The Railway Viaduct

by Edward Marston

  ‘Shall I roust them out, sir?’ volunteered Leeming.

  ‘No, Victor,’ replied Colbeck. ‘This is a job for Constable Praine, I think. And no rousting out is required. The only person we need is Samuel Triggs. He sounds as if he’d be the right size. Constable.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector?’ said Praine.

  ‘Invite him, very politely, to come and talk to me.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  Pleased with his assignment, Praine went off willingly towards the inn. On the journey there, Colbeck had questioned him closely about the Liverpool Constabulary and, in the course of describing activities at the central police station, the constable had let slip the information that he had conceived a romantic interest in Heyford’s daughter. Since Praine was too frightened of the inspector to pursue it any further, Colbeck hoped that he could put in a good word for the young lover by praising his conduct as a policeman. It was the reason he had dispatched Walter Praine to the Traveller’s Rest.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Micah, warily.

  ‘You tell us, sir,’ suggested Colbeck.

  ‘We’ve done nothing wrong. We helped you.’

  ‘That’s true, Mr Triggs, and we were grateful. But another witness has come forward and his statement contradicts all three that were made on the Red Rose.’

  Micah became aggressive. ‘Is someone calling me a liar?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I told those policemen exactly what I saw.’

  ‘I’m sure, sir.’

  Colbeck looked around the barge. Sailing along the canal, the Red Rose had a certain grace about it. Close to, however, its defects were glaringly obvious. It was old, dirty and neglected. The sail had been repaired in several places and some of the planks in its deck were badly splintered. Also, it stank. Micah could read his mind.

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ he said, bitterly. ‘I can’t afford a new barge. There’s not the same money in the canal any more. That bleeding railway is to blame. It’s took lots of our trade away from us. And what has it given us in return – a bleeding corpse!’

  ‘I’d much prefer to travel by water,’ said Leeming.

  ‘It’s in our blood.’

  ‘By water, horse or on my own two feet. Anything but a train.’

  Leeming was about to explain his dislike of the railway when he saw two people emerge from the Traveller’s Rest. Constable Praine was strolling towards them with Samuel Triggs by his side. Triggs was wearing the same rough clothing as his grandfather and a similar hat, but the sun picked out something that set him apart from the other bargees. On his feet was a pair of expensive, shiny, black leather shoes. He was a slim young man in his twenties with a defiant smile and an arrogant strut. Triggs saw the detectives looking at his shoes.

  ‘Finders, keepers,’ he said.

  ‘They belong to someone else,’ Colbeck told him.

  ‘Yes, but ’e’s got no bleedin’ use for ’em, poor devil.’

  ‘That doesn’t give you the right to steal from him, Mr Triggs.’

  ‘It was my reward for pullin’ ’im out of the canal.’

  ‘Where’s the jacket?’

  ‘What jacket?’ returned Triggs with a blank expression on his face. ‘There was no jacket. Grandpa?’

  ‘No,’ said Micah, firmly. ‘He had no jacket on, Inspector.’

  ‘Father will tell you the same. Ask ’im.’

  ‘Constable Praine,’ said Colbeck, smoothly, ‘we are confronted here with what amounts to a collective loss of memory. Three people have somehow forgotten that the corpse was wearing a suit when it fell into the canal. How do you deal with this sort of problem when you come across it?’

  ‘Like this, sir.’

  Seeing an opportunity to impress, the policeman grabbed Triggs by the collar and lifted him bodily before dangling him over the edge of the canal. Triggs squawked in protest but he could not get free.

  ‘If I hold him under the water long enough, we might eventually get an honest answer out of him.’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ yelled Micah, snatching up a wooden pole to brandish at Praine, ‘or I’ll split your skull open.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be very wise, Mr Triggs,’ said Leeming as he squared up to the old man. ‘We’re already in a position to arrest your grandson for the theft of a pair of shoes. Do you want to share the same cell on a charge of assaulting a police officer?’ Micah spat into the water with disgust then flung the pole aside. ‘That’s better, sir.’

