4:50 to Pakenham

The woman walked down the length of the platform until she reached the middle door of the first train carriage. She boarded the train and took a seat in the empty compartment. A minute later, the doors slid shut and the train departed Flinders Street Station.  The train reached the next station in four minutes. A commuter opened the door of the carriage and saw the woman slumped over in her chair, her white jacket stained red with blood. The woman was dead.

---

“The victim’s name was Elizabeth Arbour, a 23 year old nursing student,” said Northrop as he consulted his notebook, “She worked part-time as a dispensing technician in a pharmacy in Armadale. She was taking the train to her evening shift when she was attacked.” Sherlock nodded with comprehension. The pair crossed the main concourse of Flinders Street Station, and made their way to the stationmaster’s office. Peak hour had now passed and the crowds had subsided considerably.

“I’d always wanted to be a train driver as a child,” reminisced Northrop as he knocked on the office door.

“But a life in law enforcement proved more alluring perhaps,” suggested Sherlock with a smile.

 The door opened, and the pair were greeted by a stern, military-looking man.

“Ah yes, the police. Roger Caulfield – stationmaster,” said the man authoritatively, “and this is Bernard Finn – the driver of the train where the incident occurred.” A small, haggard man gave a polite nod. “Please, take a seat.”

“Well, CCTV footage confirms it,” said the stationmaster, “The train came into the station at 4:45pm. The on-board passengers alighted. Only a handful of people boarded the train from 4:45 to 4:50. The victim was the last person to board, and the only person seen entering the first carriage. The train departed at 4:50pm exactly.”

“Do you usually have so few passengers on this train?” asked Northrop.

“It’s one of those in-between times; the after-school rush is over and the after-work rush has not yet started. It’s usually rather quiet. There tends to be more passengers boarding at Richmond.”

“Anything seem out of the ordinary?” asked Sherlock.

“Not at all,” said the stationmaster, “You notice anything, Bernard?”

“Well, no,” said the driver, “This is my usual route and it was just like any other.”

“Did you see the victim board the train?” asked Sherlock.

“I think I might have seen the girl – I noticed her white pharmacist jacket as she was walking up the platform. I have a side mirror where I can see the platform and make sure everybody’s got on the train. I can’t say I noticed anyone else in particular – there were maybe three or four other people who got on the train. I see so many people every day, you know.”

“Was the victim with anyone else?”

“Not that I could see.”

“And did you notice anything unusual on the train?”

“No – I was busy at the control deck. I usually can’t hear much coming from the carriages because of the noise of the train.”

“I don’t suppose there were any security cameras on the train?” asked Sherlock.

“No, this is an older model. There are no security cameras or intercom,” said the stationmaster.

“Let’s have a look at this train then,” suggested Sherlock.

The train had been relocated back to Flinders Street station, to an area of unused tracks reserved for servicing trains. Northrop led the way to the first carriage.

“Here’s the train carriage. Three sets of sliding doors on either side, and a door at either end. The door at the front end of the carriage leads to the driver’s cabin and is locked; the door at the rear permits access to the second carriage. If the sliding doors are forced open during travel, then the driver is alerted via an alarm. The windows were all shut when the train arrived at Richmond.

“Forensics have already been through here and removed the body. The body was found here,” indicated Northrop to a forward facing seat near the front of the carriage, “She was stabbed once in the chest, most likely with a knife. It seemed like she didn’t even have any time to react – there was a bloodstained copy of the mX in her hand indicating she may have been completing a crossword puzzle at the time of the murder. She also had a handbag with her – the contents had spilled all over the floor suggesting a robbery.”

“Was anything missing?” asked Sherlock.

Northrop consulted his notebook. “Not that we can tell. Her wallet and phone were still there, as well as a makeup kit, pens, scrap paper and a packet of gum.”

“Did nobody see or hear anything?” asked Sherlock.

“The other passengers are currently giving statements now. Let’s go ask them.”

The first to be questioned was Genevieve Huxley, a small, timid woman with short, blond hair. A turquoise pea coat was draped over her shoulders, partially concealing the white chef’s uniform she wore underneath.

“I can’t believe what happened to Elizabeth,” stuttered Genevieve, “Of all the trains. Of course, I haven’t seen her in years.”

