The Railway Viaduct E-Book

Edward Marston

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

Seitenzahl: 400

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2009

Beschreibung

As a train speeds over the Sankey Viaduct, the dead body of a man is hurled into the canal below. Inspector Robert Colbeck and Sergeant Victor Leeming take charge of their most complex and difficult case yet. Hampered by the fact that the corpse has nothing on him to indicate his identity, they are baffled until a young woman comes forward to explain that the murder victim, Gaston Chabal, is an engineer, working on a major rail link in France. As the case takes on an international dimension, problems accumulate. The detectives wonder if the murder is connected to a series of vicious attacks on the rail link that is being built by British navvies under the direction of a British construction engineer. Colbeck and Leeming have to survive personal danger, resistance from the French government, broadsides from their Superintendent, and many other setbacks before they solve the crime.

Leseprobe

THE RAILWAY VIADUCT

EDWARD MARSTON

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.

www.edwardmarston.com

Contents

Title PageEpigraphCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENBy the Same AuthorCopyright

CHAPTER ONE

1852

Something was missing. His preliminary sketch of the Sankey Viaduct was both dramatic and satisfyingly precise, but it needed something to anchor it, a human dimension to give a sense of scale. He knew exactly where to place the figures, and he could easily have pencilled them in, but he preferred to rely on chance rather than imagination. Ambrose Hooper had been an artist for over forty years and his continued success could not simply be attributed to his sharp eye and gifted hand. In all that he did, luck played a decisive part. It was uncanny. Whenever he needed to add a crucial element to a painting, he did not have to wait long for inspiration to come. An idea somehow presented itself before him.

Hooper was a short, slim, angular man in his sixties with a full beard and long grey hair that fell like a waterfall from beneath his battered old straw hat. On a hot summer’s day, he had taken off his crumpled white jacket so that he could work at his easel in his shirtsleeves. He wore tiny spectacles and narrowed his lids to peer through them. An experienced landscape artist, it was the first time that he had turned his attention to the massive railway system that had changed the face of the English countryside so radically over the previous twenty years. It was a challenge for him.

Viewed from below, the Sankey Viaduct was truly imposing. It had been opened in 1830 as part of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway and was roughly halfway between the two places. Straddling a valley that contained both a canal and a brook, the viaduct was supported by nine identical arches, each with a span of fifty feet. Massive piers rose up with perpendicular certitude from the piles that had been driven deep down into the waterbeds, and the parapet coping reached a height of almost seventy feet, leaving ample room to spare for the tallest vessels that sailed on the canal. It was a predominantly brick structure, finished off with dressings and facings that gave it an added lustre. In the bright sunshine, it was a dazzling piece of architectural masonry.

Hooper’s sketch had caught its towering simplicity. His main objective, however, was to show the stark contrast between the valley itself with its verdant meadows and the man-made intrusions of canal and viaduct. A few cattle grazed obligingly on his side of the waterway and Hooper was able to incorporate them in his drawing, timeless symbols of rural life in the shadow of industry. What he required now were human figures and – as ever, his luck held out – they not only appeared magically before him, they stood more or less in the spot where he wanted them to be.

Two women and a small boy had come to look up at the viaduct. From the way that she held the boy’s hand, Hooper decided that the younger woman must be his mother and his guess was that the other woman, older and more fastidious, was her spinster sister, less than happy at being there. She was wearing too much clothing for such a hot day and was troubled by insects that flew in under her poke bonnet. While the boy and his mother seemed quietly excited, the other woman lifted the hem of her dress well above the ground so that it would not trail in any of the cowpats. The visit was clearly for the boy’s benefit and not for that of his maiden aunt.

As he put them into his sketch with deft flicks of his pencil, Ambrose Hooper gave each of them a name to lend some character. The mother was Hester Lewthwaite, the wife of a provincial banker perhaps; her son, eight or nine years of age at most, was Anthony Lewthwaite; and the disagreeable third person was Petronella Snark, disappointed in love, highly critical of her sister and not at all inclined to indulge a small boy if it entailed trudging across a meadow in the stifling heat. Both women wore steel-ringed crinolines but, while Hester’s was fashionable, brightly coloured and had a pretty flounced skirt, Petronella’s dress was dark and dowdy.

He knew why they were there. When he took his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat, Hooper saw that a train was due to cross the viaduct at any moment. It was something he had always planned to use in his painting. A railway viaduct would not suffice. Only a locomotive could bring it to life and display its true purpose. Gazing up, the artist had his pencil ready. Out of the corner of his eye, he then caught sight of another element that had perforce to be included. A sailing barge was gliding serenely along the canal towards the viaduct with three men aboard. Before attempting to sketch the vessel, however, Hooper elected to wait until the train had passed. It was usually on time.

Seconds later, he heard it coming. Mother and child looked up with anticipatory delight. The other woman did not. The men on the barge raised their eyes as well but nobody watched with the same intensity as Ambrose Hooper. Just when he wanted it, the locomotive came into sight, an iron monster, belching clouds of steam and filling the whole valley with its thunder. Behind it came an endless string of gleaming carriages, rattling noisily across the viaduct high above the spectators. And then, to their amazement, they all saw something that they could not possibly have expected.

