The Iron Horse E-Book

Edward Marston

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

Seitenzahl: 416

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2010

Beschreibung

Derby Day at Epsom Downs. A multitude of people crowd to watch the races: dukes and dustmen, bishops and beggars, privileged ladies and prostitutes. The gamut of Victorian society and a hotbed for crime and crooks of all kinds. With the nation a-flutter in the run up to this national event, a disembodied head is discovered on a passenger train at Crewe; the first in a murky course of events that takes in murder, fraud and race-fixing. Detective Inspector Robert Colbeck and his assistant are assigned to the case and are soon snarled up in a web of skulduggery stretching across the country. They are forced to ask themselves, just how much is someone prepared to hazard to win?

Leseprobe

THE IRON HORSE

EDWARD MARSTON

Allison & Busby Limited

13 Charlotte Mews

London W1T 4EJ

www.allisonandbusby.com

Copyright © 2007 by EDWARD MARSTON

First published in hardback by Allison & Busby Ltd in 2007.

Published in paperback by Allison & Busby Ltd in 2008.

This ebook edition first published in 2010.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Digital conversion by Pindar NZ.

All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any format other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-0-7490-0849-9

EDWARD MARSTON was born and brought up in South Wales. A full-time writer for over thirty years, he has worked in radio, film, television and the theatre, and is a former Chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association. Prolific and highly successful, he is equally at home writing children’s books or literary criticism, plays or biographies. The Iron Horse is the fourth in the Inspector Colbeck series.

www.edwardmarston.com

Available from ALLISON & BUSBY

The Inspector Robert Colbeck series

The Railway Detective

The Excursion Train

The Railway Viaduct

The Iron Horse

Murder on the Brighton Express

The Silver Locomotive Mystery

The Christopher Redmayne series

The Frost Fair

The Parliament House

The Painted Lady

The Captain Rawson series

Soldier of Fortune

Drums of War

Fire and Sword

CHAPTER ONE

1854

The accident could have happened to anyone but it was much more likely to befall Reginald Hibbert. He had, after all, a tradition to maintain. Hibbert was not so much clumsy as unlucky. Whenever there was an opportunity to stub his toe, or tear his clothing on a protruding nail or bruise himself by walking into an unexpected obstruction, he would somehow always manage to take it. His devoted wife, Molly, had lost count of the number of times he had returned from work with a black eye, a decided limp or a jacket unwittingly ripped open. Life with Reginald Hibbert meant that there was a constant demand on her sympathy.

‘Be careful, Reg!’ she cried.

But her warning came too late. He had already tripped over the step by the back door and pitched helplessly forward onto the hard stone floor of the scullery. The tin bath he had been carrying hit the slab with a loud clang then bounced out of his grasp. Hibbert landed heavily on his left hand before rolling over. His wife bent over him.

‘Are you hurt?’ she asked solicitously.

‘No, no,’ he replied bravely. ‘I’m fine, Molly.’

‘You always forget that step.’

‘I just didn’t see it with the bath in my hands.’

‘You should have let me bring it in.’

‘It’s my job now,’ he said seriously. ‘A woman in your condition must be spared any lifting. You must learn to take it easy.’

‘How can I take it easy on washing day?’ she said, clicking her tongue. ‘Besides, the baby is not due for months and months. Now, come on – get up off that floor.’

When she grabbed his left hand to pull him up, he let out a yelp of pain and snatched it swiftly away. Rubbing his wrist gingerly, he got to his feet and almost fell over the tin bath. His wife quickly retrieved it and put it on the table. She studied him with a love that was tempered by mild irritation.

‘I wish you didn’t keep doing that sort of thing, Reg.’

‘What sort of thing?’

‘Hurting yourself all the time.’

Hibbert grinned amiably. ‘I’m a big boy. Nothing hurts me.’

But he was clearly in pain and winced as his left hand brushed the sink. His wife took charge at once. Leading him into the next room, she made him sit down so that she could examine the injury, doing so with great tenderness. They were in their little red-brick terraced house in Crewe. Cramped, cluttered and featureless, it had two small rooms and a scullery. A bare wooden staircase led up to two bedrooms, one at the front and the other at the back. The privy was at the end of the tiny but well-tended garden.

To a married couple in their late twenties, however, it was a paradise after years of sharing an even smaller house in Stoke-on-Trent with Molly’s intrusive parents. The Hibbert household had only one major defect. It bristled with possibilities of incurring minor accidents and he had explored them all.

His wife scrutinised the injured wrist.

‘I think you may have broken it, Reg,’ she said with concern.

He gave a boastful laugh. ‘I don’t break that easy.’

‘You ought to see a doctor.’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t afford to, Molly. With a baby on the way, we need to save every penny that we can.’

‘Then stay off work for a day or two.’

‘And lose my pay? No chance of that.’

‘At least ask Mr Fagge to put you on light duties.’

‘Douglas Fagge does nobody any favours,’ said Hibbert grimly as an image of the head porter came into his mind. ‘He’s a slave driver. If I showed even the slightest sign of weakness, he’d be down on me like a ton of bricks.’

‘Then let me come to the station with you. I’ll speak to him.’

‘Oh, no! That wouldn’t do at all.’

‘You need to rest that hand, Reg.’

‘I need to do my job properly,’ he said, rising to his feet and easing her away. ‘Think how it would look. If my wife came and asked for special treatment for me, I’d be a laughing stock.’

