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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Railway Detective
- Sprache: Englisch
'A master storyteller' Daily Mail A goods train speeds through the Sapperton Tunnel, but disaster strikes before it can reach the other side as it collides with an unusual blockage on the tracks: seven sheep penned in place. Specially requested to investigate the carnage in Gloucestershire, Inspector Colbeck and Sergeant Leeming are confronted with a bizarre case unlike anything they've encountered before. Stephen Rydall, board member of the Great Western Railway that manages the route, is convinced this tragedy is a personal attack on him and fears for the safety of his shepherd, missing since the incident. Rydall has many enemies: a churlish squire, a scheming principal and a local ruffian who always manages to evade the law. But, as Colbeck will soon discover, the man also has a closely guarded secret of his own...
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Seitenzahl: 422
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
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4PRAISE 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
5
SLAUGHTER IN THE SAPPERTON TUNNEL
EDWARD MARSTON
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
Spring, 1862
At a time when most of the nation was still slumbering, the locomotive steamed towards Kemble, its wagons creaking under the weight of their loads and clanking over the rails. Standing on the footplate, the driver and his fireman glanced at the silhouette of the little station that suddenly rose out of the gloom like a friendly ghost to acknowledge their arrival while simultaneously bidding farewell to its fleeting visitors. It was not long before the goods train plunged into the first stretch of the Sapperton Tunnel, emerging briefly into the fresh air after 350 yards or so before hurtling into the much longer stretch. As it burrowed again through the Cotswold escarpment, the darkness was relieved only by the glow from the firebox.
‘I hate this place,’ confided the driver.8
‘Why is that, Olly?’
‘I keep thinking of the poor devils who built it.’
‘They did a good job.’
‘Yes, but it was so dangerous. Some navvies had terrible injuries. Just think of it. Working down here with no natural light and filling their lungs with dust every day. It must have been torture.’
‘They got paid for it,’ said the fireman, cheerfully. ‘In any case, they were used to hard labour. Digging this tunnel was a challenge. I reckon they were glad to take it on.’
In the narrow confines of the brick-built structure, noise was amplified, and they had to raise their voices above the tumult in order to be heard. Neither of them was aware of the plaintive bleating towards which they were now thundering. As they strained their eyes to peer through the billowing smoke, they could see nothing to cause alarm. Then, without warning, it happened. As it neared the mouth of the tunnel, the locomotive smashed through the makeshift pen in which a number of sheep had been imprisoned, killing the animals instantly before hitting the boulders that had been piled up ahead on the track. Derailed on impact, the train keeled over and threw both men uncaringly off the footplate. Wagons splintered, overturned or jack-knifed crazily, shedding their loads everywhere. For what seemed like minutes, the sound of sheer chaos echoed through the tunnel and caused tremors in the earth above it.
CHAPTER TWO
When he let himself into the superintendent’s office, Colbeck found the man seated behind his desk, poring over an Ordnance Survey map. It was only when the inspector walked across to him that Tallis realised he had a visitor. Raising his head, he gave Colbeck an unwelcoming glare.
‘I did knock, sir,’ said Colbeck.
‘Not loud enough – didn’t hear a sound.’
‘You sent for me, Superintendent, but, since you are clearly preoccupied, perhaps it would be better if I returned at a more suitable time.’
‘No, no,’ said Tallis. ‘Now that you’re here, you can stay.’ He tapped the map with an irritable finger. ‘I’ve been trying to find Sapperton.’
‘It’s in Gloucestershire, sir.’10
‘I know that, damn you, but I need a precise location.’
‘Allow me.’
Walking around the desk, Colbeck looked over Tallis’s shoulder at the map. It took him only seconds to find the elusive village.
‘It’s here, sir,’ he said, pointing. ‘Sapperton is in a beautiful area of the county. The tunnel that bears its name is, in my opinion, one of the most striking examples of railway engineering in the whole country.’
‘You won’t think that when you see it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m sending you and Leeming there immediately.’
‘Is there a problem with the tunnel?’
‘A goods train came off the rails there – after it had slaughtered some sheep.’ Picking up the telegraph, he handed it to Colbeck. ‘I still can’t work out if it’s a genuine call for help or a hoax.’
The inspector glanced at it. ‘It’s genuine, sir.’
‘You haven’t even read it.’
‘I didn’t need to,’ said Colbeck. ‘I saw the name of the sender. Stephen Rydall is a member of the GWR board. He’s a landowner in the area. I daresay that the sheep would have belonged to him.’
‘Do you have to be so annoyingly well-informed?’ said Tallis, slapping his hand down on the desk. ‘It’s uncanny.’ He sat up in his chair. ‘How on earth did you come to meet Mr Rydall?’
‘I didn’t meet him, sir. I just heard that name more than once when Sergeant Leeming and I were investigating a murder in Swindon. Mr Rydall was spoken of with great respect.’
‘What do you make of his telegraph?’11
‘It arouses my interest at once, sir,’ said Colbeck, reading the terse message. ‘I can’t ever remember a case that involves the wanton killing of farm animals. The disappearance of Mr Rydall’s shepherd is quite mystifying.’
‘Not to me,’ said Tallis, confidently. ‘I’ll wager that he’s the man you’ll end up arresting. There’s obviously been bad blood between Rydall and this fellow. The shepherd probably took his revenge by causing mayhem at the tunnel before making a run for it.’
‘I think that highly unlikely, sir.’