The body of a man hurtled over the edge of the viaduct and fell swiftly through the air until it landed in the canal, hitting the water with such irresistible force that it splashed both banks. The mother put protective arms around her son, the other woman staggered back in horror, the three men in the barge exchanged looks of utter disbelief. It had been an astonishing sight but the cows accorded it no more than a cursory glance before returning to the more important business of chewing the cud. Hooper was exhilarated. Intending to portray the headlong dash of the train, he had been blessed with another stroke of good fortune. He had witnessed something that no artist could ever invent.

As a result, his painting would now celebrate a murder.

CHAPTER TWO

After a couple of tedious hours in court, Detective Inspector Robert Colbeck was glad to return to Scotland Yard so that he could write a full report on the case, and clear up some of the paperwork cluttering his desk. He got no further than his office door. Superintendent Tallis loomed into view at the end of the corridor and beckoned him with an imperious crook of a tobacco-stained finger. When they went into the superintendent’s office, Colbeck could smell the pungent smoke still hanging in the air. It was a telltale sign that a serious crime had been committed. His superior’s response to any crisis was to reach for his cigar box. Tallis waved a piece of paper at him.

‘This message came by electric telegraph,’ he said.

‘From where?’

‘Liverpool. That’s where the body was taken.’

‘Another murder?’ asked Colbeck with interest.

‘Another railway murder. It’s the reason I’m sending you.’

The inspector was not surprised. After his success in capturing the gang responsible for the daring robbery of a mail train, the press had dubbed him unanimously as the Railway Detective and he had lived up to the name subsequently. It gave him a kudos he enjoyed, a popularity that Tallis resented and a burden of expectation that could feel very heavy at times. Robert Colbeck was tall, lean, conventionally handsome and dressed as usual in an immaculate black frock coat, well-cut fawn trousers and an Ascot cravat. Still in his thirties, he had risen swiftly in the Detective Department, acquiring a reputation for intelligence, efficiency and single-mindedness that few could emulate. His promotion had been a source of great pride to his friends and a constant irritation to his detractors, such as the superintendent.

Edward Tallis was a stout, red-faced man in his fifties with a shock of grey hair and a neat moustache that he trimmed on a daily basis. His years in the army had left him with the habit of command, a passion for order and an unshakable belief in the virtues of the British Empire. Though invariably smart, he felt almost shabby beside the acknowledged dandy of Scotland Yard. Tallis derided what he saw as Colbeck’s vanity, but he was honest enough to recognise the inspector’s rare qualities as a detective. It encouraged him to suppress his instinctive dislike of the man. For his part, Colbeck, too, made allowances. Seniority meant that Tallis had to be obeyed and the inspector’s natural antipathy towards him had to be hidden.

Tallis thrust the paper at him. ‘Read it for yourself,’ he said.

‘Thank you, sir.’ Colbeck needed only seconds to do so. ‘This does not tell us very much, Superintendent.’

‘What did you expect – a three-volume novel?’

‘It claims that the victim was thrown from a moving train.’

‘So?’

‘That suggests great strength on the part of the killer. He would have to pitch a grown man through a window and over the parapet of the Sankey Viaduct. Unless, of course,’ he added, handing the telegraph back to Tallis, ‘he opened the door of the carriage first.’

‘This is no time for idle speculation.’

‘I agree, Superintendent.’

‘Are you in a position to take charge of the case?’

‘I believe so.’

‘What happened in court this morning?’

‘The jury finally brought in a verdict of guilty, sir. Why it should have taken them so infernally long, I can only hazard a guess. The evidence against Major Harrison-Clark was overwhelming.’

‘That may be,’ said Tallis with gruff regret, ‘but I hate to see a military man brought down like that. The major served his country honourably for many years.’

‘That does not entitle him to strangle his wife.’

‘There was great provocation, I daresay.’

A confirmed bachelor, Tallis had no insight into the mysteries of married life and no taste for the company of women. If a husband killed his spouse, the superintendent tended to assume that she was in some way obscurely responsible for her own demise. Colbeck did not argue with him or even point out that, in fact, Major Rupert Harrison-Clark had a history of violent behaviour. The inspector was too anxious to be on his way.

‘What about my report on the case?’ he asked.

‘It can wait.’

‘Am I to take Victor with me, sir?’

‘Sergeant Leeming has already been apprised of the details.’

‘Such as they are.’

‘Such – as you so rightly point out – as they are.’ Tallis looked down at the telegraph. ‘Have you ever seen this viaduct?’

‘Yes, Superintendent. A remarkable piece of engineering.’

‘I don’t share your admiration of the railway system.’

‘I appreciate quality in all walks of life,’ said Colbeck, easily, ‘and my fondness for railways is by no means uncritical. Engineers and contractors alike have made hideous mistakes in the past, some of which have cost lives as well as money. The Sankey Viaduct, on the other hand, was an undoubted triumph. It is also our first clue.’

Tallis blinked. ‘Is it?’