As it was, Hibbert was often the butt of his colleagues’ jokes and he did not wish to offer them more ammunition. He was a short, thin individual with a shock of red hair and a bushy moustache that acted as the focal point in a freckled face. The fact that his pretty wife was both taller and older than him caused much amusement at the railway station and he wanted to protect her from the routine mockery that he endured. Though she was still in the early stages of pregnancy, he was afraid that someone would guess their little secret, exposing him to endless ribald comments. Whatever happened, he resolved, his wife must be kept away from his place of work.

‘That wrist needs seeing to,’ she urged.

‘I sprained it, Molly, that’s all.’

‘At least let me put a bandage around it.’

‘No need,’ he said, bending forward to give her a farewell kiss. ‘It feels better already. In any case, I have to be off straightaway. Now remember what I said – if that washing is too much for you, leave it until I come home.’

‘I can manage,’ she said, touched by his consideration. ‘Forget the washing. I’m more worried about that poor wrist of yours.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with it, I tell you.’

By way of demonstration, he clapped his hands several times together then held up both palms, beaming as he did so. It was only when he had left the house that the agony showed in his face.

Until the arrival of the railway in 1837, Crewe had been a sleepy hamlet in the heart of the Cheshire countryside. Three separate railway companies then moved in and Crewe became the connecting point for their respective lines. The Grand Junction Railway, the largest of the companies, soon bought large tracts of land around Crewe and moved its locomotive and carriage works there. It also built two hundred houses for the employees it attracted to the area. When the GJR was absorbed into the London and North West Railway in 1846, the latter markedly increased the number of dwellings and added churches, chapels, schools, shops, public houses and all the amenities needed by a growing community.

An archetypal railway town had been created.

Reginald Hibbert had been delighted to move there with his wife. He loved the fact that he worked at the hub of the LNWR. Passenger and freight trains came in and out from all directions. The variety was unlimited. No two days were the same. There was always something new, exciting and unscheduled. As a porter, he gave directions to board trains, stowed luggage on the roofs of departing carriages and unloaded it on arrival before carrying it out to waiting cabs and horse-drawn omnibuses. Dealing with the public was what he enjoyed most. His wage might not be high but it was regular and he gained immense satisfaction from his work.

As he approached the station that morning, he gazed at it with pride. Four years earlier, the LNWR had replaced the original building with a larger and much more ornate one. In Hibbert’s eyes, it still had an air of newness about it and he always felt a slight thrill as he went through its doors. He was content with his lot, asking nothing more of life than to be doing a valuable job at an important junction on the railway network. Hibbert entered the station with a spring in his step. In spraining his wrist at home, he had already had his daily accident. That, he hoped, absolved him from any further mishaps.

There was, of course, still the wrath of his boss to be faced.

‘Hibbert!’

‘Good morning, Mr Fagge.’

‘You’re two minutes late.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. I was held up by—’

‘Spare me your excuses,’ snapped Douglas Fagge, interrupting him with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘I’ve heard them all before. You’re working on Platform Two.’

‘Yes, Mr Fagge.’

‘Well, don’t stand there, man. Get across there quickly. The next train is due in five minutes.’

‘Three, actually,’ corrected Hibbert, who knew the timetable by heart. ‘It’s the through train to Carlisle.’

‘That’s immaterial,’ said Fagge testily. ‘I’m talking about the Birmingham train that terminates here in…’ He consulted his watch. ‘…in less than five minutes. All available porters must be on duty.’

‘Of course, Mr Fagge.’

‘One small plea.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Try to have a day without any little accidents.’

There was a withering scorn in the head porter’s voice. Fagge was a tall, wiry man with all the attributes of a martinet. He subjected Hibbert to verbal persecution but the latter had learnt to live with the discomfort. He saw it as a small price to pay for the privilege of working at Crewe Station. As he made his way to Platform Two, he was relieved that Fagge had not noticed the handkerchief that he had tied around his left wrist. Had he been forced to admit suffering yet another domestic mishap, Hibbert would have provoked more ridicule from the head porter.

It was a busy morning. Passenger trains came and went. Goods trains thundered past in both directions on the through lines in the middle. Traffic was relentless and Reginald Hibbert was kept on his toes along with the other porters. Working with his usual enthusiasm, he tried to ignore the twinges in his left wrist. By the afternoon, he had forgotten all about his injury. Hibbert was emboldened to handle even the heaviest luggage without trepidation. His overconfidence was to prove fatal.

Another train steamed into the station in a riot of noise, vibration and pungent smoke. As soon as the passengers had alighted, Hibbert climbed onto the roof of one of the carriages and began to pass down the luggage to another porter. Stacked on the platform, it was singled out by its owners before being carried away for them. Hibbert had no problems until he tried to handle a large leather trunk. Having manoeuvred it to the edge of the roof, he attempted to lift it in one fluent move but his left wrist suddenly gave way and he let go of the trunk with a cry of anguish.

It plummeted through the air and the porter waiting to take it from him had the presence of mind to step back smartly out of the way. The trunk hit a lady’s hatbox with such force that it broke the strap attached to its lid. A small crowd of passengers stood beside the piles of luggage and a collective gasp of horror went up. As the lid of the hatbox flipped open, its contents were tipped roughly out. Reginald Hibbert could not believe his eyes.

Rolling around below him on the platform was a human head.