“You knew the victim?” questioned Northrop.

“Well, yes. I knew her from back in school. We weren’t friends or anything; she was a bit of a bully to me. But that’s all in the past – I can’t believe this has happened.”

“Do you usually catch this train?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes, I’m a chef’s hand at a restaurant in the city and I was just catching the train home after my shift.”

“And did you notice anything unusual?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I boarded the train like normal. I was in the second carriage, seated towards the front, facing the opposite direction. I had my iPod in and was playing with my phone. I’m afraid I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.”

The next suspect questioned was Damien Chiu, a tall, athletic law student who appeared visually upset by the ordeal.

“Oh god, I can’t believe it. Poor Lizzie,” sighed the student.

“You knew the victim?” asked Northrop.

 “Yes, I knew her. She’s an ex-girlfriend of mine. We went out for a couple of years, but our relationship turned sour and we inevitably ended it a month ago. The break up was mutual, I can assure you.”

“Do you usually catch this train?”

“Yes. Lizzie and I used to catch this train together – she’d go to Armadale for work and I’d get off at Huntingdale to go to the law library at Monash. We took it like clockwork. But since the breakup, we obviously sit in separate carriages now.”

“And where exactly were you sitting?”

“In the second carriage, towards the back.”

“Did you notice anything unusual?”

“I’m afraid not. I was facing the front, but I had my earphones in and was watching a film on my iPad.”

The final suspect was Costa Di Pietro, a gaunt, middle aged banker with greying sideburns and thick rimmed glasses. “It’s a most ghastly business,” said Costa as he blotted his forehead with a stained handkerchief, “To think that poor girl was murdered in the carriage right next to us.”

“Did you notice anything?” asked Northrop.

“I’m afraid I can’t say I saw anything – I was too busy reading the Financial Review. I didn’t hear anything either, except the usual rumble of the train.”

“And where were you seated?”

“I was seated in the middle of the carriage, facing the front.”

“Do you usually catch this train?”

“Yes, I try to avoid peak hour. I catch it every afternoon to my home in Armadale.”

“And did you know the victim?” asked Northrop.

“No, not at all,” he replied.

“Murdered in an empty train carriage with not a single witnesss,” said Northrop as the pair left the station and walked out into the bustling Melbourne street scene, “And the killer disappears into thin air. I just don’t get it.”

“Ah yes, quite a clever case here, but not too clever for Sherlock Ho,” declared the inspector to his friend. 

From the author:

Guys! My third mini mystery. Hopefully it makes sense! The title is a homage to Christie's 4:50 from Paddington. Ask for clues and interrogate the suspects! Happy sleuthing!

PS - I know that a train would have more than four passengers at 4:50pm on a weekday, but I had to keep it at 4:50 for the title, and didn't want to complicate it with too many suspects :P

Solution: Death at the Dinner Table

“So who did it?” asked Northrop rather bluntly. His friend smiled at him.

“First we must ask, how they did it,” said Sherlock.

“Well, it was cyanide poisoning – so the cake must have been laced with cyanide,” said Northrop.

“Yet, you admit that you ate the cake and were unaffected.”

“Well, yes.”

“And this cake was brought to the table, and cut into slices and placed onto plates and passed to the guests right in front of us.”

“Perhaps the slice of cake for Father Bishop was tainted with the stuff. Someone could have discreetly added the poison – ”

Sherlock shook his head.

“That would be far too risky,” said Sherlock. “No, it was much simpler than that.”

Northrop frowned.

“I wonder,” said Northrop, “the slice of cake Father Bishop ate was originally intended for Dr Patel. Do you suppose she was meant to be the victim?”

“My friend, you are changing the subject. You must first work out how the poison reached the victim.”

“Well, if it wasn’t by the cake, then it must…oh, it was the spoon that was poisoned!” exclaimed Northop.

“Yes, exactly. And how did the spoon come to be tainted with the poison?”

“Whoever laid out the table must have done so. So that must mean – ”

“Jeannie Goodwin. She laid the table before the guests arrived, and nobody accessed the dining room until dinner was served.”

