“Not many travelling? You wait till the London train comes in, sir; there’s always plenty in that as change here.”
“I suppose it’s the first train people can get away from business by, eh?”
“That’s right, sir; there ain’t nothing else stops here after the midday train. Of course there’s the fast train to Binver, but that passes through ’ere. You travellin’, sir?”
“Just to Binver. Hullo, there’s the booking-office opening at last. D’you mind getting two firsts for Binver, Gordon? Very sad thing that, about Mr. Brotherhood,” he went on to the porter.
“That’s right, sir; very melancholy thing, sir.”
“I suppose you didn’t see him get on to the train?”
“There’s such a lot of ’em, sir, you don’t notice ’em, not the ones that travel every day. And Mr. Brotherhood, ’e was a man as ’adn’t many words for anybody. Though of course there’s some as is different; d’you know Mr. Davenant, sir, up at the Hatcheries? He’s a nice gentleman, that is, has a word for everybody. I seed ’im getting off of the London train, and ’e asked me after my bit of garden—nothing stuck-up about ’im. Excuse me, sir.” And, as the London train swung into view, he proceeded up and down the platform making a noise something like Paston Oatvile, for the information of anybody who could not read notice-boards.
The London train was undeniably full to overflowing, and even when the Paston Oatvile residents had diminished the number, there were enough waiting for the Paston Whitchurch and Binver train to leave no compartment unoccupied. Even in their first-class carriage, it was only by luck that Reeves and Gordon managed to travel by themselves.
“I say,” began Gordon, “why Binver? We don’t want to go beyond Whitchurch, do we?”
“Oh, it’s just an idea of mine. We can get a train back in time for dinner. Don’t you come unless you’d like to. Steady, here we are.” And they swept slowly past the scene they had just been viewing from the solid ground. Reeves opened the door a little as they passed, and threw out a fresh stone; he had the satisfaction of seeing it disappear exactly according to schedule. “Now,” he said, “we’ve got a quiet quarter of an hour to spend before we get to Binver. And I’d be dashed glad if you’d tell me two things. First, how can anyone have planned and executed a murder in a third-class carriage on a train so infernally crowded as this one is?”
“They may have been travelling first. No one examines the tickets.”
“But even so, look at the risks. We should have had that fat old party in here if I hadn’t puffed smoke in her face, and there are very few firsts on the train. Our man took big chances, that’s certain.”
“And the other point?”
“Why did Davenant come up by this train yesterday? Of course you don’t know the place as I do, but Davenant’s a scratch player, and a bit of a local celebrity. Every child in the place knows that Davenant only comes down here for weekends, and it’s impossible to get a game with him except on Sunday. Why does he suddenly turn up on a Tuesday afternoon?”
“Well, I suppose he’s a right to, hasn’t he? I thought you were saying he has a cottage here?”
“Yes, but one’s bound to notice every deviation from the normal when one’s trying to trace causes. Look here, here’s Whitchurch. Do you mind getting out and calling at the Hatcheries—that house, there—and finding out, on some excuse, when Davenant got there, and whether he’s there now? You’re not known, you see—but be devilish tactful; we don’t want to put anybody on his guard.”
“Right-o! more lying necessary, I foresee. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive. So long, Sherlock, meet you at dinner.”
Reeves’ errand, it appeared when he got to Binver, was once more with the railway staff. He went up to a porter, and said, “Excuse me, does this train get cleared out here? I mean, if one leaves a thing in the carriage, would it be taken out here?”
“That’s right, sir. Left Luggage Office is what you want.”
“Well, this was only a paper book. I thought perhaps you people cleared them away for yourselves, like the newspapers.”
“Ah, if it was a paper book, we ’aven’t any orders to take that on to the Left Luggage Office. We takes those away, mostly; what might the name of your book be, sir?”
This was not at all the question Reeves wanted, but he was prepared for it. “It was The Sorrows of Satan, by Miss Corelli,” he said. “I left it in one of these carriages yesterday.”
“Well, sir, I cleaned out this train yesterday myself, and there wasn’t no book of that name. A passenger must have taken it out with them most likely. There wasn’t not but one book I found in those carriages, and you’re welcome to that, sir; I’ve got it on the seat there.” And he produced a repellent-looking volume entitled Formation of Character, by J. B. S. Watson.
Reeves was trembling with excitement, but it was clearly not a case for showing any enthusiasm. “Well, give you sixpence for it,” he said, and the porter willingly agreed—he had guessed rightly that the sixpence would prove to be half-a-crown.
It was an agony dawdling back by a slow train to Paston Oatvile, knowing that he could not get at the cipher-document till he regained his rooms. Merely as a book, the thing seemed to lack thrill. It seemed hours before he reached the dormy-house, and yet Gordon had not returned. So much the better; he would be able to work out the fateful message by himself. It could not be a coincidence, though it had been a long shot to start with. A book of that length (so he had argued to himself) would have been the sort of book one reads in the train.