‘It’s as plain as the nose on your face.’
‘Shepherds tend to love the animals they look after. And why should this man destroy the very sheep that provide him with his livelihood? Besides, the major crime here is orchestrating the accident. That’s not the work of a shepherd who hates his employer,’ argued Colbeck. ‘It’s much more likely to be the work of someone with a grudge against the Great Western Railway.’
It had happened so many times that Madeleine Colbeck had grown accustomed to it. Whenever he had to set off on an investigation that took him outside London, her husband always made sure that he sent her a letter by hand so that she knew exactly where he was going. His last case had been in the Lake District. Madeleine was relieved to discover he would not be quite so far away this time. Out of consideration for his wife, Colbeck had not only made her aware of his movements, he’d arranged for the missive to be delivered to their home in John Islip Street by Alan Hinton, a young detective at Scotland Yard.
‘Did you know what was in this letter?’ she asked.12
‘The inspector told me they were off to Gloucestershire.’
‘Did he give you any details?’
‘No,’ said Hinton. ‘He was in something of a rush.’
‘That’s nothing new, alas,’ she sighed. ‘However, since you were kind enough to act as a postman, would you care for some refreshment?’
‘I’d care very much but I must get back to work.’
‘That’s a pity. Lydia will be here very soon.’
His mood changed at once. ‘Oh, I see …’
Lydia Quayle was Madeleine’s best friend. They’d met when Colbeck went to Derby to investigate the murder of her father. Hinton had also met Lydia as the result of a crime, though one less serious in nature. She’d been troubled by a stalker and the detective was able both to protect her and arrest the man who’d been harassing her. As a result, Hinton and Lydia had been drawn together. Meetings between them, however, were all too rare and treasured as a result. It took Hinton a matter of seconds to change his mind.
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘perhaps I will accept your kind invitation.’
Madeleine smiled. ‘I had a feeling that you might, Alan.’
Ordinarily, train journeys with Victor Leeming followed a set pattern. He complained when they arrived at the station, moaned when they boarded the train and, if they were travelling in a full compartment that made a private conversation impossible, he’d stare balefully out of the window as if watching his hopes drift past in the opposite direction. The moment they were alone, he was prone to voice his many 13objections to the notion of train travel. This time, miraculously, it was different. When first told of their destination, he gave no protest and even managed something resembling a smile.
Leeming was a solid man in his thirties with the kind of unsettling features more appropriate to a desperate criminal. He looked shifty, malevolent and thoroughly out of place wearing formal attire, especially when he stood beside Colbeck, the acknowledged dandy of Scotland Yard. His frock coat was ill-fitted, and his baggy trousers had a stolen look about them.
As they took their seats in an empty compartment, he was actually exhibiting a measure of enjoyment. Colbeck soon learnt why.
‘This train stops at Swindon,’ said Leeming.
‘Yes, it does, Victor.’
‘I have fond memories of the place.’
‘Yet we had some fairly gruesome encounters there.’
‘I was thinking of the Queen’s Tap, sir. It had comfortable beds, a friendly landlord and served a wonderful pint of beer. I don’t suppose …’
‘No,’ said Colbeck, firmly.
‘But the pub is no distance at all from the station. We could nip across there to renew our acquaintance with Mr Wells, enjoy a drink, then catch the next train. You said that they run regularly.’
‘They do, indeed, and I’m sure that Hiram Wells would give us a cordial welcome. But getting to the Sapperton Tunnel is our priority. We’re going to the site of a dreadful accident, remember. The damage is extensive, the tunnel is blocked indefinitely, and it may even be that the driver and fireman are murder victims. Really, Victor,’ said Colbeck with a note of 14reproach, ‘this is not a time to be thinking about a pint of beer.’
‘You’re right, sir,’ said Leeming, lowering his head in penitence. ‘It was wrong of me. I apologise. Work comes first, naturally.’ When he looked up again, there was a hopeful look in his eye. ‘We could always pay our respects at the Queen’s Tap on our way back to London.’
‘Address your mind to the matter in hand,’ ordered Colbeck. ‘And answer this question. When I gave you what scant information we have about this case, what was your reaction?’
‘I felt sorry for the sheep.’
‘So did I.’
‘Why did they have to be killed like that?’
‘I don’t know, but I wonder if there’s some religious aspect to their death.’
Leeming gasped. ‘Religious?’
‘They could have been sacrifices.’
‘What sort of sacrifices?’
‘We’ll have to ask the person who put them there.’
The light was good and the temperature warm. Conditions were ideal for the man. Having carefully chosen his spot, he sat down on a tree stump and opened his sketchbook. As he worked carefully away, the devastation around the mouth of the tunnel came slowly to life on the blank paper.
CHAPTER THREE
To Alan Hinton’s delight, Lydia Quayle soon arrived at the house. Tea was served in the drawing room where they exchanged news. The detective felt a stab of guilt when he thought how Superintendent Tallis would react if he caught one of his officers relaxing with friends while on duty, but that fear was soon removed by the sheer pleasure of seeing Lydia again. To his eyes, she looked more poised and beautiful than ever. For her part, she was equally thrilled at the unexpected encounter. She was also interested to hear the message that Hinton had brought to the house.
‘Sapperton?’ she repeated. ‘I’ve been there.’
‘Really?’ said Hinton.
‘When I was a child, we used to visit an aunt who lived close to Cirencester. She often took us for a ride in her carriage 16to one of the villages nearby. Sapperton was among them.’
