The Railway Murders (A Yorkshire Murder Mystery)

  ALSO BY J. R. ELLIS

  The Body in the Dales

  The Quartet Murders

  The Murder at Redmire Hall

  The Royal Baths Murder

  The Nidderdale Murders

  The Whitby Murders

  Murder at St Anne’s

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2022 by J. R. Ellis

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542031363

  ISBN-10: 1542031362

  Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Murder on the Orient Express, 1934, by Agatha Christie is probably the most famous railway mystery story of all time. It has inspired a number of film and television versions. Famous actors playing the part of Hercule Poirot in these adaptations include Albert Finney, David Suchet and Kenneth Branagh.

  It was very early on a sunny Wednesday morning at the beginning of June. The dawn chorus of birdsong could be heard in the peaceful rural scene around the Wharfedale Bridge Inn in Lower Wharfedale. The sun shone through the branches of the large oak and sycamore trees that grew around the inn. Nearby, the River Wharfe ran under the medieval bridge that gave the inn its name. Some mallards were paddling in the shallows with their large brood of fluffy ducklings. A dipper stood on a mossy stone in the middle of the river and the iridescent blue of a kingfisher flashed by.

  There was little sign of any human activity yet, and the road was quiet. In one of the curtained bedrooms of the inn, a woman got out of bed leaving the man beside her still asleep. She pulled on a dressing gown and quietly left the room, closing the door carefully behind her. As she moved silently down the corridor, the door to another room briefly opened and shut again, but she didn’t notice.

  By the time the man was finally woken up by the strong sunlight that had made its way around the side of the curtains, there was the sound of traffic going past the hotel, doors opening and closing and voices inside and outside the building. He pulled himself up in the bed, noticing that his partner had left. He rubbed his eyes and smiled before wincing. He had the devil of a headache, and his mouth was like a birdcage bottom, as the saying went. It had been a good night: we were carousing to the second cock, he thought, quoting Macbeth to himself. And not only carousing. He glanced at the empty side of the bed again.

  Daniel Hayward was in his early fifties, an actor who had made many appearances in films and TV series over a thirty-year career. These days, in addition to his famously dissolute lifestyle, he had developed the disaffected air of the fairly well-known actor who has never quite made it to the very top, but believes he deserved to. He often considered his current roles beneath him, feeling that he was too often typecast as the supporting character who could be pleasant or nasty; a familiar face playing parts in family and historical dramas.

  He hauled himself heavily out of bed – he’d put on weight in recent times, mainly due to his drinking – and padded over to the bathroom. He winced again partly due to the headache, but also as he thought of the day ahead. He was in Wharfedale along with other actors and a film crew to shoot some scenes of a film called Take Courage, a somewhat sentimental story set in Edwardian times about a young woman who is ejected from her family home when it is inherited by a nasty uncle and has to make her way in the world alone. Unsurprisingly she eventually finds love.

  What a load of crap! he thought to himself. Of course, he was playing the relatively minor role of the evil uncle; exactly his kind of part, at least according to producers and audiences who wouldn’t appreciate range if it hit them in the face. Today’s scene was where the evil uncle arrives at the station and is met by his solicitor and servants from the manor. If only the locomotive would explode as it stopped at the station, obliterating the sweet heroine and the rest of the family. Then his character, Montagu Lloyd, could inherit the property and not have to worry about any of them. End of story, and then all the cast could go home! Somehow, he knew that the director Gerard Blake would not take the same view even if Hayward dared to suggest such a thing.

  He filled the bath and lowered his heavy frame into the water, trying hard not to splash it over the side. He sighed as the warm water covered him. It was a moment of bliss, but it didn’t make him any more sanguine about the day ahead.

  The dining room at the Wharfedale Bridge was a large oak-panelled room with a stag’s head over the fireplace. Three of the principal actors were just finishing breakfast. Anna Whiteman, an up-and-coming actor in her mid-thirties, was playing the lead role of Victoria Branwell, the disinherited niece. She was wearing wide-legged linen trousers and a sleeveless top. The elderly white-haired Christopher North, eccentrically dressed in a red checked shirt, yellow waistcoat and blue trousers with red braces, was playing the family solicitor Edward Wilding. North was also a well-established character actor with a wealth of experience. Sheila Jenkins, in her early forties, wearing designer jeans, was in the role of the housekeeper Mrs Wilson. Other members of the cast had remained in London as they were not involved in the Yorkshire location scenes.

  ‘Oh! Here he is at last,’ cried North. ‘Last man standing last night was it, old boy? You were still going strong when I went off to bed.’ His tone was subtly cold and mocking.

  Hayward had dressed hastily in jeans and a white shirt that strained over his belly. His untidy hair and pale look testified to his hangover.

  ‘Something like that. God! I could use a coffee. Good morning, ladies.’ Whiteman and Jenkins returned the greeting without enthusiasm. Hayward sat down at the table and a waiter took his order. Hayward declined anything to eat, but sipped orange juice until his coffee arrived. ‘Where’s Gerry then?’