‘Of course, sir. It was no accident that the victim was hurled from that particular place. My belief is that the killer chose it with care.’ He opened the door then paused to give the other man a farewell smile. ‘We shall have to find out why.’

Sidney Heyford was a tall, stringy, ginger-haired individual in his forties who seemed to have grown in height since his promotion to the rank of inspector. When he had first joined the local constabulary, he had been fearless and conscientious, liked by his colleagues and respected by the criminal fraternity. He still worked as hard as ever but his eminence had made him arrogant, unyielding and officious. It had also made him very proprietorial. When he first heard the news, he let out a snort of disgust and flung the telegraph aside.

‘Detectives from Scotland Yard!’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Constable Praine. ‘Two of them.’

‘I don’t care if it’s two or twenty. We don’t want them here.’

‘No, Inspector.’

‘We can solve this crime on our own.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do say so, Constable. It was committed on our doorstep.’

‘That’s not strictly true,’ said Praine, pedantically. ‘The Sankey Viaduct is halfway between here and Manchester. Some would claim that they have a right to take over the case.’

‘Manchester?’

‘Yes, Inspector.’

‘Poppycock! Arrant poppycock!’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do say so, Constable.’

‘The train in question did depart from Manchester.’

‘But it was coming here, man – to Liverpool!’

In the eyes of Inspector Sidney Heyford, it was an unanswerable argument and the constable would not, in any case, have dared to quarrel with him. It was not only because of the other man’s position that Walter Praine held his tongue. Big, brawny and with a walrus moustache hiding much of his podgy young face, Praine nursed secret ambitions to become Heyford’s son-in-law one day, a fact that he had yet to communicate to the inspector’s comely daughter. The situation made Praine eager to impress his superior. To that end, he was ready to endure the brusque formality with which he was treated.

‘I’m sure that you are right, Inspector,’ he said, obsequiously.

‘There is no substitute for local knowledge.’

‘I agree, sir.’

‘We have done all that any detectives from the Metropolitan Police would have done – much more, probably.’ Heyford turned an accusatory glare on Praine. ‘How did they get to know of the crime in the first place?’ he demanded. ‘I hope that nobody from here dared to inform them?’

‘It was the railway company who sent the telegraph.’

‘They should have shown more faith in us.’

The two men were in the central police station in Liverpool. Both wore spotless uniforms. Inspector Heyford had spent most of the day leading the investigation into the murder. When he finally returned to his office late that afternoon, the waiting telegraph was passed to him. It had immediately aroused his possessive streak.

‘This is our murder. I mean to keep it that way.’

‘We were the first to receive reports of it.’

‘I’ll brook no interference.’

‘If you say so, sir.’

‘And, for heaven’s sake, stop repeating that inane phrase,’ said Heyford with vehemence. ‘You’re a police constable, not a parrot.’ Praine gave a contrite nod. ‘What time should we expect them?’

‘Not for another hour or so at least.’

‘How did you decide that?’

‘I checked the timetables in Bradshaw,’ said Praine, hoping that his initiative might be rewarded with at least a nod of approval. Instead, it was met with a blank stare. ‘They could not have set out much before the time when that telegraph was sent. If they arrive at Lime Street by six-thirty, they will be here not long afterwards.’

‘They shouldn’t be here at all,’ grumbled Heyford, consulting his pocket watch. ‘I need to master all the details before they come. Get out of here, Constable, and give me plenty of warning before they actually cross our threshold.’

‘Yes, Inspector.’

‘Make yourself scarce, then.’

Walter Praine left the room, acutely aware of the fact that he had failed to ingratiate himself with his putative father-in-law. Until he managed to do that, he could not possibly muster the confidence that was needed to make a proposal of marriage. Glad to be rid of him, Heyford began to read carefully through the statements that had been taken from the witnesses. It was only minutes before there was a timid knock on the door.

‘Yes?’ he barked.

The door opened and Praine put a tentative head around it.

‘The gentlemen from Scotland Yard are already here, sir,’ he said, sheepishly. ‘Shall I show them in?’

Heyford leapt to his feet. ‘Here?’ he cried. ‘How can that be? You told me that we had at least an hour.’

‘I was mistaken.’

‘Not for the first time, Constable Praine.’

Quelling him with a glare, Sidney Heyford opened the door wide and went into the outer office, manufacturing a smile as he did so. Robert Colbeck and Victor Leeming were studying the Wanted posters on the walls. Both men had bags with them. After a flurry of introductions, the detectives were taken into the little office and invited to sit down. Heyford was not impressed by Colbeck’s elegance. With his stocky frame and gnarled face, Leeming did at least look like a policeman. That was not the case with his companion. To the man in uniform, Colbeck’s debonair appearance and cultured voice were completely out of place in the rough and tumble world of law enforcement.

‘I’m sorry that it’s so cramped in here,’ Heyford began.

‘We’ve seen worse,’ said Leeming, looking around.

‘Much worse,’ agreed Colbeck.

‘Ashford in Kent, for instance. Six thousand people and only two constables to look after them from a tiny police house.’