CHAPTER TWO

Seated at the desk in his office, Detective Inspector Robert Colbeck was writing a report on his latest case. Details of a brutal murder in Seven Dials were somehow robbed of their full horror by his elegant hand but they remained fresh and disturbing in his mind. He was nearing the end of his work when the door suddenly opened and Superintendent Edward Tallis burst in without bothering to knock.

‘Stop whatever you’re doing, Inspector,’ he ordered.

Colbeck looked up. ‘Is there a problem, sir?’

‘There’s always a problem at Scotland Yard. Problems arrive on my desk by the dozen every day. Policing a city like London is one long, continuous problem that defies solution.’

‘I think you’re being unduly pessimistic, Superintendent.’

‘Be that as it may, I’ve a new assignment for you.’

‘Here in London?’

‘No,’ said Tallis. ‘In Crewe.’

‘That means a railway crime,’ said Colbeck with interest, getting to his feet. ‘Have the LNWR been in touch with you?’

‘They requested you by name.’

‘I’m flattered.’

‘This is no time to preen yourself,’ warned Tallis. ‘The London and North West Railway want immediate action. A severed head was found in a hatbox that was unloaded at Crewe station this afternoon.’

‘Male or female?’

‘What does it matter? A head is a head.’

‘Do you have any more details, sir?’

‘None beyond the few that were sent by electric telegraph.’

Colbeck opened a drawer in his desk. ‘I’ll set off at once,’ he said, taking out a copy of Bradshaw’s Guide. ‘Let’s find a train that will get me there fast.’

‘You’ll take Sergeant Leeming with you.’

‘Victor will not be happy about that.’

‘His job is to obey orders.’

‘And he always does so,’ said Colbeck, running his finger down a list of departure times. ‘Since we won’t get to Crewe until well into the evening, it means that we’ll have to stay the night. Victor hates to be away from his wife and children.’

Tallis raised a contemptuous eyebrow. ‘You know my view of families,’ he said. ‘They cease to exist when a major crime has been committed. Detection takes precedence over everything. It’s the main reason that I never married.’

Colbeck could think of other reasons why the superintendent had not succumbed to holy matrimony, chief among them being the brusque, authoritarian manner that would have little appeal to a member of the opposite sex. Tallis was a solid man in his fifties with grey hair and a neat moustache. Though he had left the army many years ago, he still looked as if he were on the parade ground. He respected Colbeck for his skill as a detective but he could never bring himself to like the undisputed dandy of Scotland Yard. There was a permanent unresolved tension between the two men.

Having selected a train, Colbeck closed his Bradshaw and put it back in the desk drawer. He gave his superior a token smile.

‘Your devotion to duty is an inspiration to us all,’ he said without a trace of irony, ‘but some of us need more than the relentless pursuit of the criminal fraternity to get true fulfilment from life. Victor Leeming is a case in point.’

‘A wife and children are unnecessary handicaps.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion, Superintendent.’

‘Mine is based on experience.’

‘Mine is tempered by a recognition of basic human needs,’ said Colbeck suavely. ‘A police force is not a monastic order, sir. I refuse to believe that celibacy in our ranks is to be encouraged.’

‘I’m well aware of your eccentric views, Inspector,’ said Tallis with exasperation, ‘and I’d be grateful if you kept them to yourself. What time is your train?’

‘In just under an hour.’

‘Then find Sergeant Leeming and get over to Euston Station.’

‘At once, sir.’

‘And don’t presume to rest on your laurels.’

‘I’d never dare to do that.’

‘This is an entirely new case.’

Colbeck knew what he meant. It was not the first time that the inspector had answered the call of the London and North West Railway. When a mail train was robbed on its way to Birmingham, a succession of other serious crimes had been committed in its wake. Because of the way he had brought the investigation to a satisfactory conclusion, Robert Colbeck had earned the gratitude of the LNWR as well as that of the Post Office and the Royal Mint. Newspapers had unanimously christened him the Railway Detective. It was an honour that he cherished but it also placed a heavy and often uncomfortable burden of expectation on his shoulders.

‘Are you sure you’ve picked the fastest train?’ asked Tallis.

‘I couldn’t have chosen a better one, sir.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The engine driver is a good friend of mine.’

Caleb Andrews was a short, thin, sinewy man of middle years with the energy of someone half his age. Though he had spent his entire working life on the railway, he had lost none of his boyish enthusiasm for his job. Having begun as a cleaner, he had eventually become a fireman before reaching the pinnacle of his profession as an engine driver. Andrews considered himself to be one of the aristocrats of the railway world and expected deference from those in lowlier positions. He was on the footplate of his locomotive, checking that everything was in order for departure, when two familiar figures came along the platform to see him.

‘Hello, Mr Andrews,’ said Robert Colbeck.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed the driver, turning to look at them. ‘I had a feeling that I might be seeing you on my train, Inspector.’

‘You remember Sergeant Leeming, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’

Andrews and Leeming exchanged a friendly nod.

‘We need to get to Crewe as fast as possible,’ said Colbeck.

‘Then you’ve come to the right man.’

‘You sound as if you expected us,’ said Victor Leeming.

‘I did, Sergeant. When a man’s head is found inside a hatbox at a railway station, the people they’ll always send for are you and Inspector Colbeck.’

‘A man’s head, did you say?’

‘You already know more than us,’ noted Colbeck.

