Murder in Transit E-Book

Edward Marston

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Railway Detective
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 412

Beschreibung

Get the latest mystery in the bestselling Railway Detective series ... 1866. On a train bound for Portsmouth, an elegant woman shares a first-class compartment with a gentleman in a celebratory mood. Giles Blanchard reveals his lecherous side as the journey gets underway, but he will never reach his home on the Isle of Wight alive. This chance encounter is to prove fortuitous for the woman and her partner-in-crime. They find themselves not only the richer for picking the dead man's pocket, they also now possess the material for an extremely lucrative blackmail. Detective Inspector Colbeck and Sergeant Leeming are swiftly dispatched to sift through the evidence. They are all too aware that with Her Majesty Queen Victoria spending the summer on the island, a speedy resolution to the case is a priority for their superiors. Tracing the pair who lured Blanchard to his death is an endeavour freighted with difficulties, but will the fact that their inquiries lead them to the door of a royal residence be one complication too many?

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR EDWARD MARSTON

‘A master storyteller’

Daily Mail

‘Packed with characters Dickens would have been proud of. Wonderful [and] well-written’

Time Out

‘Once again Marston has created a credible atmosphere within an intriguing story’

Sunday Telegraph

‘Filled with period detail, the pace is steady and the plot is thick with suspects, solutions and clues. Marston has a real knack for blending detail, character and story with great skill’

Historical Novels Review

‘The past is brought to life with brilliant colours, combined with a perfect whodunnit. Who needs more?’

The Guardian

MURDER IN TRANSIT

Edward Marston

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGECHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONEABOUT THE AUTHORBY EDWARD MARSTONCOPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

Summer, 1866

As she walked along the platform in the gloom, she was aware that she was being followed. She was a handsome, well-dressed woman in her thirties with a strange dignity about her. When she paused outside an empty first-class compartment, she did not look behind her. Entering the compartment, she took a seat beside the window on the far side and held her reticule on her lap. After a few moments, a man opened the door and stepped in. He touched his hat in greeting, but she ignored him. He was a big, broad-shouldered individual in his fifties with an aura of wealth. As he settled into a seat in the middle of the compartment, he was diagonally opposite her with his back to the engine.

He studied her out of the corner of his eye, admiring her poise, her fashionable attire, and her air of independence. He relished the way that her perfume masked the smell of the oil lamps. Though there was little to see in the darkness outside, she stared through the window beside her. It allowed him to run his gaze over her at will. Ten minutes of close observation slipped pleasantly past. It was then shattered by a succession of noises. A loud whistle was blown, voices were raised, and feet were heard running along the platform. The engine added its own contribution to the swelling chorus. As the train burst into life, a man in the uniform of a naval officer flung open the door and stumbled in, shutting the door behind him. He flopped into a seat and struggled to get his breath back. After noticing the others, he gestured an apology then closed his eyes.

‘Wake me when we … get to Portsmouth,’ he said, slurring his words.

The other man was angry at the sudden loss of privacy. Alone with an attractive woman, the last thing he wanted in the compartment was a drunken sailor only feet away from him. He moved closer to the window, away from the newcomer and opposite the woman. When he showed his irritation by clicking his tongue, she was more tolerant.

‘If he has a first-class ticket,’ she said, reasonably, ‘he’s entitled to travel with us.’

‘Why couldn’t he pick another compartment?’

‘I don’t think he’s in a condition to answer that question.’

‘I do apologise,’ he said.

‘There’s nothing to apologise for.’

‘I was hoping that we might … enjoy some conversation.’

‘We can still do that,’ she replied. ‘Our companion is so drunk that he won’t interrupt.’

‘The damn fellow is just so … inhibiting.’

‘He’ll snore all the way to Portsmouth. Pretend that he’s not even here.’

He glanced at their companion. ‘But he is here – and he’s in the way.’

‘Only if we let him be,’ she said, sweetly.

Her manner changed completely. Having ignored him before, she was now meeting his gaze. His interest was kindled immediately. The dozing passenger ceased to exist. Several minutes passed as they stared at each other. It was the woman who eventually broke the silence.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ she invited. ‘When you came into the compartment, you were in a buoyant mood. Where had you been?’

‘I dined at my club in Chichester,’ he said. ‘It was in the nature of a celebration.’

Her eyes widened with interest. ‘Celebration?’

‘A few days ago, I sold a property on the Isle of Wight for a huge profit. I wanted the opportunity to boast about it. As I’d hoped, my friends were green with envy.’

‘What exactly do you mean by a huge profit?’ she asked.

‘If you want to know,’ he said, patting the seat beside him, ‘come a little closer.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘I’ll tell you all about my good fortune.’

She gave him a teasing smile. ‘You could do that if you sat beside me.’

He needed no more invitation. Standing up, he took off his hat and frock coat then lurched at her. She gave him an uninhibited welcome, letting him kiss and grope her at will. Then he forced her down on the seat and pulled up her dress. It was as far as the encounter lasted. Coming to life, the sailor suddenly leapt to her assistance, producing a length of rope to put around the neck of the older man before tightening it with cruel force. All that the man could do was to flail and splutter for a few excruciating minutes while the life was squeezed out of him. He was then dumped face down on the floor of the compartment.

