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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Railway Detective
- Sprache: Englisch
December 1860. Headed for the morning shift at the Swindon Locomotive works is an army of men pouring out of terraced houses built by the GWR, a miniature town and planned community that aims to provide for its employees from cradle to grave. Unfortunately, boiler smith Frank Rodman is headed for the grave sooner than he'd expected, or he will be once his missing head is found. Colbeck, the Railway Detective, finds his investigation into Rodman's murder mired in contradictions. Was the victim a short-tempered brawler, or a committed Christian and chorister who aimed to better himself? On the trail of Rodman's enemy as the season starts to bite, Colbeck finds little festive cheer in the twists and turns of this peculiar case.
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Seitenzahl: 453
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
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A CHRISTMAS RAILWAY MYSTERY
EDWARD MARSTON
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
December, 1860
Betty Rodman was in torment. Anxiety was gnawing at her like a rat eating its way into a sack of grain. Unable to sleep, she was suffering both physical and mental pain. Where on earth was her husband? She was used to his coming home late with the stink of beer on his breath but he’d never been out this long before. It was well past midnight. The early shift began at six in the morning. If he was not there on time, he’d get more than a stern reprimand from the foreman. His job might be in danger and that prospect troubled her more than anything else. Though their house was among the smallest, she liked living in the Railway Village. They’d been there long enough to feel that they were permanent members of the community. They belonged. Betty never stopped telling herself that – in spite of everything – they had a roof over their heads and a place to bring up their three children.
Suddenly, their whole future was in doubt. She felt it in her bones. After brooding for hours, her fears were drowned beneath waves of fatigue and she drifted off in the vain hope that she’d open her eyes to find her husband snoring beside her. It was the baby’s cry that eventually brought her out of her slumber. The child was shivering in the biting cold. Betty clambered out of bed to take her daughter out of her cot and soothe her with quiet words and a warm embrace. When the baby fell asleep again, she put her gently down, covered her with a blanket then dressed in the darkness. Groping her way to the bed, she shook her elder son.
‘Wake up, Davy,’ she said.
The boy stirred resentfully. ‘Leave me be … I’m tired.’
‘I need you to look after Martha and Leonard.’
‘You can do that.’
‘I have to go out.’
‘Then ask Daddy.’
‘Your father’s not here,’ she told him in a voice that brought him fully awake. ‘I’m going out to find him.’
And leaving a six-year-old boy in charge of the baby and his younger brother, she let herself out of the bedroom and padded downstairs. After putting on her coat and hat, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders as an extra barrier against the winter weather but she still shuddered when she stepped out into the street. Betty scurried off past the serried ranks of houses built for its employees by the Great Western Railway Company. Though it was too dark to read the name of the street she was after, she found it by instinct. By the time she reached the house she wanted, she was panting heavily. She banged on the door with both fists and looked up hopefully at the bedroom above. When she saw a glimpse of candlelight, she heaved a sigh of relief. Seconds later, the door was opened by a sturdy man in his thirties, wearing a nightshirt.
‘Is that you, Betty?’ he asked, peering through blurred eyes.
‘Where’s Frank?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘But he went off to the pub with you.’
‘He was still there when I left.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Look, you shouldn’t be out there in the cold. Step inside.’
‘I just want to know where my husband is.’
‘He should have come home hours ago.’
‘Well, he didn’t. So where can he be?’
‘I wish I knew,’ said Fred Alford, scratching his head. ‘Frank can usually hold his beer but p’raps he had too much this time and passed out somewhere. I’ll put my clothes on and help you to search.’
‘Did anything happen at the pub?’
‘No, no. He just had a drink with us.’
‘You know what I’m asking,’ she said, meaningfully.
‘There was nothing like that, Betty.’
‘Are you sure? He’s come home with blood on his face so many times.’
‘Frank was on his best behaviour. There was no fight.’
Wanting to reassure her, he suppressed the fact that his friend had got into a heated argument with another man from the Works. They’d reached the stage of growling threats at each other. Alford had tried to drag Rodman away but had been shrugged off. The row could easily have descended into violence but Alford didn’t want to alarm Betty by telling her that. She needed hope.
‘Wait until I put some clothes on,’ he said, easing her into the house, ‘and stop worrying about him. He’ll be fine, I’m sure. Frank’s got his faults, as we all know, but he can look after himself.’
The naked body was flat on its back, the ankles bound and the palms tied firmly together as if he was praying for the return of his missing head.
CHAPTER TWO
When the call came, they were in Colbeck’s office, reviewing their latest case and wondering why the killer had chosen to commit suicide rather than face arrest.
‘It was a dramatic confession of guilt,’ said Colbeck, ‘and it saved us an appearance in court. The man hanged himself in private to avoid the ordeal of being hanged in public.’
They were interrupted by the messenger who stressed the urgency of the summons. It set off alarm bells for Leeming.
‘I knew it,’ he said, mournfully. ‘With only ten days to go to Christmas, the superintendent is about to send us hundreds of miles away from London.’
‘You’re being unduly pessimistic, Victor.’
‘It’s happened before. Three years ago, we spent Christmas Day arresting a man in Cornwall. The same thing could happen again.’
‘That’s highly unlikely,’ said Colbeck with a smile. ‘That particular individual paid the ultimate price for the murder of his wife. Of one thing you may be certain – there’ll be no need for us to go to Truro again.’
‘You know what I mean, sir.’
‘I do, Victor, and I share your concern. There have been occasions when the festive season didn’t exist for us. I’m hoping that we can at least salvage part of it this year. Our daughter will be enjoying her first Christmas, remember. I want to be there to celebrate it with her.’
‘I don’t blame you. It’s the one day of the year when a family should be together. The superintendent doesn’t realise that because he lives on his own.’
‘He does so by choice.’