“But why would she want to murder Father Bishop? Did she know something about the woman in India – Cedric’s fiancée? Perhaps the woman was actually a relative of Dr Patel – a sister perhaps? I feel as if the answer to this mystery lies in India.”

“My word, Northrop,” laughed Sherlock, “You do enjoy mystery novels don’t you. Such interesting tales you spin. What has India to do with this case at all? Just because Cedric’s fiancée was in India and Father Bishop was responsible for her death, and Dr Patel herself is Indian, does not mean that Jeannie Goodwin is connected to India. She herself has never even been to the country. No, for this mystery we must think more locally.”

“Let us review the suspects we have tonight and their respective occupations,” said Sherlock, “The hairdresser – he hears all about the love affairs and the gossip of his clients; the psychiatrist – she has patients who disclose their anxieties, fears and other stresses of the mind; and the priest,” said Sherlock looking intently at his friend, “he has people confess their darkest sins to him.

“Our suspects subsist on the secrets of others. People are willing to confide in them. But what about Jeannie Goodwin?” continued Sherlock, “She is a humble English teacher, teaching now at a local primary school in Melbourne. Who confides in her? Why, the students of course. The children. And what does she do when a child comes to her and tells her he has been wronged? That he has been taken advantage of?”

“You don’t mean – ”

“Father Bishop took advantage of one of her students,” explained Northrop, “She treated her students as if they were her own children – it could be seen by the way she described her class this evening. And her strong reaction to the rumours surrounding Father Bishop’s unsavoury behaviour merely highlighted that something was amiss.

“Jeannie Goodwin sought justice this evening. She knew that even if Father Bishop were found guilty and arrested for his crime, he would merely be jailed and rereleased into the community at a later date – yet that poor boy would remain scarred for the rest of his life. Your cousin had good intentions, Northrop. But unfortunately, such things pave the road to hell.”

Death at the Dinner Table

It had been a last minute invitation. Northrop’s dining companion, Lindsey, had cancelled unexpectedly and Sherlock seemed like the most suitable replacement.

“It’s awfully nice of you,” said Northrop as the two made their way up the path to the front of the house. “Jeannie always throws the best dinner parties. There’s always a delicious spread of food, nice wine and amiable company. It should be most entertaining.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” smiled Sherlock politely as they reached the door. The door opened almost immediately after Northrop gave it a sharp rap.

“Oh, Daniel!” exclaimed Jeannie Goodwin, “You’ve arrived. And who’s this?” She eyed Sherlock thoroughly through a pair of stylish glasses. Northrop introduced his friend and pleasantries were exchanged between Sherlock and the host.

“Please, come in,” said Jeannie excitedly, “Everyone’s sitting in the lounge room. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Northrop and Sherlock made their way down the short hallway, passing the kitchen on their left and the dining room on their right. Sherlock glanced approvingly at the round dining table neatly set for six, complete with polished silverware, sparkling wine glasses and printed name cards. The hallway opened up into a large lounge room dressed with modern, stylish furniture. Three other guests had dispersed themselves amongst the settee.

“Everyone, this is my cousin Daniel and his friend – er – Sherlock,” announced Jeannie, “Please look after them. I’ve just got to check on the roast.” Jeannie smiled and headed back to the kitchen.

“Care for a drink?” asked a small, bald man in a turtleneck sweater. Northrop and Sherlock politely accepted the glasses of wine that were handed to them. “The name’s Cedric Monrose,” said the man, “I’m an old friend of Jeannie’s, and also her hairdresser.”

“Cedric, darling, you must tell me what the latest look is for this summer. I’ve heard delightful things are happening in Paris,” interrupted the prim voice of a woman.

“Oh, I don’t think your patients would be pleased with those Parisian dos. They are very risqué,” replied Cedric with a smile.

“Natasha Patel,” said the woman as she extended a hand to Northrop then to Sherlock. She was dressed modestly in black; her only jewellery was a small, silver cross that hung delicately around her neck.

“Patients?” queried Northrop.

“Yes, I’m a doctor – a psychiatrist,” answered Natasha, “I have a private practice in town.”

“You must meet some interesting people,” smiled Northrop.

