Mydworth Mysteries - False Witness E-Book

Matthew Costello

• Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 182

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

When a man is murdered in a back lane of Mydworth, the police are surprised to discover that the victim had supposedly died months before: Harry and Kat agree to investigate on behalf of the man's frightened and confused wife, and soon discover that to find the killer they must solve not one, but two mysterious deaths ...

Co-authors Neil Richards (based in the UK) and Matthew Costello (based in the US), have been writing together since the mid-90s, creating innovative content and working on major projects for the BBC, Disney Channel, Sony, ABC, Eidos, and Nintendo to name but a few. Their transatlantic collaboration has underpinned scores of TV drama scripts, computer games, radio shows, and the best-selling mystery series Cherringham. Their latest series project is called Mydworth Mysteries.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Mydworth Mysteries

About the Book

Main Characters

Title

1. Trouble Ahead

2. A Warning Ignored

3. A Woman in Need

4. More Questions than Answers

5. All in the Numbers

6. The Mysterious Mr Skinner

7. Of Farms and Sheds

8. Meet the Crew

9. Difficult Memories

10. A Curious Chat

11. An Unexpected Visitor

12. A Surprise Discovery

13. A Lesson in History

14. A Stranger Calls

15. A Turn for the Worse

16. The Killer Escapes

17. A Visit from Nicola

The Authors

Copyright

Reading Sample

Mydworth Mysteries

Mydworth Mysteries is a series of self-contained novella-length mysteries, published in English and German. The stories are currently available as e-books and will soon be available as audiobooks in both languages.

About the Book

When a man is murdered in a back lane of Mydworth, the police are surprised to discover that the victim had supposedly died months before: Harry and Kat agree to investigate on behalf of the man's frightened and confused wife, and soon discover that to find the killer they must solve not one, but two mysterious deaths ...

Main Characters

Sir Harry Mortimer, 30 – Born into a wealthy English aristocratic family, Harry is smart, funny and adventurous. Ten years in secret government service around the world has given him the perfect training to solve crimes; and though his title allows him access to the highest levels of English society, he’s just as much at home sipping a warm beer in the garden of a Sussex pub with his girl from the wrong side of the tracks – Kat Reilly.

Kat Reilly –Lady Mortimer, 29 – Kat grew up in the Bronx, right on Broadway. Her mother passed away when she was only eleven and she then helped her father run his small local bar The Lucky Shamrock. But Kat felt the call to adventure and excitement, first as a nurse on the battlefields of France, then working a series of jobs back in New York. After finishing college, she was recruited by the State Department, where she learned skills that would more than make her a match for the dashing Harry. To some, theirs is an unlikely pairing, but to those who know them both well, it’s nothing short of perfect.

MATTHEW COSTELLONEIL RICHARDS

False Witness

1. Trouble Ahead

Arthur Wells, guard on the 08:05 Portsmouth to London service, stepped down from his compartment in the train’s brake van, the sun already low in the sky and the day’s warmth fading quickly.

He looked up and down the station platform, the last passengers just boarding the train, still ten minutes before departure.

This service was always a quiet run on a summer Friday evening – not much call for a trip up to London at so late an hour.

Well – wasn’t his cup of tea either! But that was the schedule, and, afterwards, he could look forward to the weekend – glorious weather predicted – to enjoy his garden, deal with that blackfly on his roses, perhaps plant some autumn bulbs.

Might even coax poor old Mother out into the sunshine – get her out of that dreary bedroom for once!

He looked down past the line of carriages to the loco, the great engine huffing clouds of steam and smoke into the air as if chomping at the proverbial bit. Ready to race its way up to London and then – with some other unfortunate crew – come back at the crack of dawn.

Arthur took out his pocket watch, a reward from last summer for his twenty years of service. Not much of a fanfare, but the new Railway Company was only a few years old and clearly wasn’t going to allow sentiment to get in the way of “modern” business efficiency!

Still, a most excellent timepiece. He checked it against the big station clock: spot on, to the very second.

And now, as they were just minutes away from getting the train rolling, he saw a couple of last-minute passengers racing to climb aboard. Perhaps their last opportunity to get back to the capital this very day.

Glancing the other way, up at the loco, he saw Jim Collins the fireman, standing on the platform in conversation with Len Skinner, the driver. A good and solid team, he knew; one that often shared the same shifts as Arthur himself. Collins gave him a wave, as if needing a word.

Hmm, he thought, aware of the impending departure, minutes away, this is most irregular. Something up?

He checked his watch again. If he was quick, there was just time to see what the fellow wanted.

