Late on Christmas Eve 1881 Detective Inspector Herbert Merriman Swann awoke suddenly in the dining car of the last train from Preston to Stratford-upon-Avon. He hated falling asleep on trains, he saw it as a weakness, that by so doing he was at a disadvantage, at someone else’s mercy. He had no idea where the train was and opened a carriage window to look out. All he could tell as he did so was that it was still snowing very heavily, creating a feeling that the darkness of the night itself was made up of a falling feathery blackness. Swann’s feet were also very cold, as was the dining car itself, which was also empty. He didn’t remember it being empty when he fell asleep. Odd that.

Swann looked at his pocket watch – 11.45. That was odd, too, because the large ornamental clock at Birmingham Snow Hill – the last station Swann could remember with any clarity – had said 9.45, which, taking into account the heavy snow fall during the journey, was only fifteen minutes later than usual, with the expected time of arrival in Stratford, according to the guard, still no later than eleven. Swann replaced his pocket watch and wondered where the last two hours had gone, and where the train was exactly.

The noise of a carriage door slamming made Swann turn toward the sound and reach for his Smith & Wesson revolver he kept in a holster beneath his frock coat. It wasn’t there.

” Who’s there?” he called.

He didn’t really expect a reply, but it was comforting to hear his own voice. The carriage door slammed again. Swann, taking hold of his silver-tipped cane, moved toward the sound as the carriage lights went out.

                                                                            ~
Thirty-three year old Detective Sergeant John Parker had given up waiting for his boss on the freezing platform of Stratford’s new railway station. Instead he had joined the station master in his office for a cup of bad coffee and a Garibaldi biscuit.