The woman’s nose wrinkled in disgust. She used a handkerchief to wipe her lips.

‘Search him!’ she ordered.

CHAPTER TWO

There was never a chance to rest for any length of time at Scotland Yard. Demands on the detectives were continual. Whenever they tried to get their breath back, something always came up. Robert Colbeck and Victor Leeming were enjoying a brief chat together in the inspector’s office when an urgent summons came from the superintendent.

‘Can’t he find someone else to take charge of a case?’ complained Leeming. ‘The moment we sit down, he finds a reason to make us stand up again.’

‘Try to see it as a reward for our success.’

‘It’s unfair.’

‘I’d rather view it as a challenge,’ said Colbeck, getting up. ‘Each case has its individual character. That’s what makes our work so fascinating.’

‘Every investigation spells danger in one form or another,’ said Leeming, ruefully. ‘As I know to my cost. Also, it usually takes us a long way away from home. Doesn’t the superintendent realise there are such things as wives and children?’

‘Family life is an unknown country to him, Victor. Let’s find out what he wants.’

He led the way to the superintendent’s office and knocked politely before opening the door. Edward Tallis was seated behind his desk, studying a telegraph. He looked up at his visitors. Colbeck was as immaculately dressed as ever but Leeming was in a sorry state. Apart from his routine untidiness, he bore the scars of war. His face was bruised, he sported a black eye and there was a long, livid scratch down one cheek.

Tallis waved the telegraph in the air.

‘This is a cry for help from Captain Forrest,’ he said.

‘I’ve never heard of him,’ said Leeming.

‘Your ignorance comes as no surprise to me, Sergeant. Captain Forrest is the Chief Constable of the Hampshire and the Isle of Wight Constabulary. He is also a friend of mine,’ boasted Tallis. ‘We met at a military reunion. Like me, Forrest saw service in India. He and I talk the same language.’ He handed the telegraph to Colbeck. ‘A man was murdered last night on a train to Portsmouth.’

‘There are few details here, sir,’ said Colbeck, reading the message.

‘Then you must go to Winchester and find out the full story.’

‘Doesn’t the Hampshire Constabulary have its own detectives?’ asked Leeming.

‘The captain wanted the best man for the job,’ said Tallis, drily. ‘That’s why I’m sending Colbeck – and his assistant.’ Leeming squirmed. ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘Nothing, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘We’ll leave immediately.’ He handed the telegraph back to Tallis. ‘Please excuse us.’

He led Leeming out of the room and closed the door behind them. Tallis sat back in his chair with an air of satisfaction. He had been able to help a friend in need and to guarantee that the crime would be solved. Reaching for his pen, he composed a reply to Captain Forrest.

‘Colbeck never fails …’

‘But only because I keep barking at his heels,’ he murmured.

They could not believe their luck. When their victim had been searched, they found rich pickings. The dead man not only had a wallet bulging with money – as well as a pocket watch and a gold wedding ring – he had been carrying an address book that contained the names of several women. Each one of them had a series of stars beside her name. They came to the same conclusion.

‘These are all conquests of his,’ said the man. ‘He’s kept a record of every time he’s shared a bed with them.’ He grinned. ‘You must admire his stamina.’

She grimaced. ‘I loathed the man on sight,’ she said. ‘I could see from the expression on his face that I’d aroused his interest. The moment I left the ticket office, he followed me onto the platform. What he didn’t know, of course, was that you were following him.’

‘I waited until the right moment then dived into the same compartment.’

‘Thank goodness! I’d hate to have been alone with that dreadful man.’

They were seated at the kitchen table in the house they had rented in Portsmouth. Spread out before them were the spoils from the previous night. He picked up the wedding ring.

‘I wonder if he took this off before he got into bed with his mistresses,’ he said.

‘He certainly kept it on when he tried to ravish me. He was like an animal.’

‘That’s why I had to kill him. I’m not having you mauled like that. Our other victims were different. In their cases, all I had to do was to pretend to wake up and they pulled away from you. It never occurred to them that you’d stolen their wallets while they embraced you.’ He laughed. ‘The beauty of it was that they couldn’t report the theft to the police because they would be asked about the circumstances in which they’d been robbed.’

‘They’d also have had to lie to their wives about how their wallets had gone astray.’

‘I don’t feel sorry for Blanchard’s wife,’ he said.

‘Neither do I.’

‘In killing her husband, we’ve done her a favour. She won’t see it that way, of course. Mrs Blanchard probably worships him. She doesn’t know that she was married to a shameless adulterer.’

‘What’s our next step?’ she asked, picking up the watch to examine it.

‘The first thing I must do is to put that naval uniform away for a while. I’m no longer a member of the Royal Navy. Then we must celebrate in some way. Giles Blanchard has been our benefactor. There was well over a hundred pounds in his wallet.’ He picked up the address book. ‘But this is the real treasure. The women who let him do what he wished to them are in for a very nasty surprise. They’ll not only be horrified by his death – they’ll discover that it’s going to cost them a lot of money.’