‘That’s the rumour, anyway,’ said Andrews, scratching his fringe beard. ‘Messages keep coming in from Crewe. According to the stationmaster, it was the head of a young man. It was discovered by accident.’

‘What else can you tell us?’

‘Nothing, Inspector.’

‘Then take us to the scene of the crime.’

‘But not too fast,’ pleaded Leeming with a grimace. ‘Trains always make me feel sick.’

‘Not the way that I drive,’ boasted Andrews, adjusting his cap. He beamed at Colbeck. ‘Well, what a piece of news to tell Maddy! I’m helping the Railway Detective to solve a crime.’

‘It won’t be the first time,’ said Colbeck with a smile.

Caleb Andrews had been the driver of the mail train that had been robbed a few years earlier, and he had received such serious injuries during the incident that it was doubtful if he would survive. In the event, he had made a complete recovery, thanks to his remarkable resilience and to the way that his daughter, Madeleine, had nursed him back to full health. During the course of his investigation, Colbeck and Madeleine had been drawn together in a friendship that had slowly matured into something much deeper.

‘I knew that you’d probably be driving this train,’ said Colbeck. ‘Madeleine always tells me what your shift patterns are.’

Andrews grinned. ‘It feels as if I’m on duty twenty-fours a day.’

‘Just like us,’ said Leeming gloomily.

‘Climb aboard, Sergeant. We’re due off in a couple of minutes.’

‘Is there any way to reduce the dreadful noise and rattle?’

‘Yes,’ said Andrews. ‘Travel by coach.’

‘At a conservative estimate,’ observed Colbeck, ‘it would take us all of sixteen hours to get to Crewe by coach. The train will get us there in just over four hours.’

‘Four hours of complete misery,’ Leeming groaned.

‘You’ll learn to love the railway one day, Victor.’

Leeming rolled his eyes. He was a stocky man in his thirties, slightly older than the inspector but having none of Colbeck’s sharp intelligence or social graces. In contrast to his handsome superior, the sergeant was also spectacularly ugly with a face that seemed to have been uniquely designed for villainy rather than crime prevention.

‘Let’s find a carriage, Victor,’ advised Colbeck.

‘If we must,’ sighed Leeming.

‘When you catch the person who was travelling with that hatbox,’ said Andrews sternly, ‘hand him over to us.’

‘Why?’ asked Colbeck.

The engine driver cackled. ‘That severed head had no valid ticket for the journey,’ he said. ‘We take fare-dodging very seriously.’

On that macabre note, they set off for Crewe.

It was a warm May evening but Reginald Hibbert was still shivering. Since the accident with the hatbox, he had been relieved of his duties and kept in the stationmaster’s office. When a local policeman interviewed him, the hapless porter was made to feel obscurely responsible for the fact that a severed head had been travelling by train. Dismissal from his job was the very least that he expected. The worst of it was that his wife would be at home, wondering where he was and why he had not returned at the end of his shift. She would grow increasingly worried about her husband. He feared that Molly might in due course come to the station in search of him and thereby witness his disgrace.

‘When can I go home?’ he asked tentatively.

‘Not until the detectives arrive from Scotland Yard,’ said Douglas Fagge with a meaningful tap on the nose. ‘They’ll need to speak to you. We can’t have you disappearing.’

‘I’d only be gone ten minutes, Mr Fagge.’

‘How do we know that you’d come back?’

‘Because I’d give you my word.’

‘And I know you’d keep it,’ said Percy Reade, the stationmaster, adopting a gentler tone. ‘I trust you implicitly, Reg, but I still think it better that you stay here until they arrive.’

Hibbert quivered. ‘Am I in trouble, Mr Reade?’

‘Yes!’ affirmed Fagge, folding his arms.

‘No,’ countered the stationmaster. ‘Accidents will happen.’

‘Especially when Hibbert is around.’

‘You’re too harsh on him, Douglas.’

‘And you’re too lenient.’

Percy Reade was a mild-mannered little man in his forties with a huge walrus moustache concealing much of his face. Conscientious and highly efficient, he treated the staff with a paternal care in the belief that it was the way to get the best out of them. Fagge, on the other hand, favoured a more tyrannical approach. Left to him, flogging would have been meted out to anyone who failed to do his job properly and Fagge would happily have wielded the cat o’ nine tails himself. Hibbert was relieved that the stationmaster was there. His kindly presence was an antidote to the venom of the head porter.

The distant sound of an approaching train made all three men turn their heads to the window. Reade consulted his watch and gave a nod of satisfaction at the train’s punctuality. Fagge’s hope was that it would bring the detectives from Scotland Yard and allow him to play a decisive part in a murder investigation. As the train thundered into the station and slowly ground to a halt amid a symphony of hissing and juddering, all that Hibbert could think about was his anxious wife, the threat of unemployment and his rumbling stomach. It was several hours since he had last eaten.

After stopping at major stations on the way, the train had finally arrived at Crewe. Robert Colbeck and Victor Leeming were aboard and the stationmaster went out to greet them. When he brought the visitors back to his office, Reade introduced them to Hibbert and to Fagge. At a glance, Colbeck could see that the porter was trembling and that his superior was revelling in the man’s discomfort.

‘This is the miscreant,’ declared Fagge, pointing at Hibbert. ‘He dropped a trunk onto that hatbox.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Colbeck.

‘He admits it.’

