Murder Aboard: Lottie Lindberg Historical Cozy Mystery Series, #2

By Ruby Riverton

A luxury train journey. A unexplained stop. A murderous flash in the dark.
Could Lottie be mixed up in yet another plot for murder?

Magnificence, intrigue & murder abound, in this twisty page-turning historical cozy mystery!

Lottie and Esme are off to Nova Scotia on the Eastern Seaboard of Canada. All is well aboard the infamous Maritime Express until it isn't. Disaster strikes in the form of murder in the first-class coach. Something to do with a bad chess move.

Too bad Inspector Sterling Stone isn't aboard to help the girls figure this one out.

Or is he?

Murder Aboard is Book 2 in The Lottie Lindberg Mystery Series, a clean, lighthearted historical cozy mystery, with no graphic sex, gratuitous violence or strong language on the page, and a side of romance thrown in. It is a globe-trotting, British detective mystery series, featuring amateur sleuths Lottie Lindberg and Esme Loring, and their white West Highland Terrier dog companion Little Dickens. 

 

CAUTION: This series is best read in order.

Other Books In The Lottie Lindberg Historical Cozy Mystery Series Reading Order:

Murder Afloat ~ Book #1
Murder Aboard ~ Book # 2
Murder Afoot ~ Book # 3
Murder Aloft ~ Book # 4
Murder Abroad ~ Book # 5
Murder Abounds ~ Book # 6

With more adventures coming soon!

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookMarked
• Release date: Aug 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201523107

Book preview

Chapter One

My Dearest Manning,

I am writing to let you know I am one of the survivors of the shipwrecked Titanic—the most devastating sea disaster of this century. I know, I can’t believe it either. There was so much loss of life. I am very grateful and thankful to be among the survivors, and have vowed to live my life accordingly, in positive service to others, whenever called upon. 

I am overjoyed to say I came out of it completely unscathed. Though I did spend two days in hospital nursing a terrible cough, due to a touch of hypothermia from the cold, they tell me, from bobbing about in a lifeboat for most of the night in frigid temperatures without being properly dressed for the occasion. Eventually we were rescued by the Carpathia and plucked from the sea. At which point I was shivering so hard, I swore I’d break my teeth. But that was nothing compared to many others who gave up their lives to the depths of the sea that night—men, children, and women alike. 

I count myself among the lucky, as many other survivors endured frostbite while still others suffered delirium. The experience took the fingers, toes, and noses from some, and the minds of others, which doctors say they may never recover. The brave crewmen, who were called to duty and not at all dressed for what the night had in store for them, seemed to fare the worst. Along with the poor men of Titanic, most of whom had no chance to survive, left to go down with the ship.

All in all, out of 2208 souls aboard, 1517 were lost at sea. Of whom eighty percent were men. Passing ships worked hard to recover as many bodies as possible, but many are still unaccounted for, and it is feared they will never be found—gone to join the same fate as the crew in Davy Jones’s locker. Rich men, poor men, men of every class of life, resting side by side in graves at the bottom of the ocean. 

Who thought that could ever happen in America? I sniff.

On a happier note, I have since been released from hospital, although the cough still plagues me, given smelling salts and a powder to ease the coughing, and now sit aboard a train, headed for the most easterly shores of Canada, where I and my newfound friend, Esme Loring—I told you about her, we met aboard Titanic—are scheduled to attend the interment service for her former fiancé, Thaddeus Montgomery. 

Sadly, he was among those who…

I pause at this point and wonder, should I embellish the point to include the fact that he was also a lying, cheating, abusive, money-squandering cad? Or leave it simply stated that he perished? 

In the end, I decide nothing good comes of speaking ill of the dead. No matter how horrid a person was in life. Especially not when putting pen to paper. So I resolve to go with…

He was among those who lost their lives the night of the sinking.

There, that ought to do it. At least, it’s the truth. I put a point on my

---

i ’s and exhale heavily, then gaze out the window at the passing farmland, when a terrible thought comes to mind. If Dear Manning had lived, and had been aboard Titanic with me, would I be on my way to attend his interment as well? I shudder at the thought, and at the vision that comes to me next, of us saying our goodbyes, as so many others did as lifeboats were lowered and blown kisses exchanged. Along with the promises I heard, so many the same, Don’t worry, darling. We’ll see each other again in the morning.

