Signal for Vengeance E-Book

Edward Marston

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

Seitenzahl: 450

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

1860, Wimborne, Dorset. Rebecca Tullidge, miserably married to her callous husband, is having an affair with a railway officer, who she finds dead on the railway tracks. Determined to win votes for the upcoming election of mayor, Mr Feltham calls for Inspector Colbeck and Sergeant Lemming to solve the hideous crime, which takes longer than anticipated. With a pregnant wife at home, Colbeck must work at speed if he is to return in time to be there when he becomes a father.

Leseprobe

SIGNAL FOR VENGEANCE

EDWARD MARSTON

Contents

Title PageCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENAbout the AuthorBy Edward MarstonCopyright

CHAPTER ONE

Dorset, 1860

It was just before midnight when she left. There was no need to be quiet while she dressed or to tiptoe down the narrow staircase. No matter how much noise she made, her husband would not wake up. It was always the same on a Saturday night. He would roll back home, stagger into the lodge and make an effusive declaration of love before lurching forward to grope her. As she more or less carried him up to the bedroom, she had to endure the stink of beer on his breath and the cumbersome weight of his body. She was forced to listen to the crude words that dribbled out of his mouth like so much slime then submit to the painful squeezing of her breasts and some slobbering kisses. By the time they finally reached the top of the stairs, he’d lapse into a drunken stupor. Hauling him on to the bed, she’d remove his coat, boots and trousers before pulling the blanket over him. The deafening sound of his snores was, as always, accompanied by outbursts of flatulence. With a sigh of resignation, she’d climb unwillingly in beside him and grit her teeth.

Marriage to a crossing-keeper had brought much sadness and disappointment for Rebecca Tullidge. Though she lived in a neat, compact, two-storey, brick-built lodge in the Dorset countryside, it had soon lost its appeal. Other women might envy her well-tended garden and covet the steady wage that her husband earned but she took pleasure from neither. She hated the isolation, the dull repetition of each day and, above all, the fact that she was shackled to a brutish man she’d mistakenly imagined she could love, honour and obey. It was a continuous ordeal.

She had to escape.

It was pitch-dark when she let herself out of the lodge but she soon picked her way to the railway line. Once she felt the sleepers under her feet, her confidence grew and she strode off with mingled relief and excitement. No trains would come for hours. Rebecca was certain of that because the timetable was graven on her heart. It was just as well. When her husband had been drunk or incapable or simply unable to wake up, she’d had to take over his duties, closing the gates before an approaching train and watching it flash past in a heady mixture of wind, smoke, steam, stench and tumult. But she was not on duty now. If only for a short time, she was gloriously free. She was on a very special journey, moving between one life and another. Drudgery and despair were left behind her; love and hope lay ahead.

Though she knew the risk she was taking, she scorned danger. Nobody else would be abroad on such a cold, unforgiving, starless night. With her hat pulled down, her coat buttoned up and her shawl around her shoulders, she felt invisible. All she had to do was to walk a few hundred yards and he would be there. That thought warmed her body and set her blood racing. She had finally found some relief from the misery of her existence. In place of a blundering oaf of a husband, she had someone who was kind, gentle and understanding. Instead of shrinking from the touch of a man with legitimate access to her body, she would give herself wholeheartedly to someone who had no rightful claim on her. His love for Rebecca obliterated the impediments of holy matrimony. Nothing could hold them back.

Desperate to see him and emboldened by passion, she broke into a trot, running from sleeper to sleeper with sure-footed joy. It would only be a matter of minutes before she flung herself into his arms once again. She quickened her pace even more. Her haste, however, was her downfall. Before she even saw the body stretched across the rails, she tripped over it and fell headlong to the ground. Her jarring pain was intensified by her utter desolation. Rebecca knew at once that it was him. All of their plans had suddenly been ripped to shreds. All of their promises and intimacy and tenderness lay sprawled lifelessly across a deserted stretch of track.

There was no escape, after all.

CHAPTER TWO

‘I’ve just spoken to Inspector Vallence,’ said Colbeck, angrily. ‘Is it true that you’ve given him an assignment in Dorset?’

‘Yes, it is,’ replied Tallis.

‘But he has no experience of dealing with a railway crime.’

‘That’s why Sergeant Leeming will be at his side. After all the cases he’s worked on with you, the sergeant is something of an expert.’

‘This investigation should be mine, sir.’

‘Calm down, man.’

‘Inspector Vallence is too young and untried.’

‘I need you here in London.’

‘But this is a case for which I’m ideally suited.’ Conscious that he was almost shouting, Colbeck took a deep breath before speaking more softly. ‘I beg you to reconsider your decision.’

‘Too late – it’s already made.’

‘Then you must change your mind.’

Tallis bridled. ‘Don’t you dare tell me what to do!’

‘This is important to me,’ said Colbeck, earnestly, ‘and I can assure you that it’s equally important to the London and South Western Railway. When they sent a telegraph to Scotland Yard, I’ll wager that I was mentioned by name.’

Edward Tallis shifted uneasily in his seat. They were in his office, a place that Robert Colbeck only ever entered after a polite knock. That formality had been swept aside this time. He’d flung open the door and stormed into the room to lean across the desk and fire his question at the superintendent. Tallis went on the attack.

‘You’re forgetting yourself, Inspector,’ he said, sharply. ‘You should respect my rank and only come in here by invitation or summons. Granted, there is something in what you say. By dint of your success, you’ve rightly earned the appellation of the Railway Detective but the railway system of this country should not be your only sphere of activity. Broaden your horizons. Tackle crime elsewhere.’

Colbeck held out his hand. ‘Let me see the telegraph, please.’

‘It was addressed to me.’

‘I have a right to see it, sir.’

‘The only right you have is to obey my instructions. The matter is settled. You will stay here while Vallence and Leeming go to Dorset.’

