Suddenly, when the two trains seemed to have stopped because they were both moving at the same slow speed, a blind flew up and Mrs McGillicuddy looked into the lighted first-class carriage that was only a short distance away.

Then she gasped and stood up.

Standing with his back to the window was a man. His hands were round the throat of a woman, and he was slowly strangling her. Her eyes were wide open and her face was purple. As Mrs McGillicuddy watched, the woman’s body collapsed. At the same time, the other train began to go forward faster and a moment later, it had passed Mrs McGillicuddy’s train and disappeared.

Then the door of her carriage opened and a man said, ‘Ticket, please.’

– 4.50 From Paddington

9.50 From Paddington

In Agatha Christie’s 4.50 from Paddington, Mrs McGillicuddy witnesses a murder. On a train, of all places. After a little shopping spree in London, she boards a train at Paddington station. She was probably wondering, ‘Oh, why didn’t I buy that nice choker from Harrod’s?’ Then she looks out the window, and sees a not-so-nice choker. A man in a neat suit is choking a woman to death on a train running parallel to her own…

Now you will understand why I was so excited. There I was, at London’s Paddington station, clutching an off-peak ticket for the 9.50 from Paddington. I was eagerly looking forward to witnessing a murder or two on passing trains. I am sure most murder mystery fans would have included Paddington on their list of must-see kill zones. But not so fast, said the railway employee at the ticket turnstile, curbing my enthusiasm. “Off peak tickets are valid only after 10 am”, he said in a pukka British Raj voice, though he himself was obviously South Asian. But I was determined not to let British or South Asian conspirators stop me from witnessing locomotivated murders.

I hurried back to the ticket counter, and stood in a long line again. Now most Indians learn basic yoga skills like coping with eternal queues, but Paddington infused me with impatience. I managed to change my ticket to a more expensive, peak hour one and rushed back to the turnstile. The railway employee reluctantly allowed me access to the platform. The 9.50 was impatiently waiting for me, waiting to take me toward murder, mayhem and beyond.

I eagerly rushed into the nearest compartment and plopped down at a window seat, a vantage point from where I could watch upper class whodunits. But alas, fate was in a non-murderous mood that day. The train whooshed out of the station, but absolutely no murders to be seen, not even attempted ones. At this point I would have been quite happy with just a suicide.

The train whooshed past rustic rural scenes, unaware of how disappointed I was with Paddington. Now Indian railway stations would never let you down like this, especially Chennai’s Central Station. Pickpocketing, petty thieving, or at least ticketless traveling… something or the other would usually be going on, probably under the watchful eyes of the railway police. Yes, the police were usually in on profitable crimes, for a percentage of the spoils inevitably found its way into bottomless khaki pockets.

Where there are tired and distracted passengers, there will always be tireless conmen trying to distract you. For instance, friendly tourists would volunteer to look after your belongings, but when you got back from your restroom break, the kind tourist would have vanished. Along with your belongings, of course. Or trustworthy strangers would try to sell you prime properties, including Chennai Central itself. But this would not happen in Britain. No conman could fool a Britisher into buying Paddington. For the good people of England know that Paddington has already been bought by rich Arab sheiks.

Unfortunately Chennai Central could only boast about little larcenies and mini muggings, not violent crimes. One probable exception was the murder of a porter in 2021, but this was no puzzling whodunit. The murdered man had argued heatedly with a rival porter, and tired from all the arguing, had gone to take a nap. As he lay sleeping, the rival porter had bludgeoned him to death with a heavy object. Not headline worthy at all. That’s why, thanks to a little inspiration from Mrs. Christie, I had gone with great expectations to Paddington. But I had to change my opinion of Paddington as a classy, classic crime zone.

As there were no train transgressions happening anywhere, my thoughts turned to an earlier observation. I had been quite amazed at how much Chennai Central looked like Paddington. The old fashioned arched ceiling, a huge waiting hall lined with shops, adjoining just-out-of-sight ticketing rooms, and side-by-side numbered platforms at the end of the waiting hall – very much like Chennai Central. The only difference was that Paddington proudly featured pubs offering rejuvenating beverages to tired travelers, whereas Chennai Central was strictly for teetotalers. But rules do not deter good Indian entrepreneurs. You could always find underage smugglers selling adulterated liquor at exorbitant prices.

On second thought, this architectural similarity between Paddington and Chennai Central was hardly surprising. The British Raj probably wanted familiar looking, feel-at-home facades in all their far flung colonies, including little Paddington lookalikes.

As I unpacked and ate the lunch that had been thoughtfully provided by my hosts, Nehru and his wife Ivy, I realized how impossible it would be to commit a murder on modern trains. In Christie’s book, the murderer tosses the body from the train onto a lonely estate and retrieves it later. But now trains have automatic doors that remain closed, so not possible to throw bodies onto estates, lonely or not. Heck, I could not even throw out the paper that my lunch had been wrapped in.

The only excitement on my journey was a fake luggage theft. We reached Lemington Spa, the last stop on the train. But when I went to the luggage rack near the door of the compartment, I got a shock. My travel bag was gone! Probably stolen by one of my innocent looking fellow passengers, either the merchant bankers in their expensive suits or the chatty school girls. On one hand I was traumatized by my lost bag with its quasi valuables. But on the other, it was good to know that Paddington still produced its fair share of criminals. Probably not murderers, but definitely luggage thieves. Paddington was just like Chennai Central, after all! Just then the train conductor walked in, to chase out sleeping passengers. I told him about my missing bag and he calmly suggested I search again patiently. A few seconds later, I heard his voice asking, ‘Is this your bag?’ There was a little luggage rack in the middle of the compartment, hidden between seats. Unfamiliar with the layout of English trains, I had been searching in the wrong place.

I wonder if I could send my feedback about Paddington to British authorities. They should know that as a visiting tourist and mystery fan, the place failed to rise up to its reputation. But perhaps it was my fault. Perhaps murders happen in the afternoons, after a frustrating day at the office. Or the castle, if you are titled and entitled. I should probably have taken the popular 4.50 instead of the 9.50. And what about the butlers? I am sure there are a lot of butlers around Paddington. At least one of them should have had the sense of duty to follow the butler-did-it tradition.

But maybe it was a good thing I did not see any mysterious murders. In Christie’s book, Mrs. McGillicuddy gets help from her friend, Ms. Marple, to solve the murder. But who could I ask for help? Probably my cousin Pradeep. But I think he is writing a book in Connecticut. Or he’s book hunting in Katpadi. Either way, he’s busy.

I did not see any elite murders or other forms of British violence, but at least I had a delicious vegetable pulao and chicken curry lunch on the 9.50 from Paddington.