‘But did you actually see the incident, Mr Fagge?’

‘No – I was on another platform.’

‘Then we have no further use for you. Goodbye.’

‘But I have to be here,’ blustered Fagge. ‘I’m the head porter.’

‘We’re only interested in the porter with the head,’ said Leeming, unable to stop himself from blurting out his joke. He was immediately contrite. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I meant no disrespect to the dead.’

‘I’m sure that you didn’t, Victor,’ said Colbeck easily, turning to the stationmaster. ‘Mr Reade, I assume that you reported the grim discovery to the local police.’

‘Yes, Inspector,’ said Reade. ‘Constable Hubbleday was summoned at once. He took statements from several witnesses.’

‘Then I’ll want to hear what else he did.’ Colbeck swung round to confront Fagge. ‘How far away is the police station?’

‘Not far,’ said the head porter.

‘In that case, perhaps you’ll be good enough to show Sergeant Leeming the way and introduce him when you get there.’ He ushered both men to the door. ‘You know what to ask, Victor.’

‘Yes, Inspector.’

‘Leave your bag here.’

Putting his valise down beside Colbeck’s, the sergeant led the reluctant Fagge out and the door was closed behind them. Colbeck could sense the air of relief in the office. Hibbert was clearly afraid of his hectoring boss and Reade unwilling to challenge him. Now that Fagge had gone, both of them had relaxed.

‘Right,’ said Colbeck, removing his top hat and placing it on the desk, ‘let’s get down to business, shall we, gentlemen? Before you tell me how the severed head was found, perhaps you’d be good enough to show it to me.’

‘Of course,’ said Reade. Crossing to a cupboard, he took out a bunch of keys and inserted one of them into the lock. ‘I had to hide it away in here. When it was standing on the floor, people kept peering in at it through the window. It was so ghoulish.’ Unlocking the door, he opened it and lifted the hatbox out. ‘Here we are, Inspector.’

Hibbert flinched at the sight but Colbeck was fascinated. The leather hatbox was large, beautifully made and very expensive. Tied to the handle was a ticket that told him Euston was the point of departure. The name on the ticket, written in a spidery hand, was Mr D Key. Capital letters had been used for the destination – Crewe.

Since the strap had been broken, Colbeck simply had to pull back the lid to expose the occupant of the hatbox. It was the head of a young man and dark bruising on the forehead suggested that he had been beaten before being killed. Extracting a large handkerchief from his pocket, Colbeck used it to encircle the back of the head so that he could lift it gently out.

Reginald Hibbert emitted a gasp of alarm as it came into view once again. The open eyes seemed to be staring accusingly at him. He stepped back guiltily and collided with a chair, almost knocking it to the floor. Percy Reade admired the detective’s coolness. Simply carrying the hatbox had induced feelings of nausea in the stationmaster and he could not possibly have handled its contents with his bare hands. Colbeck seemed to have no qualms. He was examining the head from all angles as if it were a bronze bust of a Roman emperor rather than part of a human being.

‘You’ve obviously done this before,’ remarked Reade.

‘Not at all,’ said Colbeck, coming to the end of his scrutiny. ‘As a matter of fact, this is my first severed head. I am, however, all too accustomed to looking at dead bodies, many of them, alas, hideously mutilated.’

‘What happens next, Inspector?’

‘We’ll do all we can to unite this fellow with his torso.’

‘How on earth can you do that when you have no clues?’

‘We have two important ones right here,’ said Colbeck, lowering the head carefully back into its box. ‘We know from the ticket that this began its journey at Euston station and we may be able to find the porter who loaded it onto the train. Failing that, we’ll begin our enquiries in Jermyn Street.’

‘Why there?’

‘Clearly, you didn’t study the inside of the hatbox. The name of a milliner is sewn into the silk padding on the underside of the lid.’ He pointed to the gold thread. ‘I should imagine he will be very upset to learn to what use the box has been put.’ He closed the lid. ‘Now, Mr Hibbert,’ he said, straightening up, ‘we come to you.’

‘I didn’t mean to do it, Inspector,’ said the porter defensively.

‘Dropping a trunk onto a hatbox is not a criminal offence.’

‘Mr Fagge said that I ought to be arrested.’

‘Well, Mr Fagge is not here any longer so why don’t you tell me, in your own words, exactly what happened?’

Hibbert was reassured by Colbeck’s friendly tone and courteous manner. Clearing his throat, the porter licked his lips.

‘It all began this morning, when I sprained my wrist…’

It was a slow, long-winded account filled with much extraneous detail but the others heard him out in silence. While he was speaking, his essential character was laid bare and Colbeck saw that the porter was a decent, honest, hard-working young man in terror of losing a job that was a labour of love to him. The inspector was surprised to hear that he had been kept at the station beyond the time when his shift ended and guessed that the wife about whom Hibbert had spoken so fondly would be very distressed at her husband’s lateness. When the narrative at last came to an end, Colbeck’s first concern was for Molly Hibbert.

‘Did you not think to send your wife a message?’ he asked.

‘Mr Fagge refused to let me, Inspector.’

‘That was very high-handed of him. He had no right to deny you and should have been overruled by the stationmaster.’

‘I tried to put myself in Mrs Hibbert’s position,’ said Reade, attempting to justify his actions. ‘I felt that she would be very upset if she had a note from Reg to say that he was being held here, pending the arrival of detectives from Scotland Yard.’