Hand still extended, Colbeck held his ground and met the superintendent’s glare without flinching. It was a battle of wills. As a rule, Tallis would have asserted his authority and sent him on his way but he couldn’t do that in this instance. He could see the hurt and indignation in Colbeck’s eyes and read the dire warning that was there. This was no ordinary argument between the two men. They’d had dozens of those in the past and Tallis had, more often than not, won them. Here was one trial of strength, however, that he was destined to lose. Colbeck was not merely insisting on taking over the investigation, he was, in effect, threatening to resign if he were not allowed to do so.

That – the superintendent knew – would be a catastrophe for Scotland Yard. Colbeck was the finest detective there. If the inspector were forced to leave, Tallis would face a roasting at the hands of the commissioner and ridicule in the press. Editors would crucify him for sending a novice inspector on an assignment that self-evidently called for the unique skills of Robert Colbeck. Tallis glanced at the outstretched hand in front of him and eventually capitulated. Reaching into his desk, he took out the telegraph and thrust it at his visitor.

‘You were asked for by name,’ he admitted, grumpily.

‘So I see,’ said Colbeck, reading the terse message. ‘A railway policeman has been murdered.’ He looked up. ‘Do you really wish to send Inspector Vallence to Wimborne in place of me? He’s never even heard of Castleman’s Corkscrew.’

Tallis blinked. ‘Nor more have I. What the deuce is it?’

‘The line is now under the aegis of the LSWR but – when the Southampton to Dorchester Railway was first built in 1847 – it was known as Castleman’s Corkscrew because it followed a circuitous route through the New Forest and on into Dorset. Mr Castleman was the driving force behind the formation of the SDR. His name will for ever be associated with the tortuous route taken.’

‘You are embarrassingly well informed,’ conceded Tallis.

‘Inspector Vallence had the grace to say the same thing.’

‘Don’t denigrate him. He’s a good man.’

‘He’s also a good detective and may well become an outstanding one. I have high hopes of him,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I’ll not yield a yard of my territory to him.’

Putting the telegraph down on the desk, he adopted a pose of mute defiance.

Visibly under pressure, Tallis reached for the comfort of a cigar, taking one from its box and going through his usual ritual. As the smoke billowed, Colbeck took a few cautionary steps backwards.

Tallis’s mood changed. In place of his gruff and peremptory tone, he was uncharacteristically reasonable and apologetic. Compassion was not a word that Colbeck would ever use of his superior yet he heard a distinct trace of it in the other man’s voice.

‘I thought that you’d prefer to stay in London,’ he explained.

‘I go wherever I’m needed, sir.’

‘My feeling is that you’re needed here at the moment.’

‘We’ve had an urgent request from the LSWR and I must respond to it at once. The murder of a railway employee is a matter of …’

His voice tailed off and he gaped at the superintendent. At last understanding what Tallis had been trying to do, he was both amazed and touched. Colbeck did indeed have a good reason to remain in the capital. His pregnant wife, Madeleine, was due to give birth before long. Colbeck was astonished that the superintendent even knew about his domestic situation. Ordinarily, Tallis would never talk about family matters. He believed that in order to do their job properly and without distraction, detectives should be – like him – unmarried. He frowned on those who took a wife and made no special allowances for them. When his wife, Estelle, was about to give birth to their two children, Victor Leeming had been shown scant sympathy. On the day that the first child came into the world, the sergeant had been helping Colbeck to solve a murder in Northampton.

Yet here was this crusty, old bachelor actually showing consideration for once. Tallis might not be the confirmed misogynist that everyone took him for, after all. At the time, the superintendent had been upset to hear that the Railway Detective was about to get married and he made no secret of his disapproval. And yet – to Colbeck’s astonishment – he had turned up at the wedding, indicating a token sign of acceptance. Though he never referred to Madeleine or once asked after her, he’d clearly got his information from somewhere.

‘You understand me at last, I see,’ observed Tallis.

‘Yes, sir, and I’m … grateful to you.’

‘Under any other circumstances, nothing would tempt me to send another detective on an assignment like this. It’s yours by right. Nobody here can challenge you. At present, however …’

‘I still wish to go to Dorset,’ said Colbeck, firmly.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Wimborne is less than four hours away by train. I checked.’

‘That’s not the point. It’s a question of priorities.’

Tallis was right and it was a sobering reminder. When Colbeck first heard that he’d been supplanted, as he saw it, by another detective, he’d been deeply wounded. Only now did he realise what the superintendent had been doing. Tallis was deliberately keeping him in London so that he would be on hand when Madeleine gave birth to their first child. Colbeck chided himself for misunderstanding the other man’s motives. Ideally, Madeleine would love to have her husband by her side at such a critical time yet she’d never asked him to request a leave of absence. She knew that Colbeck was wedded to his work as well as to her. The decision had been left to him and he was now forced to confront it.

His duty to his wife should come first. He accepted that. But the appeal of solving another railway murder was very strong. Colbeck consoled himself with the words of the doctor attending Madeleine. Unable to give a precise date, he’d said that the baby might not be due for another week or so, perhaps even a fortnight. That gave Colbeck some leeway. He was confident that the killer could be caught within that time. Dorset was a predominantly rural county with a sparse population. It would be easier to hunt a killer there than in a major city with abundant hiding places. That, at least, was what he was now telling himself. As a prospective father, he wanted to be with his wife when she delivered the baby; as a detective, however, his immediate response to a murder was to leap into action. After agonising over it for some while, he finally announced his decision.

‘Sergeant Leeming and I will be on the next train to Wimborne,’ he said.

‘You’re under no obligation to take on this investigation.’

‘I believe that I am, sir.’

‘What about … Mrs Colbeck?’ asked the other, tentatively.

‘My wife is in good hands, Superintendent. Thank you for asking.’