‘It’s unnatural. Everyone needs company.’
‘He’s the exception to the rule. In fact, he’s the exception to most rules.’ Leaving the room, he led the way along the corridor. ‘Let’s hope that he has an assignment for us here in the capital.’
‘No chance of that!’ murmured Leeming.
After knocking on his door, they went into Edward Tallis’s office and stood side by side in front of his desk. By way of a greeting, he growled at them.
‘What kept you?’
‘We were detained for a few moments, sir,’ said Colbeck.
‘You were too busy gossiping to obey an order,’ said the superintendent. ‘A summons is a summons. I’ll brook no delay.’
‘You have our apologies.’
‘I’d rather have you responding instantly to a command.’
‘We’re here now, sir,’ Leeming pointed out.
‘Thank you for telling me,’ said Tallis, sarcastically. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Do you have another case for us, Superintendent?’ asked Colbeck.
‘Why else should I send for you?’
‘Can we work in London this time?’ pleaded Leeming.
‘You’ll go where you’re needed.’
‘It’s not Scotland again, is it?’
‘If you’ll shut up,’ said Tallis, quelling him with a stare, ‘I’ll tell you.’ He picked up a telegraph. ‘This was sent by the manager of the GWR Works in Swindon. He asks specifically for the Railway Detective.’
‘That’s very gratifying,’ said Colbeck. ‘What are the details?’
‘Very few, I regret to say. The headless body of an employee has been found on the premises. We have no name of the deceased, no address, no description of him, no suspects.’
‘And no head,’ said Leeming, involuntarily.
Tallis grimaced. ‘That observation is in the worst possible taste, Sergeant.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ whispered the other. ‘It slipped out.’
‘We need to be on the next train to Swindon,’ said Colbeck. ‘That means travelling on the broad gauge of the GWR. It’s less than eighty miles away in total and we have a favourable gradient all the way.’ He extended a hand. ‘May I see the telegraph, please?’ Tallis gave it to him. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘We’ve got only ten days to solve the crime,’ moaned Leeming.
‘Then we mustn’t waste a minute of them.’
‘If there’s been no arrest by Christmas,’ warned Tallis, ‘you must stay on in Wiltshire until you track down the culprit.’
‘We’ll do our best to avoid that situation,’ said Colbeck. ‘Come on, Sergeant.’
Tallis raised a hand. ‘One moment …’
‘Was there something else, Superintendent?’
‘Yes, there was. This weekend, I’m vacating my command here in order to attend a reunion of my regiment. As a matter of fact,’ he went on, straightening his shoulders, ‘I am to receive a prestigious award.’
‘Congratulations, sir.’
‘I’ll be here until Friday morning then I’m away until Monday. In my absence, you’ll report to the man I’ve appointed as Acting Superintendent.’
‘The obvious man to replace you,’ said Leeming, ‘is Inspector Colbeck.’
‘The obvious choice is not always the best choice.’
‘Whoever he might be,’ said Colbeck, ignoring the slight, ‘we’ll report to him in your stead. May we know his name?’
‘Inspector Grosvenor.’
Leeming was aghast. ‘It’s not Mouldy Grosvenor, surely!’
‘His name is Martin,’ said Tallis, acidly.
‘I’d be a better choice than him.’
‘Do you dare to question my decision?’
‘The sergeant respects it as much as I do, sir,’ said Colbeck, anxious to get Leeming out of there before he provoked the superintendent into unleashing one of his blistering tirades. ‘Time to go,’ he continued, taking his colleague by the arm and more or less pulling him to the door. ‘We’ll be in touch, sir.’
And before Leeming could speak again, he was hauled out of the room.
The Erecting Shop was a large building where the multiple parts of a locomotive were fitted carefully together. As a rule, it was a clamorous place, obliging those who worked there to shout over the pandemonium of pounding hammers, clanking chains, hissing steam and the resounding thud of cranes. Today, however, it was eerily silent. Because the corpse had been discovered there that morning, work had been suspended for a while out of respect for the dead man. Even places like the Foundry and the Boiler Shop – both of them a source of continuous tumult – were muted. It was possible for once to hold something akin to a normal conversation.
At first glance, the two men appeared to be wearing the same uniform but, in fact, they belonged to different police forces and had very different powers. Edgar Fellowes was employed by the GWR and his authority was limited to railway property. He was a grizzled man in his fifties with a pockmarked face. Jared Piercey was ten years younger, a tall, cadaverous, sharp-featured inspector in the local constabulary. He was stationed in what was now known as the Old Town of Swindon to distinguish it from the New Town, the railway community, close to a mile away. When news of the discovery reached him, he’d been buoyed by the thought that he’d be in charge of his first murder investigation, only to learn on arrival that the manager had been in touch with Scotland Yard.
‘We could handle this case ourselves,’ he asserted.
‘Mr Stinson wanted the best man for the job,’ said Fellowes.
‘I am the best man.’
‘The Railway Detective has a good reputation.’
‘We don’t need him blundering around here. I have local knowledge and a feel for what goes on in this community.’
‘I live here,’ said the other, inflating his chest. ‘You don’t.’
‘Were you a friend of the victim?’
‘Frank Rodman didn’t have any friends.’
‘Who identified him?’
‘I did,’ said Fellowes.
‘Even though someone had cut off his head?’
‘I recognised him immediately by the tattoos on his arms. He always worked with his sleeves rolled up because of the heat in the Brass Foundry. They call it Hell’s Kitchen.’
‘Why did he have no friends?’ asked Piercey.
‘He was much better at making enemies.’
‘Oh?’
‘Rodman was always spoiling for a fight.’
‘Then how did he manage to keep his job?’
‘Oh, he never struck a blow while he was at work and, by all accounts, he was very good at what he did. Off duty, it was a different story. If you crossed him in a pub, you’d find him waiting outside for you.’
