Murder at Lost Property

How it begins

"Please describe the contents," Edith said.

The man at the counter swallowed.

"A death certificate."

"Name?"

"Mine."

Edith looked over her glasses.

Lost property attracted a broad range of human difficulty. She had returned dentures, wedding rings, a stuffed badger and a cello whose owner insisted it was a violin with ambitions.

This was new.

"Are you certain?"

"About the certificate?"

"About the ownership."

He pushed a claim ticket across the counter.

The number matched the green suitcase delivered from platform six that morning.

Edith had not yet opened it. Regulation required two members of staff for bags containing valuables, liquids or a suspicious ticking sound. Gus was upstairs arguing with the vending machine.

"Wait here."

The man looked toward the stairs.

"I can't."

"Then it will remain lost."

For the first time, he smiled.

Edith took the suitcase from the shelf. Its handle had been repaired with yellow thread. She noticed repairs. They told her more about people than the things they could afford to replace.

Inside lay a folded shirt, a toothbrush and a sealed envelope.

The certificate named a man aged fifty-two.

The man at her counter looked about fifty-two.

Date of death: tomorrow.

Edith read it again.

Above them, a train announcement apologized for a delay caused by circumstances outside the operator's control. She had heard that phrase often enough to distrust it.

Gus appeared with two cups of tea and an expression of minor victory.

"Machine surrendered."

Edith turned the certificate toward him.

He did not smile.

"Where did this case come from?"

"Platform six."

Gus put down the tea.

"Platform six has been closed since February."

Edith looked back at the counter.

The man was gone.

His claim ticket remained beside a fresh wet circle where one hand had rested.

On its reverse he had written four words.

Please don't lose me.