Graham had placed an advertisement in half a dozen newspapers the evening before. It had been intentionally bland.
Information requested
Any person who traveled on the 449 between Manchester and London Paddington three nights ago, Tuesday 8 October, will find it to their benefit to appear at the Saltire Inn, the Strand, between the hours of 9 and 11 tomorrow morning. Particular consideration granted those able to prove they were aboard the train.
The Saltire was a discreet hotel of about two dozen rooms. It must have been a comfortable secret among a certain class of middle class English gentleman; it tended to attract owlish, solitary travelers who did not belong to any of London’s clubs but did not mind paying rather high rates in order to ensure themselves prompt, hearty meals, large rooms with comfortable beds, all the latest journals and newspapers in a lounge of absolute silence, a central location within the city, and a general air of quiet, competent privacy.
A cousin of Graham’s managed the hotel, and once or twice had permitted them to hire a small side room off the entryway—which had its own door—to conduct this kind of meeting.
The advertisement brought, as such placements always would, at least fifteen or so variably cunning swindlers, who had clearly never heard of the 449, much less ridden it. But all of them were prepared to swear in a court of law to whatever Graham and Lenox wished. After brief conversations, Lenox and Graham discharged these fellows with half a shilling, a sum at which Graham frowned but which Lenox viewed as a tax, justly to be paid, for the imposition he had made upon the world by being born into a sphere of affluence he had himself done nothing to achieve.
There were another four or five men who were simply nosy about the murder, having connected the ad to the train number; they were turned away curtly.
Amazingly, however, two of the visitors actually seemed to be of some use.
The first was there before Lenox. Graham said he had been waiting at the door at ten till the hour, and when the detective arrived he was seated at a small table in the interview room, eating a plate of eggs doused in red onion and tomato ketchup. He was a lean, hollow-faced, ashen fellow.
“Good morning,” said Lenox. “What is your name?”
“Walter Swain, sir. My ticket, sir. I’m glad I kept it, sir—didn’t think I had, don’t know why I did, but there you are, I’m glad I did.”
Lenox examined this ticket, which showed that Swain had traveled third class between Tamworth and Nuneaton. Lenox asked him what his reason for doing so had been. He’d been in search of work, was the reply. He had heard there were field jobs there. In October? Yes, apple picking. He did hops in the spring, whatever paid best in summer, and managed as he could in winter. Lenox inquired what had resulted from the journey. Swain said he had returned the next morning, disappointed—walking much of the way between Nuneaton and London, though he had been able to ride partways on the outside box of a carriage with a kind owner.
Though he had been on the train but briefly, Swain swore that he had seen the victim, whom Graham had described to him.
“It makes no difference to the reward if you did not,” Lenox said gently.
“I did though,” Swain said, soft cap in his sooty hands.
“Was he with anyone?”
“Alone.”
They showed him the sketch of the man they believed to be the murderer. He hadn’t seen this person, and to his credit was quick to say so.
“Was the carriage fairly empty, then?” asked Lenox.
“Only four or five of us, sir—uncommon empty.”
“Did you speak to the man you saw, the victim?”
“No, sir. I didn’t speak to anyone.”
“Can you remember anyone else who was in the carriage?”
“Their faces, sir, but nought else.”
“I’ve taken descriptions of them, sir,” said Graham.
“Thank you. Did you see anyone at all speak to the victim, Mr. Swain? What was he doing?”
“I did not, sir. As I recall he was asleep some of the ways. When I fetched off at Nuneaton I had to pass him, and he said, ‘Excuse me,’ uncommon polite.”
“Did he have an accent?”
“An accent, sir? Of what sort?”
“Any sort at all—northern, southern?”
The man frowned. He looked so painfully desirous of being helpful that Lenox was again concerned he might dissemble, but in the end he said apologetically, “No, sir, no accent. It was just the two words, sir.”
Lenox asked Swain a few more questions. At the end of the exchange he asked where Swain was from. From? Nowhere, Swain said; or rather, nowhere at the moment. He had heard there was work in some of the port cities.
Lenox gave him two pounds. It was a large sum, as good as a month of apple picking. Swain was grateful, but for some reason he didn’t appear inclined to leave, despite there being a line at the door.
“His breakfast, sir,” Graham said quietly.
Lenox glanced at it, half-eaten. “Oh! How inconsiderate of me. Swain, please remain and eat—you may take it into the next room—and they will pack you up some sandwiches for your midday meal, too, if you don’t object.”