  ‘He’s not here yet,’ said Whiteman. ‘But he’ll want to get moving as soon as he gets back.’ Blake had spent the night visiting a friend in Leeds.

  Hayward ran his hand through his famously thick black hair which was now streaked with grey. ‘Bloody hell. All day in this heat sweating it out in Edwardian costume, coming and going on a train while Gerry does five hundred takes before he’s satisfied.’ Blake was a notoriously demanding director, far too much of a perfectionist for Hayward. ‘Anyway.’ Hayward leered at Whiteman. ‘At least you’ll be there, Anna. It’ll be worth getting out of the train for you waiting on the platform.’

  Whiteman smiled as if she were sorry for Hayward, and shook her head slightly. She was not going to engage in anything flirtatious with this old roué, and she was relieved to see Gerard Blake coming into the room. ‘Ah, here’s Gerry. He’ll want us to get moving. It’s after nine o’clock.’

  The waiter arrived with Hayward’s coffee.

  ‘Hi guys,’ called Blake in a breezy manner. He was thin and wiry with a neatly trimmed beard and a bald head. He was wearing the arty uniform of black T-shirt and jeans. ‘Are we ready to roll?’

  They all stood up except Hayward. They knew that time was limited for the outdoor shoots and if they got behind with the schedule and had to stay for longer in Yorkshire, the budget for the film would start to increase, putting the whole thing at risk.

  ‘We’ll follow you down, Gerry,’ said Jenkins. ‘They’ll be ready for us in wardrobe now.’

  ‘I agree about the costumes,’ said Whiteman to Jenkins as they walked out of the building. ‘It’s roasting in that woollen skirt.’

  ‘Are you coming?’ called Blake to Hayward, who waved a hand.

  ‘Give me a few minutes. I just need to drink this coffee and bring myself round.’

  For a second Blake’s face seemed to blaze with something like hatred. ‘Don’t be long. You’re in the second scene.’

  Everyone but Hayward left the building to get into their cars to drive the short distance to the railway. The two women went together in one car and North drove with Blake. The countryside around was in its early summer glory. White May blossom still covered the hawthorn hedges and the trees shimmered in the bright, fresh greenness of their new leaves. Blake was too preoccupied with Hayward and the day’s filming to notice the beauty around him.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Blake asked North with whom he’d worked a number of times, and had come to regard as a kind of mentor.

  ‘He was drinking quite heavily last night,’ replied North.

  ‘Was he?’ Blake’s car scrunched down the gravel of the hotel drive. The director shook his head. ‘I’ve really had it with him. He’s so unreliable. He holds things up all the time. To be honest I didn’t want him in the part, but Henrietta persuaded me.’ Henrietta Fawkes was the film’s producer.

  ‘Don’t wor
ry; he’ll make it through. He always does.’ Privately, however, North was thinking about his own experience of Hayward’s unreliability.

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ growled Blake.

  In the other car, the two women were also discussing Hayward. Sheila Jenkins was driving. ‘Does he bother you?’ she asked the younger actor, remembering Hayward’s comments.

  ‘He’s the kind of man you steer clear of, otherwise you know you’ll get groped,’ replied Whiteman. ‘I’ve encountered him before. Don’t worry, I can look after myself. I’ll be glad when these scenes are finished. His character virtually drops out of the storyline then, and good riddance.’

  ‘Good. Don’t let him get to you. I’ve known him a long time and he’s not to be trusted. His type are still a problem. The industry isn’t as bad as it used to be in the days of the “casting couch”, but you have to stay clear-headed and strong. It’s still tough for women. And the younger you are the worse it is.’

  ‘I know, I’ve had my fair share of harassment from men.’

  ‘I’m sure you have. There’s still a long way to go. We’re still being paid less than the men, aren’t we?’ said Jenkins.

  ‘Yes,’ said Whiteman. ‘But at least it’s recognised as an issue now. My generation are going to fight as hard as yours did, and we’ll make even more progress.’

  Jenkins slowed the car down, flicking the indicator. ‘That’s good to hear. Anyway, we’re here,’ she said.

  Their car left the main road and entered Oldthwaite station car park, moving quickly past a small banner that someone had put up, which read: ‘Stop The Filming Now’.

  Blake’s car was already parked near the main building. The Wharfedale Railway was in a beautiful section of the dale. Like so many of England’s vintage steam railways, it ran on a line revived by enthusiasts after it had been closed by the Beeching cuts of the 1960s. In summer, tourists came in great numbers with their children to ride on the trains pulled by a steam engine, and the entertainment continued in winter with Santa Specials. But at present the line was closed to visitors, temporarily taken over by the film crew.

  Oldthwaite, a typical small branch-line station, had already been restored to its Edwardian heyday complete with signage and contemporary adverts, flower beds, hanging baskets and staff in period uniforms. It was the perfect setting for the filming of railway scenes from that era and had already featured in a number of historical films. Today the Edwardian authenticity was augmented by the fact that most of the people on the platform, apart from members of the film crew, were extras wearing period clothes. A train stood in the station pulled by a black tank engine that was giving off some steam from a piston. There were three vintage carriages, beautifully restored with four compartments in each. There was no corridor, just a door on both sides of each compartment.