Captain John Forrest was alone in his office at the headquarters of the Hampshire Constabulary. Tall, slim, and sharp-featured, he looked younger than his sixty years. When there was a tap on his door, it opened to reveal a uniformed constable who led in two visitors before quietly departing. Colbeck introduced himself and Leeming. Though he was impressed by Colbeck’s demeanour, the chief constable’s attention was fixed on Leeming’s facial injuries.

‘You must excuse the sergeant’s appearance,’ said Colbeck. ‘During a recent investigation, he arrested two men after a lively tussle with them. The injuries they sustained were far worse than the ones before you.’

‘I commend your bravery, Sergeant Leeming,’ said Forrest.

‘Thank you, sir,’ muttered the other.

‘Not long before you arrived, a telegraph came from Superintendent Tallis. He assures me that, in asking for the pair of you, I have put the investigation in excellent hands.’

‘But why did you choose us?’ asked Colbeck. ‘Are there not able enough detectives in your own ranks?’

‘There are none with your reputation, Inspector. For a heinous crime committed on the railway, I felt that you needed to be involved. Fortunately, Superintendent Tallis and I are friends. I knew that he would answer my plea.’

‘He’s never answered any of mine,’ said Leeming under his breath.

‘What exactly happened?’ asked Colbeck.

Forrest indicated the chairs and his visitors sat down. The chief constable remained on his feet. He was far less intimidating than Edward Tallis. Forrest spoke to them quietly and respectfully.

‘Until an hour ago,’ he said, ‘all I knew was that a man had been strangled to death on the last train to Portsmouth. We had no idea of his name because whoever killed him had emptied his pockets. That seemed to be the motive for the murder.’

‘Have you learnt anything to make you question that assumption?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Judge for yourselves.’ Forrest waited while Leeming took out his notebook and pencil. ‘We now know that the victim was a Mr Giles Blanchard. He was travelling home to the Isle of Wight. When he failed to turn up, his wife became alarmed. She contacted the police early this morning. Mrs Blanchard was, as you can well imagine, panic-stricken.’

‘Where had her husband been?’ asked Leeming, looking up from his notebook.

‘He’d been to his club in Chichester – it’s called The Haven, for some reason. He told his wife that he expected to be home well before midnight. Mrs Blanchard didn’t sleep all night.’

‘That’s understandable,’ said Colbeck. ‘How was the murder discovered?’

‘When the train reached its terminus in Portsmouth,’ replied Forrest, ‘everyone got out and went on their way. Porters were checking the carriages to make sure that nobody was still on board. One of them saw a man fast asleep, as it seemed, in the corner of a first-class compartment. When he entered and tried to rouse the passenger, the fellow keeled over. There were ugly marks on his neck. The porter summoned the stationmaster, who, in turn, called the railway policeman on duty.’

‘What was their response?’

‘They were highly alarmed. We’re accustomed to crime on our trains, but it’s mainly confined to theft, intimidation, wanton damage, and prostitution. Murders are highly unusual. Of the few that have occurred, I can’t remember any that featured strangulation.’

‘How old was Mr Blanchard?’ asked Leeming.

‘He was in his late fifties. His son described him as fit and healthy.’

‘Then it would have needed an even stronger man to overpower him.’

‘A stronger man with an accomplice,’ mused Colbeck. ‘If someone distracted Mr Blanchard, he could have been caught off guard. Well,’ he added, ‘this sounds like an intriguing case. We are grateful to be involved in it, sir. Thank you for asking for us.’

‘You’ll have the full resources of the Hampshire and Isle of Wight Constabulary to call upon.’

‘How big a force is there on the island?’

‘It’s smaller than I would wish – and its record is not exactly inspiring.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Colbeck with concern. ‘Her Majesty is often at Osborne House. I hope that her security is in no way compromised.’

It was a glorious summer day and Queen Victoria was on her private beach, standing beside her easel in one of the black mourning dresses she always wore. After adding a few brush strokes to her landscape painting, she turned to the woman who stood obediently beside her.

‘What do you think of it, Gwendoline?’ she asked.

CHAPTER THREE

When he arrived at Portsmouth railway station, Colbeck went in search of the man who had discovered the corpse. He was told that the porter would not be back on duty until that afternoon. The inspector asked for his address and discovered that Alfred Burns lived within walking distance of the station. He set off briskly. When he reached the little house at the end of a terrace, he saw that it was in a bad state of repair. Having knocked on the front door, Colbeck had to wait a few minutes before it was opened by a bleary-eyed man in pyjamas. Well into his fifties, Burns was short, skinny, and inhospitable.

‘Whatever you’re selling,’ he snarled, ‘we don’t want it.’

‘I am Detective Inspector Colbeck and I’ve been sent from Scotland Yard to investigate the murder that occurred last night on a train. I understand that you found the body.’

‘Yes, I did, sir,’ said Burns, voice becoming more respectful, ‘and it gave me a terrible shock, I can tell you. I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about it. When I finally dropped off, you woke me up by banging on my door.’ He stood back. ‘You’d better come in, Inspector.’

Colbeck went into the house and found that it was dark, cramped, and musty. Burns led him into a living room and indicated a mottled sofa. As the two of them sat down, the porter tried to wipe the sleep out of his eyes.

