed flush against the carriage door. A cockerel fussed in a crate on the woman's lap next to me. She was a middle-aged dumpling of a woman with a roguish face, bright eager eyes, and tutted at the bird in a husky voice.

  "Hullo, luv," said the woman, turning to face me. I'm Mrs Ogbern, lives in Cromer."

  I nodded an acknowledgement and tried to keep my nose away from the bird. I love animals but can’t have them around me for long. I'm allergic to feathers. They make me sneeze. Same for cats, only worse.

  I sneezed. "Hello, nice to meet you, Mrs Ogbern."

  Mrs Ogbern peered into my face, long and hard, as if trying to place me. Then she shook her head. "Everyone calls me Hilda."

  "I'm Maggie Darling." Again, I sneezed.

  "Bird giving you the sniffles, eh? I used to suffer terrible from it. Shame those windows don't open, but it's not a long ride." Hilda dug around in her handbag and pulled out a neatly folded cloth handkerchief. "Here, have this."

  Again, I nodded then added a little smile all the while trying to hold back a sneeze.

  Directly opposite sat a man in a flat cloth cap, well over sixty with side whiskers, ocean-blue eyes, a pug nose, and a chin as sharp and angular as granite. Next to him, a younger fellow, in the same attire.

  The cramped space offered no opportunity for calligraphy, so I half closed my eyes. The journey would be less than twenty minutes.

  The engine roared, whistle blasted twice, and the train eased from the station.

  "Ay-up, 'ere she goes," said the old man opposite.

  I opened my eyes.

  The man's lips tugged upward. A tooth stump appeared like an ancient fossil. "Ay-up lass, the name's George Edwards. Me and Frank ain't from around these parts."

  "That's Frank Perry," interjected the younger man. "I'm 'ere to find my sweetheart, Tony."

  I nodded and smiled and would have paid no further attention, except George pulled out a little brown bag of cobnuts, cracked them with his bare hands, and dropped the shells back into the bag.

  Curious how a man with one tooth could possibly eat a cobnut, I'm ashamed to say I stared, unable to take my eyes off the spectacle.

  George rolled the kernel in his thick hand, held it under his pug nose, and sniffed. Then I saw the toothless mouth open, the yellow stump exposed like a prehistoric stalactite, kernel flying into the open cavern.

  Swiftly his mouth closed.

  The bulge of the nut was visible as he rolled it around. First on the left cheek, then the right, the lower lip, followed by the upper. With each rotation around his mouth, it appeared to shrink. Finally, his lips slid back and forth over each other like the sideways motion of a cow chewing its cud. After a minute or two, he spat the soggy remains back into the brown bag.

  George nodded in my direction. "Can't chew like I used to, but my taste buds are still strong, and I love a good cobnut."

  Embarrassed at my impolite behaviour, I said, "Are you visiting relatives?"

  Before he answered, Hilda shoved a meaty elbow into my side. "That's George Edwards, that is. He and Frank are farm union agitators. Ain't that so?"

  "Aye, that's me," said George with his toothless smile, "and young Frank is 'ere to help."

  Hilda said, "The Norfolk News said you were organising in these parts. Wait till I tell my husband, Harold."

  George rubbed his chin. "Works the land, does your Harold?"

  "Aye," said Hilda. "And the land works him too, harder than an officer barked orders at the soldiers during the war."

  George said, "Fought in the war, I did, wasn't a young man when I signed up, either. But I did my duty and survived to tell the tale."

  "Not an easy trick," said Hilda. "Only the officers came back in large numbers."

  There was a murmur of agreement.

  George continued, "When I got back to England, I lived like a beast, worked like a slave, and earned barely enough to put food on the table for my young wife and the little ones."

  Another murmur of agreement.

  "Thirty-five shillings a week back then to work the land, and the pay ain't changed to this day," said George. "The union's gonna make a strike the likes of which ain't never been seen in these parts."

  Hilda said, "Things have been bad for years. Why strike now?"

  A thoughtful expression crossed George's face. "You know your gospel, don't you: time and tide wait for no man?"

  "Now is our time," added Frank, cracking his knuckles. "We're gonna give the greedy, rich folk a bloody nose."

  "I hear," Hilda began, "that the landowners have plans to protect their property."

  George almost jumped to his feet. "What landowners? They don't own anything. We come into the world with nothing, and we go out with nothing. Ain't that what the preacher says?"

  The train rocked to one side then the other. The cockerel screeched. Hilda steadied the crate. "Well, them that live in the big houses have guns."

  "Shan't stop us. We'll shoot first," said Frank.

  "Quiet, boy!" barked George. "We'll be 'aving none of that talk, else we'll both swing under the hangman's noose."

  The whistle sounded; the train slowed to a crawl.

  Hilda lowered her voice. "There was an accident last harvest in the fields of Bagington Hall. Lies a mile from the station we just pulled out of. Sir Richard Sandoe owns the place."

  "Bloody toffs," snarled George.

  "Don't bite the hand that feeds you!" snapped Hilda. "My Harold works the fields. Without His Lordship's job, I don't know what we'd do—same goes for most in these parts. But the wages haven't been keeping up with the prices, that's for sure. And once you're injured, you're done for."

  George rubbed his
forearm. "Accidents are part of the farmworkers' load." He held up his left hand; there was nothing but the stump where the little finger once stood. "Lost that to a scythe. Not my fault either; 'twas an accident."

  Hilda said, "Oh, that's nothing. Sir Richard Sandoe owns his own machines, not like those poor, small farmers who 'ave to run horses."

  "An engine?" said George, unable to hide the admiration in his voice. "As much as I love horses, a good engine will outdo them every time."

  "Aye," said Hilda. "But the old horse-drawn contraption didn't take your feet off as easy as a hand snaps a twig. That's what happened to young Tommy Crabapple, only eighteen. The machine took his feet clean off, both of 'em."

  "Dear God," I whispered under my breath, not wishing to hear any more.

  Hilda continued, "My Harold, a big man, almost passed out at the red and wet and sticky mess splashed onto the stubble."

  George said, "What did His Lordship have to say?"

  "Sir Sandoe had my Harold and the other men clean up the mess. They gave poor Tommy three shots of brandy and carried him home. Then they got back to work, same day. His Lordship fussed they'd be late gathering up the crops."

  George shifted in his seat. "And what of Tommy?"

  With a slow shake of the head, Hilda said, "Young Tommy ain't never going to walk no more. He ain't never going to work the fields again either, and round these parts that's all there is."

  The whistle sounded: five long blasts as the train pulled into Cromer Station and shuddered to a stop.

  On the platform, with a broad smile and his arms waving furiously, was Uncle Tristan.

  Chapter 7

  Uncle Tristan waved his ball-topped cane as he hurried along the platform with quick prancing steps. He wore khaki cord breeches with leather leggings, a striped-peach-and-white shirt open at the neck, a bright orange silk scarf, and a Victorian, black cape thrown across his shoulders.

  "Goodness me, could this be my darling niece, Maggie?" he cried in a shrill whistle of delight. "All is now tickety-boo with the world."

  We threw our arms about each other and fell into a deep hug. There is nothing like being home with family.