‘Some towns still refuse to take policing seriously enough. They take the Utopian view that crime will somehow solve itself without the intercession of detective work.’ He appraised Heyford shrewdly. ‘I’m sure that Liverpool displays more common sense.’

‘It has to, Inspector,’ said Heyford, sententiously, ‘though we are woefully short of men to police a population of well over three hundred thousand. This is a thriving port. When the ships dock here, we’ve foreigners of all kind roaming our streets. If my men did not keep close watch over them, we’d have riot and destruction.’

‘I’m sure that you do an excellent job.’

‘That’s how I earned my promotion.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘May I ask how you got here so soon?’

‘That was the inspector’s doing,’ said Leeming, indicating his companion. ‘He knows everything about train timetables. I prefer to travel by coach but Inspector Colbeck insisted that we came by rail.’

‘How else could we have seen the Sankey Viaduct?’ asked Colbeck. ‘A coach would hardly have taken us across it. And think of the time we saved, Victor. Travel between Manchester and Liverpool by coach and it will take you up to four and a half hours. The train got us here in far less than half that time.’ He turned to Heyford. ‘I’ve always been fascinated by the railway system. That’s why I know how to get from London to Liverpool at the fastest possible speed.’

‘Inspector Colbeck!’ said Heyford as realisation dawned. ‘I thought I’d heard that name before.’

‘He’s the Railway Detective,’ explained Leeming.

The information did not endear them to Heyford. If anything, it only soured him even more. Newspaper accounts of Colbeck’s exploits had reached Liverpool in the past and they were invariably full of praise. Sidney Heyford felt that he deserved the same kind of public veneration. He took a deep breath.

‘We are quite able to handle this case ourselves,’ he asserted.

‘That may be so,’ said Colbeck, briskly, ‘but your authority has been overridden. The London and North-West Railway Company has asked specifically that the Detective Department of the Metropolitan Police Force intercede. Last year, Sergeant Leeming and I were fortunate enough to solve an earlier crime for the same company so we were requested by name.’

Leeming nodded. ‘They were very grateful.’

‘So, instead of haggling over who should be in charge, I suggest that you give us all the information that you have so far gathered. We shall, of course, be glad of your assistance, Inspector Heyford, but we have not come all this way to have our credentials questioned.’

Colbeck had spoken with such firm politeness that Heyford was slightly stunned. He retreated into a muted surliness. Snatching up the papers from his desk, he told them about the progress of the investigation, reciting the details as if he had learned them by heart.

‘At 10.15 a.m.,’ he said, flatly, ‘a train passed over the Sankey Viaduct on its way to Liverpool. The body of a man was thrown over the parapet and landed in the canal. When some people on a barge hauled it out of the water – their names were Enoch and Samuel Triggs, a father and son – it was found that the victim had been killed before he was flung from the train. He had been stabbed in the back though there was no sign of any weapon.’

‘What state was the body in?’ asked Colbeck.

‘A bad one, Inspector. When he hit the water, the man’s head collided with a piece of driftwood. It smashed his face in. His own mother wouldn’t recognise him now.’

‘Was there anything on his body to identify him?’

‘Nothing. His wallet and watch were missing. So was his jacket.’

‘Where is the body now?’

‘In the mortuary.’

‘I’d like to examine it.’

‘It will tell you nothing beyond the fact that he was a young man and a very healthy one, by the look of it.’

‘Nevertheless, I want to see the body this evening.’

‘Very well.’

‘If you don’t mind, sir,’ said Leeming, squeamishly, ‘it’s a treat that I’ll forego. I hate morgues. They unsettle my stomach.’

Colbeck smiled. ‘Then I’ll spare you the ordeal, Victor.’ He looked at Heyford again. ‘There were two men on the barge, you say?’

‘Actually,’ replied the other, ‘there were three, the third being Micah Triggs. He owns the barge but is very old. His son and grandson do most of the work.’

‘But he was another witness.’

‘Yes, Inspector. He confirmed what the others told me. When they had pulled the man out of the canal, they moored the barge. Samuel Triggs clambered all the way up to the station and caught the next train here to report the crime.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘He knew that Liverpool had a better police force than Manchester.’

Leeming was puzzled. ‘Why didn’t the train from which the body was thrown stop at the viaduct? We did. Inspector Colbeck wanted to take a look at the scene of the crime.’

‘This morning’s train was an express that does not stop at all the intermediate stations.’

‘The killer would have chosen it for that reason,’ said Colbeck.

‘Once he had jettisoned his victim, he wanted to get away from there as swiftly as possible.’ He pondered. ‘So far, it would appear, we have three witnesses, all of whom were in a similar position. Was anyone else there at the time?’

‘According to Enoch Triggs, there were two ladies and a boy on the bank but they fled in fear. We have no idea who they were. Oh, yes,’ he went on, studying one of the statements, ‘and there seems to have been a man there as well but he, too, vanished. The truth is that Enoch Triggs and his son were too busy trying to rescue the body from the water to notice much else.’

‘That takes care of those at the scene of the crime. I presume that you have details of where this barge can be reached?’

‘Yes, Inspector.’

‘Good. What about the other witnesses?’