‘I’ve no idea who the poor devil was,’ he said.

‘I can tell you that, sir. According to the chief constable, his name was Giles Blanchard and he lived on the Isle of Wight.’

‘I could see he was a toff. A suit like the one he was wearing must have cost a pretty penny.’

‘Tell me exactly what happened when you entered the compartment,’ said Colbeck, taking out his notebook. ‘Every detail is important.’

‘Ah, right …’

Burns needed a few moments to gather his thoughts. He cleared his throat.

‘If you’re on the late shift,’ he said, ‘you sometimes get nasty surprises. People leave all kinds of messes in the carriages and there are always those who forget to take their luggage with them. It’s not so bad in first class, mind. People who can afford to travel there usually behave themselves.’

‘Get to the moment of discovery,’ prompted Colbeck.

‘When I saw him through the window, he looked as if he was asleep. That’s quite normal. If they’ve drunk too much, passengers often nod off. I opened the door and reached in to prod him. He didn’t move so I got into the compartment and took him by the shoulders to give him a proper shake. When I did that,’ said Burns, ‘he just fell sideways. I saw these ugly, red marks around his neck. That frightened me so I called the stationmaster. We could both see he wasn’t breathing.’

Colbeck waited patiently as the recitation went on, recording only the salient details. When the porter finally ended his tale, he was visibly shaken.

‘Had you ever seen the gentleman before?’ asked Colbeck.

‘It’s funny you should ask that, Inspector. At the time, I didn’t recognise him. I was so shocked by what I’d found that I couldn’t think straight. When I got back here, however, the shock had worn off. I thought about that face of his and them fine clothes.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘It was then I realised I’d seen him before at the station – lots of times.’

‘Was he usually alone?’

‘No, he was often with a woman.’

‘It was probably Mrs Blanchard.’

‘Not every time, it wasn’t.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I saw the same woman twice maybe,’ said Burns, scratching his head. ‘But I must have seen him with one of three or four younger ladies as well …’

The Haven was in a side street in the more affluent part of Chichester. When he got out of the cab, Leeming paid the driver and sent him on his way. The club was in a large, well-maintained building with three storeys. He used the knocker. Almost immediately, the door was opened by a dapper middle-aged man with a practised smile that vanished the moment he saw Leeming’s face. He took a step backwards.

‘May I help you, sir?’ he asked, warily.

‘I hope so,’ said Leeming.

‘Are you interested in becoming a member of the club?’

‘I’m afraid not. I could never afford it or find the time to join. I am Detective Sergeant Leeming from Scotland Yard and I’m investigating the death of one of your members.’

The steward was alarmed. ‘Who is it?’

‘Mr Blanchard.’

‘But he was here yesterday evening and looked perfectly healthy.’

‘It was not a natural death, I’m afraid. Mr Blanchard was murdered.’

‘Heavens!’ exclaimed the steward, bringing both hands to his face. ‘This is dreadful news. What exactly happened?’

‘If you let me inside,’ said Leeming, ‘I’ll be happy to tell you …’

Colbeck moved swiftly. When he left the home of Alfred Burns, he took a cab to the headquarters of the Portsmouth City Police. He received a guarded welcome. The police were clearly upset that a murder that had occurred on their doorstep was being investigated by someone from Scotland Yard. Colbeck could see the muted hostility in their eyes. Superintendent Terence Vernon voiced the general feeling.

‘We are aware of your reputation, Inspector, and give you the respect due to you, but we feel that we can handle this case just as efficiently in conjunction with the Hampshire Constabulary. Our knowledge of the area gives us a distinct advantage over you.’

‘I intend to make use of it, Superintendent,’ said Colbeck, briskly. ‘May I ask how you got on with Alfred Burns?’

‘I’ve never heard of the fellow.’

‘He’s the porter who discovered the body last night. You interviewed him, surely?’

‘One of my officers would have done so when Burns returned to work today.’

‘I couldn’t wait until then,’ said Colbeck. ‘I went to his house and took a statement.’

‘Oh, I see,’ muttered Vernon, trying to hide his embarrassment. ‘Did he have anything of value to say?’

‘Yes, he did. It took me some time to get it out of him because he was still dazed by the experience. His mind eventually cleared. Apart from anything else, he remembered seeing the victim at the station before. Mr Blanchard travelled by train to and from Chichester on a regular basis, it seems.’

Vernon was peeved. ‘How may we help you, Inspector?’ he asked through gritted teeth.

‘The first thing I’d like to do is to view the body.’

‘I’ll take you to the morgue myself,’ said Vernon, moving to the door.

‘Thank you,’ said Colbeck, following him. ‘I daresay that there’s a lot of press interest.’

‘Newspaper reporters have been hounding me all morning. When we finally identified the murder victim, I hoped that they would stop pestering us, but the opposite has happened.’

‘It will get worse,’ warned Colbeck. ‘Mr Blanchard was clearly an important figure in these parts. His death will arouse considerable interest …’

Leeming was in the office that belonged to Martin Searle, the club steward. Having told him what had happened, Leeming had to wait while the other man absorbed the information. The news had clearly shaken him to the core.