‘What was it like?’ asked Madeleine.
‘I can’t remember too much about it, to be honest. It was a long time ago. But I do recall that it was very pretty and there was this wonderful sense of space.’
‘We don’t get that here in London.’
‘That’s inevitable in a city as big as this one.’
‘There are compensations,’ said Hinton. ‘London is always bustling with activity. There’s never a dull moment here, whereas nothing ever happens in a quiet Cotswold village.’
‘Something has certainly happened in Sapperton,’ noted Lydia.
‘It’s the exception that proves the rule.’
‘I’ll be interested to hear more about the case.’
‘So will I,’ said Madeleine, ‘though I’m wrestling with a big problem at the moment. Father always likes to know what Robert is up to and, as a rule, I’m happy to tell him. This time it’s different.’
‘Why is that?’ asked Lydia.
‘His son-in-law will be helping the Great Western Railway.’
‘Oh dear! I see what you mean.’
‘Since he worked all those years for a rival railway company, he hates everything about the GWR.’
‘I don’t see why,’ said Hinton. ‘I think that Brunel was a genius. Your father must surely accept that, Madeleine.’
‘If only he did,’ she said, sadly, ‘but he despised the man. He’s never said a good word about him. On balance, I fancy, it might be better if I told him that Robert had been sent somewhere on the eastern side of the country.’17
‘You’d lie to him?’ said Lydia in disbelief.
‘It would spare me another bruising lecture.’
‘But he’s bound to learn the truth eventually.’
‘Yes,’ added Hinton. ‘When he speaks to Inspector Colbeck again, he’ll be told all about the case.’
‘That will make him angrier than ever,’ Lydia pointed out.
Madeleine grimaced. Deceiving her father might not be the best course of action, after all. When he did learn the truth, she’d have to face his resentment as well as his fury. That was a daunting prospect. She decided that she’d have to think again.
Because they were climbing a gradient, the train had slowed down slightly. Leeming was unaware of any change, but Colbeck noticed the lower speed at once. He drew his companion’s attention to it.
‘Some locomotives struggle to get up this incline so they go double-headed. The alternative is to lessen the load they’re pulling.’
‘You mean that they’d detach some carriages?’
‘Only if it were necessary,’ explained Colbeck. ‘And there is a danger involved.’
‘Danger?’
‘I remember reading about an incident on this line that occurred not far from here. The driver of a goods train was struggling to cope with the gradient so he split the wagons into two halves, intending to take the first lot to Gloucester before returning to pick up the others.’
‘What happened?’18
‘They didn’t stay where he’d parked them. The brakes failed and the wagons careered back down the incline before crashing into some stationary carriages and coming off the rails.’
‘Were any of the passengers in the carriages hurt?’
‘There were no fatalities, but there were several minor injuries. Also, of course, they had a nasty shock.’
‘I have one of those every time I see the superintendent.’ They shared a knowing smile. ‘When do we reach the site of our accident?’
‘The tunnel is blocked so we’ll have to get out at the eastern portal and go to the other end overland. I’m assuming that the GWR will have arranged some sort of transport for us. If they haven’t,’ said Colbeck, ‘there’ll be a lot of very angry passengers. Most of them have tickets for Stroud or beyond.’
Ten minutes later, the train began to slow down so that it could stop at Kemble station. A number of passengers got off, but nobody was waiting to get on. After its brief stay, the train set off again but at a much reduced speed. It soon slowed down so dramatically that they seemed to be creeping forward, as if the driver was eyeing the track ahead with misgiving. It made it easier for the passengers to enjoy looking at the sunlit countryside on either side of them, but it also started to worry them. Even though they’d been warned about the problem on the line, they couldn’t understand why they were now moving at a snail’s pace.
‘What’s happening, sir?’ asked Leeming.
‘We have to be patient.’19
‘I could walk as fast as this.’
‘You may well have to do that before long.’
The prediction was soon proved correct. After stuttering along for several minutes, the train came to a decisive halt, jerking the passengers as it did so. Voices were heard outside, then uniforms came into view. Railway policemen were opening doors and telling people to get out, helping them to do so with outstretched arms. Colbeck and Leeming were among the last to descend to the ground.
The first thing they saw as they alighted was the gaping mouth of the tunnel over a hundred yards away. They then noticed the fairly steep sides of the cutting either side of them. Climbing up the grassy bank would involve an undignified scramble. Fit and able-bodied, the detectives would have no trouble, but there were much older passengers as well as a number of women. Colbeck summed up the situation at once.
‘They could do with men at the top, lowering ropes to haul people up. Come on, Victor,’ he said. ‘Some of the passengers will never get up there unaided. Let’s give them a helping hand.’
Alan Hinton had left an hour ago, but Lydia was still there, enjoying her role as an unofficial aunt and dandling Madeleine’s baby daughter, Helena Rose, on her knee. The child was burbling happily.
‘It was a lovely surprise to see Alan again,’ said Lydia.
‘That’s why I asked him to stay.’
‘Thank you, Madeleine.’
‘I had a feeling you’d be pleased.’20
‘Did he tell you what he was working on at the moment?’
‘If he has any sense,’ said Madeleine, teasingly, ‘he’ll be trying to devise a plan to see you more often. That’s more important to him than anything else.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’
‘You’re too modest, Lydia. He’s devoted to you. What he’d really like, of course, is to work with Robert. That would suit all of us. We’d be able to invite him here on a regular basis as we do with Victor Leeming. You could … just happen to be passing.’