“Well, I’m sure not as interesting as Father Bishop,” said Natasha as she turned to the elderly gentleman seated next to her. Northrop and Sherlock exchanged introductions and pleasantries with the man. “Father Bishop’s been around the world apparently, doing missionary work and what not.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said the priest. “Not for some time now though. I actually met Jeannie during a stint in Cambodia. She was an English teacher there and helped with some relief work too. But that was years ago. I lead a much slower life now – I’m head of the local parish.”

After some general small talk and sipping of wine, Jeannie entered the room. “Dinner is served!”

The guests made their way to the dining room. “Father Bishop, you take a seat here next to Dr Patel – I’m sure she would like to hear about your missionary work in India,” directed Jeannie to her guests, “and Cedric dear, you must sit next to me and tell me all about the latest scandals.”

“Us hairdressers do tend to hear about the latest gossip,” explained Cedric as he took his seat between Northrop and Jeannie. Sherlock positioned himself next to Northrop and Father Bishop. “I’m sorry about that name card – I thought Lindsey was coming,” apologised Jeannie as Sherlock took his seat and inspected the folded card in front of him. He smiled politely.

As promised by Northrop, the spread of food was delicious, the wine nice and the company amiable. Father Bishop recollected his adventures overseas, Dr Patel shared some interesting cases she had come across during her time in practice, Jeannie disclosed her students’ recent classroom antics, and Cedric informed everyone of the latest rumours.

Then dessert was served. Jeannie emerged from the kitchen with a large cake. “Flourless almond cake,” she announced. The cake was divided into slices, the slices placed on plates and the plates dispersed amongst the guests. 

“Oh, none for me – I’m allergic to nuts. Here, Father, you can have my share,” said the doctor as she passed him her dessert plate.

“Oh, I do like a nice slice of home-made almond cake,” he said as he retrieved the plate.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Natasha,” exclaimed Jeannie. I completely forgot about your allergy. How about I fix you a bowl of ice-cream? Or some fruit salad?”

“No thanks, Jeannie,” said the doctor, “I’m rather full from the dinner. It was lovely and more than enough.”

As the guests were about to commence eating their dessert, Jeannie cried, “I’ve forgotten the cream! I’ll just go get it.” She rose and left the dining room.

“I don’t need cream to enjoy this,” laughed Father Bishop as he spooned a large spoonful of cake into his mouth and swallowed it happily. “Neither do I,” agreed Northrop as he too ate a mouthful of cake and smiled at the priest.

But Northrop’s smile vanished when he saw the look of distress on the priest’s face.

“He’s choking!” screamed Cedric as the priest’s face flushed pink and he struggled for breath. Dr Patel tried to calm the priest down and was about to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre when he gave one final gasp and collapsed into his half eaten dessert.

Jeannie re-entered the room, gave a shrill scream and dropped the jug of pouring cream onto the floor.

“He’s dead,” announced Dr Patel as she attempted to feel for a pulse but found none, “And it wasn’t by asphyxiation – he was poisoned with cyanide.”

---

The police were called and the four remaining guests and their host adjourned to the lounge to wait for them.

“I can’t believe it,” sighed Jeannie heavily.

“Well,” said Cedric, “Father Bishop wasn’t exactly the most liked man in town.” The others turned to face him.

“What do you mean?” asked Sherlock.

“Rumour has it,” began Cedric, leaning in closer, “that Father Bishop was rather friendly with the altar boys if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, stop it, Cedric,” groaned Jeannie with disgust.

“Well, that’s what I heard anyway,” retorted the hairdresser, “but there was no evidence and the authorities couldn’t do anything.”

“The poor man,” sighed Natasha, “a man of God treated like this. Why would anyone want to murder him?” She looked at the others and her eyebrows furrowed slightly. “I wonder – he must have heard quite a lot of dark secrets when he took confession.”

“I’m sure nothing as juicy as what your patients must tell you. Wasn’t Father Bishop one of your clients?” questioned Cedric. The doctor glared sharply in response.

“That’s none of your business,” she retorted, “There is such a thing as doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“Not when murder is involved,” said Northrop drily.

There was a sudden knock at the front door.

“Ah, the police have arrived,” said Sherlock, and turning to Northrop he whispered, “And I believe I know who they will arrest.”