  ‘Now, then,’ said Praine, dipping Triggs in the water before pulling him out again, ‘have I jogged your memory?’

  ‘Yes!’ cried Triggs, capitulating. The constable set him down again. ‘It’s under the tarpaulin. I was goin’ to wear it on special days.’

  ‘But it must have a hole in the back,’ observed Colbeck.

  ‘It’s only a slit – and you can ’ardly notice the bloodstains.’

  Samuel Triggs climbed aboard the barge and lifted the tarpaulin so that he could haul out the smart jacket. Like the black shoes, it looked incongruous against the rest of his apparel. Before he surrendered it, he put a hand to his heart.

  ‘I swear to God there was nothin’ in the pockets, Inspector.’

  ‘Sam’s right,’ confirmed Micah. ‘If there’d been a wallet or some papers, we’d have given them to the police. We’re not criminals. If we had been, we’d have stripped all his clothes off and slung him back in the canal for someone else to find.’

  Colbeck could see that they were telling the truth. He put out a hand. With great reluctance, Triggs passed the jacket to him. Colbeck turned it over and held it up. There was a neat slit where the knife had gone through the material and an ugly stain left by the blood. Its unexpected visit to the dark water of the canal made the jacket lose a little of its shape. Colbeck examined the front of it.

  ‘This was not made by an English tailor,’ he decided, studying the cut of the lapels. ‘You’ll not see this fashion in London.’

  ‘Then where does it come from?’ asked Leeming.

  Colbeck checked the label inside the jacket then looked up.

  ‘Paris,’ he said. ‘The murder victim was a Frenchman.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Superintendent Edward Tallis had dedicated himself to his work with a missionary zeal. Faced with what he saw as a rising tide of crime, he put in far more hours than anyone else in the Detective Department in the hope of stemming its menacing flow. With too few officers covering far too large an area, he knew that policing the capital city was a Herculean task but he was not daunted. He was determined that the forces of law and order would prevail. Tallis was not the only man to leave the army and join the Metropolitan Police, but the others had all retained their rank to give their names a ring of authority. The only rank that he used was the one confirmed upon him in his new profession. It filled him with pride. Being a detective superintendent was, for Tallis, like sitting at the right hand of the Almighty.

  Accustomed to arrive first at Scotland Yard, he was surprised to find that one of his men was already there. Bent over his desk, Robert Colbeck was writing something in his educated hand. Spotting him through the half-open door, Tallis barged into the room.

  ‘What the devil are you doing here, Inspector?’ he said.

  ‘Finishing my report on the Harrison-Clark trial, sir,’ replied the other. He turned to face Tallis. ‘If you recall, I had to postpone it.’

  ‘You are supposed to be in Liverpool.’

  ‘We came back to London last night.’

  Tallis was astounded. ‘Are you telling me that the murder was solved in the space of two days?’

  ‘Alas, no,’ said Colbeck, rising to his feet, ‘but the investigation has reached the stage where our presence is no longer required in Liverpool. To be honest, I’m heartily relieved. It’s an unlovely place and Victor Leeming was missing his wife badly.’

  ‘Wives do not exist in the Detective Department,’ said Tallis, acidly. ‘Duty always co
mes before any trifling marital arrangements. Leeming knows that. He should have been ready to stay in Liverpool for a month, if called upon to do so.’

  ‘That necessity did not arise, Superintendent.’

  ‘I expected the pair of you to spend more than one night there.’

  ‘So did I, sir,’ said Colbeck, ‘but events took an interesting turn. You’ll find a full explanation in the report I left on your desk earlier on. I also took the liberty of opening a window in your office. When I got here, the stench of cigar smoke had still not dispersed from the room.’

  ‘It’s not a stench, man – it’s a pleasing aroma.’

  ‘Only to those who create it.’