Lydia laughed. ‘Stop it!’
‘I’m simply being practical.’
‘You can be so naughty sometimes, Madeleine.’
‘Is that a complaint?’
Before Lydia could reply, they heard the doorbell ring. She saw the grim look that suddenly appeared on her friend’s face and guessed what had put it there.
‘You’re expecting your father, aren’t you?’ Madeleine nodded. ‘What have you decided?’
‘I suppose that I’ll have to tell him the truth.’
‘It’s the best thing to do.’
‘I’m afraid that you’re right,’ said Madeleine. ‘Brace yourself, Lydia. My father is about to lose his temper again.’
They heard the front door being opened and a brief exchange of voices. Short, wiry and beaming, Caleb Andrews was then shown into the drawing room by the maid. Madeleine stood up to give him a welcome, but it was his granddaughter who offered the warmest greeting. Jumping off Lydia’s knee, she ran across to him to receive 21an affectionate hug and to tell him her news. It was minutes before they were able to sit down. After a nervous glance at Lydia, Madeleine cleared her throat. Before she could even mention her husband’s name, however, Andrews slapped his knee in delight.
‘I’ve heard some marvellous news,’ he cried. ‘The Sapperton Tunnel is blocked. It’s yet another disaster for the GWR.’
‘Who told you?’ asked his daughter.
‘Word travels fast on the railway, Maddy. You should know that. Whenever there’s a major accident somewhere on the network, news of it spreads like wildfire. I burst out laughing when I heard.’
‘Then you should be ashamed of yourself, Father.’
‘Why?’
‘When that train crashed, the driver and fireman might have been seriously hurt, if not actually killed.’
He blinked at her. ‘How do you know about the crash?’
‘Robert has been sent to investigate it.’
‘What?’ He was livid. ‘My son-in-law is working for the GWR?’
‘He’ll solve crimes on the railway no matter where they are.’
‘And I admire him for doing so,’ said Lydia. ‘Madeleine is right to question your response to the news, Mr Andrews. As a former engine driver yourself, I’d have thought you’d show sympathy for anyone who works on the footplate.’
‘I do,’ he insisted, ‘and I’m sorry for those two men. In fact, I’m sorry for anyone forced to work for the GWR.’
‘Father!’ scolded Madeleine.
‘Brunel was to blame. He and his father designed that tunnel. If it had been built much wider then it couldn’t have 22been so easily blocked when a train was derailed. One track might have remained in use.’
‘Robert will find out the full details,’ said Lydia, trying to calm the old man down. ‘Until then, it’s pointless to speculate on what went wrong. But I must say that it’s unfair of you to blame the late Mr Brunel.’
‘I agree,’ said Madeleine. ‘It’s unfair and unkind.’
‘I don’t want to hear of any drivers or firemen being hurt on the railway,’ he said. ‘I’ve been badly injured myself, so I know how dangerous it is to work on the footplate. But I still think that this latest accident is typical of the GWR because it …’
His voice tailed off as he saw the look in his daughter’s eye.
‘Let’s talk about something else,’ said Madeleine, firmly. ‘What will Helena think of her grandfather if all you can do is to crow over a rival railway company? She’s been dying for you to come.’
As if to reinforce the point, the child grabbed a doll from the sofa and put it into the old man’s arms as a kind of peace offering.
Andrews had the grace to look shamefaced.
CHAPTER FOUR
The detectives worked as hard and unstintingly as the railway policemen. Having lugged their valises to the top of the bank, Colbeck and Leeming went back down again to offer an arm to anyone in difficulty and help them negotiate the steep climb. Once they’d reached the top, they repeated the process time and again, assisting others unable to manage on their own. One elderly lady needed both of them to steer her safely up the incline. Eventually, all the passengers had reached the summit where an array of vehicles awaited them. First class passengers were offered open carriages, while those in second class were guided to a phalanx of traps. Third class travellers had to settle for an assortment of carts, hastily assembled from nearby farms and covered in a thick layer of straw to hide the muck and stifle the stink.24
‘What about us?’ asked Leeming.
‘I’m sure that Mr Rydall will have organised some transport for us, Victor.’
‘I hope it’s not one of those carts. I can smell them from here.’
‘One can’t be too selective in an emergency,’ said Colbeck. ‘If you’ll forgive a naval metaphor, it’s a case of all hands to the pumps. Ah,’ he added, as a thickset man with a greying beard walked across to them, ‘it looks as if we’ve been recognised.’
‘Inspector Colbeck?’ asked the newcomer, looking from one to the other.
‘That’s me,’ said Colbeck, ‘and this is Sergeant Leeming.’
‘I’m Sidney Walters, and I’m to take you both to Mr Rydall.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘Follow me, please.’
Walters set off with the detectives at his heels. He was polite and well-spoken with a distinctive Gloucestershire burr. Judging by his manner and appearance, Colbeck guessed that he was employed by Rydall in a senior capacity. As he opened the door of an open-topped carriage for them to get in, the man confirmed it.
‘I manage the estate,’ he explained. ‘As a rule, Mr Rydall would have sent someone else to meet you, but there’s nobody available. All of our labourers have been drafted into the team trying to clear the line and that goes for some of the servants from The Grange as well. It’s a crisis. Everybody has to do his share. It will take days, if not a week or more.’
