»be« by BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

Digital original edition

»be« by Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

Copyright © 2018 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

Written by Matthew Costello and Neil Richards

Edited by Eleanor Abraham

Project management: Kathrin Kummer

Cover illustrations © shutterstock: jason2009 | suns07butterfly | David Hughes | ohenze

Cover design: Thomas Krämer

eBook production: Jilzov Digital Publishing, Düsseldorf

ISBN 978-3-7325-5308-2

www.be-ebooks.com

Twitter: @be_ebooks_com

www.facebook.com/Cherringham

This ebook contains an excerpt of ‘Murder at the Mousetrap’ (1^st episode of the cosy mystery series BUNBURRY) by Helena Marchmont.

Copyright © 2018 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Köln

1. The Great Cotswolds Steam Railway

Reg Syms reached into the narrow pocket of his waistcoat, and slid out his Elgin, a classic timepiece whose impractical size made it all the more attractive — and appropriate — for a proper “stationmaster”.

Just at that moment, the side door to his office — his “domain” as he liked to call it — opened, and in walked, well … the new person.

A trainee who had jumped all the hurdles and passed through all the hoops that the all-volunteer organisation of steam engine enthusiasts put in the way of anyone wanting to join them; weeding out the merely idle and curious.

No, working for this very special (albeit short) train line, a genuine relic of a century ago, required knowledge, passion, dedication and — to be sure, for a train line — punctuality.

And, as Reg kept his eyes on his timepiece, showing 8:30 am precisely, he heard the new person say, “Good morning, Mr Syms.”

Reg looked up. A bit of an inspection as he looked over Tim Waite’s garb: jacket, tie, waistcoat — the standard uniform — all in order, neatly folded handkerchief, bright red of course, in jacket pocket.

“On time. Good, good,” he said. “First run of the day — must be on our mettle.”

And Reg leaned forward to look out of the ticket window at the leaden sky above the historic station buildings.

“Rather grey and gloomy today. It’ll be busy nevertheless, and you’ll have plenty to attend to,” the next part he totally loved saying, “on the Great Cotswolds Steam Railway. Now — let’s to it!”

And Reg Syms began busying himself with, well, truth be told, mostly waiting for customers, as Tim Waite looked on.

*

While his trainee watched, “shadowing” as the younger man referred to it, Reg greeted customers old and new alike, issuing receipts and handing stiff cardboard tickets through the little hole in the glass.

Proper customer service!

Eventually the first rush for tickets ended and — as the passengers scurried off down the platform, past the waiting carriages, to watch the locomotive building up steam — Reg turned back to the new trainee.

Though new to the railway, Waite was no young man: mid-forties, and probably quite eager to escape the humdrum of home, wife and kids for this … adventure.

Who wouldn’t?

“Note well, Mr Waite, the smile, the greeting — all so important.” He raised a finger in the air. “Think of this little office, the platform here, the great locomotive sitting out there — the whole experience — as a wonderful time machine. We take people back to a completely different time. I dare say, a better time!”

Waite nodded. “I’ll be sure to—” he started to say.

But just then Reg heard a familiar sound. The throaty roar of a Mercedes engine.

And he knew exactly who that would be.

Bernard Mandeville — his arrival as reliable as this antiquated line’s timetable.

Wouldn’t be a Sunday morning without Mr Mandeville stepping up to the window, buying a return. “Just one please,” he’d say in that gentle sing-song voice of his, purchasing the ticket as if this wasn’t the hundredth time he had done so.

And Reg’s response — always the same as well: the smile and a tip of the hat, as if welcoming someone to the great experience for the very first time.

The trainee stood right at Reg’s shoulder as the elderly Mr Mandeville walked slowly along the platform to the ticket office window.

“One of our absolute best and most loyal passengers,” said Reg, “so, do pay attention now.”

And he waited for Bernard Mandeville, none too fleet of foot these days, or fleet of anything, as he made his way to the Cherringham Junction ticket office.

*

“Good morning, Reg,” Bernard said.

The familiarity in this case — quite appropriate.

At least … on the customer’s side.

“Mr Mandeville — so very good to see you.”

As if it was a surprise. An unexpected pleasure.

Bernard was dressed, as ever, in perfect sync with the whole heritage railway experience: long tweed coat, classic grouse hat, herringbone three-piece suit, and even a carnation in his boutonniere. As if the train might deposit him in Paris instead of the station at Cheltenham Racecourse — a mere twenty-five miles away.

The great locomotive powerful but — by today’s dizzying standards — chugging its way ever so slowly.

Bernard ordered his ticket, as if following a carefully drawn script.

“Ah yes,” Reg said. “One return to Cheltenham. Here we are.”

And as Bernard dug out his wallet to extract a twenty-pound note, as usual, Reg could see behind him …

Perhaps his son, Reg imagined?

He never knew which one of Bernard’s relatives — there appeared to be three — would show up to drive the man to the station, and wait for his return.