‘This is dreadful,’ said Searle at length. ‘Mr Blanchard was often at the club. On some occasions, he even spent the night here. He’ll be sorely missed.’

‘What sort of person was he?’

‘He was a delightful man, sir, and very popular with the other members. They all respected him. When he dined here with friends last night, there was a lot of laughter. Mr Blanchard had an endless supply of anecdotes.’

‘What time did he leave?’

‘It must have been close to ten o’clock. I showed him to the door. There was a cab waiting for him. He’d ordered it earlier. That’s the kind of man he was. He planned everything in advance.’

‘What sort of mood was he in when he left?’

‘He was in good spirits,’ said Searle, ‘and that was quite normal. When I showed him to the door, he gave me a handsome tip.’

‘Would you say that he was drunk and off guard?’

‘Oh, no, Sergeant. Gentlemen like Mr Blanchard never get drunk. No matter how much they have, they can hold their wine and spirits. It’s a gift.’

‘Then he wouldn’t have been … unstable when he boarded his train?’

‘He would have looked as sober as a judge.’

‘I see.’ He remembered something. ‘When you invited me in, I heard a lot of voices. Are some of your members here?’

‘A handful of the older ones are in the bar. They’ve retired from work, but they’ll never retire from The Haven. It’s their second home.’

‘Is there anyone here who was a close friend of Mr Blanchard’s?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied the steward. ‘Mr Collier is here almost every day. He’s close to eighty but is still very spry. He proposed Mr Blanchard as a member many years ago. Mr Collier will be the best person to talk to. Feel free to use my office.’ He moved to the door. ‘I’ll send him in.’ He paused. ‘Do you want me to tell him about the murder or would you rather do so?’

‘I’d prefer it if you left it to me,’ said Leeming, ‘but you’re welcome to spread the news among the other members. Oh, and you might warn Mr Collier that I don’t look my best. My face is likely to scare him. When I look in a mirror, it frightens me.’

‘Very good, sir.’

When the steward left the room, Leeming checked the notes he had made then looked around the office. It was large, well-appointed, and excessively clean. Photographs of former members adorned the walls. Leeming could see that it was an exclusive establishment for wealthy men. He felt completely out of place there. After a couple of minutes, he heard a walking stick tapping on the hall floor. The door then opened, and Douglas Collier hobbled in. There was no danger of the old man being horrified by Leeming’s face. He was virtually blind. Thin, withered, and with a white mane of hair, he looked around the room.

‘Is there someone here who wants Douglas Collier?’ he croaked.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘Why don’t you take a seat? I have distressing news for you.’

‘Really? They’re not going to raise the membership fees again, are they?’

‘Not as far as I know, Mr Collier.’

He held a seat so that it did not move when the old man dropped into it. Collier took a small magnifying glass from his pocket and peered through it at Leeming.

‘Do I know you?’ he said.

‘No, sir. I don’t believe that you do. My name is Leeming.’

‘Leeming … Leeming … You’re not one of the Dorset Leemings, are you?’

‘I’m a detective sergeant from Scotland Yard.’

‘You came all the way down here from Scotland?’ said Collier in disbelief. ‘Why the devil did you do that? And why on earth did you ask for me?’

Leeming sat down close to him. ‘I’ve got some sad news to pass on to you, Mr Collier,’ he said, gently. ‘It’s about your friend, Mr Blanchard.’

‘Splendid chap, Giles. Generous to a fault. He bought dinner here for five of us yesterday evening. His stories had us roaring with laughter.’

‘He won’t be able to do that again, I’m afraid.’

Collier grinned. ‘You try stopping him!’

‘Mr Blanchard died last night.’ The old man gaped. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that your friend was strangled to death on a train to Portsmouth.’

‘Giles was murdered?’ Collier needed time to absorb the information. ‘Who on earth would do such a thing? He was one of the nicest human beings you could ever wish to meet. There must be some mistake, surely?’

‘I’m afraid not. I can see that it’s been a great shock to you. The steward was the same,’ said Leeming. ‘There were tears in his eyes.’

‘Who exactly are you?’ asked Collier, confused.

‘I’m involved in the search for the man who killed Mr Blanchard,’ said Leeming. ‘Since you were close to him, you may be able to help us. I’m told that he had lots of friends.’

‘Everyone liked him.’

‘He must have had enemies as well.’

‘You didn’t know Giles,’ said the other, angrily. ‘He was kind, generous, and wonderful company. How could anyone dislike him? Unless …’

‘Go on,’ urged Leeming.

‘Unless … it was a jealous husband …’

A wicked smirk suddenly flitted across the old man’s face. Then he burst into tears as the full weight of his loss became clear to him.

When he viewed the body at the morgue, Colbeck noted the size and muscularity of the murder victim. Blanchard had clearly kept himself fit. Only a powerful man with the advantage of surprise would have been able to strangle him. Unsurprisingly, nothing had been found in the pockets of the deceased. He had clearly been robbed. Colbeck was glad to leave the building and get the stink of disinfectant out of his nose. He took a cab to the ferry terminal so that he could cross to the Isle of Wight. No sooner had he stepped onto the waiting vessel than a familiar voice rang out.