‘Why not simply tell her that her husband was working overtime?’ said Colbeck reasonably. ‘That would at least have given her peace of mind.’

‘That never occurred to me, Inspector. To tell you the truth, this incident with the hatbox left me rather jangled. It’s not the sort of thing that happens every day – thank God!’

‘It must have caused a great stir.’

‘It did,’ confirmed Hibbert. ‘There were dozens of people on the platform. They all gathered round for a goggle at the head.’

‘That was unfortunate,’ said Colbeck. ‘In the confusion, the person who would have reclaimed that hatbox slipped away. I don’t suppose you recall any other luggage for a Mr Key?’

‘I never look at the names, Inspector – only the destination. If it says “Crewe” on the ticket, I unload it here.’

‘In that case, he may have reclaimed any other items with which he was travelling and beat a hasty retreat. A severed head is hardly something that anyone would willingly admit to owning.’

‘It gives me the creeps just to look at that hatbox.’

‘Then you don’t have to suffer any more,’ decided Colbeck, taking pity on him. ‘Your statement was very thorough and I’m sure it will be corroborated by the many that Constable Hubbleday took. We’ll be staying the night in Crewe so, if I need to speak to you again, I know where to find you.’

‘Off you go,’ said Reade. ‘Molly will be missing you.’

Hibbert was overjoyed. ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ he said, grinning inanely. ‘Thank you, Mr Reade. Does that mean I’m in the clear?’

‘As far as I’m concerned, that’s always been the case.’

‘Mr Fagge said there’d be repercussions.’

‘Then he was wildly misinformed,’ said Colbeck.

He opened the door to let Hibbert out, only to find a buxom young woman bearing down on them. Molly Hibbert had the look of a wife who has just been told that her husband is in grave danger. She flung herself at him and held him tight.

‘What’s going on, Reg?’ she demanded.

‘Nothing, my love,’ he replied. ‘I was just coming home.’

‘I met Mr Fagge on the way here. He said you were being questioned by a detective from London and that you ought to face charges for what you did.’

‘On the contrary, Mrs Hibbert,’ said Colbeck politely. ‘The only thing your husband will get from me is praise. My name is Inspector Robert Colbeck, by the way, and I’m here because a severed head was found in a hatbox that arrived at this station. Your husband not only showed bravery in coming to work with an injured wrist that must have given him constant pain. He inadvertently rendered us a great service. But for him,’ he went on, patting Hibbert on the shoulder, ‘a heinous crime would have gone unnoticed and therefore unpunished.’

‘That’s true,’ said Reade, feeling obliged to make a comment. ‘In a sense, Reg is something of a hero.’

‘Am I?’ Hibbert was baffled by the news.

‘He’s always a hero to me,’ said Molly, clutching his arm.

‘Take him home, Mrs Hibbert,’ suggested Colbeck. ‘And if you happen to pass Mr Fagge on the way, please warn him that I shall need to speak to him about the unnecessary cruelty he displayed towards your husband. If anyone is due a reprimand, it’s Mr Fagge.’

Hibbert had never laughed so triumphantly in all his life.

Victor Leeming was deeply unhappy. It was bad enough to be exiled for a night from the marital bed but he had additional causes for complaint. The first had come in the burly shape of Constable Royston Hubbleday, a good-hearted but ponderous individual who had insisted on reading out every statement he had taken relating to the discovery at the railway station, however repetitive, hysterical or contradictory they happened to be. Leeming’s second grievance was that he had to share an airless room with Robert Colbeck at a public house. Situated near the station, it was called The Rocket and its inn sign sported a painting of Stephenson’s famous locomotive. To a man who loathed railways as much as the sergeant, it was an ordeal to stay the night in a place that celebrated them.

His major source of unease, however, was only feet away. For reasons the sergeant did not understand, Colbeck had placed the hatbox between the two beds so that each of them would be sleeping cheek by jowl with incontrovertible evidence of foul play. Leeming was by no means squeamish but the proximity of the severed head unnerved him. Yet it seemed to have no effect on the inspector. When they retired to their beds for the night, Leeming voiced his thoughts.

‘Why would anyone do it?’ he wondered.

‘Do what?’

‘Carry a human head in a hatbox.’

‘I can think of a number of reasons,’ said Colbeck.

‘Such as?’

‘It could be a trophy, something which signalled a victory.’

‘Who would want to keep such a grisly item as that?’

‘There’s no accounting for taste, Victor.’

‘What else could it be?’

‘A gift.’

Leeming started. ‘A weird sort of gift, if you ask me.’

‘I agree but we may be dealing with a weird mind. Don’t forget that case we had last year. A young woman was dismembered and pieces of her body were returned one by one to the bereaved family.’

‘I remember it only too well, Inspector. The killer worked at Smithfield – a butcher in every sense.’ He glanced down at the hatbox. ‘Do you have a theory about this crime, sir?’

‘One is slowly forming in my brain, Victor.’

‘Well?’

‘I fancy that it’s a warning,’ said Colbeck. ‘Look how far it’s travelled. Would somebody bring it all that way without a specific purpose? My belief is that it was going to be delivered to someone by way of a dire warning. Think what an appalling shock it would have given as the lid was opened.’

‘I’m scared stiff when the lid is closed.’

‘Only because you know what’s inside the box.’

‘The one consolation is that we’ll soon catch the villain.’