He hurried down the platform, out of habit, glancing into each carriage as he went. As expected, there was still barely a handful of passengers this evening, most of the compartments empty.

As he approached Collins and Skinner, he took in the powerful engine – the “Zephyr” as the beautiful loco was named. Like a huffing beast, the great black and green machine was, in Arthur’s opinion, one of the wonders of this modern era.

Collins, the younger of the two, turned to him with a broad, warm smile.

Skinner though, lingered for a moment, avoided meeting his eye.

Leaving Arthur to think: Definitely something “off” here.

*

The fireman was quick to greet Wells.

“Arthur, good evening.”

“Jim,” said Arthur. Then, knowing that the driver was a stickler for being addressed properly, he said, “And a very good evening to you, Mr Skinner.”

Collins looked to Skinner as if waiting for the driver, the de facto commander of the train, to respond.

But that did not happen.

Collins filled the gap. “Being Friday night and all that, Len and me were wondering if you’d be joining us for a pint after we’re all cleaned up? Quick one, mind...”

Arthur looked from the fireman to the driver. Had they got him all the way up here just to ask him that?

“Well, um, most kind of you, but as you know, I prefer to get straight home after a late turn. My mother, you know. Quite infirm...”

“Of course,” said Jim, patting Arthur on the shoulder and grinning. “Home to the family. Good man.”

“Mustn’t annoy mother, eh, Wells?” said Skinner finally, turning to Arthur now, his face in a slight smirk, his voice flat.

Arthur looked at Skinner, wondering where this sudden animosity was coming from.

And then he noticed it. A telltale sign.

Skinner had – surely – already been drinking. A hint of it, right there with those words. Not that the driver was in stumbling-down mode, but clearly he had enjoyed a few drinks before showing up for this run. Arthur caught the smell lingering on Skinner’s breath.

Not the weak beer that sadly was common enough these days, even here on the footplate, no, this was the smell of something much harder.

Whisky.

And that was alarming.

He turned to Collins. The fireman’s engaging smile had lost some of its ease: in its place, a knowing look.

Skinner took the dirty rag that hung from his overalls and wiped the sweat from his forehead, before grabbing hold of the step up to the cab.

“So, Wells, all good back there then?” he said, the bite gone from his voice, back to business as usual.

“Why certainly, Mr Skinner. All ship shape and in order.”

“Good man,” Skinner said. “Looks like—” again, that tiny hint of a slur, “—we’re on time. Just how we like it, eh?”

Skinner pulled himself up, showing no problem with the steps or the railing, but still leaving Wells thinking: Should I be saying something? Reporting this?

Arthur knew it was certainly his duty if he suspected the driver to be incapacitated in any way.

But as soon as Skinner was up on the footplate, into the loco, out of earshot, steam hissing, Collins stepped close.

“Er, look, Arthur. I know, well, perhaps you might suspect—”

Arthur finished the thought. “That our Mr Skinner here has had more than a pint or two?”

Collins looked serious. “’Fraid it does appear that way.”

“And not just beer, I believe, Jim,” said Arthur.

He saw Collins look up to the cab as if to check Skinner wasn’t listening, then he frowned.

“Look, old chap, don’t you worry. I’ll be right here, keeping a sharp eye on things.” He put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Just as I always do. You tend to the passengers, and we’ll be just fine.”

And with that, Arthur saw Collins check his pocket watch. Sleeves rolled up, revealing arms sinewy and strong from all the years feeding the steam engine’s hungry firebox.

“So then – best we get ’er started, yes?” he said. “Oh, one more thing. Trust you saw there’s a TSP again, few miles north of Mydworth?”

A temporary speed restriction, Arthur knew. Spotted and noted.

“Saw it on the board in the shed,” he said.

“Speed all the way down to twenty at Hickman’s Curve,” said Collins.

Arthur nodded. He knew Hickman’s Curve well – a section of track high above a picturesque gully popular with walkers.

But also a notoriously steep embankment that, with weather often taking its toll, required constant maintenance. He guessed, with the recent summer rains, the trackmen would be working on it through the weekend.

Now he watched as Collins stepped up into the cab.

“We’ll lose a few minutes but we should be able to make it up later,” said the fireman, with a grin.

Then he grabbed his shovel, picked up a full load of coal and hurled it into the red-hot firebox, keeping up a head of steam.

Being honest with himself, despite Collins’s assurances, he still felt a deep unease about Skinner and however much he had imbibed.

But then, with Collins saying he was on top of all that, perhaps it was nothing to be worried about?

To be sure, the last thing he wanted was to get a fellow worker the sack. Perhaps it would be best to address the problem next week? Quietly. Confidentially, somehow.