A morning that, for most, would never come. And promises lost. 

My lip quivers, and I lower my head, fighting back tears, and set my pen to paper again. Thankful that our parting, though still terribly raw and painful, did not occur in that way. 

Luckily, I write, carrying on with my previous thought, pushing all others aside, the body of Esme’s fiancé was one of those pulled from the dark, cold sea that night, and he will receive a proper burial. It is said the Canadians, so taken by the loss of the sinking of Titanic, have graciously dedicated a full cemetery yard to this cause. On the banks of the shores of Halifax, where all the dead retrieved from the wreckage of the mighty Titanic are being brought to be laid to rest.  

I agreed to travel to the faraway shores of Nova Scotia in support of Esme as she pays her final respects. Being as I understand what it is to bury someone you love. 

The words catch in my throat, and I have to swallow them back. And catch a tear before it stains the paper. 

As I said, we are traveling there now, by rail, and are due to arrive the day after tomorrow after a switch in trains in the heart of French-Canadian Montreal, where we are scheduled to board the new, luxurious first-class flyer known as The Maritime Express. It travels on the ICR line, which we’re told, will take us directly to Halifax. 

The eastbound train is set to leave Montreal at 4:30 p.m. and will arrive in Halifax the following evening around 6:40 p.m., according to the advert. 

I don’t speak French, as you know, but I’ve always wanted to try, so it looks like I’ll be getting my chance! Though I’m a tad bit worried about this exchange of trains. Hopefully someone at the station will speak English.

As for the mystery aboard Titanic, I suppose I should tell you how it all ended up. It, too, has been solved, thankfully. With a little help from my friends…especially, a new acquaintance… 

I hesitate, my pen hovering over the journal paper.

I was just about to mention Sterling’s name. Would that be proper, or should I leave it out?

I tap the pen handle to my lip and decide on the latter. 

You’d have been proud of me, Manning. I begin again, recounting the events of that day. I alone tracked down and put together all the vital clues necessary to solve the case. And I was terribly brave when it came to the affronting and apprehending of the criminals. Yes, I know, I shouldn’t have done that. It hadn’t been part of my original plan, honestly. It just sort of happened that way. 

I pause.

And I assure you, it was as harrowing a scene as you’re imagining right now. I won’t tell a lie. I was very scared. I can almost see your displeasure as I pen these words, but know this, you were wrong to claim my obsession with crime novels would come to no good end. Quite to the contrary, with fictional Inspector Saunders’s help from my crime books, I was able to get myself out of more than one sticky jam throughout the voyage.  

Of course, I did also have help. From a terrifically supportive cast of clever friends. Esme Loring, for one, whom I already mentioned, has turned out to be quite the brave little daredevil. Much to everyone’s surprise. Along with the infamous Mrs. Margo Brown, who, for her age, turned out to be quite the trooper. She was not only agile on her feet, but an incredibly quick-thinker and tough as nails. You would have loved to meet them both, Manning. I’m sure of it.

Dickens wriggles in my lap, adjusting his position, and lets out a small, grumbling complaint.

Oh, yes, and lest I forget, Dickens was of tremendous assistance as well. I credit him, patting his little white head. Without his brave attack on the culprits, I may never have escaped that closet. He woofs and I scrub under his chin.

In the end, the crime was solved and the criminals exposed. And, well, dealt with…in the harshest manner imaginable. As it is assumed, being they were not found among those rescued on the lifeboats, they all went down with the ship. No one really knows for sure, but that’s what the officials are assuming.

Surprisingly, the murderer turned out to be someone I’d hardly believe was capable. But that’s always the way with crime solving, isn’t it? It is never the one you first suspect. That’s the lesson I’ve learned. I’ll have to remember that if these kind of things keep happening to me.

I hesitate again, pen to paper, imagining Manning sharply shaking his head, no, at me.

I’ll spare you the rest of the details of the event, as just reviewing them has me trembling all over again. Other than to say, as the ship floundered in its final moments, I was seized, had a pistol pulled on me, fought my way out of it, and ultimately had to leap from the ship.

I tell you, Manning, I was terrified, and if it wasn’t for the last-minute heroics of my newfound friend… 

Oh…there I go again. I stop my pen. I was just about to credit the infamous Inspector Sterling Stone. And as much as he is deserving of it, I can’t do it.