‘There were none,’ asserted Heyford.

‘A train full of passengers and nobody sees a man being tossed over the side of a viaduct? That’s not an everyday event. It’s something that people would remember.’

‘I’d remember it,’ agreed Leeming.

‘Well?’ said Colbeck. ‘Did you make any effort to contact the passengers on that train, Inspector Heyford?’

‘How could I?’ asked the other, defensively. ‘By the time we were made aware of the crime, the passengers had all dispersed throughout the city.’

‘Many of them may have intended to return to Manchester. It may well be that some people live there and work here. Did it never occur to you to have someone at the railway station this afternoon to question anyone leaving Liverpool who might have travelled on that train this morning?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then we’ll need to meet the same train tomorrow. With luck, we should find at least a few people who make the journey daily.’

‘Wait,’ said Heyford, leafing through the papers. ‘There was something else. Oddly enough, it was the old man who told me this.’

‘Micah Triggs?’

‘He thought the man was thrown from the last carriage.’

‘So?’

‘That might explain why nobody saw it happen.’

‘What about the guard?’ said Leeming. ‘His van would be behind the last carriage. Why did he see nothing?’

‘Because he could have been looking the other way,’ said Colbeck, thinking it through, ‘or been distracted by something else. It would only have taken seconds to dispose of that body and the last carriage would be the ideal place.’ His eyes flicked back to Heyford. ‘I take it that you’ve spoken to the guard, Inspector.’

‘No,’ said the other. ‘When I got to the station, that train had long since left for Manchester with the guard aboard.’

‘He would have been back at Lime Street in due course. Guards work long hours. I know their shift patterns. All you had to do was to look at a copy of Bradshaw’s Guide and you could have worked out when that particular train would return here. We need every pair of eyes we can call on, Inspector. The guard must be questioned.’

‘If he’d had anything to report, he’d have come forward.’

‘He does have something to report,’ said Colbeck. ‘He may not have witnessed the crime being committed but he would have seen the passengers boarding the train, perhaps even noticed who got into the carriage next to his van. His evidence could be vital. I find it strange that you did not realise that.’

‘I had other things to do, Inspector Colbeck,’ bleated the other, caught on the raw. ‘I had to take statements from the witnesses then arrange for the transfer of the body. Do not worry,’ he said, huffily, ‘I’ll meet that very train tomorrow and interview the guard in person.’

‘Sergeant Leeming will already have done so.’

‘Will I?’ gulped Leeming.

‘Yes, Victor. You’ll catch an early train to Manchester so that you can speak to the staff at the station in case any of them remember who got into that last carriage. Then you must talk to the guard who was on that train today.’

‘What then?’

‘Travel back here on the same train, of course,’ said Colbeck, ‘making sure that you sit in the last carriage. You’ll get some idea of how fast you go over the Sankey Viaduct and how difficult it would have been to hurl a dead body into the canal.’

Leeming goggled. ‘I hope you’re not expecting me to throw someone out of the carriage, sir.’

‘Simply use your imagination.’

‘What about me?’ asked Heyford. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Several things.’

‘Such as?’

‘First of all, you can recommend a hotel nearby so that Sergeant Leeming can book some rooms there. Second, you can conduct me to the mortuary and, after that, you can point me in the direction of the local newspapers.’

‘Newspapers?’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, tiring of his pedestrian slowness. ‘Papers that contain news. People have a habit of reading them. We need to reach as many of them as we can with a description of the victim.’

Heyford was scornful. ‘How can you describe a faceless man?’

‘By concentrating on his other features – age, height, build, hair colour and so on. His clothing will give us some idea of his social class. In short, we can provide enough details for anyone who knows him to be able to identify the man. Don’t you agree?’

‘Yes, Inspector.’ There was a grudging respect. ‘I suppose I do.’

‘Have you reached any conclusion yourself?’ asked Leeming.

‘Only the obvious one, Sergeant – it was murder for gain. The victim was killed so that he could be robbed.’

‘Oh, I suspect that there was much more to it than that,’ said Colbeck. ‘A lot of calculation went into this murder. Nobody would take so much trouble simply to get his hands on the contents of another man’s wallet. Always reject the obvious, Inspector Heyford. It has a nasty tendency to mislead.’

‘Yes, sir,’ grunted the other.

Colbeck stood up. ‘Let’s get started, shall we? Suggest a hotel then lead me to the mortuary. The sooner we get that description in the newspapers, the better. With luck, he may read it.’

‘Who?’

‘The other witness. I discount the two ladies and the boy. They’ll have been too shocked to give a coherent account. But there was a man on that bank as well. He’s the person who interests me.’

Ambrose Hooper put the finishing touches to his work then stood back to admire it. He was in his studio, a place of amiable chaos that contained several paintings that had been started then abandoned, and dozens of pencil drawings that had never progressed beyond the stage of a rough sketch. Artist’s materials lay everywhere. Light was fading so it was impossible for him to work on but he did not, in any case, need to do so. What he had achieved already had a sense of completeness to it. The sketch he had made of the Sankey Viaduct was now a vivid watercolour that would serve as model for the much bigger work he intended to paint.