Madeleine Colbeck was not lacking for company during her pregnancy. Her father, Caleb Andrews, had called at the house regularly, each time urging her to name the boy – he was certain of its gender – after him. A retired engine driver, Andrews had been given a new lease of life by the news of the impending arrival of a new member of the family. Filled with pride, he was also conscious of the dangers that even a healthy young woman like his daughter would face during childbirth. Much as she loved her father, what Madeleine prized most was the company of another woman. Estelle Leeming had therefore been a welcome visitor. Having two children of her own, she was able to offer advice and comfort. Since her husband worked alongside Colbeck, she understood the frustration of being deprived of him when his work took him far from London. During confinement, that frustration had been edged with fear and she talked honestly about it to Madeleine.

But there was another female visitor to the house and she offered a rather different kind of support. Lydia Quayle was an attractive, intelligent, young spinster with a great affection for Madeleine. They’d met when Colbeck was trying to solve the murder of Lydia’s father in a suburb of Derby. Vivian Quayle had, in fact, been estranged from his daughter at the time and she’d moved to London to lead an independent life, sharing a house with an older female companion. Taking part in the investigative process at her husband’s request, Madeleine had met and befriended Lydia, helping her through a difficult time and earning her gratitude as a result. They’d been quickly drawn together. When she heard about the forthcoming birth, Lydia was delighted for Madeleine and intensely curious on her own behalf.

‘You’re going to have anaesthesia?’ she asked.

‘It’s what the doctor advised, Lydia.’

‘Is it safe?’

‘It was safe enough for Her Majesty, the Queen,’ said Madeleine with a smile. ‘There’s a rumour that she has been given chloroform during the birth of more than one of her children.’

‘Even so – the thought worries me.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know, Madeleine. I suppose that I don’t trust anaesthesia. You’re putting yourself at the mercy of a powerful drug. You … lose control.’

Madeleine was about to suggest that her friend might think differently when she faced childbirth herself but, since that was an unlikely prospect, she said nothing. Nor did she touch on the problem of labour pains. It was too indelicate a subject. Estelle Leeming had been frank about her own experience. Since she and her husband lacked the financial advantages enjoyed by Colbeck, anaesthesia had never even been an option. In order to relieve her pangs, therefore, she’d had to put up with repeated bloodletting. Afraid of upsetting her, it was a piece of information that Madeleine decided not to pass on to Lydia.

‘How do you feel?’ asked the visitor.

‘To tell the truth, I’m a trifle uncomfortable.’

‘That’s normal at this stage, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose that it is, Lydia.’

‘Have you talked about names?’

‘We’ve left that to my father. He wants our son to be called Caleb.’

‘What if it’s a daughter?’

‘He’s going to be very disappointed.’

‘Yet he had a daughter of his own,’ argued Lydia. ‘He must be very proud of you, Madeleine. You’ve not only married a famous detective, you’ve developed into a talented artist.’

Madeleine smiled wanly. ‘I haven’t been able to stand in front of an easel for some time. I miss it badly.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘Though not as much as I’m going to miss my husband.’

‘Why – where is he going?’

‘He’s been put in charge of a murder investigation.’

Lydia was taken aback.

‘But it’s a Sunday.’

‘That makes no difference. Robert often has to work seven days a week. A letter from Scotland Yard arrived not long before you did. He’s on his way to Dorset.’

The tables had been turned for once. By virtue of his superior rank, education and skill as a detective, Colbeck had always held the whip hand over his sergeant. Victor Leeming deferred to him readily. Now, however, he was in the dominant position. Fatherhood was the one area in which Colbeck could not maintain his status as the natural leader. It fell to him to be deferential.

‘Did it make a big difference to you, Victor?’ he wondered.

‘Oh, yes, sir.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, you must remember the time when I was in uniform.’

‘I do,’ said Colbeck, grinning. ‘You were fearless to the point of sheer recklessness. You lusted after action. No matter how strong or dangerous a criminal might be, you tackled him with ferocity.’

‘That was before I had children, Inspector.’

‘Have you learnt that discretion is the better part of valour?’

‘I learnt that Estelle and the two boys depend on me for everything. As a result, I think twice before doing anything rash.’

‘I daresay that being a father will moderate my behaviour as well.’

‘Oh, it will – and in ways that you don’t foresee.’

‘I hope that it won’t impair me in any way.’

‘Nothing could do that, sir.’

They were sharing an empty carriage of a train that was speeding away from Waterloo Station, the LSWR’s London terminus. Colbeck was ready to take any advice that the sergeant was able to offer him. In appearance, they presented a strange contrast. The handsome inspector was renowned at Scotland Yard for his elegance while his ugly companion was often mocked for his scruffiness. Even in a tailcoat and a top hat, Leeming contrived to look dishevelled and vaguely sinister. Whatever fatherhood had done for him, it had not taught him how to dress properly.

‘What do we expect to find in Dorset, sir?’ asked Leeming.

‘I think we’ll find something we’ve never encountered before,’ said Colbeck. ‘Most railways are built to connect cities with thriving industries in them and a need to move raw materials quickly and cheaply. The Castleman Corkscrew, on the other hand, is an essentially rural line that links a number of small market towns and, in some cases, mere villages.’ He unfolded the map that lay beside him. It was one of a large collection he kept in his office so that he could familiarise himself with a new destination on his way there. ‘Let me show you. This is the route we’ll take.’

Leeming followed the progress of Colbeck’s finger as it traced the route from Southampton to Wimborne and on to Dorchester. Time and again, it seemed to loop back on itself. The sergeant was mystified.

‘I thought the shortest distance between two places was a straight line.’

‘You won’t find many of those on our journey.’

‘Why not choose a more direct route?’