Colbeck and Leeming clambered into the carriage and put their luggage on the seats opposite them. Ahead of them, the last of the passengers were being driven away. Hauling 25himself up into his seat, Walters flicked the reins and the horse set off. The carriage bounced its way across the grass.
‘We understand that your shepherd has disappeared,’ said Colbeck.
‘Yes, he has,’ said Walters over his shoulder.
‘Does anyone know why?’
‘Edgar just went. It is most unlike him. I fear trouble.’
‘Why is that?’
‘He loves what he does, and, in any case, he has a family to support. Edgar would never let us down. Clearly, he went against his will.’
‘What about his sheepdog?’
‘Blackie has vanished as well.’
‘Has anyone searched for them?’
‘Will is doing that right now. He’s Edgar’s son. His sister, Annie, went with him. If he’s anywhere on Rydall land, they’ll find him. They know every inch of the estate.’
‘Has he ever gone off like this before?’
‘Never,’ said Walters, grimly. ‘He’d be too afraid of me to do anything so stupid. That’s why I’m worried about him. What Edgar Smayle has done is quite out of character.’
Alan Hinton was in luck. He not only got safely back to Scotland Yard before his absence was noted, he was instantly recruited to assist in making an arrest. A man responsible for a string of burglaries had been finally traced to his lair. Since Hinton had helped to amass the evidence against him, it gave him a feeling of deep satisfaction to be involved in catching the man. It was not, however, a simple operation.26
Even though he had a sergeant and another detective constable with him, the arrest was fraught with difficulties. The burglar’s den was in a tenement in one of the more insalubrious districts of the city. It was a place where policemen – especially those in plain clothes – were reviled. When they arrived, they collected angry stares and muttered expletives from other residents. To their delight, the man they were after was at home, in bed with a prostitute he’d picked up for company. Startled by the arrival of three detectives who forced their way in, he jumped naked from the bed and began to fight them as if his life was in danger. The woman screeched and pummelled away at them with puny fists, before using her nails as claws. It was all they could do to subdue the pair and lead them, partly clothed, out of the building in handcuffs. The detectives were jeered at by passers-by.
It was only when their prisoners were in custody that the three of them could assess the damage. Hinton had got off lightly, sustaining only a scratch on his nose and a torn sleeve. The other detective constable had facial bruises and was completely dishevelled, but it was the sergeant who’d suffered the most. Since he’d been the one to grapple with the naked burglar, he was bitten on the cheek, given a shining black eye and had his whole face covered in vengeful spit. Needing to attend to his wounds and appearance, he gave Hinton the privilege of reporting their success to the superintendent.
Like most people at Scotland Yard, Hinton approached Edward Tallis’s office with a degree of hesitation, fearing what he might find on the other side of the door. The fact that he was actually bearing good news was no guarantee 27that he’d escape without criticism. Tallis was bound to notice the ugly scratch on his face and the torn sleeve. After taking a deep breath, Hinton tapped on the door, heard a growled command to enter and went into the office. Tallis was in the act of stubbing out his cigar, smoke still curling in the air around him like mist encircling a mountain peak.
‘What is it?’ he demanded.
‘Sergeant Vaughan sent me to report an arrest, sir.’
‘Then don’t just stand there, man. Do as you were told.’
Having rehearsed what he was going to say, Hinton delivered the report succinctly. Tallis remembered the spate of burglaries and was glad that the culprit was now behind bars. There was, however, no word of praise or congratulation. Hinton had learnt not to expect it. Some fifteen or more months earlier, he’d been instrumental in saving Tallis’s life when the latter was abducted by two former soldiers from his old regiment. And there were other ways in which the young detective had been of enormous help to the superintendent. It was rarely acknowledged, and Tallis would sometimes walk past him without even recognising Hinton.
Waiting to be dismissed, the visitor hovered.
‘Your sleeve is torn,’ said Tallis, disapprovingly.
‘The prisoner and his … female acquaintance resisted arrest, sir.’
‘What’s that on your nose?’
‘In the course of a fight, it was scratched.’
‘Get it seen to.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And the same goes for that sleeve.’ Tallis flicked his hand 28to send the detective constable on his way then changed his mind. ‘Wait!’ Hinton raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘You’ve done well – exceptionally well – and I’m not referring to today’s exploits. Thank you very much.’
Hinton walked out of the office with a broad smile on his face.
In other circumstances, they might have enjoyed the drive through the beautiful wooded valley of the River Frome. Every so often, a carpet of wild daffodils would come into view, swaying gently in the wind and lending an extra radiance. As they picked their way along, glorious vistas greeted them, but there was only limited time to admire them. They suddenly came out of the trees, reached the cutting and looked down at the western portal of the Sapperton Tunnel. Even though they had some idea what to expect, Colbeck and Leeming were shocked. What confronted them was a scene of utter devastation.
Looking forlorn and wounded, the locomotive lay on its side with the coal from its tender scattered far and wide. Behind it were a number of wagons that had also been derailed and deprived of whatever freight they’d been carrying. The bulk of the rolling stock was still inside the tunnel, and they could only imagine what destruction had been caused there.
‘Is the tunnel itself badly damaged?’ asked Colbeck.
‘Yes,’ replied Walters. ‘A lot of the brickwork was badly chipped. Navvies will have to make extensive repairs to the walls, but they can’t even start to do that until the mess inside the tunnel is cleared away.’29
‘It’s reminiscent of a case we had in Scotland. Do you remember, Victor? In that instance also, the whole train had been deliberately derailed to cause maximum damage.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Don’t you agree?’