Today, this one was smoking a cigarette, looking a tad impatient, with Reg thinking: He’d better not even dream of tossing that onto the platform.

“Ah — here we are then,” Bernard said, passing the crisp note. “These new notes, so slippery! Plastic or something, hmm? More signs of the times. Good British money turned into cellophane!”

Reg slid Bernard the little cardboard ticket, and then his change.

“Enjoy your trip, Mr Mandeville,” he offered.

To which Bernard said, “Always do, Reg, always do.”

And then the man turned and slowly made his way to the first-class carriage where his relative waited at an open door. Reg watched as the young man supported Mr Mandeville and helped him climb the step into the carriage.

No real classes on the train — one could sit absolutely anywhere — but Reg imagined Bernard Mandeville would always be most at home in the warm and worn confines of the once-pricey and glamorous first-class compartment.

And when he boarded, Reg looked on until he spotted him in a compartment, seated close to the window, facing forward. His relative folding a blanket over the old man’s legs.

Tim was certainly curious.

“So, that chap, Bernard—”

“Mr Mandeville.”

“—takes the train every Sunday, to Cheltenham Racecourse and back?”

“Like clockwork. Hasn’t missed a Sunday since the operation began running.”

“Amazing. He must love the train!”

“Oh, yes. In fact, if it wasn’t for his various ailments, I imagine he’d be one of us, you know, volunteering and all.”

“Ailments?”

“Oh, nothing I know a great deal about — only that the doctor visits regularly. Must be something pretty serious. I’ve a feeling his one real pleasure is this little outing each week.”

“And what about that chap?”

Reg saw the young man step down from the carriage and make his way down the platform.

“His son, I believe.”

Reg nodded. Topic closed, he thought, and began to tally up the number of passengers for the morning’s first service.

“Seemed rather sullen, I thought,” Tim Waite offered.

Reg was never one for prying into other people’s affairs. Still—

“Sullen? Possibly. There’s three of them. You’ll get to see them all, once you’re a regular on the roster. Two women — sisters, I imagine.”

Reg dug out his pocket watch.

Enough of this Q&A, he thought.

Then — a great blast of the locomotive’s steam whistle. So rich — full.

A basso profundo, Reg thought, compared to the shrieks and shrill sounds of modern trains.

He flicked his eyes up at the great railway clock that hung from the platform roof — yes, accurate to the very second.

He turned to Waite — an important, even essential, part of the tradition was about to occur.

“Shall we?” Reg said simply, as if what they were about to do was clearly obvious.

He stood up, motioned Mr Waite to the door, then followed him out onto the platform, shutting the door to the stationmaster’s office behind them.

Then he turned, inhaled deeply of the pungent smoky air, looked left towards the guard’s van, then right down the platform to where the great locomotive waited — steaming, smoking, a beast straining at the leash.

As he took in the swirl of activity — the last passengers scurrying aboard, heavy old doors slamming loudly, chattering children crowded at compartment windows, faces pressed against the glass, he heard another great toot on the whistle and saw a hiss of steam billow from beneath the engine—

And that familiar thrill of the imminent departure rushed through his veins and he thought to himself: This is what it’s all about!

The living, breathing age of steam!

2. All Aboard!

Reg turned to Mr Waite, pleased to see that same excitement clearly visible on the younger man’s face.

“Tell you what, Tim,” he said, moved suddenly to be on first-name terms, “why don’t you climb aboard, take this first run?”

“Oh! Really?”

“Might not get a chance later. Go on. Archie will look after you.”

“Archie?”

“He’s the guard. Give you a chance to meet the rest of the crew. Rare treat to be pulled by a Seventy-Niner.”

He watched Tim absorb this — not moving.

“Chop-chop,” said Reg. “She’ll not wait for you!”

Tim grinned and came alive: he climbed aboard and slammed the carriage door shut with that satisfying double clunk.

Then he pulled down the window and peered out at Reg.

“Appreciate it, Mr Syms!”

Reg nodded, stepped back. He looked down the platform to the final carriage, where Archie stood waiting. A nod between them — ready to go.

He watched as one of the volunteers strode alongside the train, making a final check that the doors were all shut, then blew his whistle — so loud that a group of watching children covered their ears — and waved his flag.

With another great blast from the far end of the platform, and a whoosh of steam, the great engine began to move — slowly, inexorably.

Looking forward, Reg saw the great white puffs created by the locomotive billow up to the matching grey-white sky.

The train carriages started reluctantly moving, clunking and rattling.

If he had been in the front of the platform, Reg knew they could watch the locomotive’s wheels, churning, turning — the ancient but steady mechanism hauling the line of carriages.

Only half the seats taken, for this railway was — sad to say — largely a tourist attraction. A folly for fans. Fun for children and families and enthusiasts who wanted to experience something rare.

And for Reg — and all who worked here — a hobby; though sometimes Reg felt like his time here … well … it was his life.