‘There are all sorts of reasons, Victor. Rights of access over Crown land had to be taken into account, major obstructions posing especial difficulties for the contractors had to be avoided for financial reasons, and there’s the eternal problem of vested interests.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘People expect a return on their money,’ said Colbeck. ‘If they invest a large amount of it in a new railway, they do so in order to ensure that the town where they live or conduct their business is incorporated into the network.’

‘But some of these places along the line look as if they’re no more than a hole in the hedge, sir,’ noted Leeming, peering at the map. ‘The station at Beaulieu, for instance, looks as if it’s miles from the village itself. Did they run out of track?’

Colbeck shook his head. ‘There’s another explanation. It involves the Commissioners for the Royal Woods and Forests. They’ll have had an influence.’

‘I still think that Mr Castleman has a lot to answer for. His railway is a mess.’

‘Strictly speaking, he wasn’t responsible for the mess. The sinuous route was actually designed by an engineer. I recall reading somewhere that Mr Castleman favoured a route that would have been eight miles shorter in length. However,’ Colbeck emphasised, ‘we’re not here to criticise anyone. We must simply adapt to the conditions that we find and make the most of them.’

‘What sort of place is Wimborne?’

‘I imagine that it will seem very parochial after London.’

‘That’s a pity,’ said Leeming. ‘I only feel at home in a big city.’

‘There are no large centres of population in Dorset, Victor. You must be prepared to inhale country smells for a change and get mud on your boots.’

‘Who asked for us?’

‘Mr Ambrose Feltham. He’s a director of the LSWR and lives in Wimborne. It was he who sent the telegraph to the superintendent.’

‘I just wish we had more detail. All we know so far is that a railway policeman was murdered.’

‘That’s enough for me,’ said Colbeck.

CHAPTER THREE

Seen from a distance, the two men on the platform at Wimborne Station bore a marked similarity to each other. Roughly equal in height and girth, both were in uniform and exuded a sense of authority. Closer examination showed that there were considerable differences between them. Older, more weather-beaten and with a greying beard, Bertram Maycock was a local constable, a man with a philosophical cast of mind who brought a degree of tolerance to the work of law enforcement in the town. It endeared him to most, but not all, of the inhabitants. Richard Satchwell, by contrast, was a tense individual in his late twenties with flashing eyes and a hooked nose, overzealous in discharging his duties as one of the two railway policemen assigned to the station. His jurisdiction only stretched as far as railway property and a little beyond but he tended to behave as if he had the same power and scope as Maycock.

‘It was bound to happen sooner or later, Bert,’ he said, solemnly.

‘I don’t agree.’

‘John Bedloe upset too many people.’

‘I’ve upset a few in my time,’ said Maycock, smiling, ‘and ye’ve gotten the wrong side of even more, from what I’ve heerd, but nobody feels that Wimborne would be better off wi’out ye and I. Ye need a lot more’n bein’ upset to kill a man.’

‘I think that someone was settling an old score.’

‘Then ’e were a strong man – either that or ’e weren’t alone. John was as tough as teak. There’s not many as’d tek ’im on on ’is own.’

‘He was probably caught off guard.’

‘Let this fella from Lun’un decide that, Dick. That’s why ’e’s a-comin’.’

‘I’ve never heard of this Inspector Colbeck.’

‘Mr Felt’am says ’e’s famous. We’re lucky to get ’im.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ said Satchwell, resentfully. ‘You and I could solve this crime between us, Bert. We don’t need a famous detective from Scotland Yard. By rights, I should make the arrest. Me and John Bedloe were colleagues. It’s my duty to catch his killer.’

‘Ye’ll ’ave to fight it out wi’ the inspector and ye won’t ’ave long to wait to do that. The train is comin’. ’E’ll be wi’ us in no time at all.’

Satchwell cupped a hand to his ear. ‘I don’t hear anything.’

‘Then ye should wash out your lug’oles. It’s puffin’ fit to burst.’

‘Ah,’ said the other, listening more intently, ‘I think I can hear it now.’

It was not long before they saw it as well. Advertised beforehand by plumes of smoke, it suddenly came into view with a sense of purpose, chugging determinedly along until it began to lose speed and spew out clouds of smoke less aggressively. When it finally pulled into the station, it came to a surprisingly smooth halt. Anxious to meet the detectives, Maycock moved forward but his companion hung back until they actually stepped out on to the platform. While the constable gave them a cordial welcome, Satchwell took stock of the newcomers. He was not impressed. In his eyes, Leeming had the build of a farm labourer dressed incongruously in fine clothes and Colbeck was a dandy whose appearance made Satchwell sneer. In response to Maycock’s gesture, the railway policeman came forward to be introduced to the newcomers and discovered that both men – especially Colbeck – had a very firm handshake.

‘Mr Feltham is expecting you,’ he said, officiously. ‘He’s booked rooms for you at the King’s Head. I’m to take you there right now, then conduct you to Mr Feltham’s house.’

Maycock chuckled. ‘’Tis no ’ouse, Dick. ’Tis a manshun.’

‘Mr Feltham is eager to see you as soon as possible, Inspector.’

‘If he were that eager,’ said Colbeck, drily, ‘he’d have been here to greet us in person. I sent a telegraph to warn him of the time of our arrival.’ He turned to Maycock. ‘Where is the body, Constable?’

‘Oh, it’s at Dr Keddle’s, sir.’

‘Were you the first to discover it?’

‘No, Inspector.’

‘What about you, Satchwell?’

‘I only learnt there’d been a murder when I was roused from my bed,’ said the other, defensively.

‘Who actually found it?’

‘Sim Copsey. He’s a shepherd.’

‘Then that’s the person I wish to speak to first,’ decided Colbeck.

Satchwell was taken aback. ‘What about Mr Feltham?’

‘He can wait his turn. Help the sergeant with our luggage and take him to the King’s Head. I’ll join him there in due course.’