But Leeming hadn’t even heard him. His attention was fixed elsewhere. After the initial shock of viewing the hideous scene outside the tunnel, his gaze had drifted to the canal that ran parallel with the railway. Narrowboats were being pulled by horses and skimmed the water, blithely unconcerned at the tragedy that had happened not far away. The contrast could not have been starker, and it prompted a comment from the sergeant.
‘Water is a safer way to travel,’ he murmured.
Dozens of people were working hard around the stricken locomotive and its overturned wagons, moving debris away and retrieving the freight that had been spilt across the grass before placing it in a series of piles. A hundred yards down the track, the last of the passengers from the train on which Colbeck and Leeming had travelled were climbing gratefully into the carriages of a replacement that would take them on to Stroud, Stonehouse, Gloucester or Cheltenham. What they’d leave behind them was a scene of frenetic activity.
Standing in the middle of it and imposing whatever control he could was Stephen Rydall, a tall, striking man in his sixties with a bushy moustache and an air of unforced authority. He’d been there for long, punishing hours, refusing to have a rest or pause for refreshment because he was driven on by a sense of duty. The outrage had occurred on his doorstep 30and caused untold damage to property owned by the railway company in which he held an important position. What had been inflicted upon them, therefore, had great personal relevance to him.
Having yelled orders to all and sundry, Rydall broke off to help one of his farm labourers move a heavy spar of timber out of the way. When he pulled himself back up to his full height, he noticed two figures striding towards him. Realising who they must be, he felt a surge of relief. Identifying at a glance which one of them was the senior detective, he shook Colbeck’s hand with an edge of desperation, then exchanged a handshake with Leeming.
‘I’m Stephen Rydall,’ he said. ‘I cannot tell you how grateful I am to see you, gentlemen. I’ve had glowing reports of the way you solved that murder in Swindon.’
‘We’ve had failures as well as successes,’ warned Colbeck.
‘The GWR is eternally gratefully for what you did there.’
‘We grew to like Swindon,’ Leeming put in. ‘We stayed at the Queen’s Tap where they serve the best—’
‘Mr Rydall is not interested in our memoirs,’ said Colbeck, cutting in and shooting the sergeant a warning look. He turned back to Rydall. ‘When exactly did it happen, sir?’
‘It must have been close to six o’clock this morning, Inspector. It was the first train of the day through the Sapperton Tunnel.’
‘Who raised the alarm?’
‘That would be Peter Doble, the landlord of the Daneway Inn. It’s by the western portal of the canal tunnel,’ said Rydall, pointing a finger. ‘As you can imagine, there was a 31terrible noise. Others further afield would have heard it – I certainly did – but Doble was the first to react.’
‘That’s a job for you, Sergeant,’ said Colbeck. ‘Make your way to this inn and interview Mr Doble. Mr Walters will show you the way. Find out exactly what the landlord saw when he came over here.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Leeming.
‘And bear in mind that you are not there to discuss the quality of his beer but to investigate a crime that’s had the most terrible consequences. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, of course, Inspector.’
‘When we first saw the wreckage,’ said Colbeck as Leeming walked away, ‘we both had the same reaction. We wanted to take off our coats and join in the clearance work.’
‘You’re far better employed finding out who caused this havoc,’ said Rydall. ‘It hasn’t just torn up our timetable on this stretch of the line, it’s going to be very costly. Much of the freight has been damaged beyond repair. One of the wagons was carrying boxes of fruit when it smashed into the side of the tunnel. Everything was squashed flat. The wagon looks as if it bled to death.’
‘The GWR will be bombarded by claims.’
‘That’s only the start of it, Inspector.’
‘The safety of your employees is of paramount concern,’ said Colbeck. ‘Your telegraph mentioned injury to the driver and fireman.’
‘They’re both still alive, thank God – more or less, anyway.’
‘Were they badly hurt?’
‘The one consolation was that they were hurled clear 32of the engine itself, so they were not crushed beneath it. Nevertheless, they both suffered serious fractures and Treece, the fireman, is still in a coma.’
‘Is the driver in a state to be interviewed?’
‘I think so.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I had both men moved to The Grange – that’s my home. It’s fairly close and, luckily, there’s a doctor in Frampton Mansell. Wyatt is a good man and a neighbour of mine. He spent twenty years as an army doctor. You can imagine the hideous sights he must have seen during the Crimean War. He saved the lives of soldiers with horrific injuries. I hope he can do the same with his latest patients.’
‘I look forward to meeting him,’ said Colbeck. ‘First, however, I’d like to know why those sheep were killed.’
‘So would I,’ said Rydall, ruefully.
‘Putting them in the path of a train seems so unnecessary.’
‘It was an act of unforgivable cruelty.’
‘How many of them were there?’
‘Seven.’
Colbeck was startled. It was a number with biblical significance.
CHAPTER FIVE
Caleb Andrews was not a man given to introspection. Active, outgoing and passionately interested in the operation of the railway company for which he’d worked, he rarely had the time – or the need – to address a problem by thinking deeply about it. That had now changed. When he talked about the blocking of the Sapperton Tunnel, his scorn for the Great Western Railway had been roundly criticised by his daughter. Her friend, Lydia Quayle, had also shown her disapproval of his attitude. While he still enjoyed the pleasure of seeing his granddaughter, a shadow descended over his visit to the Colbeck residence. Andrews felt quashed, uneasy and in disgrace. He vowed to be less ready to criticise the GWR so routinely.