‘Was he ever violent with you?’
‘I kept out of his way,’ said Fellowes, ‘just like most of his workmates.’
‘So there won’t be many tears shed over his death.’
‘There’ll be little sympathy for Rodman himself. It’ll be reserved for his wife, Betty, a long-suffering woman if ever there was one. She’ll be left with horrible memories of his murder and with three kiddies to support.’
‘You speak as if you know her.’
Fellowes gave a wan smile. ‘Everyone knows Betty Rodman,’ he said. ‘She’s a lovely woman and was saddled with that angry husband of hers. We’ll be sorry to lose her from the village.’
Hands behind his back, Piercey walked across to the spot where the body had been found and where there was an ominous pool of blood. It was in the shadow of a half-assembled locomotive. Having examined the corpse alongside the Works doctor, Piercey had had it covered by a sheet and removed. He stared meditatively at the blood for some time before turning to Fellowes.
‘Have you any idea who might have killed him?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
Piercey looked around. ‘How did they get in here?’
‘There are ways and means, Inspector.’
‘Someone is on duty all night, surely?’
‘We have regular patrols and, of course, there’ll be a nightwatchman on duty to keep everything alight.’
‘Then why did nobody see anything?’ demanded Piercey. ‘Someone carrying a dead body is bound to be conspicuous.’
‘There’s your first clue.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Shame on you, Inspector,’ mocked the other. ‘A man in your position should have spotted it right away. I bet that the Railway Detective will see it immediately.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Look at the circumstances,’ said Fellowes, enjoying the inspector’s patent discomfort. ‘A corpse is lugged in here during the night and trussed up. The blood on the floor tells you that Rodman’s head was severed on that exact spot. A stranger wouldn’t know how to get into this place without being seen. In other words,’ he went on, pausing before delivering his conclusion, ‘the killer is one of us.’
Before they left, the detectives each dashed off a letter to their respective wives, to be delivered by hand, explaining their departure and likely absence for some time. Both had learnt from experience to keep changes of clothing at Scotland Yard in case they had to leave the city without warning. A cab took them to Paddington and they boarded a train to Plymouth that would stop at Swindon. It was only when they’d settled into an empty compartment that they were able to reflect on what Tallis had told them. Leeming was still simmering.
‘It’s an insult to you, sir,’ he said.
‘I didn’t see it as such, Victor.’
‘Mouldy Grosvenor can’t hold a candle to you.’
‘Evidently, the superintendent believes that he can. Nothing we can say will alter that. It’s kind of you to take up the cudgels on my behalf but perhaps you should see the advantage of having Inspector Grosvenor as the acting superintendent.’
‘There is no advantage.’
‘Think again.’
‘Even if it’s only for a weekend, I hate the thought of Mouldy having power over us. Mark my words – he’ll use it to punish us.’
‘What would happen if I’d been chosen to replace the superintendent?’
‘Justice would have been done.’
‘That may be so but it would have chained me to a desk. I was in that position once before, if you recall, and I felt like a fish out of water. I don’t want promotion, Victor. I already have what I desire and that’s to be leading a murder investigation with an able sergeant beside me. The truth of it is that Inspector Grosvenor is a better choice because he’ll relish the role.’
‘I still don’t see any advantage for me.’
‘What would happen if I were the acting superintendent?’
‘I’d have to work with another inspector.’
‘Precisely,’ said Colbeck, ‘and the most likely person is …’
Leeming’s face fell. ‘Mouldy Grosvenor!’
‘You’ve been saved from that grisly fate, so there’s no need to generate any righteous indignation on my behalf. It’s all for the best, Victor. We carry on together. I know full well that the inspector is a nasty, egotistic, ambitious, small-minded man who bears grudges, but his elevation in rank will only last for three days at most.’ He removed his top hat and set it down beside him. ‘I think we’re clever enough to keep out of his way for that long, don’t you?’
CHAPTER THREE
When she first heard the news, Betty Rodman felt as if she’d just been hit by a locomotive travelling at speed. She was in a complete daze. It was only when the shock slowly began to wear off that painful questions began to form in her mind. Who had murdered her husband? Why had they done it? What would happen to her children? How could she shield them from the ugly truth? When would she be turned out of the house? Where could they all go?
Fortunately, she was not left alone. The neighbours quickly rallied around her. Women who’d been afraid of Frank Rodman and kept their distance from his family now took pity on her. They fed the children then took them off Betty’s hands, leaving her alone with her one true female friend in the village. Liza Alford was the wife of Frederick Alford, the only man who enjoyed spending time with Rodman and who’d saved him over the years from many situations when the latter’s temper was roused. On the previous night, he’d left his friend alone at the pub so that he could get home early to his wife.
‘Fred blames himself,’ said Liza. ‘He should have stayed with Frank.’
‘It’s not his fault. Nobody could have been kinder to us. When I needed help, Fred was the only person I could turn to. He’s been a rock. Who else would have got out of bed like that and helped me to search?’
‘He loves you, Betty – both you and Frank.’
‘I can’t thank him enough,’ said the other, dabbing at her tears with an already moist handkerchief. ‘What’s going to become of us? We have no future here. They’ll want this place for another family.’ She shuddered. ‘It’s frightening. We could end up in a workhouse.’
‘Don’t keep fearing the worst. If they force you out, you and the children can move in with us for a while.’
‘But there’s already six of you in that house.’
‘We’ll squeeze you in somehow.’
Liza Alford was a motherly woman in her early thirties with plain features and a spreading girth. Betty, by contrast, had kept her youthful shapeliness. Distorted by misery now, her face still retained much of the beauty that had made her so popular with the other sex. In marrying Rodman, she’d frightened other suitors away. They had to be content with watching her wistfully from a distance.
‘Who can it be, Liza?’ she asked.
‘Don’t keep asking that.’