  ‘It looks like everything’s ready and they’re just waiting for us,’ said Jenkins as the actors headed for the wardrobe department, which was housed in portable cabins near the station entrance.

  Back at the hotel, Hayward was still in the dining room, smiling as he received and answered texts. He got up lazily from the table, yawning as he made his way out of the hotel and then walked up the lane to the station. As he did so he wondered if, having been to wardrobe and got his costume on, he would have time for a quick drink before filming.

  Blake arrived on the platform where he was greeted by a woman with long blonde hair and dark glasses. This was his wife, Frances, who had stayed overnight in the hotel. As it was such a beautiful morning, she’d had breakfast early before deciding to walk over to the station via a lovely riverside path.

  ‘Hi, darling,’ she said. ‘How was it with Ian in Leeds?’

  ‘Fine,’ he replied rather coolly, making no attempt to embrace her. ‘I’ll see you for lunch; must get on now.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, surprised and disturbed by his dismissive tone.

  Frances Cooper was an actor herself, but not in this film. She had travelled with Blake to the location as she was currently between roles and fancied a break in the countryside. Today she had decided to come and watch the action for a while. She sat on a bench set back from the platform, where she had a good view of what was going on.

  Blake went to plan the day’s shoot. As the train was ready, he would have liked to start with the scene where Hayward’s character arrived, but as Hayward had still not turned up, he decided to begin with conversations on the platform between the characters played by North and Whiteman before the train reached the station.

  Filming of these scenes went well, but eventually they reached a point where Hayward’s presence was necessary for the arrival scene. Extras in costume could be seen sitting in some of the carriages and many were looking bored. They’d been waiting for some time for the action with the train to start. Blake looked around in exasperation.

  ‘Where the hell is he?’ Blake said, slamming his copy of the script on to a small table he’d set up on the platform.

  An extra, wearing a suit with a watch chain, said, ‘I’ve just seen him in the bar.’

  ‘What?!’ Blake marched over to the old station buffet which now housed a modern café and bar. Sure enough, Hayward – who was at least wearing his Edwardian costume, a heavy Edwardian sack suit with baggy trousers and a Derby hat – was sitting at one of the tables, drinking a gin and tonic. There was a pretty young woman in costume with him. Blake made a supreme effort to control his temper and decided to try pleading and flattery with the recalcitrant actor.

  ‘Look, Dan, for God’s sake can we please make a start? This is a key scene when your character returns from London to inherit the Yorkshire estate. Everyone’s worked really hard to get the period effects just right. People love these Edwardian station scenes, and we need a really strong performance from you. I know you can do it really well.’

  Hayward slouched in his seat, his hat at a rakish angle, and gave Blake a sour look. ‘All in good time, Gerry; a man’s got to do something to take his mind off the tedium of playing with trains in the back of beyond.’ He glanced at the woman, who smiled back at him.

  Blake’s patience was wearing thin. ‘That doesn’t mean spending half the morning drinking and then falling asleep in the late afternoon. We’re already behind with our schedule. I’ve told you, we’ve got to wrap these outdoor scenes soon and get back to the studio.’

  Hayward sighed, gulped down the rest of his gin, and hauled himself to his feet.

  ‘You’d better follow us, my dear,’ he said to the woman. ‘You’re in the crowd on the platform, aren’t you?’

  She nodded and followed them out of the bar.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Blake, ‘here you are back in your home territory. You come from round here, don’t you? I thought all Yorkshire people were proud of their county?’

  ‘I left a long time ago,’ sneered Hayward, in that plummy accent that had long ago erased any trace of his native Yorkshire. ‘And I’ve no desire to return.’ He winked at the young woman, who moved off to join the crowd on the platform.

  ‘Right!’ announced Blake. ‘We’re ready to roll! On you get, Dan.’

  Hayward opened the slam-door of the compartment reserved for him, and climbed inside. There was no one else present, and he sat by the window. All he had to do was look out as the train entered the station before stepping down on to the platform, where he would be met by members of his family. Then, after a brief conversation, he would be taken off by horse and trap to the fictional Bolton Gill Manor.

  ‘OK,’ said Blake, and the railway staff took over. A whistle was blown by a guard sporting an impressive Edwardian moustache. This was answered by a shrill blast from the engine that, with a loud chuffing noise, started to push the carriages backwards down the line to a starting position some distance away, so they could be filmed steaming through the countryside and arriving at the station. The train disappeared down a short tunnel, quite close to the station.

  A mile down the track, a crew with a camera mounted on a van were ready to start filming. A section of road ran parallel to the line. They saw the train arrive in position and, after a short pause and a signal from the filming crew, it headed off back towards the station. The van moved off at a similar speed and filming began.