On his way back home, his sense of guilt increased. He was particularly sorry for the flippant comment he’d made 34about the driver and fireman of the train. They were men who did exactly what he’d done for so many years and deserved to be treated as kindred spirits. He’d known colleagues who’d been flung from their locomotive when it was derailed. In some cases, he’d attended their funerals and saw the effect that their deaths had had on their respective families. There’d been scant compensation for such searing losses.
Andrews recalled his own experience. When a train he was driving was flagged down and robbed, he’d refused to do what he’d been told and had been knocked senseless. He thought of how he would feel if he’d been told that employees of the GWR had laughed with glee at his plight simply because he worked for the London and North Western Railway. In reality, there’d been no mockery from anywhere. He’d received nothing but pity from other railwaymen. Why had he been unable to find the same sympathy for victims of a criminal act on a GWR line?
By the time he got home, his guilt had hardened into something far more insistent than simple remorse. Somehow Andrews had to make amends. The only way he could do that, he decided, was to visit the site of the crash and see the full extent of the damage. Even though it meant travelling on the broad gauge track he despised, he’d go to the place where his son-in-law was trying to identify those responsible for the attack on the Great Western Railway. It would be a form of atonement.
It did not take long for Victor Leeming to reach the Daneway Inn. Situated beside the Thames and Severn Canal, it was a 35long, low building of local stone, comprising three houses that had been joined together. Before he went towards it, he stopped to admire the portal to the tunnel, a minor work of art with crenellation worthy of a small castle. A narrowboat was moored nearby. Tethered to stakes, four horses were nibbling at the grass. In the little garden at the front of the inn were some tables and benches. A small group of bargees was sitting there over a half-eaten meal. Leeming climbed up from the canal and exchanged a greeting with them. Before he could go into the inn, the landlord came out with a tankard of beer in his hand. When Leeming tried to introduce himself, Peter Doble stopped him with a raised palm.
‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘Mr Rydall told me that he’d sent for you and you’re very welcome. Sit yourself down, sir, and sample this.’
Doble lowered himself onto an empty bench and put the tankard on the table. Leeming needed no more encouragement. He took his place beside the landlord. Doble was a sturdy, bearded man in his fifties with the kind of friendly face that put newcomers at their ease. He waited until Leeming had sampled the beer and given a nod of appreciation.
‘The Daneway is at your disposal, Inspector.’
‘Actually, I’m only a detective sergeant – Victor Leeming.’
‘I’m Peter Doble. Me and Molly, my wife, run this place.’
‘It’s a lovely spot,’ said Leeming, shaking hands with him. ‘How long is the canal tunnel?’
‘Over two miles, Sergeant. When it were built seventy years or more ago, it was the longest tunnel of any kind in the whole country.’36
‘That’s impressive.’
‘Taking a boat through it is thirsty work. That’s why there’s an inn at both ends of the tunnel. After legging that distance, you need a drink.’
‘Legging?’
‘Haven’t you noticed something about the canal?’
‘No,’ said Leeming. ‘What was I supposed to see?’
‘The towpath stops at the portal. Horses can pull the barges up to this point then it has to rely on strong pairs of thighs. That’s why they fit wings to the bows.’
‘Wings?’ echoed Leeming. ‘Is it going to fly?’
‘A wing is a flat piece of board, rigged for the purpose. Two men lie on them and use their legs on the side and roof of the tunnel to keep the barge moving. It’s back-breaking work.’
‘I believe you. I could never do it.’
Doble chuckled. ‘It would ruin that coat of yours.’
‘What about those horses?’ asked Leeming.
‘They’ll be taken overland to the eastern portal in Coates. Later on today, the bargees you see here will be quaffing their beer at the Tunnel House Inn. From that point on, the horses will take the strain, working in pairs and moving at a steady canter.’
‘It sounds like a hard life to me.’
‘They get used to it,’ said Doble. ‘Anyway, you didn’t come to talk about the canal. It’s the crash that interests you, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Leeming. ‘I gather that you raised the alarm.’
‘I ran all the way to the tunnel and saw what had happened. It made my stomach heave, I can tell you.’37
‘What did you do?’
‘I looked to see if the driver and fireman were still alive, then raced back here and saddled my horse. I galloped straight to Mr Rydall’s house and told him what I’d discovered.’
‘Before you left the railway tunnel, did you see anyone?’
‘The place was deserted – apart from the two injured men, that is.’
‘How much light was there?’
‘Oh, it’d just broken through.’
‘So, if someone had been there, you’d have spotted them.’
‘I daresay I would’ve, but the place was deserted. It’s no more than I expected. I mean, why should there be anyone there?’
‘There’s a simple answer to that.’
‘Is there?’
‘Someone might have wanted to gloat over what they’d just done.’
Stephen Rydall was reluctant to leave the site of the crash, but he knew how important it was for Colbeck to question the driver of the doomed train. He therefore took the inspector to a waiting trap and invited him to climb in. As they took their seats, Rydall noticed the spots of mud on his passenger’s shoes and trousers.
‘I’m sorry that you had to climb up that embankment,’ he said, ‘but we had to get you to this end of the tunnel somehow.’
‘It would have been much easier for us to get off at Kemble.’
‘That was not possible, I’m afraid.’