‘I wish that I shared your confidence.’

‘You must do, sir,’ argued Leeming. ‘The man was kind enough to put his name on the ticket – Mr D Key. What does that initial stand for, I wonder – David, Donald, Derek perhaps? We had a census only three years ago so his name will be somewhere in the list of London residents. All we have to do is to work our way through them.’

‘That would be a complete waste of time.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we have no proof that the person we want lives in London. All we know for certain is that the train was boarded there. As for the name, I’ll wager every penny I have that it’s a false one. Who would be stupid enough to attach his real name to a hatbox that contained a human head? Besides,’ Colbeck added, ‘the person who brought it to Crewe might have nothing whatsoever to do with the murder. He might simply have been a delivery boy.’

‘It’s not a job I’d have taken on,’ confessed Leeming with a shudder. ‘Nothing on God’s earth would have persuaded me to get on a train with something like that.’

‘You’ll be doing so tomorrow, Victor.’

‘That’s different, sir. Now it can be classed as evidence.’

‘Vital evidence – that’s why we mustn’t let it out of our sight.’

‘Does it have to spend the night with us?’

‘Most certainly.’

‘Why not leave it at the railway station?’

‘Because the man who lost the hatbox might well try to retrieve it,’ Colbeck pointed out. ‘We can’t allow that, can we? Imagine what Superintendent Tallis would say if something as important as this was stolen from under our noses.’

‘Do you really think that someone will come back for it?’

‘It’s highly likely.’

‘Then shouldn’t a watch be kept on the stationmaster’s office?’

‘Of course. I took the precaution of speaking to Constable Hubbleday on the matter and he agreed to patrol the area throughout the night. There’s no point in our losing sleep when we have a uniformed policeman at our disposal, is there? He leant over to give the hatbox a companionable pat. ‘This chap is perfectly safe with us,’ he went on before reaching up to turn off the gaslight. ‘Good night, Victor – and sweet dreams.’

Sergeant Leeming gurgled into his pillow.

It was well past midnight before Constable Royston Hubbleday began to tire. Eager to impress a detective from Scotland Yard, he had been delighted when Colbeck asked him to keep a close eye on the railway station that night. Hubbleday was a hefty young man with a fondness for action and a desire to move to a large city where he might find plenty of it. Nothing appealed to him more than the notion of joining the Metropolitan Police Force and, if he could make a significant arrest while assisting two members of it, he felt that it would help him to fulfil his ambition.

The night was humid, the sky dark and Crewe passenger station was no more than a shadowy outline. Having circled it time and again, he paused to remove his top hat so that he could wipe the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. It was a grave mistake. Before he could replace his hat, something struck him hard on the back of his head and sent him sprawling forward into oblivion. After checking that the policeman was unconscious, his attacker stepped over the body and trotted off in the direction of the stationmaster’s office.

When he reached the door, he used a powerful shoulder to smash it open then stepped inside. Having studied the office earlier through the window, he knew where to find the oil lamp and lit it at once, moving it so that it illuminated the large cupboard in the corner. Pulling a knife from inside his jacket, he inserted it in the gap beside the lock and jiggled it violently until the door suddenly flipped open. It took him a split-second to realise that the item he was after was no longer there. He thrust the knife angrily back into its sheath.

‘Damnation!’ he swore.

Then he ran off swiftly into the darkness.

CHAPTER THREE

Ever since the death of her mother, Madeleine Andrews had looked after her father and willingly taken on the roles of housekeeper, cook, nurse, maidservant and companion. She was an intelligent woman in her twenties, vigorous, decisive and self-possessed, with attractive features framed by auburn hair parted in the middle. In spite of her domestic commitments, Madeleine had taken the trouble to educate herself way beyond what might be expected of an engine driver’s daughter and to develop her artistic talent. In a busy life, she had somehow managed to strike a good balance between her household duties and her leisure pursuits.

Working the late shift, Caleb Andrews had not returned home to the modest house in Camden until after his daughter had gone to bed the previous night. Unable to pass on his news, therefore, he was keen to do so when a new day dawned. As he came downstairs, there was a jauntiness in his gait and a twinkle in his eye. He went into the back room to find Madeleine ladling porridge into two bowls.

‘Breakfast is ready,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Maddy – you spoil me, you know.’

‘That’s what I’m here for, Father.’

‘I don’t think I could manage without you,’ he said, taking a seat at the table. ‘Though I suppose that I’ll have to sooner or later.’

‘Now, don’t play that little game,’ she warned.

He feigned innocence. ‘What game?’

‘You know quite well. Robert and I are close friends but I won’t be teased on that account. Eat your breakfast.’

‘I’m not teasing anybody. It’s a father’s duty to safeguard his daughter and to make sure that nobody takes advantage of her. I have your best interests at heart, Maddy.’ He gave a sly grin. ‘I also have a surprise for you.’

She sat opposite him. ‘I don’t like surprises this early in the morning,’ she said briskly. ‘Save it until later.’

‘You’d never forgive me if I did.’

‘Why not?’

‘It concerns Inspector Colbeck.’

‘Robert?’ Her face ignited with pleasure. ‘What about him?’

He shrugged. ‘I’ll tell you after breakfast.’

‘Tell me now.’

‘You said that you’d rather wait.’

‘Father!’

‘And it’s not that important,’ he said dismissively.