Not in the presence of Sterling.

I chew my bottom lip.

Another time, another place, maybe. I sigh, pick up the pen and write this instead…

If it wasn’t for the heroics of all involved, I fear I would not be here writing to you now. 

There. That should do it…

As for the shysters who were involved, they turned out to be gangsters. Some of America’s very worst. Part of an organized band of criminals out of a place called Chicago, notorious for pulling off heists. But thanks to our efforts, they won’t be getting away with that anymore. Nor will the precious item they stole wind up sold on ‘the black market’ as was their plan I’m told. That’s a place where criminals go to sell things they’ve stolen without the police being aware. In case you didn’t know.

As for the item they stole, it is soon to be returned to its rightful owner. Transferred safely out of the hands of the New York City Police Department and back on a ship to England as soon as secure passage can be arranged for it. So you see, all’s well that ends well.

I pause after quoting Shakespeare, then fall deep in thought.

I’ve had a lot of time to think, Manning, during the long, cold night that followed the sinking. All of us alone out there, bobbing around in those tiny lifeboats through the darkness over the vast, open iceberg dotted sea. I shiver at the thought. What I’ve realized is, life is precious and not to be squandered, and I shall live every moment to its fullest now that I’ve been spared.

I’ve also learned there are a great many stars in the skies over the mighty Atlantic. I do believe I wished on every one. Thank goodness, one of my wishes came true, granting me the good fortune to be sitting here, now—alive—and writing to you these words.

For that, I shall be eternally grateful, and continue to miss you daily, with all my heart— 

Oh! We’re almost there! The door to the compartment swings open at my back, a singsongy voice pouring through it. I jump and whirl around. It slaps the back of the wall—the nub of my pen dragging a big, black ink scar across the page as Dickens leaps to his feet in my lap and barks.

Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Esme greets me with a warm smile as my heart pounds in my throat. You either, Dickens. She smiles down at the dog. It’s just… well... She waggles her long, svelte frame excitedly in the doorway. The conductor just announced we’ll be coming into the Montreal station soon. She grins. Time to gather our things and make the switch.

Chapter Two

The train chugs and snorts and rattles upon its descent into the station. Finally, it shunts its way to a passenger-juggling stop outside the station where it exhales heavily, hissing and expelling steam all over the platform, so as one can hardly see the station itself. But for all the billowing gray steam clouds, it appears to be quite lovely and massive. It is as tall as it is long. When at last the steam dissipates into a light, translucent mist, the building finally emerges. That’s grander than I was expecting, Esme quips. Though to be honest, I’m not sure what I was expecting. She smiles, leaning over and bracing her hat as she examines the scene out the window. I guess, I thought Canada was the reserved equivalent of the British Empire. But by the looks of the intricacies of this station, I’m wrong. She grins back at me.

I, too, was under the same false impression. That things would be much simpler and less beautiful here. I don’t know why.

Turns out they’re just as showy as us Brits, aren’t they? Esme adds, giggling. At least when it comes to their architecture? 

Perhaps even a little showier, I add, marveling at the building stretching out before us, the Montreal landmark known as Bonaventure Station, which takes up a full city block. It has magnificent wrap-around porches that grace both the corners of Saint Bonaventure Street and Chaboillez Square where it’s located.

Chaboillez Square. I say the words again in my head. I just love the way French language rolls off the tongue. Though, I certainly hope I’m saying it right.

Quite the architectural jewel, isn’t it? Esme breathes and stares out the window.

I was just thinking the very same thing. I lower the window, both of us leaning out and gazing up to get a better look.

You know, a finer establishment I don’t think I’ve ever seen, Esme gasps, drawing her head back. And all for trains. She shoots me a quick smile.

Yes. All for trains. I grin. It is hard to fathom. They certainly have spared no expense, have they? I say looking up at all its intricate details and rich materials. I reach down onto the seat for the pamphlet we were given along with our tickets, which describes the recent architectural accomplishment. Dickens whimpers, popping his paws up onto the sill. He wants to have a good look too.

Says here …. It’s described as a flamboyant Victorian take on the Romanesque Revival style. I read aloud its formal description to Esme from the pamphlet. Featuring rough-faced square stone construction and the use of heavy masonry brick, including multiple half-round stone arches which grace every doorway and window.

Sounds more like they’re describing a medieval fortress to me, Esme says.

