The Mystery of the Mottled Mattress

I was standing on the platform, waiting for the 08.38 service to Huskbrough. It was a cold, grey day, and the sun beat down remorselessly. Further along the platform a fat man had stumbled and sprained his ankle. A vet had been called, and the man was being put down. The situation made me feel uncomfortable. The train pulled into the station, the wheels screeching in mock ecstasy. I boarded the train, cursing as I realised my lunch (porridge) was leaking out of my briefcase. I sat next to an elderly gentleman. I wasn't sure if he was dead or not, so I jabbed him in the arm with a letter opener. He awoke with a jolt. 'Sorry.' I chuckled. 'I thought you might be dead.' 'Where are you going?' I asked him. 'Industrial Turkshead.' He replied, staring out of the window into the blank darkness of the tunnel. 'What an interesting name for a place!' I cried, delighted by my discovery. 'It's French. It means "City of a thousand hidden delights and terrors". 'Well, that's certainly true! What a terrific name for the place'. I was making headway already. 'Yes, it's German.' He smiled to himself, as though laughing at some secret joke. He winked conspiritorially at me. 'You may call me Johann.' I thrust out my hand. 'Pleased to meet you Johann. My name is mud.' To be continued...?