‘Who could have hated my husband so much that he did that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What does Fred think? Did he suggest any names?’
‘There’s no point in making wild guesses.’
‘I have to know,’ said Betty, grimly. ‘I won’t rest until then.’
‘You just think about yourself and the children.’
‘That monster killed my husband.’
She burst into tears again. All that Liza could do was to enfold her in her arms and rock her to and fro. It was minutes before the sobbing ceased. Pulling away from her friend, Betty began to dry her eyes once more.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘There’s no need.’
‘I have to be strong for the children. They mustn’t see me like this.’
‘You have to grieve, Betty. It’s human nature.’
‘They’ll grow up without a father.’
‘But they have a wonderful mother. One day, they’ll appreciate that.’
‘I don’t feel very wonderful at the moment. I feel so … hopeless.’
‘You’ll pull through somehow and we’ll be there to help.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Lean on us, Betty.’
‘He might still be here,’ said Betty, sitting upright. ‘The murderer might still be among us with a smile on his face. Who is he, Liza? Will they ever catch him?’
‘Oh, he’ll be caught. There’s a rumour that someone famous is coming from London to solve the crime. I don’t know anything about him except that he always finds the killer, however long it takes.’
Oswald Stinson was the general manager of the Works, a stout, pale-faced man of middle years with a bushy moustache diverting attention from his bulbous nose and watery eyes. While introductions were made, Colbeck admired the cut of the man’s frock coat and the way that his tailor had designed the waistcoat to diminish the size of the paunch. They were standing beside the spot where the lifeless body had been found. Close by was a patch of vomit. Edgar Fellowes stepped forward.
‘I can explain that,’ he said, importantly. ‘Zeb Reynolds, the man who actually discovered the corpse, emptied his stomach there and then.’
‘How soon were you called?’ asked Colbeck.
‘I was here within minutes.’
‘Then you’ll have valuable information to give us. Please go with Sergeant Leeming and he’ll take a full statement from you.’
Fellowes was disappointed. ‘Don’t you need me here?’
‘Not at the moment.’
Colbeck nodded to Leeming who led the railway policeman away.
‘It was good of you to come so quickly,’ said Stinson.
‘An emergency like this deserves an immediate response, sir. I know how anxious you’ll be to get this place operative again.’
‘We work to a tight schedule, Inspector. This locomotive, for instance, is due to be finished and dispatched by tomorrow morning. The sooner we let the men back in here, the better.’
‘When I’ve familiarised myself with the layout of this Shop, you’ll be able to recall your staff. Where is the body now?’
‘I had it removed,’ said Piercey. ‘When you’re ready, I’ll take you to see it.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Needless to say, you’ll get full support from us.’
‘That’s heartening. We’re not always made welcome by local constabularies.’
‘You’ll have no complaints against us, Inspector.’
Though he was writhing with envy, Piercey maintained an expression of polite subservience because he was keen to remain an active part of the investigation.
‘I’ve already established most of the relevant details,’ he said, airily. ‘That should save you some valuable time, Inspector.’
‘I look forward to hearing what you found out.’
‘What puzzles us is how the killer managed to get the dead body in here.’
‘Aren’t you making a dangerous assumption?’ asked Colbeck. ‘How do you know that the victim wasn’t alive when he came here?’
‘Is that likely?’
‘It’s a possibility you mustn’t discount. Put yourself in the position of the killer. Would you prefer to carry a heavy body into the Works or would you take the more sensible option of making him walk in here with you?’
Piercey gaped. ‘Are you saying that the murder took place here?’
‘That would be my guess.’
‘The victim would never come of his own accord, surely?’
‘Granted, but if a man has a gun pressed against his head, he’ll have a tendency to cooperate with the person holding it.’
‘That sounds a persuasive theory to me,’ said Stinson.
‘But it is only a theory, sir,’ Colbeck reminded him. ‘Instead of worrying about how they got in here, I’d prefer to find out how the killer got out. When he hacked off the victim’s head, he left this pool of blood. How did he carry off his trophy? He’d hardly tuck it under his arm like a football. The likelihood is that he had some kind of canvas bag or sack. Blood would still be dripping from the neck and, in all probability, it would soon seep through.’ He fixed Piercey with a steely gaze. ‘Have you searched in here for a trail of blood?’
‘No, I … haven’t had the time to do so.’
‘Then I’ll be grateful if you’ll both leave me alone to conduct my own search. When it’s completed,’ said Colbeck, turning to Stinson, ‘I suggest that you get someone to throw sawdust over this mess then sweep it up and remove it. Once that’s done, you can get this place back into production.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ said the manager with a sigh of relief.
‘What about me?’ asked Piercey. ‘Shall I help in the search?’
‘I’d rather do that by myself,’ replied Colbeck. ‘Please wait right here until I’ve finished. You can then take me to view the body.’ He glanced from one to the other. ‘Are there any more questions?’
The two men were too bemused to speak.
Though he was quickly aware of the man’s shortcomings, Leeming grew to like Edgar Fellowes. He might be pompous, assertive and have an irritating habit of gesticulating frantically while he spoke but the older man was also intelligent, perceptive and conscientious. Called to the scene, he’d quickly taken charge, cleared everyone out of the Erecting Shop and set about taking statements. His pocketbook was a mine of useful information. Of particular use to Leeming was the list of names garnered. He singled one out immediately.
‘Tell me about Fred Alford,’ he said.
‘Insofar as Rodman actually had a friend, Alford was him.’
‘What sort of a person, is he?’
‘He’s a good, honest, hard-working foundryman.’
‘I’d like to meet him.’
‘Then I can give you his address.’
Fellowes did so without having to refer to his pocketbook. Leeming jotted it down then looked up at the railway policeman with interest.
‘Is he a neighbour of yours?’
