The two brothers settled themselves in the luxury lounge with some of the newspapers and magazines provided. At exactly eleven o’clock the Great Northern Railway’s fastest engine took them out of Boston and south towards Spalding and Peterborough before arriving in London.
Only when they reached King’s Cross did anybody realize that something was wrong. Certainly the station staff back in Boston had been perfectly happy to let the train go. When they reached London and Richard did not appear, the brothers could not get into his carriage from the passageway along the train. The door appeared to have been locked or fixed in some way from the inside. The blinds on the platform side had been pulled down so it was impossible to see inside. It took two stout porters all their strength to gain entrance through the corridor, virtually breaking down the door. They saw that the new Earl had indeed made the journey south. But round his neck was a great red weal and his head had fallen on to one side. Lord Candlesby’s Inauguration Day had been turned into his Death Day. He had been garrotted, and the killer and his deadly wire were nowhere to be seen.
The local police Inspector discovered quickly that this was a second murder, likely to be linked to the previous one up in Lincolnshire. He took it on himself to send the train back to Boston immediately with a couple of constables to guard the corpse on its journey home. He sent a wire immediately to Detective Inspector Blunden to alert the authorities and organize a post-mortem.
Half an hour after the train returned Powerscourt joined the Inspector at the station. The remaining Dymokes had been despatched to the Hall with a warning that the police would come to question them in the morning. The gruesome corpse, the second Lord Candlesby defiled in death, had gone to the local hospital to await the post-mortem.
‘This is a terrible business, my lord,’ Blunden said. ‘I’ve sealed the station off, nobody is allowed in or out, though the killer must have been away hours ago.’
‘He was garrotted, you said, Inspector – I presume there wasn’t any room in the compartment to beat him over the head with some horrible instrument.’
‘No, my lord. I’m sure you agree with me that the two murders must be linked in some way but I’m damned if I can see what it is. Ah, I think this must be the stationmaster come back to his post.’
‘Masters, Geoffrey Masters,’ the man said, shaking them both by the hand in turn. ‘What a terrible thing this is, gentlemen. I’ve never heard of a murder in any station where I’ve worked, never. Please come to my office; we would be more comfortable there.
‘As of this moment, my lord, Detective Inspector, you probably know more about what happened than I do. We have ordered every man who works here to be brought back to the station for questioning. I presume you would like to conduct as many interviews as you can tonight, if possible. My office here is at your service, and the waiting room has been cleared for more of your officers to conduct their interviews. I have reserved a temporary office for myself in the Railway Arms opposite.’
‘That’s very generous of you, Mr Masters,’ said Inspector Blunden. ‘What do you want to do, my lord? I’d be more than happy if you wanted to join me in these interviews.’
Powerscourt declined. He felt that the station staff might be more comfortable talking to one of their own rather than a man with a title and a Silver Ghost. He felt sure that many of Blunden’s policemen would know some of the station staff from the local football club or the school or the church.
‘I’m going to have a look at the carriage where the murder took place,’ he said. ‘Do you know, Mr Masters, if the special train stopped anywhere on the way? Something tells me it will have gone through Spalding and Peterborough, but I don’t know if it actually came to a halt anywhere on en route.’
The stationmaster riffled through some papers on his desk and scratched his ear. ‘It didn’t stop, my lord, Inspector. It was booked to go straight through to King’s Cross.’ Masters began stuffing bundles of paper into his bag. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get out of your way. You know where to find me.’
The Detective Inspector had prepared a list of questions for the officials of the Great Northern Railway.
What time did you reach the station in the morning?
Did you see anything suspicious, or any suspicious person, when you arrived or later on in the morning?
Did you see how many guards escorted the party on to the train?
Did one person or two accompany Lord Candlesby to his special carriage?
Did you see anybody leave the train before it set off?
Could somebody have entered the train from the far side without being seen?
Were there any staff of the Great Northern you had not seen before, the crew of the special train perhaps?
How many guards were there on the train on its way south to King’s Cross?
Powerscourt could hear the questions and answers like the distant responses of a church congregation at matins. He was making his way to the death train, as he had heard one of the young signalmen refer to it, down the main platform to the south, parked on a siding next to the main line. Two constables greeted him warmly. The very young one burst into speech.
‘Please, Lord Powerscourt, sir, could I come with you, sir, and watch you as you work? I’m Police Constable Andrew Merrick, sir, from Skegness, sir. Detective Inspector Blunden knows I want to be a detective, sir.’
Powerscourt thought you could almost hear the words ‘when I grow up’ at the end of the sentence. The young man didn’t look much more than sixteen though he couldn’t be admitted into the Lincolnshire Constabulary until he was eighteen. The older representative of the law nodded benignly at his colleague.
‘There’s no harm in the boy, my lord,’ he said, ‘though he does get very excited about violent crime and murder and that’s a fact.’
‘Come along then,’ said Powerscourt, with a smile. ‘Let’s make our way to the carriage where he was killed.’
There was a third policeman by the door into the compartment. He inspected Powerscourt briefly. ‘I’ve seen you up at the Hall with the Detective Inspector, sir. You must be Lord Powerscourt. I presume you want to see the murder carriage, sir.’ With that the policeman unlocked the door and turned on a light switch. The compartment was like a sitting room in a gentlemen’s club in London. Great red armchairs were scattered about the carriage with two little writing tables. At the far end from the policeman were a couple of doors to let the passengers in and out. Powerscourt saw that one of the chairs was totally out of position, parked right up against the side of the carriage. There were faint marks at the top of the chair and footprints etched deep into the carpet.
‘Was this where he was killed, my lord, sir?’ Young Andrew Merrick was whispering, his face pale against the harsh electric light.
Powerscourt was down on the floor, looking ever so keenly at the various foot marks. ‘Yes, I think it is,’ he said. ‘Now then, young Andrew, come down here and look at these footprints. How many feet would you say there were? Four? Six? What do you think?’
‘Would I be right in thinking, my lord, that four would mean there were only two men here, the Earl and the murderer? But six would mean three men, the Earl, the murderer and his accomplice?’
‘We’ll make a Sherlock Holmes out of you before we’re finished,’ said Powerscourt. ‘You’re absolutely right. I think there were two killers here earlier today. You see, Andrew, it’s very hard, but not impossible, for one man to garrotte another on his own. You try creeping up behind me with an imaginary piece of wire in your hand.’
There was a brief but conclusive struggle. Andrew was possibly over-anxious about killing such an eminent personage as Powerscourt. At any event he ended up on the floor.
‘Think of it like this, young Andrew.’ Powerscourt was brushing the dust off his suit.’ ‘If there are two of you, one man has to hold the victim’s arms still, probably behind his back. Then the other can proceed with the actual garrotting.’