‘You’re teasing me again,’ she told him, ‘and I don’t like it. Remember who got up early this morning in order to make your breakfast. You ought to show some gratitude.’

‘I always do, Maddy.’

‘Then stop annoying me.’

He gave another shrug. ‘Is that what I’m doing?’

‘What do you want to tell me about Robert?’

‘Only that I drove the train that took him to his latest case,’ said Andrews, thrusting out his chest. ‘I helped in the investigation.’

‘Investigation?’

‘It will be in all the newspapers.’

‘What will?’

‘A hatbox was unloaded at Crewe Station yesterday afternoon.’

‘Nothing unusual in that.’

‘Yes, there was – it had a man’s head inside it.’

‘Goodness!’ she exclaimed, bringing both hands up to her face. ‘You mean that someone had been…beheaded? That’s grotesque.’

Andrews told her all that he knew about the incident, omitting some of the more lurid details he had picked up but giving the impression that he was an essential part of the investigative team. What Madeleine really wanted to hear about was Robert Colbeck and she pressed for more information.

‘Did he find any clues to the crime?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know, Maddy. There was no time to speak to him after we reached Crewe. I had to drive a train back to London. But I daresay he’ll call here at some point to ask my advice,’ he added airily. ‘After so many years with the LNWR, I can tell him all he needs to know about the transport of luggage.’

‘There’s nothing you can teach Robert about railways. He has a real passion for them.’

He chuckled. ‘It’s not the only thing he has a passion for.’

‘Being able to travel around the country by train,’ she said, ignoring her father’s innuendo, ‘has made his job so much easier. That’s why he relishes any crime that’s connected to the railways.’

‘There’s far too much of it, Maddy.’

‘There’s too much crime everywhere.’

‘If railways aren’t safe, people won’t travel on them.’

‘People like Robert make them safe,’ she said proudly. ‘Did he come back to London on your train last night?’

‘No, they stayed the night in Crewe – all three of them.’

‘All three?’

‘Yes,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Inspector Colbeck, Sergeant Leeming and that absent-minded fellow who mislaid his body somewhere.’

‘Father!’ Madeleine was shocked. ‘It’s cruel to make a joke out of something like that. The man has a family somewhere. They’ll be distraught when they learn what’s happened to him. How can you be so callous about it? This is an appalling crime.’

‘I know, Maddy,’ he said penitently. ‘You’re right. Please forgive me.’ Andrews rallied immediately. ‘But there’s one consolation.’

‘Is there?’

‘The Railway Detective is in charge of the case.’

As soon as he got back to Scotland Yard that morning, Robert Colbeck went to the superintendent’s office to deliver a verbal report of the visit to Crewe. Wreathed in cigar smoke, Edward Tallis listened intently, irritated that he was unable to find fault with the inspector’s methods or his thoroughness. Colbeck’s account was crisp, comprehensive and lucid. Tallis invented a reason to offer some criticism.

‘The station should have been guarded by more men,’ he said.

‘Constable Hubbleday volunteered for night duty, sir.’

‘Two other officers should have been there with him. In your place, I’d have added Sergeant Leeming as well.’

‘Four people would have frightened away the intruder,’ argued Colbeck, ‘whereas he might have been tempted to make his move if he saw only one person on patrol. That, indeed, proved to be the case. I’m sorry that the constable was attacked in the process. Fortunately, he seems to have recovered well. And the main thing is that the thief left the station empty-handed.’

‘It was sensible of you to take the severed head with you.’

‘Victor didn’t think so.’

‘Where is it now?’

‘Being examined at the morgue by an expert.’

‘And where is the sergeant?’

‘I told him to wait there in case the doctor was able to glean any information that might be of use to us. It would, for instance, be interesting to hear his opinion on exactly how the head was separated from the body. When he has the report, Victor will return here.’

It was not strictly correct. Since the sergeant had been parted from his wife overnight, Colbeck had shown his usual compassion and allowed him to go home as soon as they reached Euston, instructing him to call at the morgue for the report on his way back to work. Tallis would not have approved.

‘No luck at Euston, then?’ asked the superintendent.

‘None whatsoever,’ replied Colbeck. ‘We spoke to all the porters who helped to load that particular train but not one of them recalled a hatbox or the person carrying it. They stow so much luggage aboard in the course of an average morning that it’s impossible to remember individual items.’ He raised the hatbox. ‘It was only by complete chance that we learnt what was in this.’

‘Let me take a look at it,’ said Tallis.

Putting his cigar down in the tray, he stood up and took the hatbox from Colbeck, noting the broken strap and the dent in the shiny leather where it had been struck by the heavy trunk. Tallis opened it slowly, as if still expecting to find a severed head inside. As it was, he was still surprised by what he saw. A pleasing aroma drifted into his nostrils and countered the smell of tobacco smoke.

‘Herbs,’ explained Colbeck. ‘The interior of the box was scented and, as you see, packed with wool.’

‘What was the purpose of that?’

‘It was not for the comfort of its occupant, sir, that much is certain. My guess is that the wool was used to prevent the head from rolling around and the herbs were there to kill any unpleasant odour. The care taken also suggests that the hatbox was going on a lengthy journey which may not have ended at Crewe.’

‘But that’s where it was unloaded.’

‘It’s the hub of the LNWR. Trains go off in all directions. The passenger carrying that hatbox might have been travelling on to another destination.’

Tallis lowered the lid. ‘How do you intend to find him?’