‘No, Sergeant, I live a hundred yards away but I have a knack of remembering details about people.’ He tapped his skull. ‘I’ve got dozens and dozens of addresses locked away in here. In Alford’s case, I once saw him leave the Glue Pot – that’s the pub on the corner of Emlyn Square – and walk to his house. I made a mental note.’
‘What’s the beer like in the Glue Pot?’
‘It’s very good.’
‘That’s the most useful thing you’ve told me so far.’
Exposing a row of yellowing teeth, Fellowes cackled. They were in the hut that the railway policemen used. It was makeshift but snug, a refuge where they could rest, exchange gossip and have basic refreshments. Leeming warmed to the man.
‘Let’s go back to Alford,’ he said. ‘According to you, he was drinking in the pub with Rodman last night.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So it must have been the Glue Pot.’
‘No, it was the Queen’s Tap. Frank Rodman was barred from the Glue Pot months ago. He shifted to the Queen’s Tap.’
‘Alford left him there arguing with someone.’
‘That’s what he told me.’
‘Did he give you a name of the other person?’
‘No, but I’ve a good idea who it might have been.’
‘Go on.’
‘It was somebody by the name of Jones, Evans, Thomas or Williams.’
Leeming laughed derisively. ‘That’s a great help, I must say!’
‘Listen to what I’m telling you. It was one of those Welshmen. They’ve been a damned nuisance ever since they came.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Earlier this year, the new rolling mills were opened and Mr Stinson needed people to work in them. He imported steelworkers from over the border – about twenty in number. They brought their children with them.’
‘That sounds reasonable. You’d expect whole families to come.’
‘There was no proper accommodation for them, Sergeant, so they were dumped in the barracks.’
‘I didn’t know you had an army stationed here.’
‘We don’t,’ said Fellowes. ‘There’s a building that used to be occupied by single men and we called it the barracks. It was half-empty so bits of it were converted into units big enough for a family. Then the invasion began.’
‘I wouldn’t call twenty families an invasion.’
‘You don’t have to live beside them.’
‘Has there been friction?’
‘There’s been nothing else,’ said Fellowes, bitterly. ‘They share the communal facilities of washing, cooking, the bakehouse and so on with families already here. Rows break out every day. Those Welsh women are nothing but screeching harpies. They terrify their neighbours.’
‘I’m not sure that I believe that,’ said Leeming, tolerantly. ‘I’ve met lots of Welsh people and worked alongside some of them. They get a bit morose at times but they’re usually friendly and they’re not afraid of hard work.’
‘Go to the barracks and you’ll soon change your mind.’
‘Supposing you’re right …’
Fellowes was categorical. ‘I am right, Sergeant.’
‘Then Rodman got into an argument with someone from the rolling mills.’
‘I’m certain of it.’
‘Alford will be able to confirm that.’
‘He may have left before the trouble started.’
‘Are you saying that the murder was revenge for something?’
‘That would be my guess.’
‘You’re making a very serious accusation.’
‘I’ve been brooding on it,’ said Fellowes. ‘When I was asked by Inspector Piercey for any likely names, I couldn’t give him any. But the more I think about it, the more certain I am that one of those leek-eating bastards was involved. Frank Rodman was a tough man. It would’ve needed someone big and powerful to kill him. Some of those Welshmen are as strong as an ox. Wait till you see them. That’s where you and Inspector Colbeck should start looking,’ he insisted. ‘The villain is living somewhere in the barracks.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Edward Tallis was solid man of sixty with a backbone so straight and vertical that it seemed to have been welded into position. Robust for his age, he had short, grey hair and a neat moustache thrown into relief by his ruddy complexion. He exuded authority. As he sat in his office and thought fondly about the weekend ahead among old army friends, he allowed himself the luxury of a cigar. Smoke was still curling around him when there was a tap on the door and it opened to reveal Inspector Martin Grosvenor.
‘Is this a convenient moment?’ asked the visitor.
‘It’s as good as any other.’
‘Then I’m at your command, sir.’
Closing the door behind him, Grosvenor gave the sly smile for which he was well known among his colleagues. Dark-haired, stooping and of medium height, he had an apologetic air about him in the presence of a superior.
‘Have you told Inspector Colbeck?’ he asked.
‘He and Sergeant Leeming have both been informed.’
‘How did they react?’
‘That’s neither here nor there, Inspector. It was my decision and they have to accept it. I’ve sent them off to Swindon to investigate a gruesome murder.’
‘Oh … I’m sorry to hear that.’
Hoping to crow over his rival, Grosvenor was piqued that Colbeck was no longer at Scotland Yard and might be away for some time. One of the main attractions of being promoted above him – albeit for a weekend – was that it gave him a chance to bark orders at the man who’d become so prominent in the Detective Department.
‘I was hoping to have a word with him about his appearance.’
‘Colbeck has always been a dandy. It’s in his nature.’
‘He dresses in a way that’s wholly inappropriate.’
‘I used to feel that but I’ve learnt to live with his idiosyncrasies. If he continues to solve heinous crimes the way that he does, I don’t care if he wears a loincloth and has a bone through his nose.’
Grosvenor gave a tinny laugh but he was squirming inside. He made a virtue of being nondescript. His apparel was smart yet intentionally dull, a shell into which he could withdraw from time to time like an apprehensive tortoise. Colbeck’s poise and brimming confidence had always exasperated him. There was a long history of tussles between them and Grosvenor had always come off worst from the encounters. He’d been looking forward to getting his own back on Colbeck.
‘Right,’ said Tallis, indicating the sheaf of paper in front of him, ‘everything you need to know is here. All the cases are listed with the names of the detectives deployed to handle them. In the short time before I leave, I can guarantee that a number of other crimes will come to our attention. Even as we speak, some sort of nefarious activity is taking place. I’ll assign the new cases but, when I leave on Friday morning, you’ll have to deal with all reported crimes that flood in.’
