Postmortem on a Train

Hello, and welcome to my 2025 Blogging From A To Z April Challenge! This year, I’ve written you a complete murder mystery novelette. The setting is rural England, a few years after WWI. The extra challenge that I set myself for this story is that the first murder will not take place until the letter “M”–halfway through! And the second murder will happen at “S.” There may be murders after “S,” of course, but they are less structural or foundational or something.

And now, without further ado…

Postmortem on a Train

Chief Inspector Crowner and Sergeant Ernest Mug, having caught the 1:15, proceeded to claim a third-class compartment for themselves. They did this by spreading out over all available room, and by glaring at anyone who tried to come in and join them. This worked until a harassed-looking woman entirely covered in children burst into the compartment, shoved their things off a bench, and sat down with a thump.

“Madam,” said Crowner, eying the smallest child as it crawled stickily towards him across the stained and filthy floor, “we are police officers, and we need to spend this journey discussing police business.”

“I’m not stopping you, am I?” The woman began scrubbing the face of the tot next to her with concentrated ferocity.

“The details of the coroner’s report will be distressing,” said Crowner, waggling his eyebrows.

“I like a good murder,” said the woman. She retrieved her baby from the floor and settled it on her lap.

Crowner made a face at her and turned to Mug. “Mug, you’ve been following the murder of—erm—of the victim in question—in the paper?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mug.

“That’s no good,” said the woman critically. “You won’t want to call him ‘the victim in question’ the whole bloomin’ journey. Better say his name now, before you slip up and say it by accident. You’ll be less upset if it’s on purpose.” As she spoke, she rubbed the baby’s fingers with a dirty handkerchief.

“Will you stop interrupting if I tell you?”

The woman thought about this. “I might.”

Crowner glared at her. “Very well. Jack Grimsby—”

“Ooh!” said the woman. “The jam millionaire. Go on.”

“Mr. Jack Grimsby was found dead in his bed by a housemaid—Miss Katherine Briggs—who was bringing him tea. Initial appearances suggested he’d been stabbed—“ and Crowner broke off and eyed the woman uneasily. “Look here, ah…”

“Effie to you, love!” One of Effie’s children fell to the floor of the compartment and started howling. “I’m not sorry for you—you did that on purpose! Oh, come here.” And she picked the tot up and put it on the bench beside her.

“Look here, Effie—this really is rather confidential. Are you sure you won’t tell anyone?”

“Oh, I’ll tell plenty of people—me ‘usband, the ladies down the Institute, Ma—but that won’t matter. It’ll be all over the papers in a day or two, regardless.”

This was so obviously true that Crowner thawed. “All right, Effie. Here’s what we know. The victim was last seen alive at around nine, when he left a family party. He was apparently very drunk, and so his nephew Reginald helped him up to bed.”

“Is Reginald just a good boy, or was there a reason?” Effie wanted to know.

“We’ll have to look into that, of course. Especially as the doctor reckons that the murder happened at some point between nine that night and one the next morning.”

“So Reginald could’ve done it.”

“Yes, but as far as we know, anyone in that house might have done it. The results of the postmortem show that Mr. Grimsby was killed by a stab through the second and third ribs, angled such that the blade pierced the heart. The knife was extremely sharp, and the murder wouldn’t have taken any great strength. No-one, in fact, can be eliminated on the basis of the stab wound. Which is inconvenient.”

“Anything known about the knife, chief?” asked Mug.

“The knife was apparently the victim’s own, and was one he kept by his bed, where he liked to read his letters.”

“Seems a sloppy habit to me,” said Mug. “Reading your letters in bed. Not what you’d expect from one of these tycoons.”

“Why not read your letters where it’s comfy?” demanded Effie, joggling the baby up and down on her lap as she spoke.

“Yes yes yes. The importance I see in all of this,” said Crowner, “is that the weapon was something the murderer picked up on the scene.”

“That’s interesting, chief,” said Mug.

“Keep listening; there’s more,” said Crowner. “The victim had taken a large dose of a sedative—Veronal—earlier that night. The doctor says he either took it right when he got to his bed or actually during the party, and he leans towards during the party.”

“Who takes sedatives at parties?” asked Effie.

“Exactly what I want to know myself. And the dose was big, big enough to kill some people. And there were traces of fibers in the victim’s mouth and nose.”

Mug whistled. “I take it,” said Mug, “that those fibers came from the victim’s pillow?”

“They did,” said Crowner, eying Effie’s oldest child, who seemed to be trying to break into Crowner’s dispatch case. Effie, noticing this, yanked the child back.

“We don’t touch things as aren’t ours. Especially not if they belong to the police!” she hissed.

“I don’t wanna be arrested!” wailed the child.

“So the murderer slipped Jack a sedative at the party,” said Mug, ignoring the little commotion. “Later, he came to Jack’s bedroom, thinking that either Jack was already dead or so deeply asleep that he’d have an easy job finishing him. The killer checks, sees Jack isn’t quite dead, puts the pillow over Jack’s face—and then Jack wakes up. There’s a struggle—” said Mug.

“Not a lot of struggle, it looks like,” said Crowner. “Mr. Grimsby was groggy from the sedatives—and he was waking up with a face full of pillow. So he couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, and was understandably confused. He probably flailed his arms about helplessly—and before he could do much, the murderer grabbed the knife from the table and plunged it home. He would have died almost at once.”

Mug whistled. “Strikes me, Chief, that if Mr. Jack Grimsby hadn’t woken up and spoiled things for our killer—”

“Exactly. It’s possible that the traces of smothering would have been missed, and the doctor would have assumed heart failure and signed the death certificate like a lamb.”

“Do you mean that no-one would know this was a murder at all?” demanded Effie.

“That’s right. I’m not saying it would have worked out like that—the doctor might have noticed the fibers in the mouth and nose and wondered about them, and that might have caused him to check the stomach contents and find the Veronal. But it’s possible. The GP who did the postmortem noted that Grimsby’s heart was in poor shape. It could easily have been taken for a natural death.”

“Gosh!” said Effie. The children stared at Crowner, aghast.