‘You could have had us picked up there.’
‘Nothing would have pleased me more,’ said Rydall, 38‘but Kemble is only an interchange station. There’s no road access out of it. Passengers who alight there catch the train to Cirencester on the branch line.’
Colbeck was surprised. ‘It’s not a proper railway station?’
‘Squire Etheridge made it a condition that no station should be built on his land. He also insisted that the railway south of the junction should pass through a cut-and-cover tunnel so that he couldn’t see it from his house. Unfortunately, we were forced to comply. When he sits up there in Kemble Court,’ said Rydall with asperity, ‘he can pretend that the railway doesn’t exist.’
‘Was he really so uncooperative?’
‘Etheridge drove a hard bargain, Inspector. You won’t believe the amount that the GWR had to pay him for the land he so grudgingly sold to us. I was involved in the negotiations so I know just how obstructive and demanding he was.’
Having set the horse in motion, he went on to describe how the section of line around Kemble was finally built. Colbeck had warmed to the man the moment he met him and was impressed by the work Rydall had clearly done on behalf of the GWR. His companion was a mixture of gentleman farmer and railway pioneer, tending the huge acreage that had been in his family for generations while embracing the commercial opportunities of the latest developments in transport.
‘This local squire can’t stand in the way of progress,’ said Colbeck. ‘Railways are here to stay. Surely, he can see the benefits they bring.’39
‘All that he can talk about is the disruption.’
‘What manner of man is he?’
‘He’s a very strange one, Inspector. Some people make allowances for his eccentricity, but the majority find him rude, domineering and nakedly self-interested.’
‘How much power does he have in the area?’
Rydall gritted his teeth. ‘Far too much,’ he said. ‘Maddeningly, he refuses to accept the advances that railways represent. They’re truly revolutionary. When I was a young lad, I once travelled with my father from Gloucester to London by canal. Our average speed was … leisurely.’
‘What’s that in miles per hour?’
‘Eight at most – we had to go through an endless series of locks. I loved it at the time, of course, but the journey was interminable. Express trains can now do it in well under four hours.’
‘That obviously doesn’t impress Squire Etheridge.’
‘He simply complains about the noise and smoke we generate.’
‘How will he react to news of the crash?’
‘Frankly,’ said Rydall, turning to him. ‘I wouldn’t like to be there when he finds out.’
Gilbert Etheridge was a tall, angular man of seventy with a gaunt face featuring a hooked nose that kept two dark, smouldering eyes apart. He was, by inclination, a night hawk, working or reading well into the small hours, then sleeping until early afternoon. Neither his wife, who occupied the adjoining bedroom, nor his servants dared to rouse him 40from his slumber. They had to wait patiently until he stirred enough to reach out for the bell beside his four-poster.
When the distinctive tinkle was finally heard that day, a servant knocked on the door before going into the bedroom.
‘Good day to you, sir,’ he said.
‘What kind of weather do we have?’
‘It’s a lovely spring day, sir.’
Etheridge sat up in bed. ‘Is there any news to report?’ he asked.
‘There’s been a bad accident on the railway.’
‘How bad?’
‘The Sapperton Tunnel is completely blocked, sir.’
‘And?’
‘A goods train has come off the line.’
Etheridge laughed with satisfaction.
When he talked about life on the canal, Peter Doble spoke a foreign language. Terms like ‘breast’, ‘chalico’, ‘galley beam’, ‘gauging’, ‘keb’, ‘risers’, ‘stud’ and ‘trow’ left Victor Leeming bemused. One word made him blink.
‘Gongoozler?’ he repeated.
‘That’s right, Sergeant.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘A gongoozler is an idle person who stands staring for a long time at anything sort of out of the ordin’ry. In other words, there’s something not right about a man like that.’
‘Have you ever seen a gongoozler around here?’
‘Oddly enough,’ said Doble, ‘I have.’
‘When was this?’41
‘It was earlier this week. A man stood down by the portal and stared at it for ages. He was dressed like a proper gentleman, but there was something strange about him. We were very busy that day so I couldn’t pay much attention to him, but my wife saw him take out this notebook and draw something in it.’
‘What was it, do you think?’
‘We’ve no idea. After a couple of hours, he sneaked off.’
‘Didn’t he come here for a drink?’
‘It was as if he hardly noticed The Daneway,’ said Doble.
‘How old would he be?’
‘Much older than you, I’d say.’
‘Was he on foot?’
‘We didn’t see a horse or a trap,’ replied the landlord. ‘He was just there. That’s why I’d call him a gongoozler. He came out of the blue and just stared in silence.’
Leeming made a mental note of the incident so that he could report it to Colbeck. He then turned to a person who was of greater interest to him.
‘Does Edgar Smayle ever come here?’
Doble nodded. ‘He comes whenever he can.’
‘He likes his beer, then.’
‘Edgar likes it far too much, Sergeant.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He sometimes has one pint too many and turns nasty. He usually ends up trying to pick a fight with a bargee.’
‘That isn’t a wise thing to do,’ said Leeming, glancing at those nearby. ‘They look like strong men to me. I suppose they’d have to be if they work on the canal.’42
‘They swear at Edgar, but they never dare to tackle him.’
‘Why not?’
‘He always has Blackie with him – that’s his sheepdog. If anyone takes a step towards his master, Blackie will bare his teeth and let out this growl. It’s enough to make any man back away.’
‘It sounds to me as if Smayle makes enemies very easily.’