‘I’m fully prepared for that, Superintendent.’
‘That’s why I selected you. I wanted a safe pair of hands.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Also, if truth be told, I’ve always thought that you’d be more productive behind a desk than working out in the field. Your record of arrests hasn’t exactly been impressive.’
Grosvenor winced. ‘Nobody has been more industrious than me.’
‘I agree but you’ve yet to convert industry into consistent success. Try to follow Colbeck’s example. He has an uncanny knack of catching villains.’
‘Fortune has always favoured the inspector, I agree.’
‘There’s more to it than that. His methods are highly questionable and do infuriate me at times but they do yield results.’
‘I’m not sure that the end always justifies the means, sir.’
‘That’s a judgement you’ll have to make over the weekend. Meanwhile,’ said Tallis, handing him the sheaf of papers, ‘I advise you to study everything that I’ve set down. When you sit in this chair, you must be fully prepared.’
‘I will be, Superintendent.’ The sly smile returned. ‘Where did you say that Colbeck was at the moment?’
‘Swindon.’
‘Swindon!’ said Caleb Andrews with disgust. ‘He’s working for the GWR?’
‘Robert has to go wherever he’s sent, Father.’
‘I feel betrayed, Maddy.’
‘Don’t be so silly.’
‘He knows how I feel about Brunel and his despicable railway company.’
‘Robert has a great respect for his achievements and you should remember that Mr Brunel passed away last year. Never speak ill of the dead.’
Madeleine Colbeck knew that trying to defend the late Isambard Kingdom Brunel was a forlorn exercise. Because he’d spend his entire working life with rival railway companies, Andrews despised the GWR and poured scorn on its obsession with the broad gauge. The retired engine driver had spent most of his career on the footplate of locomotives from the LNWR, boasting for year after year that it had no peer. When his son-in-law was engaged to help another company, he was always critical but, when it happened to be the GWR, he was incensed.
‘Robert is their best detective,’ he said, jabbing a finger at her.
‘That’s one thing we can agree on, Father.’
‘Then he should be in a position to pick and choose his cases.’
‘Well, he’s not. If there’s an appeal for his help, he’ll respond to it. This time it happens to come from Wiltshire.’
‘But we’re only ten days from Christmas.’
‘I’m well aware of that.’
‘Trust the GWR to spoil it for you. While you and I are having Christmas dinner with my gorgeous little granddaughter, Robert will be tied down in the Railway Village in Swindon.’
‘I have more faith in him,’ said Madeleine, loyally. ‘He’ll solve the murder in time to be home for Christmas.’
‘What if he isn’t?’
She left the question hanging in the air. Though she was always pleased to see her father, there were occasions when his prejudices offended her. Had the murder victim been an employee of the LNWR, Andrews would have been gushing with sympathy. Since he was in the pay of the GWR, however, the man aroused no compassion whatsoever in him. Andrews was a short, wiry individual in his sixties with a fringe beard threatening to turn from grey to white, but his fiery nature was undimmed by time. He’d been delighted when his daughter, a young woman of humble birth, had met and married the Railway Detective. Even after all this time, however, he was never at home in the fine house in Westminster with its many rooms, relative opulence and efficient servants. It was a far cry from the place where Madeleine had been born and brought up. While she had slowly come to accept it as the place where she deserved to be, Andrews still felt uneasy.
‘I thought you came here to see Helen,’ she said, ‘not to lose your temper.’
‘I’m sorry, Maddy. I didn’t mean it.’
‘If you’re likely to starting ranting about the GWR, I’m not taking you up to your granddaughter.’
‘Try stopping me.’
‘I’m serious, Father.’
‘So am I. Robert’s parents are both dead and so is your dear mother – God bless her. In short, I’m the only grandparent that Helen has and that gives me special rights. None of us will live for ever, Maddy,’ he went on, ‘so make the most of me while I’m still above ground. Helen needs to have someone from my generation in her little life. Don’t you agree?’
‘Of course,’ she said, kissing her father on the cheek. ‘Let’s go up to the nursery, shall we?’
Linking arms, they went happily up the stairs together.
During his years as doctor at the Works, Gordon Burnaby had seen some grotesque sights. By its very nature, it was a place beset by hazards. In the course of their work, men had been blinded, severely burnt, left with serious fractures, suffered hideous disfigurement or, in some cases, died from wounds they’d picked up during their shift. Inured to the horrors of the job, he’d nevertheless been shaken when he first saw the corpse of Frank Rodman. It now rested on a table in the room used as his surgery. After issuing a warning to Colbeck, he pulled back the sheet to reveal the body. The inspector had visited too many morgues to be unsettled. While the doctor had looked at the victim as a pitiable human being, Colbeck treated him primarily as a source of clues. He first noticed the man’s muscularity, realising that Rodman would never have been easily overpowered in a fight. His eyes then roved over the vivid tattoos on both arms and on the bare chest. There were mermaids, an anchor, a whale and a variety of fish. A five-masted clipper had pride of place on his chest. On the back of one hand, two hearts overlapped.
‘He was a seafaring man at one time, I see,’ said Colbeck.
‘That was my deduction as well.’
‘There’s no sign of a fatal wound on the body.’
‘You’d have found plenty on the head,’ said Burnaby. ‘My feeling is that he was killed by repeated blows with a blunt instrument before being decapitated. If we ever find it, the skull will be in a dreadful state.’
‘That’s borne out by the blood spots I saw in the Erecting Shop. They’re so profuse that they couldn’t all have come from the severed neck. The whole head must have been smashed to a pulp and turned red.’
‘What does that say about the killer?’ asked Piercey, standing nearby.
‘It says that he needs to be caught as soon as possible. Rodman was the victim of a savage attack. Why his ankles and wrists were bound like this, I can only surmise but in time, I hope, all will become clear.’