‘Mr Feltham will be most upset if you go somewhere else first.’

‘That’s his prerogative.’

‘He more or less insists.’

‘We take no orders from him,’ said Colbeck, smoothly. ‘Copsey is the person I need to see. He can tell me something useful about this crime.’ He handed Satchwell his valise. ‘All that Mr Feltham can do is to repeat hearsay.’

‘Come on,’ said Leeming, moving away. ‘Take me to the King’s Head.’

After a surly glance at the inspector, Satchwell fell in beside Leeming.

‘Ye must excuse Dick,’ said Maycock. ‘’Im an’ Bedloe was coaliggs.’

‘That’s no excuse for bad manners.’

‘Dick Satchwell’s a good man at ’eart, sir.’

‘What about Mr Copsey?’

Maycock cackled. ‘Oh, Sim is a wicked ole devil.’

‘Which farm does he work on?’

‘’Tis out near God’s Blessin’ Green.’

Colbeck was amused. ‘Is there really such a place?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Is it far away?’

‘Sim won’t be there, Inspector.’

‘Then where is he?’

Maycock’s eyes sparkled. ‘I’ll show ye.’

Wimborne Station was in a rural setting near the bank of the River Stour. Trains going on from there to Poole and beyond crossed the river by means of a timber viaduct. Since the town was some distance away, Satchwell had acquired a trap to take the visitors there. As it set off at a leisurely pace, he and Leeming sat side by side. It was a mode of transport that suited the sergeant. He hated travelling by train and complained bitterly whenever he was forced to set off on yet another long, noisy, uncomfortable journey. The only thing that reconciled him to regular use of the railway network was the privilege of working beside Colbeck. Of the many things he’d learnt from the inspector, one was the importance of gathering intelligence at every opportunity. Satchwell was patently sulking beside him. Having worked alongside the murder victim, he was bound to have valuable knowledge about him. Leeming set about chiselling it out of the railway policeman.

‘What sort of man was Bedloe?’ he asked.

‘He did his job well.’

‘I’m asking about his character.’

Satchwell shrugged. ‘John was all right when you got to know him.’

‘Was he friendly, supportive, easy to work with?’

‘We got along.’

‘Was he married?’

‘Oh, no,’ said the other, crisply. ‘He was not the marrying type.’

‘How long had he worked here?’

‘Two years. He was transferred from Dorchester.’

‘And how long have you been here?’

‘Three and a half years.’

‘So you had seniority.’

‘That wasn’t quite the way it happened,’ said Satchwell with a hint of sourness. ‘Because he was older and had worked in the county town, John felt that he should be in charge.’

‘Are you saying that he liked to throw his weight around?’

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘We have a superintendent like that,’ confided Leeming. ‘Did you see much of Bedloe when you were off duty?’

‘Not really – I’m a family man.’

‘Whereas he was single and fancy-free.’ Satchwell said nothing. ‘Was he the type of man who made enemies?’

‘Well, he didn’t make friends easily, I can tell you that. John never learnt how to be off duty. When he wasn’t wearing a uniform, he behaved as if he still was. Some people didn’t like that.’

‘Some people?’ echoed Leeming. ‘Can you give me any names?’

‘No, Sergeant, I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘There was just this general feeling against him. When he came into a pub, most of those who were there looked the other way.’

‘How do you know? I thought you never spent time with him off duty.’

‘You hear things.’

‘Had he always worked on the railways?’

‘Oh, no, he’d spent some years as a gamekeeper on a big estate the other side of Sherborne. John would have loved that, strutting about with a shotgun under his arm. He was always boasting about his knack of catching poachers.’

‘That’s good training for a railway policeman.’

‘He kept telling me the same thing.’

‘You said earlier that you were hauled out of bed this morning.’

‘It was just before dawn. Bert Maycock sent someone to bang on my door. I got dressed and rushed straight to the scene.’

‘How was Bedloe killed?’

‘John had been stabbed in the back and …’ There was a lengthy pause.

‘And?’ prompted Leeming.

Satchwell stared straight ahead. ‘And his mouth had been prised open. A corkscrew had been driven through his tongue and into his jaw.’

The sergeant winced. ‘A corkscrew?’

‘Yes, Sergeant – a large one.’

Though Satchwell did his best to conceal it, Leeming could swear that he’d heard something in the man’s voice bordering on quiet satisfaction.

Simon Copsey had seen death in many forms. When the railway had first been built some thirteen years earlier, he’d lost sheep who’d strayed on to the line in front of an approaching train. He killed vermin on a regular basis and snared rabbits to vary his diet. Dead animals were a common sight. What he’d never done before, however, was view the corpse of a murdered man, especially one who’d been treated in such a bizarre way. He’d puzzled over the corkscrew for a long time before summoning help. Copsey had acquired an instant fame and he sought to exploit it. Instead of going back to his flock, he’d made his way to The Jolly Shepherd, a small, shabby, unappealing pub on the road out of Wimborne. Its thatched roof was badly neglected and two of its windows were cracked but that didn’t deter Copsey. He banged on the door until the landlord finally opened it, letting him in on the strength of the tale he had to tell.

Over a free pint, the visitor had explained how he’d stumbled on the body of John Bedloe, omitting to mention that, in fact, it was his dog, Sam, who’d actually found it. Sam didn’t contradict him. He was happy curling up at his master’s feet. When the pub opened for business, people drifted in, each one mesmerised by the story of a foul murder told with macabre gusto. Copsey was in his element, the image of a jolly shepherd. He not only had a captive audience, each new visitor bought him a fresh pint and treated him with exaggerated respect. By the time that Colbeck arrived at the pub with Maycock, the wizened, old shepherd was snoring contentedly away with his dog beside him. Maycock exchanged a few words with the landlord, introduced the detective, then shook Copsey awake.

