Christmas Eve 1892, a crisp cold evening with a light dusting of frost on the ground. I remember it well. Cardiff was bustling with festive activity as I pushed my way though the streets towards the Great Western Railway station. My name, H. Mackenzie Thomas. Allow me to introduce myself, newly appointed Manager of the Western Mail no less. Smartly dressed yes, it is important to make a good impression in these modern times, I make sure that I always wear a top hat. Smartly presented, indeed. As I entered the station, I noticed a train was already in the bay on the down-line platform. The platform appeared empty; all the passengers must have got on the train and be awaiting its immediate departure. The carriage was one of those old-fashioned non-corridor types; you know the ones, where you had to enter directly into the compartment. Just a minute, the carriage is already occupied. A very smart young woman in a long blue satin dress and the loveliest dark brown hair in ringlets. She is wearing a matching blue bonnet too to frame her rather cute face, a necessity on this bitterly cold evening. Behave now; I am a married man with two beautiful children, living in wealthy Penarth. Better introduce myself to her though; a gentleman would expect to do nothing less. We were soon engaged in polite conversation.
It seemed that in no time at all, that the steam engine juddered into action, puffing loudly as the train pulled slowly out into the darkness from the gas-lit station platform. I explained how I had finished work for the Christmas period and was carrying a brand new rifle for myself and tied to its muzzle a selection of Christmas boxes as presents for my wife and children carefully selected that very afternoon from the shops in St Mary Street. What a charming conversationalist she was, my journey home would be over in no time.
Wait the train seems to be stopping. Where are we, too soon to be pulling into Penarth, which must be at least 25 minutes away? I will just pop my head out of the window, the manly thing to do to take charge of the situation. Not a sign of anyone, and damn it the carriage lights have just gone out. I glanced back at the lady passenger and reassured her that I would return shortly, not to worry. I clambered down from the coach to set foot on the ground and make my way towards the driver's cab. He was bound to have a satisfactory explanation. Surely, we would be back on our journey in no time.
A startled driver greeted me as I approached the engine, steam hissing from the boiler. He explained that he had thought the train was empty and that he was stationing the night in the sidings at Canton. I found the explanation disturbing but ventured back to the carriage and pulled myself up to peer into the open carriage compartment. My acquaintance seems to have left. May be she tired of waiting and made her own way back along the tracks to the station. There is nothing for it, but to make my way back. I pulled my belongings together, slung my rifle over my shoulder and briskly made my way back through the crisp cold evening.
Making good time, I could see the glare of the main station platform as I approached. Taking the subway down to cross under the tracks, I climbed up the other side and stepped onto the now crowded platform. Wait I can see my young lady in her blue dress in the carriage of the departing train, right in front of me. She glanced my way and smiled. She must have found a quicker way back to make such good time. Step to it. If I am quick I will just make it, open the door to her carriage, and be safely seated to engage in another delightful conversation back to Penarth. May be she has found some news of the mysterious first train and as to why it should have taken us off to the sidings.
As I strode across the glistening platform, between the crowds of waiting passengers, I closed in on the door handle of the coach compartment. Gun over my shoulder, I reached out, what is this; my boots have slid on the slippery surface. I seem to have lost my sense of balance and I am about to slide into the side of the carriage.
The screams could be heard from the women on the platform as the grizzly affair unfolded before their eyes. The steam engine on the train came screeching to a halt a few yards from the platform's end. A bystander remarked, "if only he had let go of the rifle, he could have used his hands so as not to have slipped under the carriage." They gazed down at the carnage that was once my body. No sign of life remained. "Fetch Mr Carr from the Western Mail office - he needs to be told!" exclaimed the platform Guard. "What a sad affair".
So why did Mr Harry Mackenzie Thomas take the later train, why did he end up on the Canton sidings and why did he not release his grip on his rifle in order to save himself? After all, he had taken this same route every evening since taking his post at the Western Mail. We shall never know, as he now resides amongst the bushes in a dark section of the Cemetery.