As Reg watched Bernard’s carriage pull away — the dapper old man even giving him a small wave, adventure begun — he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Mandeville’s son, in jeans and a fleece pullover, standing back at the Mercedes, watching the train depart.

Never once had he seen Bernard’s family join him for the trip. Clearly, a trip on a steam train was not everyone’s cup of tea.

Time for my own cup of tea, he thought. Maybe see what the Old Tea House has in the line of cakes and biscuits today as well?

And he locked the ticket office, just as he did each and every weekend at this time, and walked down the platform to the station’s small tea room.

He would have some tea and see if he might anticipate any questions trainee Tim might have about the whole ritual he had just observed.

*

Tim leaned out of the window of the last carriage and took in the view of muddy fields and woods as the train rattled through the Cotswolds countryside.

Steam and smoke billowed around. On each slow curve — if he really leaned out — he could see the engine itself, ten carriages ahead, easily dealing with these shallow hills behind Cherringham.

His wife Helen had been pressing him to find a weekend hobby, now that the kids had left home. He spent all week at a computer terminal in the village, selling insurance. Barely saw daylight in the winter.

But Helen was right — this was going to be fun!

“Mind you don’t get a smut in your eye, young man,” came a voice from behind him.

Tim turned and recognised Archie from the station coming through the door from the guard’s van — he held out his hand for Archie to shake.

“Archie? I’m Tim Waite. New volunteer.”

“Ah, so you are! Pleased to meet you, Tim.”

“Reg said I could take the run this morning. Said you’d show me the ropes.”

“Hmm. Did he now?” said Archie, his face stern. Tim saw him raise one bushy eyebrow.

Oh gosh, he thought. First day and I’m in trouble already!

But then the other man winked and patted him on the shoulder.

“Course I will. Tell you what — you follow me while I do the ticket check. Half an hour to Cheltenham, plenty of time — if you’re lucky I might even let you punch a few tickets!”

Archie raised his antiquated ticket puncher and Tim laughed.

“The buffet car should have a head of steam by the time we reach her. We’ll pick up a cup of tea and a Kit-Kat, eh?” said Archie, as he pulled open the sliding door that led into the carriage proper.

“And when we reach Cheltenham I’ll get you onto the plate for the return leg — how about that?”

“Gosh,” said Tim. And he followed Archie into the first carriage.

*

Twenty minutes later, as promised, they stopped for tea and a chocolate biscuit in the antiquated buffet bar.

Although a lot of the passengers were tourists (and Tim noted that Archie had a little chat with everyone), Tim had also recognised a handful of Cherringham locals out for a family day on the train.

Most of the travellers sat in the open carriages — faded bench seats in pairs facing each other, string racks overhead for bags.

But some preferred the cloistered privacy of the first-class carriages — separate compartments with sliding doors that gave onto a corridor that ran the length of the carriage.

These, it seemed, tended to be the older travellers. Retired couples. Enthusiasts.

And, as Archie chatted, eventually Tim began to join in the conversations, warming to the friendly atmosphere that the steam train seemed to engender.

In one such carriage, Tim saw Mr Mandeville. The old man sat alone, blanket over his knees, staring out at the countryside. Archie tapped on the glass and slid open the door.

Tim expected a little conversation to ensue — Archie clearly never short of a gossip or a little joke.

But Mr Mandeville nodded and just handed over his ticket to be clipped then turned back to the window.

Not a word between them.

Funny, thought Tim. But then he remembered — Mr Mandeville wasn’t at all well. Perhaps the poor old chap was in pain?

And over their cups of tea, Archie confirmed that suspicion. “Mr Mandeville? The old boy in the tweed?” he said. “Never has been one for any idle chit-chat, to be honest, Tim. And I certainly don’t like to disturb him, poor chap.”

Tim asked how long Mr Mandeville had been coming on the train, but before Archie could answer, Tim heard a loud blast on the whistle and suddenly they were in a tunnel!

The chuff-chuff of the engine went up a notch and in the darkness outside the carriage, Tim could see billows of smoke and steam.

“Winsham Tunnel,” said Archie, closing one of the windows tight. “Second longest tunnel on a steam line in the country.”

Tim went to the window, thrilled at the rush of sound and the flickering reflections from all the carriage lights on the inside of the tunnel.

It seemed to go on forever. But then, at last, another whistle from the engine and they emerged into bright sunshine again, the train rattling from side to side with the speed.

“Four minutes exactly!” said Archie, checking his pocket watch. “Come on — two more carriages to check and then we’ll be at Cheltenham.”

Tim drained his tea and set it back on the rocking buffet counter.

“And when we get there,” said Archie, “it’ll be all hands on deck while we bring the locomotive round for the return trip. You just stay close to me, young Tim, and I’ll make sure you get a grandstand seat on the engine herself!”

Tim followed Archie down the train as it swayed and rocked, thinking — Helen’