‘What’s goin’ on?’ demanded the shepherd, slurring his words.

‘Time to wake up, Sim,’ said Maycock, pleasantly.

‘Who says so?’ Opening an eye, he saw the police uniform. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he protested. ‘I’ve not been near them chickens and neither has Sam.’

The dog barked in agreement. After helping him to sit upright again, Maycock explained why they were there. For his part, Colbeck was wondering how reliable a witness the drunken shepherd would be. He noticed that the man’s mud-covered smock had traces of blood on the sleeve and asked himself how anyone could wear a misshapen hat that had been pounded so hard over the years by wind, rain and snow that it was threatening to fall apart at the seams. He gave Copsey time to compose himself. The promise of more beer helped to concentrate the old man’s mind and he thrust out a skeletal hand.

‘You can have it afterwards,’ said Colbeck, firmly, ‘when you’ve told me what I came to hear. Now then, when and how did you find the murder victim?’

‘It were in West Moors,’ said Copsey, shaking himself fully awake. ‘I saved ’im, sir, that I did. I saved John Bedloe.’

‘But he was already dead, wasn’t he?’

‘Oh, yes, but ’e were stretched across the track. The poor man’s neck was on the line itself. If a train’d come, it’d tek off ’is ’ead.’ He made a vivid gesture. ‘Then, o’ course, there was the corkscrew.’

‘Ye never told me John’d been on the line itself,’ complained Maycock. ‘When I got there, ’e were lyin’ beside the track.’

‘I were too shocked to tell ye all, Bert.’

‘Then tell us everything now,’ said Colbeck, patiently, ‘and remember as much detail as you possibly can.’

Pleased to have another audience, Copsey cleared his throat and launched into his story. In the course of its repetition, it had picked up all kinds of embellishments but it was not difficult for Colbeck to separate fact from fanciful decoration. The shepherd added some significant new details to the version that Maycock had already given the detective. When it was all over, Colbeck bought a pint of beer for Copsey but kept it tantalisingly out of reach on the bar counter. Reaching inside his coat, he took out a notebook and pencil.

‘Before I pass you your drink,’ said Colbeck, opening the pad to a blank page, ‘I want you to do something for me.’

‘What is it, sir?’

‘Do you know what this is?’

Colbeck drew two parallel lines then joined them together with a series of smaller lines set apart at regular intervals. He showed the drawing to the shepherd.

‘’Tis a railway track,’ said the old man.

‘Take the pencil and draw in the body exactly as you found it.’

‘I’m no hartist, sir.’

‘Was he at an angle like this?’ asked Colbeck, sketching in a matchstick figure.

‘No, no, ye’ve got it all wrong.’

‘Then what about this?’

Colbeck created a few more corpses on the paper before he finally put one in exactly the right position. The man’s head – a tiny circle – was over one line while his legs were over the one parallel with it.

Copsey nodded excitedly and Sam added a few celebratory barks for good measure. Putting his pad away, Colbeck reached for the tankard and gave it to the old man. The detective felt that he now had something on which to work. Not long after John Bedloe had been dragged off the track, the milk train had thundered through. Had the body been in its original position, it would have been sliced into three parts. The shepherd had not only prevented a gory mess from disfiguring the track, he’d spared the driver and the fireman of the milk train from having nightmares about what they’d inadvertently done. Killing stray animals was one thing, always regrettable but an occupational hazard. Mangling a human body was on a different scale altogether.

When he left the pub with Colbeck, the policeman was curious.

‘Why did ye ask about the position ’e was in?’

‘I thought it might give me a useful clue.’

‘And did it?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Colbeck. ‘The shepherd did the right thing in pulling the body clear. My guess is that Bedloe was killed elsewhere, then taken to a particular point on the track. Instead of being tossed across the line, he was placed there very carefully.’

Maycock hunched his shoulders. ‘I don’t foller ye, sir.’

‘He wasn’t just a murder victim. He was a sacrifice.’

Notwithstanding his dislike of being away from home, Leeming was favourably impressed by Wimborne. It was a pretty town, dominated by a minster with two towers, each built in different architectural styles. He was struck by the oddness of its appearance because it was constructed of limestone interspersed with a dark, rust-coloured stone that gave it a strangely mottled look. The King’s Head Hotel was in the main square. It featured a series of square columns protruding from the facade and had both a reassuring symmetry and a uniform colour. The interior was equally pleasing. Taking charge of Colbeck’s valise, Leeming was booked in and shown up to a room so commodious that it was bigger than the entire floor space of his house in London. As he looked around what were for him luxurious facilities, he thought wistfully of his family and wished that he could afford to bring them to stay in such a place. His window looked out on the square and he spent several minutes just gazing out at the busy scene below.

After removing his hat and coat, he flopped into an armchair and enjoyed a rare moment of relaxation. Once the investigation gathered pace, there would be little time to rest because he knew how keen Colbeck was to solve the murder in the shortest time possible. That would entail long hours and hard work. Meanwhile, he could bask in a moment of idleness. It did not last long. There was a rapping on the door and he opened it to find himself staring at the face of Richard Satchwell. The railway policeman was smirking like a mischievous boy who’d just got a fellow pupil into serious trouble by betraying him to the headmaster.

‘You’re wanted downstairs at once,’ he warned.

‘Has the inspector returned?’

‘No, Sergeant. It’s Mr Feltham who wants to see you and he wasn’t at all happy when I told him that you were delayed. He’s waiting. You’d better come quickly.’

After retrieving his coat, Leeming put it on and followed him down to the lounge. Ambrose Feltham was standing there with one hand on the back of a chair and the other on his hip. A short, slim, well-dressed man in his fifties, he increased his height by wearing an exceptionally tall top hat. Piggy eyes glinted above a bushy moustache. A flick of the wrist dismissed Satchwell.