‘Bejasus!’ yelled Brendan Mulryne. ‘That’s never Inspector Colbeck!’

‘Yes, it is,’ replied the other, crossing over to him and shaking his hand, ‘and I’m delighted to see you again, Brendan. What the devil are you doing here?’

‘I work on this steamer. Sure, it’s a grand job. I’m out in the fresh air all day and I get to meet lots of interesting people – like you, for instance.’

‘The last time our paths crossed, you were travelling with the Moscardi circus.’

‘It was time for a change. I got fed up with the stink of the animals.’

Mulryne was a big, brawny man with an almost permanent grin on his face. When he had served in the Metropolitan Police Force, he had been a fearless and committed constable. Unfortunately, he had been too committed on occasion. Instead of merely arresting criminals, he had pounded some of them into oblivion. Superintendent Tallis had been badgered by lawyers, trying to claim damages for the police brutality used against their clients. Even though Colbeck had spoken up for him, Mulryne had been summarily dismissed.

‘Ah,’ said the Irishman, realising. ‘It’s the murder that brought you here. That Mr Blanchard was strangled to death on a train last night. Strangled and robbed.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Word travels down here. Secrets don’t stay secret for long.’

‘You mentioned Mr Blanchard’s name as if you knew the man.’

‘Oh, I knew that black-hearted devil, so I did. He often used the steamer and treated those of us who worked on it as if we were ignorant peasants. I caught the lash of his tongue more than once. Don’t ask me to mourn Giles Blanchard.’

‘Other people speak well of him.’

‘Well, I’m not one of them, Inspector,’ said the other, bitterly. ‘When I answered him back one time, he threatened to have me sacked if I did it again. I buttoned my lip after that and suffered in silence. Blanchard was vile. He could never resist the chance to say something nasty about the Irish to me.’

‘How did you feel when you heard about his death?’

Mulryne chuckled. ‘It made me feel that there was a God, after all.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Victor Leeming had arranged to meet Colbeck at Portsmouth railway station that afternoon. On the train journey there from Chichester, he consulted his notebook. Over a dozen pages had been filled by his spidery handwriting. After speaking to Douglas Collier, he had been questioned by the other members of The Haven who happened to be there. They were desperate to hear full details of the untimely death of their friend. Leeming had talked to them, one at a time, building up a detailed picture of the murder victim.

In the eyes of his fellow club members, Giles Blanchard had been a paragon. Yet what stayed in the sergeant’s mind when he left the building was the momentary smirk on the face of Douglas Collier. According to him, Blanchard did not have an enemy in the world – except, perhaps, for a jealous husband. Had the old man been serious? Everything that Leeming had heard from the other members pointed to the fact that Blanchard was a man’s man, happiest in male company. He often referred fondly to his wife when at the club, yet he seemed to spend little time at home with her. Evidently, The Haven provided something that she was unable to supply. Leeming wondered if it was a place to hide from a vengeful husband.

Colbeck was delighted to see Mulryne again. The Irishman was clearly doing work he enjoyed in a part of the country he loved. Now that summer had come, he was helping to take large numbers of holidaymakers to and from the Isle of Wight. Mulryne loved to see the excitement of the children who boarded the steamer on their way to one of the island’s beaches. There was a secondary reason why Colbeck was pleased to bump into Mulryne. In an emergency, the Irishman would be there to lend a helping hand. Even though he was no longer a policeman, he would do anything for Colbeck. Unbeknown to Edward Tallis, he had already been used by the inspector on more than one occasion and he had always proved his worth.

One eye on the approaching land, Mulryne asked what Leeming was doing.

‘He’s gone to visit a club in Chichester. We’ve been told that Mr Blanchard spent the evening there before his fatal journey on the train to Portsmouth.’

‘How are Victor’s children?’

‘They’re growing up fast. David is working as a cleaner for the LNWR – much to the delight of my father-in-law. And Albert, who is still in school, has decided that he wants to be a policeman like his father. Do you have any family, Brendan?’

‘I might do,’ said the other with a laugh, ‘but, then again, I might not. Even though I love the company of women, I’m just not the marrying kind.’ He saw how close they were to the pier. ‘Have to go. Good to meet you again.’

‘I fancy that we’ll be around for some time so I might well see you again.’

But his words went unheard. Mulryne had already moved to the position he always took up when the steamer was about to dock in Ryde. When the vessel made its first contact with the wharf, Mulryne tossed a rope ashore. Colbeck was soon part of an eager crowd of passengers who surged off the steamer in delight. Unbeknown to him, he was about to walk along the first proper seaside passenger pier in England. Built for the benefit of travellers over fifty years earlier, it took them safely over the mud and sand that previous visitors had had to tramp through.

While the others dispersed in various directions, Colbeck stepped into a cab and asked to be taken to an address just outside Ryde. He was driven through narrow streets filled with quaint houses and clusters of shops. There was a decided elegance about the larger buildings. Ryde had a curious charm, but he was not in a mood to enjoy it. His focus was on the home of the murder victim. Myrtle House, it transpired, was half a mile away from the town. Set in the middle of five acres of land, it was an impressive property that was reached by means of a long winding road. Everywhere he looked, Colbeck saw well-tended lawns and trees. The house itself glowed in the sun. Giles Blanchard had done well for himself.