Arthur turned and headed back towards the rear of the train, where he would give the platform one more glance before entering the brake van and his compartment.

Then, a wave to the front with the green flag where Skinner would be awaiting his “all-clear” signal to depart.

After which, the train would begin its speedy summer evening journey from the coast, through the leafy hills of Sussex, and on into the great city of London itself.

*

Twenty minutes later, as they pulled out of Mydworth station, Arthur took a welcome sip of his tea from his chipped and battered metal mug.

Not quite as hot as he liked, but still, pleasant enough, as the rolling green fields darkened and the sky above turned a deep, rich purple.

He checked the schedule out of habit, though in truth he knew it off by heart. They’d left Mydworth – last of the local stops – bang on time. It was now thirty minutes before their next stop on the line, with the train racing at a good clip, probably forty, maybe fifty, miles an hour.

Remarkable, he thought. This era of modern travel, today’s steam engine, was a marvel of British engineering. His mind wandered briefly to the talk he had been asked to give at next year’s meeting of the Mydworth Historical Society.

Something on Steam and Empire, perhaps?

He stared out of the window at the rich farmland with its lines of haystacks. It was twilight, but growing darker by the minute.

He had done this trip so many times, he didn’t need a signpost to tell him where he was, how much time to the next stop, and exactly where they were on the journey.

He smiled to himself, relaxed, as the train rolled on over the Sussex Downs, the miles ticking away.

He knew he was still as much in love with the drama, the romance, the sheer rushing excitement of the railways as he had been when he’d signed up as a boy.

That passionate feeling persisted – even with a stack of paperwork to finish by the end of his working day

But now – as he glimpsed the lights of another familiar village up on a distant hill – he realised something.

Something alarming.

That clickety-clack of the train’s wheels racing over the rails... was not slowing.

Not slowing one bit.

It should have been.

Hickman’s Curve must surely be no more than half a mile ahead!

And Arthur knew they must not enter Hickman’s Curve at any speed faster than twenty miles an hour.

Or else...

A wave of fear hit him in the confines of his den, his domain, the brake van.

What was going on?

2. A Warning Ignored

Arthur slid open the window to his left, just to confirm that he was right about exactly where they were.

He stuck his head out, the smoke and steam billowing past as the train rattled along at what must surely be fifty miles an hour!

With a temporary speed restriction barely minutes ahead, the train should have been slowing significantly.

But he could tell there had been not one iota of a change of speed.

He scrambled to make sense of it.

Perhaps he and Collins had got it wrong? Perhaps the restriction was on some later service and so Skinner had ignored it?

But then he saw a yellow warning lamp and a 20mph sign on the trackside flash past, a near blur.

Now Arthur knew without a doubt...

Something was horribly wrong!

He stepped back from the window, muttering to himself, trying to make sense of why The Zephyr was still racing so very fast.

With the curve just ahead, he knew he had to act, regardless of whatever was happening on the loco’s footplate.

He hurried to the brake lever, fast as he could, his hand gripping it tight. This move was something he had not done in more than a decade, and, even then, that was just to demonstrate to a batch of trainees its correct use.

Now he pulled that lever – hard.

With a tremendous jolt, he heard the brake system overriding the vacuum that kept the wheels rolling free, the steam-pumped air triggering the heavy brakes to grip each wheel tightly.

Triggering now – from the madly complaining wheels the length of the train – the loudest metallic screams and screeches filling the early night air.

But would it be enough? How long would it take to stop the careening train – the whole thing weighing hundreds of tons? A quarter of a mile... maybe more?

Arthur thrust his head out of the window again as the train – yes! – finally began to slow, its dizzying speed dropping.

But – as he just made out the distant arc of the track ahead in the darkness beyond the locomotive – he also had a sobering and scary thought.

He had thrown the brakes, yes.

But was it in time to avoid hitting the curve too fast, sending the whole train barrelling over into the gully?

*

Arthur felt the brake van rock back and forth.

He pressed his back against the side of the carriage and grabbed the table edge to steady himself as his billycan of tea wobbled its way to the edge, then flew off, crashing, clattering to the floor.

He was scared, of course. But much more than that, he thought of his passengers. Even above the screeching of the brakes, he now heard their screams in the carriages ahead.

All he could do now was pray that the carriages would stay on the track.

Then – a sound that changed everything.

A massive crash and an explosion, the like of which he hadn’t heard since his years in the wartime fields of Flanders.

That noise – clear in its meaning – the engine had surely careened off the track, and even now was plunging into the gully!

It would likely drag the line of carriages with it. So many lives snuffed out on a balmy summer’s night.