‘So,’ said Feltham, looking him up and down with evident misgivings, ‘you are Sergeant Leeming.’

‘Yes, Mr Feltham.’

‘I expected you to come straight to me.’

‘Inspector Colbeck had other priorities.’

‘I find that very annoying.’

‘There was no intention of upsetting you, sir. It’s just that the inspector wished to speak to the man who actually found the body.’

Feltham snorted. ‘That will be a complete waste of time.’

‘Why?’

‘He’ll get no sense out of Sim Copsey. That old reprobate is probably as drunk as a lord by now. He’s not very articulate at the best of times.’

‘Do you know him, sir?’

‘I should do, Sergeant,’ said the other, grandiloquently. ‘I’m a magistrate here and I’ve lost count of the number of times that Copsey has been up before me. I’ve sentenced him for everything from causing an affray to stealing chickens. He might claim that he was the first to find Bedloe,’ he added, tapping the side of his nose, ‘but there might be another explanation altogether.’

‘You mean that he’s a suspect?’

‘What was he doing in such a place at that time of night? Ask yourself that. Copsey lives miles away. He had no reason to be anywhere near West Moors.’

‘What about Mr Bedloe himself. Does he live close by?’

‘No, he has a cottage here in Wimborne.’

‘So what was he doing out in the dead of night?’

‘I’m counting on you and the inspector to find out.’ He wagged a finger. ‘By and large, this is a law-abiding town. We have our share of petty crime, as I know only too well, but we don’t usually have anything as serious as this. Murder leaves a nasty stain. I summoned you here to clean up the mess.’

‘We came in the interests of justice, Mr Feltham.’

‘Well, yes, that goes without saying.’

‘In view of your comments,’ said Leeming, tartly, ‘I rather felt that it needed to be said.’ The piggy eyes flashed. ‘Satchwell tells me that the murder victim had very few relations. The only one he knew of is a cousin in Dorchester.’

‘If he’s next of kin, you’ll have to get in touch with him.’

‘We don’t need him to identify the body. Apparently, that’s already been done by a number of people. Mr Bedloe seems to have been well known.’

‘Well known, perhaps, but not well liked,’ said Feltham. ‘He was a handsome devil, by all accounts, and something of a ladies’ man. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the killer was a jealous husband whose wife caught Bedloe’s eye.’

‘Is Mr Copsey married?’

‘Heavens, no! He’s repulsive. What woman would look twice at him?’

‘Then that destroys your theory about him being a suspect, sir,’ Leeming pointed out. ‘If we’re after a vengeful husband, we can rule Copsey out. In any case, murder is a big step up from causing an affray and stealing chickens.’

‘I hope that you’re not being sarcastic, Sergeant.’

Leeming was stony-faced. ‘It would never cross my mind, sir.’

‘How long have you worked with Inspector Colbeck?’

‘It must be ten years at least.’

‘Is he always this wayward?’

‘He would call it being methodical.’

‘I left orders that he should come to see me straight away. I need to impress upon him the importance of ridding Wimborne of this awful stigma as soon as is humanly possible.’

‘You don’t need to tell him that, sir. He has his own reasons for a speedy resolution. Meanwhile, may I thank you for booking us into this hotel. The accommodation is excellent.’

‘I didn’t bring you to Dorset for a holiday, Sergeant,’ snapped Feltham. ‘You’re here for a specific purpose.’

‘We’re well aware of that, sir.’

Feltham looked up as Satchwell reappeared in the lounge.

‘Well,’ he demanded. ‘Have you tracked down the inspector?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the other, ‘I’ve just seen him going into Dr Keddle’s house.’

‘Damn the fellow!’ exclaimed Feltham, slapping the back of the chair with the flat of his hand. ‘First, it’s that flea-ridden shepherd and now it’s the doctor. Why is the man dodging me all the time? I brought him here to solve a murder, not to play hide-and-seek.’

Leeming could not suppress a wild laugh.

After examining the corpse and noting the single entry wound in the man’s back, Colbeck drew the shroud over the naked body and moved across to a small table. Standing in a bowl was a blood-covered corkscrew. He picked it up to inspect it then turned to the doctor with a raised eyebrow.

‘Don’t ask me, Inspector,’ said Keddle, raising both palms. ‘I haven’t got a clue why the killer felt it necessary to add that gruesome touch.’

‘A corkscrew murder on Castleman’s Corkscrew,’ mused Colbeck. ‘Is that what we have here?’

‘We have evidence of a heinous crime. That’s all I can say.’

Oliver Keddle was a tubby man of middle years with a bald head fringed with hair in a style reminiscent of a tonsure. There was nothing monastic about his manner, however. He was an ebullient man who shunned solemnity. Instead of praying over the victim, his response was almost light-hearted.

‘Well, this has certainly livened up my day,’ he said. ‘I usually spend my time diagnosing minor ailments or advising people against overindulgence. The human body is capable of contracting an infinite number of diseases but I only seem to get a limited share, most of them depressingly dull. Bedloe is the most interesting patient I’ve had in years.’

‘He’s not exactly a patient, Dr Keddle,’ said Colbeck, replacing the corkscrew.

‘In one sense, I suppose that he’s not. He’s way beyond the reach of the humble medical skills that I possess.’ He indicated the door. ‘Why don’t we step into the drawing room and leave Bedloe in peace?’

‘That’s a good idea, sir.’

‘Unhappily, he’s in no position to solve the riddle of the corkscrew.’

Keddle led the way to the drawing room then turned to Colbeck.

‘You must have seen a lot of murder victims in your time.’

‘I have,’ said the other, ‘but none quite as intriguing as this one.’