When they reached the main gate, they were stopped by a tall, strapping young man who was holding a shotgun. He eyed the cab with suspicion. When Colbeck got out to confront him, he was given a gruff welcome.

‘This is private property.’

‘Who are you?’ demanded Colbeck.

‘Never you mind that,’ said the other with a menacing wave of his shotgun. ‘My orders are to keep prying reporters away from here.’

‘I can assure you that I am not here on behalf of a newspaper. I am Inspector Colbeck from Scotland Yard, and the chief constable has put me in charge of the investigation. That means I must have access to the house and family of Mr Blanchard.’ He took a step forward. ‘If you insist on obstructing me, you will be placed under arrest.’

The man gulped. There was an authority in Colbeck’s voice and bearing that made the guard gesture apologetically. Unlocking the gates, he opened them wide. When the cab drove through them with Colbeck inside it, the man doffed his hat in deference. The cab went on its way through an avenue of trees before emerging into the sunlight and coming to a halt in the courtyard. As Colbeck alighted, he saw the front door of the house open to allow the solid figure of a man in his late twenties to step into view.

‘Inspector Colbeck?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the other.

‘My name is Paul Blanchard. I was told to expect you.’

‘It’s a pity that you didn’t tell that man at the gates that I was coming. He gave me a distinctly unpleasant welcome.’

‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Blanchard. ‘I’ll speak to him.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘Let me first offer my condolences. It must have come as a profound shock.’

‘My mother was the first to hear the dreadful news. She’s taken to her bed, I fear. The doctor had to give her a sedative. I did, however, manage to get a full account of my father’s whereabouts yesterday so I’ll be able to pass on the details to you.’

‘That will be very helpful, sir.’ He looked up at the house. ‘May I ask if you live here?’

‘My wife and I have a house nearby, Inspector. In the short term, however, I’ll be staying here because Mother needs me.’ He stretched out an arm. ‘Let’s go inside, shall we?’

‘Yes, of course …’

As he walked past him, Colbeck wondered why the man was so calm and controlled. There was not the slightest hint of pain or grief in his face. During his career as a detective, Colbeck had met the families of many murder victims. They had been uniformly dazed – completely shattered in some cases – by news of their loss. Paul Blanchard, by contrast, seemed to treat a horrifying crime as a minor inconvenience.

‘It was Inspector Colbeck’s idea,’ said the stationmaster, pointing to a large noticeboard.

‘I’m glad that you took his advice. Have you had any response?’

‘Not as yet, Sergeant.’

‘Then I suggest that you put up the same appeal on the opposite platform. The only passengers who see it now are those coming into Portsmouth. Among the people travelling towards London there might well be passengers who were on the last train to arrive here yesterday.’

‘Ah, I see what you mean.’

‘We must try to reach everyone we can.’

Having introduced himself to the stationmaster, Victor Leeming was pleased to see that a board had been set up, asking passengers who saw anything suspicious on their journey on the previous evening to report it. It might even be, Leeming had argued, that someone had travelled in the same compartment as Giles Blanchard without realising that they were sitting close to the man’s corpse.

‘We’ve appealed to the public before,’ said the sergeant. ‘Thanks to boards we set up on platforms at Bury St Edmund’s station, we were given vital information by some passengers about the investigation.’

‘Let’s hope the same thing happens here, Sergeant.’

The stationmaster was a short, stout, bustling man of middle years who was fascinated by the injuries to Leeming’s face. He could not take his eyes off the livid scratch.

‘The last time I saw a face like yours,’ he recalled, ‘it belonged to one of my porters. He had a violent row with his wife and came off worst. He had the same scratch down his cheek.

‘Well, it certainly wasn’t put there by my wife,’ said Leeming with a grin. ‘We never have violent rows – just the odd disagreement now and then.’ He glanced towards the refreshment room. ‘What sort of food do they serve here?’

‘It’s tasty and filling.’

Leeming rubbed his hands. ‘That will suit me perfectly …’

Colbeck sat in the drawing room and jotted down information in his notebook. Remaining on his feet, Paul Blanchard explained that his father had been the most successful estate agent on the island and that he was proud to work alongside him.

‘Ryde is a small town with fewer than four thousand inhabitants during autumn and winter. Those numbers swell in the better weather. There’s a constant demand for accommodation. Father and I help to provide it. As well as selling houses, we bought a construction company so that we can build houses ourselves. Naturally, we operate at the expensive end of the market.’

‘I’d already made that deduction, sir,’ said Colbeck.

‘On your drive here, you’ll have passed two of the houses we had built – mansions for wealthy people who like to spend the whole summer here.’

‘I’m not sure that this information is altogether relevant, Mr Blanchard.’

‘Don’t you understand?’ said the other with a hint of tetchiness. ‘I’m trying to tell you what the killer’s motive might have been. Our success has created enemies. There are people on this island who resent the way that we’ve managed to buy property in which they had a keen interest. Among most businessmen here, my father was admired – but he was despised by a few.’