  Tallis glowered at him before stalking off to his office. Colbeck sat down again to finish the last paragraph then he put his pen aside. After blotting the wet ink, he picked up the pages and put them in the right order. When he took the report into the superintendent’s office, Tallis was reading about the murder inquiry. Colbeck waited until his superior had finished. The older man nodded.

  ‘Admirably thorough,’ he conceded.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Though I’m not sure that it’s altogether wise to accept the testimony of an artist at face value. In my experience, they’re rather shifty fellows whose imagination tends to get the better of them.’

  ‘I put my trust in Ambrose Hooper unreservedly. Those three witnesses on the barge confirmed everything that was in the painting.’

  ‘Thieves and an artist.’ Tallis sucked his teeth. ‘Such men are hardly reliable.’

  ‘It was only one member of the Triggs family who kept hold of property that did not belong to him, and he is not what anyone would describe as a thief. Samuel Triggs simply seized an opportunity.’

  ‘That’s what villains do,’ said Tallis, crisply. ‘This fellow stole a jacket and a pair of shoes, thereby impeding the investigation. I trust that you arrested him on the spot.’

  ‘I left that to Constable Praine.’

  ‘You mentioned him in your report.’

  ‘A good policeman, sir – strong, quick-thinking and obedient. I told Inspector Heyford that I would be happy to see Praine in the ranks of the Metropolitan Police. It made the inspector look at the man through new eyes.’

  What he did not tell the superintendent was that he had also been able to oil the wheels of Walter Praine’s romance. Faced with the threat of losing him, Sidney Heyford had been at his most proprietary, offering all manner of blandishments for the constable to stay. At long last, Praine had been able to broach the sensitive subject of marriage to the inspector’s daughter.

  ‘I see that you resorted to the press again,’ noted Tallis.

  ‘Yes,’ said Colbeck. ‘I put the same advertisement in Liverpool and Manchester papers even though the victim is not a local man.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Someone would have reported him missing by now, sir. There are not all that many young Frenchmen living in that part of the country, even fewer with this man’s income and taste in clothes. We must remember that he was travelling in a first class carriage. Most people on that train settled for second or third.’

  Tallis wrinkled his nose. ‘I could never lower myself to either.’

  ‘My hope is that our man was visiting someone in Liverpool without warning. Though he had no face, the description of him is very detailed. If he has friends there, he’ll be recognised.’

  ‘He could just have been on his way to the docks.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To sail home to France, of course.’

  ‘From Liverpool?’ said Colbeck. ‘I doubt that, sir. He’d choose one of the Channel ports. No, he had another reason for visiting the place and we need to discover what it was.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stay there until someone came forward in answer to your request in the newspapers?’

  ‘Because it might take days and I had no intention of sitting there and twiddling my thumbs. We did not exactly have the most cordial welcome from the local police. They felt – quite rightly – that we were treading on their toes.’

  ‘Supposing that nobody responds to your plea?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fairly certain that someone will, Superintendent.’

  ‘What makes you so confident?’

  ‘A reward was offered,’ said Colbeck. ‘The railway company is anxious for the crime to be solved as soon as possible. They want to assure their passengers that this is an isolated incident. That’s only possible if we catch the killer.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘As long as the man is at large, people will fear that he’s likely to strike again even though that possibility is remote.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘I believe so. Look at the facts. This murder is unique. It was committed in a particular way and at a particular point on the line. It was at a particular time of day as well – when the express train was running. All of the others stop at the Sankey Viaduct though, rather confusingly, that station was renamed Warrington Junction in 1831. Victor and I changed trains there to get to the canal basin.’

  ‘What this does not explain,’ said Tallis, tapping the report in front of him, ‘is how the killer came to be sharing the carriage alone with his intended victim.’

  ‘There are two possible answers to that, sir.’

  ‘I fail to see them.’

  ‘They could have been known to each other and travelled as friends. That would have meant that the victim was caught off guard.’

  ‘And the second possibility?’