‘Wimborne will be in a state of shock over this business. It’s an unwelcome novelty for us,’ explained Keddle. ‘We’ve had murders in Dorset before but they tend to be further west. I never know whether to be relieved or disappointed. In the last decade, we’ve had two. The more notorious of them was the one involving Martha Brown who bludgeoned her husband with an axe. He was twenty years younger but he was clearly no match for her. The crime took place near Beaminster. Martha was hanged in Dorchester four years ago in front of a huge crowd.’

‘I’m opposed to the idea of public executions,’ said Colbeck, seriously.

‘So am I, Inspector – it excites the wrong emotions.’ They heard the doorbell ring. Keddle ran a hand over his pate. ‘I’m still puzzling over that corkscrew.’

‘I think that it was symbolic, sir.’

‘That may well be but … symbolic of what?’

‘It went through his tongue,’ recalled Colbeck. ‘Was someone trying to tell us that he was prone to lying? Or is there some other meaning?’

They heard approaching footsteps. The door opened and a manservant showed in a panting Ambrose Feltham. Having had to walk a hundred yards from the hotel, he’d had time to work up his anger. Hat still on his head, he pointed at Colbeck.

‘There you are, at last!’ he cried. ‘I was beginning to think that you were a phantom. Why have you been avoiding me?’

‘This is Mr Feltham,’ said Keddle, introducing them. ‘And there’s no need to shout, Ambrose. The inspector has excellent hearing.’

‘That may be so,’ retorted Feltham, ‘but he falls woefully short when it comes to consideration. That’s a grave fault in my book.’

‘I’m sorry that you feel that way, sir,’ said Colbeck with a disarming smile. ‘I was not being deliberately impolite. I’m most grateful that you called on us to take on this fascinating case. It’s just that I felt it important to speak to the person who found the body first. After him, I was anxious to view the cadaver.’

‘So I take third place to a drunken shepherd and a dead body, do I? Or was there something else you wished to do before deigning to report to me?’

‘Oddly enough, sir, there was. As a matter of urgency, I’d like to see the scene of the crime.’

‘When will you take notice of me?’ wailed Feltham.

‘The inspector is only following procedure,’ said Keddle, trying to mollify him. ‘He’s been in this situation many times before.’

‘I have,’ confirmed Colbeck, ‘but I’ve not been avoiding you, sir. If you’re that eager to see me, I suggest that you accompany me to West Moors. You can examine the scene of the crime alongside me. Will that content you?’

‘That’s a very sensible idea, Ambrose.’

‘Keep out of this, Oliver,’ muttered Feltham.

‘I’m professionally involved.’

‘Then save any comments for the inquest.’ Drawing himself up to his full height, he looked at Colbeck. ‘I expect to be part of this investigation at every stage. Do you understand?’

‘I understand you perfectly, sir,’ said Colbeck.

‘I want to be there when you arrest the man who committed this murder.’

‘How do you know that it was a man?’

Feltham spread his arms. ‘Who else could it have been?’

‘It could just as easily have been a woman,’ argued Colbeck. ‘It only needed one thrust of a knife to kill him and most women would be capable of using a corkscrew in the way that it was employed.’

‘That’s arrant nonsense, Inspector. This is a crime of patent brutality.’

‘So?’

‘I’ll wager anything that it’s the work of a man.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Women simply don’t do such things.’

‘As a rule, they don’t,’ agreed Colbeck. ‘But just before you arrived, Dr Keddle was telling me about a recent domestic murder in Dorset in which a wife hacked her husband to death with an axe. Her name was Martha Brown, I believe.’ He looked Feltham in the eye. ‘I’d call that a crime of patent brutality – wouldn’t you?’

CHAPTER FOUR

Not for the first time, Caleb Andrews reflected that it had been so different in his day. When his wife had been awaiting the birth of their only child, the care she received was based solely on what he could afford and he’d earned a low wage at the time. Madeleine’s situation was infinitely better. Married to a detective inspector who had independent means as well, she lived in a fine house and had the best medical attention. Though he was pleased for his daughter, he wished that his wife had been able to enjoy similar treatment and comfort. Andrews had been convinced that he was about to become the father of a son. When Madeleine had come into the world, however, he was thrilled and soon found that there were special joys in raising a daughter. The roles were eventually reversed. At the untimely death of his wife, Andrews had been so heartbroken that he’d been unable to cope and it was Madeleine who then became like a parent to him. He never forgot the way that she’d carried him through a difficult time and wondered if any son could have done that so well and so uncomplainingly.

‘How are you feeling, Maddy?’ he asked.

‘Much the same.’

‘What does the doctor say?’

‘He’s happy with the way that everything is going.’

In fact, he’d said a great deal more but it was not the kind of information that she wished to pass on to her father. While she confided everything in Colbeck, she felt too embarrassed to discuss certain details with her father and, for his part, Andrews was too embarrassed to ask for them. When he called in to see her that morning, she was reclining in bed in a dressing gown. He felt uneasy.

‘You must tell me if I’m in the way, Maddy.’

She laughed. ‘Don’t be silly.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I’m always pleased to see you, Father.’

‘But the time will soon come when …’ He let his words hang in the air and she nodded. Andrews glanced around. ‘Where’s Robert?’

‘He’s at work.’

He sat up. ‘Your husband should be here, looking after you.’

‘Where were you when I was born?’

‘I was working.’ She gave a knowing smile. ‘Don’t blame me, Maddy. I had no choice. I just couldn’t take time off. Robert is more senior than I was at the time. He could take leave whenever he wants.’

‘The trouble is that he never actually wants it.’

‘You and the baby should come first.’

‘Robert appreciates that. He’s promised to be back in London well in time.’

Andrews stiffened. ‘Back from where?’

‘He’s had to go to Dorset to lead an investigation.’

‘That’s dreadful, Maddy!’ he exclaimed. ‘He doesn’t have time to go gallivanting around the countryside. His place is here beside you.’