‘Please give me their names,’ said Colbeck, pencil poised.

‘I’m not accusing anyone of direct involvement, Inspector. All I’m saying is that there are certain people who I believe would be capable of hiring an assassin to kill a hated rival.’

‘That’s a bold claim, sir.’

‘I’ve given it a lot of thought.’

‘Has your father been the target of an attack in the past?’

‘One of our new houses was vandalised. We had to hire armed guards to protect it.’

‘That’s not the same thing as a physical threat,’ argued Colbeck.

‘My father suffered that as well,’ said Blanchard, ‘or so I believe. Before we go any further, I must impress upon you that what I am about to tell you is confidential. I would never disclose these details to the press – and neither must you.’

‘I give you my word that I would never think of divulging private information to the press. Newspapers are bound to speculate but they’ll receive no help from me.’

‘That’s good to hear.’ Blanchard took a deep breath and sat down. ‘Six months ago, my father came back from a trip to London with a large bruise on his face. He told my mother that he had been jostled in a crowd and forced accidentally against a pillar. Father hardly noticed the incident at the time.’

‘Did your mother believe the story?’

‘Yes, she did. It was probably the truth – or so I thought.’

‘What changed your mind?’

‘A couple of months later, I noticed that he was limping slightly. Father claimed that he had pulled a calf muscle. I urged him to go to the doctor, but he said it was not necessary.’ Blanchard bit his lip. ‘That afternoon, I went into his office and saw him rolling up his trouser leg so that he could adjust a blood-covered bandage.’

‘Did he explain how he got the wound?’

‘He claimed that he’d been bitten by a dog.’

‘Did you believe him?’

‘No, Inspector. I’m afraid that I didn’t.’

‘Did he report the incident to the police?’

‘He told me that it was only a scratch and not worth bothering about.’

‘Dog bites can be dangerous. Surely he went to a doctor?’

‘Father refused to talk about the incident.’

‘What was your mother’s reaction?’ asked Colbeck. ‘She must have seen the wound when they retired to bed.’

Blanchard lowered his voice. ‘They slept in separate rooms.’

‘Why did he lie to you?’

‘I wish I knew, Inspector.’

‘I take it that, as next of kin, you were asked to identify the body.’

‘Yes, I was. When my mother raised the alarm, I got in touch with the police at once. They told me that the body of an unknown man had been found on a train last night in Portsmouth station. It was only when I got to the police station that they told me my father had been strangled to death. I had to identify his body.’

‘I took the trouble to view it myself, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘I noticed that your father was well-built and in what seemed to be good physical condition.’

‘Put that down to his love of exercise. Cricket was his real passion, but he was also a keen sailor. I reaped the benefit. Father coached me in the finer points of cricket, and he taught me how to sail the family yacht.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I’m eternally grateful to him for doing that.’

‘Consider this, if you will,’ suggested Colbeck. ‘If he was the victim of an assassin, surely his attacker would think twice about trying to strangle such a powerful man. A knife would have despatched him more easily, or a cosh could have knocked him unconscious and put him at the mercy of his assailant.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Blanchard, thinking it through, ‘you could be right, Inspector.’

‘I believe that there were two people involved. One of them distracted your father so that the strangler could attack him by surprise. Also, of course, he’d been celebrating at his club. Drink would no doubt have flowed. He might well have been drowsy.’

‘It’s possible, I suppose.’

‘Give me the name of anyone you consider to be suspects.’

‘There is one prime suspect, Inspector.’

‘Is he a fellow member of your father’s club?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Blanchard, ‘he is.’

‘Then he might have been aware that your father was due to visit the club yesterday evening. That being the case, he would have known that Mr Blanchard would need to take a late train back to Portsmouth. If an assassin was involved, he would have lurked in readiness at Chichester station and got into the same compartment as your father.’

‘That seems to me to be the most likely version of what happened.’

‘Who is this gentleman who was a member of the club?’

‘Berwyn Rees,’ said Blanchard, spitting the name out. ‘He’s one of those glib Welshmen who is all smiles when he’s with you but who traduces you when he’s not. The man positively burns with envy at our success. He’s a wily character with an uncanny knack of getting what he wants.’

‘One last thing, sir,’ said Colbeck, making a note of the name.

‘What is it?’

‘Do you feel that you might also be in danger now?’

‘Of course not,’ snapped the other. ‘What ever put that idea into your mind?’

‘Someone might wish to destroy your control over property sales on the island. With your father dead, you are now in charge of the business. That could make you a target.’

‘My father was caught off guard and paid with his life,’ retorted Blanchard. ‘Nobody would ever be able to do that to me. I always take precautions.’

Opening his coat, he revealed a small gun neatly holstered beside his waist.

CHAPTER FIVE

Madeleine Colbeck was in her studio, stepping back to study her latest painting of a railway scene. There was something wrong with it but, to her irritation, she could not decide what it was. Her concentration was interrupted by the sound of laughter from the garden. She gazed through the window to see that her daughter, Helena Rose, was being pushed on her swing by her grandfather. The higher she went, the louder became her squeals of joy. What delighted Madeleine was that her father seemed to be having as much fun as his granddaughter.