Or an Anglican church back home, I laugh.

Whatever the case, the thing is loaded with lofty sky soaring towers, steeply pitched roofs, and decorative accents from columns to pilasters, to spirals, to thick stone sconces, sculpted in brilliant leaf motif. "A mix of medieval, gothic, and Victorian—never before accomplished in this land—makes this building by architect, Thomas Seaton Scott, a memorable and truly unique creation," I quote the end verse of the advert, then look up again at the building’s soft and arched Victorian-style windows peering out from under stony masonry bays, giving the eerie feeling of being stared at from under the building’s heavy lids.

My only worry is, how on earth are we to commandeer ourselves from one end to the other of it, in time to catch our next train? Esme says. she checks her watch and looks up at me, startled.

She’s right. According to our ticket, we have but a sliver of time in which to disembark this train and make our way to the next one. Which, according to the leaflet, I pause to check, is located at the opposite end of this massive station. If we were to miss the train, we’ll have to wait until tomorrow evening to catch the next one, and arrive into Halifax just in the nick of time for the interment. Which would never do. We’ll need time to gather ourselves at the very least, and prepare for the event.  

Oh, I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure the porters will help us along. I offer her my most comforting smile, but inside I’m worried too. I would hate to be in her position. 

A final whistle blows, and the door peels open on the exiting car. The conductor quickly trundles down the steps that are attached to the train and lays down another wooden step. 

I can hardly wait to see the inside. I smile as we shuffle up the aisleway toward the front.

Neither can I. Esme nervously checks her watch again. Though we won’t be able to admire it for long. We really have to hurry. She grows distressed as the line stops, scowling out the window at the man, who seems to be chatting it with another, now he’s stepped to the platform. Goodness, could we get a move on, please? She motions a hand as if he can see her. "The Maritime Express will not wait."

Good thing our tickets are paid for. They’ll have to wait for us then, I say, gripping the crime novel in my hand, the one I was reading on the train. I stow it away in my back, the glance again at the pamphlet I’m also holding. My eyes catch on the prices of the sleepers aboard the new Maritime Express. Good grief they are steep. Thankfully, our passage has been pre-paid. I don’t know how we’d come up with that. Thaddeus’s generous and grieving family has covered our fare, booking us the very best accommodations available. They really must have a lot of money. Look at that price. I scan the particulars of the infamous ‘bedroom suite’, which according to the pamphlet comprises a full private car, running nearest the end of the train. Why, one could purchase an entire starter home for that price! I gulp and tuck the pamphlet away. I’m not sure I like us owning Thaddeus’s family that expensive a favor.

The line jerk ahead slowly and I shuffle along behind a frantic Esme, cradling Dickens under one arm. The vestibule door ahead on the adjoining car finally prattles open, signaling our turn to disembark. Steam waffles in through the opening, bothering my cough. Dickens whimpers and turns his head. My goodness, the smell of burning coal steam is strong.

You all right? Esme looks at me, her face grave. Do you require your salts?

No. I’ll be fine. I wave her concern away then cover my mouth, still coughing hard. Truth be known, they don’t do much for me anyway. I smile as the conductor’s head appears in the doorway, from down on the platform, and we step right up. He bends, placing a step extender down in front of the train’s iron staircase, extends a hand, and assist the next passenger off the train. Right this way, ladies, and watch your step, he calls out as an eager-to-disembark pair of elderly ladies bustles from the train, just ahead of us in line. 

I stoop to snatch the rest of my belongings of the nearby seat where I’ve been resting them and lurch forward, behind Esme, to be next, my lovely new dusty pink velvet pouch handbag with drawstring mouth swinging from my arm. Esme has a matching one, only it is powder blue in color with jeweled trim. A little fancier than mine. We also have matching steamers, tucked away in back, in the luggage car that the porters will move, and two new leather-bound, ivory handled suitcases we carry. Oh, and of course, Esme’s precious hatbox. Save for the hat I wear on my head, all of my other creations have been lost.  

The new suitcases are filled with all the necessary undergarments a modern lady needs to wear, as well as toiletries and a full, fashionable, brand-new trousseau. Purchased at the finest lady’s garments stores available in New York City. Not by us, of course. But for us, long distance, by Esme’s once-to-be future in-laws. 

In fact, everything we have has been graciously supplied and paid