It was all there – viaduct, canal, train, sailing barge, lush green fields, cows and, in the foreground, two women and a small boy. What brought the whole scene together, giving it life and definition, was the central figure of the man who was tumbling helplessly through the air towards the water, a bizarre link between viaduct and canal. Hooper was thrilled. Instead of producing yet another landscape, he had created a unique historical document. It would be his masterpiece.

CHAPTER THREE

Victor Leeming was a walking paradox. The more things he found to dislike about his job, the more attached he became to it. He hated working late hours, looking at mutilated corpses, appearing in court to give evidence, facing the wrath of Superintendent Tallis, having to arrest women, being forced to write endless reports and travelling, whenever he ventured outside London, by rail instead of road. Most of all, he hated being separated for a night from his wife, Estelle, and their children. Notwithstanding all that, he loved being a detective and having the privilege of working alongside the famous Robert Colbeck. Slightly older than the inspector, he had none of the latter’s acuity or grasp of detail. What Leeming could offer were tenacity, commitment and an unflinching readiness to face danger.

He slept fitfully that night. The bed was soft and the sheets were clean but he was never happy when Estelle was not beside him. Her love could sustain him through anything. It blinded her to the patent ugliness of her husband. His broken nose and jagged features would have tempted few women. His squint would have repelled most wives. Estelle adored him for his character rather than his appearance, and, as he had discovered long ago, the most hideous man could look handsome in the dark. Night was the time for confidences, for catching up on domestic events, for making plans, for reaching decisions and for sharing those marital intimacies that never seemed to dull with the passage of time. Leeming missed her painfully. Instead of waking up in his wife’s arms, he had to go on another train journey. It was unjust.

Over an early breakfast at the hotel the next morning, he had difficulty in staying fully awake. Leeming’s yawns punctuated the conversation. Colbeck was sympathetic.

‘How much sleep did you get last night, Victor?’ he said.

‘Not enough.’

‘I gathered that.’ Colbeck ate the last of his toast. ‘Make sure that you don’t doze off on the train. I need you to remain alert. When you get to Lime Street, buy yourself a newspaper.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it will contain a description of the man we need to identify. Memorise it so that you can pass it on to the various people you question in Manchester.’

‘Wouldn’t it be easier simply to show them the newspaper?’

‘No. You must master all the facts. I’m not having you thrusting a newspaper article under their noses. It’s important to look everyone in the eye when you talk to them.’

‘If I can keep mine open,’ said Leeming, wearily. He drained his teacup in a gulp. ‘Is it true that the man’s shoes were missing?’

‘His shoes and his jacket.’

‘I can imagine someone stealing the jacket. It would have his wallet and other things of value in it. Why take his shoes as well?’

‘They were probably of high quality. The rest of his clothing certainly was, Victor. It is no working man we seek. The murder victim dressed well and had a comfortable income.’

‘How much is comfortable, Inspector?’

‘More than we get paid.’

Leeming gave a hollow laugh. He finished his breakfast then checked the time. He had to be on his way. Colbeck accompanied him out of the hotel dining room and into a lobby that was decorated with unsightly potted plants. When someone opened the front door, the noise of heavy traffic burst in. Liverpool was palpably alive and busy. Leeming had no enthusiasm for stepping out into the swirling maelstrom but he steeled himself to do so. After an exchange of farewells with Colbeck, he strode off in the direction of Lime Street.

The first thing he noticed when he reached the railway station was the visible presence of uniformed policemen. Inspector Heyford had obviously taken Colbeck’s strictures to heart. Leeming bought a return ticket to Manchester then picked up a copy of the Liverpool Times from a vendor with a stentorian voice. The murder attracted a banner headline on the front page. Colbeck’s appeal for information was also given prominence. There was no mention of Inspector Sidney Heyford. The Liverpool constabulary had been eclipsed by the arrival of two detectives from Scotland Yard. Leeming was glad that nobody in the bustling station knew that he was one of the men dispatched from London. In his present somnambulistic state, he was hardly a good advertisement for the Metropolitan Police.

The platform was crowded, the noise of trains was deafening and the billowing steam was an impenetrable fog that seemed to thicken insidiously with every minute and invade his nostrils. In the previous year, Lime Street Station had been considerably enlarged, its majestic iron structure being the first of its kind. Leeming was unable to see this marvel of industrial architecture. His mind was on the harrowing journey ahead. When the train pulled in and shed its passengers, he braced himself and climbed aboard. The newspaper kept him awake long enough for him to read the front page. Then the locomotive exploded into action and the train jerked forward like an angry mastiff pulling on a leash.

Within seconds, Victor Leeming was fast asleep.

Inspector Robert Colbeck also spent time at Lime Street that morning, but he made sure that he saw every inch of it, struck by how much railway stations had improved in the past twenty years. It did not have the classical magnificence of Euston, but it had a reassuring solidity and was supremely functional. Even though it was used by thousands of passengers every week, it still had an air of newness about it. Colbeck was there to meet the train from which the murder victim had been hurled on the previous day, hoping that Sergeant Leeming’s visit to Manchester had borne fruit.