“Ah! Thank you, sir! It does make a difference to a chap.”
So they knew their victim had been traveling alone. That told them something about the murderer.
The other person who had actually ridden the 449 was in almost every respect the opposite of Walter Swain. He looked to be somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five, with a substantial light gray overcoat, fine leather gloves, a gleaming black top hat, and a fresh haircut and shave. Indeed, he might have been one of the out-of-towners staying at the Saltire on city business. He arrived on the stroke of eleven o’clock.
Lenox and Graham had planned to remain here until eleven thirty—someone always arrived late—but the gentleman, in a bit of haste, said he was glad he had made it on time. They stood up and introduced themselves, and he said he was called Alfred Baxendale.
“Thank you very much for coming, Mr. Baxendale,” said Lenox, sitting. “Please have a seat. You were on the 449?”
“I was, sir. I only saw your advertisement twenty minutes ago, and I wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t also seen in the papers that there was a death aboard the very train I rode. Remarkable thing. Are you from the police?”
“We are,” said Lenox. He was not quite lying, though he was bending the truth.
“Then I am glad I came,” Baxendale replied. “Here is my ticket. I am prepared to be of whatever use I can.”
The gentleman presented them with a second-class ticket for what was indeed the correct train. He had traveled the whole route, he said, from Manchester to Paddington.
“May I ask what brought you to London?” said Lenox.
“I work for a shipping agency in Manchester. I come here every six weeks as part of my duties and stay for three or four days. I am at the Mancunian Club. You may inquire about me there if you wish. They know me.”
“You are native to Manchester, then.”
“Since Roman times, or at least my grandmother always said, sir.”
“Did you notice anything strange on this trip?” asked Lenox.
“No, sir.”
“Did you recognize the conductor? Did you speak with him?”
“I didn’t recognize him, no. They vary. Nor did I speak with him, except to show my ticket. He thanked me when he took it and put it in his pouch. That is all I recall.”
“He was a young man with dark hair?”
Baxendale looked surprised. “No, an older one, with spectacles—perhaps ten or so years older than myself. I am forty-eight.”
Norman Haase. “And the other passengers? No peculiarities? Nobody noticeable?”
Baxendale had been fiddling with his pipe, and now he looked up, face screwed tight in thought; but he had to conclude that alas, nothing of note had taken place aboard the train that he had seen.
Lenox read the two descriptions they had. “Do either of these men sound familiar?”
“Not in particular. They are generic descriptions.”
Lenox was just beginning to despair of this very useful-seeming person being any use when Graham said, “Did you notice the conductor when you left the train, sir? Or anything at all that you would not have seen on your normal travels?”
Then Baxendale brightened. “Ah! Since you mention it, I did.”
“What was that, sir?”
“There is generally a newsboy on the platform upon the train’s arrival, with papers and his other wares all laid out. He’s got a good way about him. Never pushing, seems to work hard. I cannot recall his name, if indeed I ever heard it—but I always did buy an evening paper from him. To read with my supper. There’s a tavern I like just down Praed Street, the Bull.”
“Close to the station?”
“Yes, exactly. On Tuesday, I looked for the lad, but he wasn’t there. It was no great matter. I read an afternoon edition.” The London papers appeared three or sometimes as often as four times a day, depending on the importance of the news. “But I did remark his absence.”
“And can you recall anything else about the trip, sir?” said Lenox.
Baxendale shook his head. “I’m sorry to say that I cannot. It was an average journey by train.”
“Of course. Thank you so much for taking the trouble to come. May we offer you remuneration?” asked Lenox.
“I would feel wrong to take it in exchange for so little help,” said Baxendale. He produced a card. “But if you are ever in a way to put custom in my direction, I would, of course, be grateful.”
Baxendale nodded politely to them as he left, pipe between his teeth. Lenox noticed that he had on stockings not unlike Edmund’s of the evening before, this Manchester burgher. He supposed it was a vogue.
Graham and Lenox sat for some time, discussing the case and waiting for any last respondents to the advertisement.
Only as they were packing up did something strike Lenox.
He stopped in place, the papers he had been sorting forgotten in his hands. “Graham!” he said.
“Sir?” said the valet, cautiously.
“Did you notice Baxendale’s stockings?”
“Stockings, sir?”
Lenox shuffled the papers together hastily and put them in his valise. “Come, we must go to Savile Row—come on this instant. He was American, Graham. The murder victim, he was American.”