From the author:

Guys! My second mini-mystery. I hope it makes sense! Ask for clues or interrogate the suspects in the comments section below. Happy sleuthing!

Solution: Murder of a Mathematician

“It’s rather simple,” continued Sherlock. “The door to Desmond Clark’s office was confirmed locked by both Stephen and Lee. The key was found in the pocket of the late professor’s jacket. The only way that key could be there is if it was placed in there after the door had been broken down. There is no way the door could have been locked from the inside.

But who then placed the key in the professor’s jacket pocket? It must be the criminal! Who had the opportunity to do so? Both Stephen and Geraldine had spent time alone in the room¸ whilst Lee had not entered the room at all after discovering the body. Thus, we can eliminate her from suspicion.

Now remember, Geraldine entered the room later, holding in her hands a cup of tea and a snack (later confirmed to be a toasted cheese sandwich) which she had taken directly from the tea room. It would be incredibly difficult for her to swiftly and discreetly retrieve the key hidden on her person and then place it in the deceased’s pocket, when both her hands were occupied. Thus we come to the person who had the opportunity to do so – Stephen! The person who was kneeling by the body and would not draw any added attention.

Here is what I believe happened. Stephen was rifling through the desk of Desmond Clark, hoping to find some evidence that would incriminate him for plagiarism – a serious crime that could end his academic career. Perhaps it was a letter Desmond had written to the Dean? I do not know. Anyway, whilst Stephen is searching for this, Desmond returns early and sees his colleague. There may have been an argument, a plea from Stephen, but there is no fight. Desmond calmly reaches for the phone to call security. Stephen, in a moment of panic, grabs the letter opener from the desk and stabs Desmond in the back. The professor falls to the floor, the wound is fatal. Stephen quickly grabs the incriminating documents, and in his haste, knocks over a pile of papers to the floor. He locks the door of the office behind him, hoping it will buy him some more time.

Unfortunately, he hears footsteps coming up the corridor. He quickly makes it to his office door just as Lee turns the corner. When Lee tells Stephen she has heard some noises coming from Desmond’s office, Stephen quickly agrees and pretends that he had just come out of his office to also investigate. And the rest, you know.”

Murder of a Mathematician

The lifeless body of Desmond Clark, eminent professor of mathematics, lay sprawled across the floor of his office. The ornate hilt of a letter opener protruded from his back, his shirt stained bright crimson. Papers littered the floor around him.

“Strange case here, Ho,” said Sergeant Northrop as he eyed his friend carefully. “Seems the ol’ boffin was stabbed once right through the back – bad enough to be fatal. There were no signs of a struggle, no defense wounds.”

“Yet, the room is in turmoil,” uttered Sherlock Ho as he glanced at some documents on the large, oak desk.

“Could have been a robbery gone wrong,” suggested Northrop. “Killer is caught in the act ransacking the place, professor turns his back to reach for the phone, killer stabs him, and then runs.”

“So it would seem,” said Ho. “But what would be worth stealing from this office? Surely no valuables or money were kept here.”

Northrop shrugged his shoulders. “But here’s the real head scratcher,” smiled the sergeant, “The room was locked – from the inside. And the only key to the room was in the professor’s jacket pocket which he’s wearing.” Sherlock continued to peruse the documents, unstirred.

“Interesting,” he finally said.

“Is that all you have?” said Northrop curtly. He was not pleased by his friend’s apathetic response. “How could the killer stab the professor and leave the room through a locked door? It’s impossible.”

“Who was here at the time of the murder?” asked Sherlock. Northrop glanced briefly at his notebook.

“There were three people,” answered the sergeant, “Mrs Lee Jenkins – the secretary, Dr Stephen Hassim – a fellow professor, and Ms Geraldine Wong – a doctoral student. They’re waiting in the tearoom.”

Sergeant Northrop led the way out of the office, past the reception desk and down towards the tearoom, situated at the other end of the corridor. Sherlock followed closely, admiring the academic posters that lined the walls.

The three suspects were seated around a large dining table. Lee Jenkins was the first to speak. “It’s terrible,” cried the secretary, “utterly incomprehensible. Dear Professor Clark – who could do such a thing?” she looked earnestly at Northrop then at Sherlock.