  ‘That’s the more likely one,’ said Colbeck. ‘The carriage may have been first class but other passengers might have wished to choose it. Had they done so, of course, the murderer would have been foiled. Once his victim had entered the carriage, he had to ensure nobody else did.’

  ‘How could he do that?’

  ‘By posing as someone in authority and turning people away.’

  ‘You mean that he pretended to be a railway employee?’

  ‘No, sir. He was wearing a uniform that would deter other passengers while at the same time reassuring the victim when he joined him in the carriage at the time of departure.’

  Tallis was furious. ‘Only one uniform would do that.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Colbeck. ‘The killer was dressed as a policeman.’

  Much as he loved his daughter, there were times when Caleb Andrews found her profoundly exasperating. For the third time in a row, Madeleine had beaten him at draughts, a game in which he had once considered himself invincible. The previous evening, she had trounced him at dominoes. Andrews was not a man who suffered defeat with good grace. He began to wish that he had never taught her how to play the games. It was humiliating for him to lose to a woman.

  ‘Another game?’ she suggested.

  ‘No, no, Maddy. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Your luck may change.’

  ‘It’s not a question of luck,’ he said, gathering up the counters and putting them back in their box. ‘Draughts is a game of skill. You have to be able to out-think your opponent.’

  ‘I just play it for the pleasure.’

  Andrews grimaced. It was even more annoying to be beaten by someone who did not take the game seriously. For him, it was a real contest; for Madeleine, it was simply fun. Seeing that he was so discomfited, she got up, kissed him on the forehead and went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. They were in the little house that they shared in Camden. Andrews was a short, wiry man in his fifties with a fringe beard dappled with grey. There was a suppressed energy about him that belied his age. Since the death of his wife six years earlier, his daughter had looked after him with a mixture of kindness, cajolery and uncompromising firmness.

  When the tea had been brewed, Madeleine brought the pot into the living room and set it down on the table with a cosy on it. Now in her twenties, she had inherited her mother’s good looks and had the same auburn hair, but Madeleine Andrews possessed an assuran
ce that was all her own. As her father had learned to his cost, she also had a quick brain. To stave off the pangs of defeat, he tried to lose himself in his newspaper. One item of news immediately caught his jaundiced eye.

  ‘He should have consulted me,’ he said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Inspector Colbeck. I work for that railway company. I know every inch of our track.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ she agreed, ‘but you’re only an engine driver.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You’re not a detective like Robert.’

  ‘I could have helped. I could have made suggestions.’

  ‘I’m sure that he appreciates that,’ said Madeleine, tactfully, ‘but he had to act quickly. As soon as word of the crime reached him, Robert went straight off to Liverpool. He had no time to contact you.’

  ‘Is that what he told you?’

  ‘More or less.’

  It was a white lie to appease her father. Caleb Andrews had been the driver of the mail train that was robbed in the previous year and he had been badly injured in the process. Since he was leading the investigation, Colbeck had got to know both Andrews and his daughter well. A warm friendship had soon developed between the detective and Madeleine and it had matured into something far more. Andrews liked to pretend that Colbeck called at the house to increase his knowledge of the railway system by discussing it with a man who had spent his working life on it. But he knew that it was his daughter who brought the detective to Camden.

  ‘When are you likely to see him again, Maddy?’ he asked.

  ‘Soon, I hope.’

  ‘Make a point of telling him about my offer.’

  ‘Robert will be very grateful to hear of it,’ she said, fetching two cups and saucers from the dresser. ‘At the moment, I’m afraid, he’s extremely busy.’

  ‘Not according to this.’ Andrews peered at the newspaper. ‘It’s been five days since the murder took place and they’ve got nowhere. Inspector Colbeck is making another appeal for someone to help the police by identifying the victim. He was a Frenchman,’ he added with a loud sniff. ‘Fifty years ago, we’d have cheered anyone who killed a Froggy. Now, we arrest them – if we can find them, that is.’