But then...

Then...

The train stopped. Jarringly so.

Arthur flew forward – smacking hard into a metal wall, and stumbling back in a ricochet move – then fell to his knees, and sprawled onto the floor.

There he stayed, breathing so heavily, in, out, gasping as if the air itself had turned hard to breathe.

And then, after a few moments of quiet – save for a few more explosions erupting from the front – he pulled himself to his feet.

Alive. Shaken. And so very clear about what he must do.

His duty.

He grabbed his lantern, opened the heavy door of the brake van, and climbed down onto the rough stone track, stumbled, fell – then stood again to take in the dreadful scene.

Up ahead in the darkness he could see at least four – no, five – of the carriages, upright, though all apparently derailed.

That, in itself, was a small miracle.

But, beyond the carriages, there was no sign at all of the great locomotive and its tender. No rush of steam, no great billowing clouds of smoke, no red glow from the firebox.

The engine had just... disappeared!

And what of the sixth carriage – had that gone into the gully too?

Even in the numb shock of this sight, however, Arthur knew from his training what had to be done. He must lay the emergency detonators on the up and the down lines as quickly as possible to warn any approaching trains of the disaster.

Then he must race to the nearest signal and use the newly installed telephone system to alert the network to the danger.

And only then could he check all the carriages, survey his passengers, organise, delegate, tend to the injured.

So much to be done... though Arthur had no real faith in any decisions he might make now, so shaken he was in the midst of this terrible experience.

He took a deep breath, then set off down the track...

*

Arthur quickly found an off-duty employee by the trackside and dispatched him to deal with the detonators. Then – appearing from nowhere – a young lad, who had escaped without injury, volunteered to run to the signal.

Which allowed Arthur to work his way along the carriages, once again, so very grateful that this Friday evening run to the city wasn’t full.

But still, he had to encourage the dazed and shocked passengers – in as orderly a fashion a possible – but quickly now! – to leave the compartments and climb down onto the track.

In some cases, people looked more than simply shaken by the crash. A few had difficulty walking, as if bruised, battered or – even worse – with broken bones.

Slowly the carriages were emptying out as Arthur made his way steadily along the track, to where the rest of the train – and the loco – would normally be.

Out here, far from any towns or villages, the night should be pitch black: but Arthur could see that – where the line curved away – a fiery glow coloured the nearby trees flickering red, while great angry clouds of steam and smoke boiled and spluttered into the sky.

He knew full well from the twisted and buckled rails ahead that the great locomotive must have left the tracks completely, flying off until it slammed into the gully below the curve.

And worse – he could even smell it from here.

Not just the smell of coal, but all sorts of odours: the pungent burn of wheel oil in his nostrils, the smell of nearby brush and trees aflame.

He tried not to think of whatever terrible fate had befallen his crewmates Collins and Skinner: for now, his duty was to his passengers.

Finally he reached the sixth carriage: it lay with its windows shattered, most of the wooden panels splintered and smashed. Arthur could well imagine the powerful forces at work as the loco had detached, twisting this carriage over and leaving it to grind horribly to a halt on its side.

He could see some people still climbing out of the carriage, through empty windows and hanging doors. The walking wounded.

But then, he saw a cluster of passengers bent over someone lying on the track.

Arthur made his way closer, his voice hoarse with a phrase he had repeated dozens of times as he’d passed along the wrecked train: “Everything all right?”

A young man in a faded suit, his eyes wide in shock, knelt at the centre of the group, gripping the hand of an old man who lay on his back. The old man was groaning – clearly in a bad way.

Arthur could see that the elderly victim’s eyes were open, but looking hazy and distorted. As Arthur approached, the young man looked up at him.

“It’s my dad, damn it!” said the man, his voice choking. “You’ve got to help! He needs a doctor – urgently.”

Arthur nodded as if the situation was all under control.

“Yes, yes. I’ve dispatched someone to call for help. People will be here soon. Perhaps you’d best—”

But before he could finish, the young man leapt to his feet and grabbed Arthur’s lapels, pushing him backwards and knocking the breath from him.

“What the hell happened here?” said the man, his face scary and close. “What were you doing? It’s your fault! Why the hell didn’t you slow down?”

“I – I – did our best – we —” spluttered Arthur.

He saw hands gripping the angry man, prising him off, a cluster of passengers pulling him away.

“Leave him, Stubbs, mate. Let him be. Not worth it...”

“Someone here... soon,” gasped Arthur stepping clear, pulling his jacket straight. “People coming.”

“They better be,” said the man, Stubbs, stepping back to comfort his father again.