Blackboards had been set up along the platform with a question chalked on them in large capitals – DID YOU TRAVEL ON THIS TRAIN YESTERDAY? – and policemen were ready to talk to anyone who came forward. Colbeck watched with approval. Long before the train had even arrived at Lime Street, however, Constable Walter Praine bore down purposefully on the detective.

‘Excuse me, Inspector,’ he said. ‘May I have a word, please?’

‘Of course,’ replied Colbeck.

‘There’s someone at the police station who refuses to speak to anyone but you. He saw your name in the newspaper this morning and says that he has important information for the person in charge of the investigation.’ Praine rolled his eyes. ‘Inspector Heyford was most upset that the fellow would not talk to him.’

‘Did this man say nothing at all?’

‘Only that you’d got it wrong, sir.’

‘Wrong?’

‘Your description of the murder victim.’

‘Then I look forward to being corrected,’ said Colbeck, eagerly. ‘Any new facts that can be gleaned are most welcome.’

Praine led the way to a waiting cab and the two of them were soon carried along bumpy streets that were positively swarming with horse-drawn traffic and handcarts. When they reached the police station, the first person they met was an aggrieved Sidney Heyford.

‘This is my police station in my town,’ he complained, ‘and the wretched man spurns me.’

‘Did he give you his name?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Ambrose Hooper. He’s an artist.’

Heyford pronounced the word with utter contempt as if it were a heinous crime that had not yet come within the purview of the statute book. In his codex, artists were shameless outcasts, parasites who lived off others and who should, at the very least, be transported to a penal colony to reflect on their sinful existence. Heyford jerked his thumb towards his office.

‘He’s in there, Inspector.’

‘Thank you,’ said Colbeck.

Removing his hat, he opened the door and went into the office. A dishevelled Ambrose Hooper rose from his chair to greet him.

‘Are you the detective from London?’

‘Yes, Mr Hooper. I am Inspector Colbeck.’

‘I thought you didn’t come from around here,’ said Hooper, looking him up and down. ‘Liverpool is a philistine place. It has no real appreciation of art and architecture. It idolises conformity. Those of us who cut a dash with our clothing or our way of life could never fit easily into Liverpool. I hate towns of any kind myself. I choose to live in the country and breathe in free air.’

Ambrose Hooper was wearing his crumpled white jacket over a flowery waistcoat and a pair of baggy blue trousers. A fading blue cravat was at his neck. His straw hat lay on the table beside a dog-eared portfolio. Some paint had lodged in his beard. Wisps of grey hair stood up mutinously all over his head. Colbeck could see that he was a man of independent mind.

‘I’m told that you believe I am wrong,’ said Colbeck.

‘I don’t believe it, sir – I know it.’

‘How?’

‘I was there, Inspector.’

‘At the Sankey Viaduct?’

‘Yes, I saw exactly what happened.’

‘Then why didn’t you give a statement to the police?’

‘Because that would have meant waiting an age until they arrived on the scene,’ explained Hooper. ‘Besides, there was nothing that I could do. The body was hauled aboard that barge. I felt that it was important to record the event while it was still fresh in my mind.’

Colbeck was delighted. ‘You mean that you went home and wrote down an account of all that you’d seen?’

‘I’m no wordsmith, sir. Language has such severe limitations. Art, on the other hand, does not. It has an immediacy that no author could match.’ He picked up the portfolio. ‘Do you want to know what I saw at the Sankey Viaduct yesterday?’

‘Very much so, Mr Hooper.’

‘Then behold, my friend.’

Untying the ribbon, the artist opened the cover of the portfolio with a flourish to reveal his work. Colbeck was flabbergasted. An unexpected bounty had just fallen into his lap. What he was looking at was nothing less than a detailed photograph of what had actually happened. Having read the statements from the three witnesses on the barge, Colbeck had built up a clear picture of the situation in his mind’s eye. Hooper’s work enlarged and enlivened that mental image.

‘A perfect marriage of artistic merit and factual accuracy,’ said Hooper, proudly. ‘This is merely a rough version, of course, hastily finished so that I could offer it as evidence. I’ll use this as the basis for a much larger and more dramatic painting.’

‘It could hardly be more dramatic,’ opined Colbeck, scrutinising the work. ‘You are a man of talent, sir. I congratulate you.’

‘Thank you, Inspector.’ He pointed to the three small figures in the foreground. ‘I moved the ladies slightly but this is more or less the position they were in. Not that they stayed there for long, mark you. When that poor man suddenly dived over the parapet, Aunt Petronella jumped back as if she’d seen a ghost.’

Colbeck was surprised. ‘She was your aunt?’

‘Not mine – the boy’s. At least, that’s what I assumed. They were complete strangers to me but I always like to give people names if I include them in a painting. It lends a sense of familiarity.’ He indicated each one in turn. ‘This is Hester Lewthwaite – this is her son, Anthony – and here is his maiden aunt, Petronella Snark.’ He gave a sly chuckle. ‘I suppose that if you’ve preserved your virginity as long as she had, the sight of a man descending on you from a great height would be quite terrifying.’

