Blood From a Stone by Dolores Gordon-Smith

fourpence, an open packet of Woodbines, a box of Swan matches, a much-used pipe, a cheap leather tobacco pouch with strong Ship’s tobacco, a smoker’s penknife, a used London bus ticket for the day before yesterday, a stub of pencil and five francs, four centimes in coins.
    Bill jingled the francs in his hand. ‘As you said, there’s a very definite Continental whiff to this,’ he said thoughtfully.
    â€˜He didn’t use French matches,’ commented Jack, looking at the box of Swan. ‘Mind you, I don’t blame him. They’re foul. He hasn’t any keys on him.’ He stepped away from the body. ‘Shall we have a look inside the train? I think we’ve found out more or less all we can here for the time being.’
    They walked out of the office and across the platform to the compartment. Carefully avoiding touching the coachwork, they mounted the steps into the compartment.
    Isabelle had told Jack there was little trace of the murder inside the compartment, and she was right.
    The blue-upholstered seats faced each other between pale yellow wooden-clad walls under the white roof. A Smoking sign was etched into the glass of the window. Beneath the mesh of the luggage rack, the walls were decorated with neat frames containing brightly coloured advertisements for seaside holidays at Eastbourne and Brighton, an advert for Johnnie Walker Red Label whisky and a map of England from London to the coast with the railway lines prominently marked.
    Jack looked at the seaside advertisements with an unexpected lump in his throat. The mind that found pleasure in the images of bright sunshine and children playing on an idealised beach seemed so very far away from the sort of mind that rammed a knife between a man’s ribs and bundled him out of the window.
    â€˜It’s weird, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t know anything had happened.’
    He knelt down and peered beneath the seat.
    â€˜Looking for something in particular?’ asked Bill.
    â€˜Just looking,’ replied Jack in a muffled voice. ‘A string of emeralds to go with the sapphires, perhaps? Hello! There is something here!’ He popped his head back out like an inquisitive tortoise. ‘Pass me my stick, will you?’
    With his stick in hand, Jack looked at the floor and grimaced. ‘Ah well, my suit’s seen better days,’ he said with an air of resigned martyrdom. He lay flat on his stomach and reached under the seat. ‘Got it!’
    Propelled by the stick, a dull metal something shot out from under the seat and onto the floor of the compartment.
    â€˜It’s the sheath of the knife!’ said Bill.
    â€˜There’s something else, too,’ came the voice from under the seat. ‘Here it is.’ He handed out a highly polished flat wooden jewel-case. It was lined with white velvet and clearly
showed the indentations where the necklace had been. ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ called Jack.
    He batted first one, then the other, of a pair of fawn-coloured fine leather gloves into the compartment, then wriggled out from under the seat and levered himself to his knees.
    â€˜Well done,’ said Bill.
    Jack brushed himself down. ‘I’ll send the cleaner’s bill to Scotland Yard.’ His eyes were bright with excitement. ‘There’s bloodstains on one of the gloves, Bill. Look, you can see where the end of the index finger has snagged slightly.’
    Bill picked up the gloves. ‘By jingo, they’re French,’ he said, looking at the label. ‘Look. Marcoux et Cie, Paris.’
    â€˜More French stuff,’ said Jack. ‘That’s quite a haul. ‘So we’ve got a pair of French gloves paired with a French dagger. Ergo we’re looking for a Frenchman?’
    â€˜Perhaps,’ said Bill. ‘But anyone can buy a pair of gloves in Paris and there’s thousands of trench knives, French and