‘He wasn’t just killed, he was slaughtered like an animal. It’s revolting.’
‘Inspector Piercey advised me to keep the body here until you’d seen it,’ explained Burnaby. ‘I’d rather not have it on the premises any longer than it need be. Once the word gets around, ghoulish workmates will ask for a chance to gape.’
‘We don’t want that.’
‘I agree,’ said Colbeck, ‘and we don’t want full details of his injuries released to the press.’ He gave a nod. ‘Thank you, Dr Burnaby. I’ve seen enough.’
‘Will there have to be a formal identification by someone in his family?’
‘Ideally, yes. I’m told that he was married but I’m not going to put his wife through the nightmare of seeing him in this state. Someone else will have to do it,’ said Colbeck before turning to Piercey. ‘You can have Mr Rodman removed to the morgue now, Inspector.’
‘I’ll arrange it at once,’ said the other going out.
Colbeck looked at Burnaby, appraising him for the first time. Wearing a white coat that had seen better days, the doctor was a slim, tired-looking man in his forties with a bald head and a brow that was permanently corrugated. Having responsibility for the health of all the employees at the Works had clearly taken its toll.
‘Thank you for leaving the body in the state in which you discovered it, Dr Burnaby. You must have been tempted to cut away those cords.’
‘I felt that you should see exactly what we found.’
‘I’m glad that you did. The killer was sending a signal.’
‘When you find out what it was, please tell me.’
‘I will,’ said Colbeck. ‘Before he’s taken away, I suggest that you cut the cords binding his ankles and wrists. Whoever identifies him can be spared those particular details of the murder.’ Burnaby used a pair of scissors to cut off the two pieces of twine. ‘I’ll keep those. They’re evidence.’
The doctor passed them over. ‘What happened to his clothing?’
‘The killer must have taken it with him.’
‘Why did he have to strip his victim naked?’
‘I imagine that it was an act of humiliation.’
‘It was so unnecessary.’
‘He didn’t think so.’
‘And why make off with the head?’
‘It was a souvenir of his triumph.’
‘What’s he going to do with it?’
Colbeck gritted his teeth. ‘I dread to think.’
The next moment, he recoiled from a sudden explosion of noise. There had been a steady drone of sound in the background but it was now augmented by a veritable cacophony as the Works came back to life. The relentless buffeting of the steam hammer made the floor tremble. Burnaby didn’t turn a hair.
‘They’ve started up,’ he said, calmly. ‘The whole place is operating at full pelt again.’
Thanks to Edgar Fellowes, the garrulous railway policeman, Victor Leeming had learnt a great deal about the history of the community. At the start of the century, Swindon had been little more than a sleepy country town with a population of less than 1,200 souls. When the census was taken in 1841, numbers had still not increased markedly but the GWR changed all that by settling on the area for its new manufactory. While the Old Town remained defiantly rural, the Railway Village brought the din, stink, grime and general commotion of industry. Swindon underwent a revolution.
‘We got bigger and bigger,’ said Edgar Fellowes, ‘and the two separate halves grew closer and closer. Twenty years ago, two constables were enough to look after the town. They have Inspector Piercey in charge of a small team now.’
‘How much crime is there?’ asked Leeming.
‘Oh, we have our fair share of petty offences. Drunkenness and causing an affray are always worse at the weekend when the men can get a little boisterous. Pilfering and trespass is what I deal with most of the time. There’s far too much of it on the site. Since there are single men, of course, we have a brothel here. There’s a police raid every so often and it closes down, only to open up very quickly in another part of the village. Laws to control men’s natural urges never really work. What we’ve never had before,’ he said, solemnly, ‘is a murder. Until it’s solved, the whole town will be on edge.’
‘Then we’ll do our best to catch the man responsible very quickly. To do that, of course, we’ll need somewhere to stay.’
‘Mr Stinson will arrange that, surely. He’s got a very big house.’
‘If we’re offered accommodation there, Inspector Colbeck will certainly turn down the invitation because we’d have to eat our meals with the manager and issue regular reports. We work best when nobody is looking over our shoulder. We like to be able to come and go as we please.’
‘Then your choice is between the Glue Pot and the Queen’s Tap.’
‘Which one sells the best beer?’
‘The Glue Pot,’ said Fellowes, ‘but the beds are softer at the Queen’s Tap.’
‘Then that’s the one we’ll choose. It’s going to be tiring work so we’ll need a good night’s sleep.’
‘Try to get rooms at the back. It’s quieter there.’
They were on their way to the Brass Foundry where Frank Rodman had once worked. Instead of waiting until the end of his shift when the man left the Works, Leeming wanted to see Fred Alford now. After his long chat with Fellowes, the sergeant felt that he was better prepared to carry on the investigation. He just wished that his companion would stop giving him unsought advice.
‘You’d be better off going to the rolling mill,’ said Fellowes. ‘That’s where you’ll find the Welshmen.’
‘I’d rather speak to Mr Alford first.’
‘He’s not the killer, I can tell you.’
‘He’s the nearest thing Rodman had to a friend so he’ll know things about the victim that nobody else can tell us.’
‘That’s true,’ conceded the other, ‘but I still think that—’
‘Think what you will,’ said Leeming, cutting him short. ‘My decision is final. Mr Alford is the one I want to meet.’
‘Oh, very well …’
‘And I don’t need you trailing behind me.’
Fellowes was hurt. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to be in the way.’
‘You’ve been very helpful but I can manage on my own now.’
Reluctant to go, Fellowes had no choice. After urging Leeming to get in touch with him if he needed more help, he moved away. The sergeant went briskly on to the Foundry, introduced himself to the foreman and discovered that he had to shout to make himself heard. When Alford was released to talk to the detective, the two of them stepped outside. Leeming was curious.