Colbeck could not believe his good fortune. Ambrose Hooper had provided the best and most comprehensive piece of evidence he had ever received from a member of the public. It answered so many important questions and saved him so much time. He was pleased to note that Micah Triggs had been so observant. The victim did appear to have been thrown from the last carriage. He remembered his own description of the victim.

‘Ah,’ said Colbeck, jabbing a finger at the man in the centre of the painting. ‘This is where I got it wrong. He’s wearing a jacket.’

‘And a pair of shoes,’ added Hooper.

‘Are you absolutely sure that was the case?’

‘That’s the kind of detail an artist doesn’t miss. The shoes were gleaming. They caught the sun as he plummeted down. They’re only minute in the painting, of course, but, if you look closely, you’ll see that the shoes are definitely there.’

‘They are indeed.’

‘I’m a stickler for precision.’

‘This is remarkable, Mr Hooper,’ said Colbeck, shaking him warmly by the hand. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’

‘We also serve who only stand and paint.’

‘You’ve made our job so much easier. What a blessing that you happened to be in the right place at the right time!’

‘I have a habit of doing that, Inspector. At first, I used to put it down to coincidence but I’ve come round to the view that I’m an agent of divine purpose. God wanted me to bear witness. I daresay it was also true of Aunt Petronella but she was unequal to the challenge.’ He looked at the tiny figure of the murder victim. ‘What I’d like to know is how he brought off that wonderful conjuring trick.’

‘Conjuring trick?’

‘Yes,’ said Hooper. ‘When he left the train, he was wearing a jacket and a pair of shoes. How did he get rid of them by the time that the police arrived on the scene?’

‘There’s no mystery there,’ said Colbeck with a wry smile.

‘No?’

‘He clearly had some assistance.’

Victor Leeming talked to every member of staff he could find at the station. By the time he finished, he felt that he had spoken to half the population of Manchester and all to no avail. Ticket clerks, porters, the stationmaster, his assistants, the engine driver, the fireman, even those who sold newspapers at Victoria Station were asked if they had seen anyone suspicious around the same time on the previous day. In effect, they had all given him the same answer – that it was difficult to pick out any one person from the sea of faces that passed in front of them. Least helpful of all had been the guard in charge of the train on which the murder had occurred. His name was Cyril Dear, a short, skinny, animated individual in his fifties who was highly offended even to be approached by the detective. As he talked to him, his hands were gesticulating madly as if he were trying without success to juggle seven invisible balls in the air.

‘I saw nobody getting into the last carriage, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I’ve got better things to do than to take note of where every passenger sits. Do you know what being a guard means?’

‘Yes,’ said Leeming. ‘It means that you have responsibilities.’

‘Many responsibilities.’

‘One of which is to ensure the safety of your passengers.’

‘And that’s what I do, Sergeant.’

‘It must entail being especially vigilant.’

‘I am especially vigilant,’ retorted Dear, hands now juggling five additional balls. ‘I defy any man to say that I’m not. I see things that most people would never notice in a hundred years.’

‘Yet you are still quite unable to tell me who occupied the last carriage yesterday morning. Think back, sir,’ encouraged Leeming, stifling a monstrous yawn. ‘When the train was filling up, what did you observe?’

‘What I observe every day – paying passengers.’

‘Did none of them stand out?’

‘Not that I recall.’

‘This is very serious,’ said Leeming, as people surged past him to walk down the platform. ‘A man who travelled on this same train only twenty-four hours ago was murdered in cold blood then flung over the Sankey Viaduct.’

‘I know that.’

‘We simply must catch his killer.’

‘Well, don’t look at me, Sergeant,’ said Dear, as if he had just been accused of the crime. ‘I have an unblemished record of service on this line. I worked on it when it was the Liverpool and Manchester Railway, all of twenty-two years ago. Cyril Dear’s name is a byword for loyalty. Speak to anyone. They’ll tell you.’

Leeming groaned inwardly ‘I have no wish to talk to another human being in Manchester,’ he said, ruefully. ‘My throat is sore enough already. Very well, Mr Dear. You are obviously unable to help me at the moment. But if you should happen to remember anything of interest about yesterday’s journey – anything at all – please let me know when we reach Liverpool.’

‘Climb aboard, sir. We leave in two minutes.’

‘Good.’

Leeming had turned to get into the last carriage, only to find, to his dismay, that it was already full. Men and women had taken every available seat. With a sinking feeling, he realised why. Manchester newspapers had carried full details of the murder as well. Ghoulish curiosity had dictated where some of the passengers sat. They wanted to be in the very carriage where it was believed the crime had been committed. As it passed over the Sankey Viaduct, they would no doubt all rush to the appropriate window in a body to look out over the parapet. He found it a depressing insight into human nature.

Colbeck had instructed him to travel in the last carriage. Since he could not obey the order, he decided to solve another problem that had vexed them. He swung round to face Cyril Dear again and asserted his authority.

‘I’ll travel in the guard’s van with you,’ he declared.

Dear was outraged. ‘It’s against the rules.’

‘Is it?’

‘I could never allow it, sir.’