“What exactly happened, Mrs Jenkins?” asked Sherlock calmly. Lee Jenkins sighed and recounted what had occurred. “I don’t usually come in on the weekends, but there were some urgent documents that needed photocopying for a meeting on Monday. I was just finishing up with the photocopier when I heard something like a loud groan and a dull thud and some other muffled noises coming from down the corridor where Professor Clark’s office, and my reception area, are situated. I hurried down towards the office and bumped into Stephen as he was coming out of his office. He had heard the same strange noises.”

“Yes,” confirmed Stephen, “I was in my office checking some emails when I heard those horrid noises coming from Desmond’s office.”

“We rushed past my desk and to the door of Professor Clark’s office,” continued Lee, “I knocked, but there was no response. I tried opening the door but it was locked. This surprised me as Professor Clark rarely locks his door. He’s the only one with a key. I was very concerned – something was wrong. Stephen also tried the door knob but it wouldn’t budge. Finally, he decided to try forcing the door open. It wasn’t a very sturdy door, so after a few attempts, he managed to ram it down with the weight of his body. That’s when we saw the body.”

Lee Jenkins then burst into uncontrollable sobs.

“Yes, Desmond was lying on the floor, face down, something sticking out of his back, blood everywhere,” continued Stephen, “I raced to him – Desmond – and tried to feel for a pulse. There was none. Mrs Jenkins was standing behind me, in the doorway, frozen. I asked her to call for the police. She managed to snap back and went to the reception desk to phone them. I was kind of just kneeling there, dazed, hoping for Desmond to wake up. That’s when Geraldine came into the room.”

Geraldine Wong looked up. “Yes,” she said, “I had been in the tea room, which is next to the photocopy room, making myself a cup of tea and a snack. I'm afraid I didn't hear anything as I had my headphones in when it happened. I only noticed something was wrong when I was taking my meal back to my room and saw the light was on in the reception area. Mrs Jenkins looked hysterical on the phone. I didn't even know she would be in today. I quickly made my way to the office to see what all the commotion was about.”

“Mrs Jenkins seemed to be taking a while on the phone so I decided to go check on her,” said Stephen Hassim. “I got up and made my way to the reception area. She was on the phone, but I noticed she was now speaking in a hushed tone. When she saw me she quickly hung up – something seemed odd.”

“Oh, dear,” sighed Lee Jenkins, “No, it was nothing. After I called the police, I decided to call my husband. I was just so upset and needed to hear his voice – for reassurance.”

“I thought you were having issues with Mr Jenkins,” said Geraldine slyly as she glanced at the secretary. Lee Jenkins flushed slightly. “What? Oh, my marital affairs having nothing to do with you, you insolent girl!”

“Ha! ‘Affairs’, indeed!” laughed Geraldine, “we all know you and Professor Clark were having one!”

“How dare you!” shrieked Lee defensively, “Desmond was right to cut your scholarship funding – your moral bearing is as weak as your research!”

“Ha!” grinned Geraldine again, “Morality does not seem to have much place in this department. Just take Professor Hassim here. Surely those allegations of plagiarism are not entirely unfounded. Right, Stephen?”

The professor glared at the smiling student. “My work on Pythagoras’ unknown theorem are entirely my own work!” retorted Stephen.

“Desmond would have said otherwise,” said Geraldine, “But I guess it’s too late now. He’s dead.”

“And I know who murdered him,” said Sherlock.

From the Author:

Guys! This is the rebirth of my murder mystery blog which started all those years ago when MSN Spaces was around and Facebook was non-existent. That blog has since (sadly) been deleted and I was unable to salvage the adventures of Archille Parrier and his charming companion Charlene Du. Nevertheless, I hope you will find equal entertainment in helping to solve the mini mysteries of Sherlock Ho and Sergeant Northrop. 

The Murder of a Mathematician is my first mini murder mystery! And it's a locked room mystery! Do you know whodunnit? Ask me for clues! Tell me where I messed up! Happy Sleuthing!

PS - kind of embarrassing, but I've forgotten the proper punctuation/grammar etc. for speech and paragraphs. Oh dear.