‘How can you work in a place like that?’
‘You’ll have to speak up. I’m a bit deaf. Most of us are.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Leeming, raising his voice. ‘I understand that you and Mr Rodman were friends.’
‘Yes, Frank was good company when you got to know him.’
‘I was told that he was too fond of a brawl.’
‘He wasn’t that bad, Sergeant.’
‘When did you learn about his murder?’
‘It was when I arrived for work. We were turned back. This place went dead silent for once. It was creepy.’
‘What did you do, Mr Alford?’
‘I ran straight home and told my wife that she had to get to Frank’s house as soon as possible. Betty was already in a terrible state because he’d gone missing. We were up half the night looking for him.’
‘Who told her that her husband had been murdered?’
‘That would be my wife, Liza.’
‘Mrs Rodman must have suspected that something had happened.’
‘None of us foresaw anything as bad as this, Sergeant. Betty is a strong-minded woman but this will be too much for her. Apart from anything else, she’ll be forced to leave that house of theirs. I hope you’re not going to ask her to identify the body,’ he went on, a hand on Leeming’s arm. ‘It would be cruel.’
‘We’ll need a relative or close friend.’
‘Then it will have to be me, I suppose,’ said Alford. ‘But why is it necessary? Someone’s already identified him, haven’t they?’
‘That was Constable Fellowes, the railway policeman.’
‘You can rely on anything Edgar tells you.’
‘He recognised Mr Rodman by his tattoos.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose he must have known about those.’
‘There’s something you need to be told,’ said Leeming, sadly, ‘and it’s something I’d rather you keep from Mrs Rodman at this stage. According to Fellowes, the victim’s head had been hacked off and taken away.’
‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Alford, stomach beginning to heave. ‘Why, in God’s name, would anyone do that?’
‘We don’t know, sir, but you can understand why that particular detail would distress Mrs Rodman beyond bearing. In time, naturally, she’ll have to be told but she needs to be protected from the truth for a while.’
‘I understand. That’s very considerate of you, Sergeant.’
‘We’ve had rather too much experience of grieving widows, sir. In the early stages, we always try to … soften the blow, so to speak. However,’ he continued, ‘let’s put that aside and concentrate on the man behind this unspeakable crime. Fellowes feels certain that he was someone who got into a row with Mr Rodman.’
‘Quite a few people have done that,’ admitted Alford.
‘We’ll need names, sir.’
‘Then the first one I can give belongs to a man Frank was arguing with last night at the Queen’s Tap. The two of them were squaring up to each other. I tried to tear Frank away but he ignored me, so I left.’
‘Was the argument getting heated?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘And who was the person Mr Rodman was arguing with?’
‘It was Gareth Llewellyn,’ said Alford. ‘He works in the rolling mill.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Marriage to Robert Colbeck had transformed Madeleine’s life. Under his guidance, there’d been two major developments. From time to time, he’d been able to involve her in an investigation, taking great care to hide the fact from Edward Tallis, a man who’d never countenance the use of female detectives. It had given Madeleine great pleasure to work alongside her husband, albeit covertly, but the second development brought her even more joy. Discovering that his wife had artistic talent, Colbeck had encouraged her to seek instruction from a professional artist. Her progress had been so remarkable that she’d reached the point where her paintings were good enough to be sold. Since she took her inspiration solely from railways, she earned the unstinting approval of both her husband and her father. Being immersed in her latest project had always been a way to stave off loneliness when Colbeck was working elsewhere.
The birth of their daughter had changed everything. It robbed her of the chance to be part of an investigative process but meant that she never felt deserted when her husband was assigned to a distant part of the country. Looking after the baby kept her fully occupied. In the early stages, the responsibilities of motherhood had also deprived her of the time and urge to immerse herself in her work. The studio had been left empty for months. At long last, the situation had changed. She was at her easel when a visitor came in.
‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’ asked Lydia Quayle.
‘Not at all,’ said Madeleine. ‘I was hoping you’d call. That’s why I left word that you should be shown up to the studio.’
‘I thought you’d given up painting for a while.’
‘That was Helen’s doing. I felt that I needed to be on duty for her.’
‘But babies spend most of the time asleep, don’t they?’
‘Helen doesn’t and, even though we’ve got a nanny to help us, I thought I’d be letting her down if I sneaked in here and picked up a paintbrush.’
‘So why are you here now?’
Madeline shrugged. ‘I just wanted to start work again.’
She was delighted to see her friend. Lydia Quayle provided the female companionship that she lacked. The women had met in grim circumstances. Colbeck had been in charge of the investigation into the murder of Lydia’s estranged father and he’d sought his wife’s assistance. When Madeleine met Lydia on his behalf, the two of them had been drawn slowly together and were now firm friends. Since the birth of the baby, Lydia had been a regular visitor to the house.
‘Christmas is almost here,’ said Lydia, thrilled. ‘I was in Oxford Street yesterday and the shops were very busy. There’s an excitement in the air.’
Madeline was sad. ‘I wish I could share in it.’
‘What’s the problem – has Robert been sent away again?’
‘Yes, Lydia, he’s trying to solve a murder in Swindon and he won’t leave there until the job is done. Searching for evidence doesn’t stop for Christmas.’
‘But he must be here – for Helen’s sake as much as for yours.’
‘I’m praying that he will be, Lydia. It’s another reason why I came back in here. Painting helps me to forget all my worries. If I was sitting downstairs, I’d be worrying about Robert. The studio is my escape.’
‘Then I ought to let you get on with your work.’
‘No, no,’ said Madeleine, wiping her hands on a cloth, ‘I was about to break off, anyway. Helen will be waking up soon.’
‘Is she always aware of it when her father is not at home?’
‘Oh, yes. She misses him as much as I do.’
‘How do you know?’
