Victor Leeming had been startled when first given the assignment, but he had adapted to the notion very quickly. He was very pleased to be directly involved in the business of detection again. Strong enough to do the work, he also had the facial characteristics to pass as a navvy. For once, his ugliness was a positive advantage. Wearing moleskin trousers, double-canvas shirt, velveteen square-tailed coat, hobnail boots and a mud-spattered felt hat with the brim turned up, he looked almost indistinguishable from the rest of the men. Like them, he even wore a gaudy handkerchief at his neck to add some colour.
Railway work covered a wide variety of skills, each trade commanding a different wage. Leeming met carpenters, blacksmiths, miners, quarrymen, masons, bricklayers, horse keepers and sawyers. Taken on as a navvy, he was responsible to a ganger, a huge man with the rasping tongue and bulging muscularity needed to keep such an unruly group of workers in order. Digging, loading, cutting and tipping were the navvies’ traditional tasks. Unskilled work was left to the labourers. Leeming was a cut above them.
When they were building a railway in England, navvies had an allowance of two pounds of beef and a gallon of beer a day. Since they had been in France, however, they had discovered that brandy was cheaper than beer and more potent. It had become the drink of choice for many of them. The fact that they spent their money so freely in the local inns made them more acceptable to the indigenous population. Given a shovel, Leeming was ordered to load spoil into wagons. It was hard, tiring, repetitive work but he did it without complaint. Those alongside him were largely Irish and they tended to work in silence. A group of Welsh navvies further down the line, however, insisted on singing hymns as they used pick and shovel on the rocky ground.
‘Will you listen to those bastards?’ said Liam Kilfoyle, during a brief rest. ‘They never stop.’
‘I’m surprised they’ve got the breath to sing,’ observed Leeming.
‘They’ll work all day, fuck all night and sing their heads off while they’re doing both. It’s unnatural, that’s what it is.’
‘They sound happy enough.’
‘Little things please little bloody minds.’
Kilfoyle was a tall, stringy individual in his twenties with a pair of small, darting eyes in a face that reminded Leeming of a weasel. The sergeant had gone out of his way to befriend the young Irishman, feeding him the story that Brassey had prepared for his new recruit. The problem was that Leeming could only understand half of what Kilfoyle said because the latter kept using colloquialisms that were peculiar to the Irish. He knew the rhyming slang of the London underworld by heart but this was quite different. When in doubt as to his companion’s meaning, he simply nodded. Kilfoyle seemed amiable enough. Putting his shovel aside, he undid his trousers and urinated against the wheel of a wagon, breaking wind loudly in the process. He did up his moleskin trousers again.
‘Have you worked for Mr Brassey before?’ said Kilfoyle.
‘No – what’s he like?’
‘He’s a fair man and you’ll not find too many of them in this line of business. Some contractors are bloody tyrants, so they are. Real bloodsuckers. Not our Mr Brassey. His only fault is that he won’t allow beer to be sold on site. Shovelling earth is thirsty work.’
‘You don’t need to tell me that,’ said Leeming, face and armpits streaming with sweat. ‘My throat’s as dry as a bone.’
‘Mine, too.’ Kilfoyle eyed him up and down. ‘So where have you worked, Victor?’
‘On the London to Brighton.’
‘From what I heard, there were some really good fights there.’
‘There were, Liam. We were at it hammer and tongs many a time. I’ve got friends who are still locked up in Lewes Prison because of a riot we caused. They had to call in the troops.’
‘It was the same for us when we were building the Chester and Holyhead. A gang of mad Welsh bricklayers from Bangor attacked us and said that all Irish were thieves and rogues. We’d have murdered the buggers, if the soldiers hadn’t stopped our fun. You look as if you could handle yourself in a fight,’ he went on, noting the size of Leeming’s forearms. ‘Am I right?’
‘I won’t let anyone push me around.’
‘Then you’re one of us.’ After slapping the other on the back, he picked up his shovel. ‘What do you think of the French?’
‘I don’t like them, Liam.’
‘Turd-faced sons of diseased whores!’
‘It’s that gibberish they speak.’
‘They hate us, Victor.’
‘I know. They see us as invaders.’
‘That’s why they’re trying to stop us,’ said Kilfoyle, angrily. ‘That explosion last night was set off by those French fucking navvies, sure it was. Well, some of us are not going to let these greasy, bloody foreigners drive us away. We’re going to strike back.’
‘Strike back?’ repeated Leeming, trying to keep the note of alarm out of his voice. ‘And who is we, Liam?’
‘The sons of Erin.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘We’ll attack their camp tonight and kick their pox-ridden arses all the way from here back to Paris. Are you with us, Victor?’
‘I’m not Irish.’
‘A strong arm and a stout heart is all we ask.’
‘Tonight, you say? When and where?’
‘That doesn’t matter. Are you with us or are you not?’
Leeming had no choice in the matter. If he refused, he would earn Kilfoyle’s derision and be ostracised by the rest of the Irish navvies. If that happened, he would find out nothing. He simply had to appear willing.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said with conviction. ‘I’m with you, Liam.’
‘Good man!’
They started working in earnest beside each other again.
‘Married?’ said Thomas Brassey, rising from his seat in surprise. ‘I always thought that Gaston was a roving bachelor.’
‘That was the impression that he liked to give,’ confirmed Colbeck, ‘and it obviously convinced some ladies. I now know of two seduced by him and there may be well be more. He seems to have been liberal with his affections.’
‘That raises the possibility that Gaston was the victim of an enraged husband, Inspector.’
‘But it is only a possibility, sir.’
Robert Colbeck had returned from Paris late that afternoon and called in at Brassey’s office to report his findings. The contractor was fascinated to hear what he had learned.
‘What did you think of Paris?’ he asked.
‘It’s a beautiful city, so cultured, so exciting, so urbane.’ He held up a small book. ‘Do you know Galignani’s work? This is a Stranger’s Guide through the French Metropolis. I bought it on my first visit there several years ago. It’s a veritable goldmine of information. I only wish I’d had time to visit some of the sights he recommends.’
‘How did Gaston’s wife take the news?’
‘She almost fainted. Naturally, I suppressed most of the details. There’s no need for her to know any of those. Nor did I tell what her husband was doing in England. That would have been cruel.’
‘What had he said to her?’
‘That he was going to London to deliver a lecture.’
‘And she had no suspicion that another woman was involved?’
‘None at all, Mr Brassey,’ said Colbeck. ‘She’s young, innocent and very trusting. His death was a devastating blow to her. Luckily, her mother was staying at the house. She was able to comfort her.’
‘That’s something, anyway.’
‘I didn’t wish to trespass on private grief any longer so I left.’
‘Did you go to the police?’
‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘I gave them a full report of the murder and told them that we were devoting all our resources to the arrest of the killer. They agreed to help in any way, a fact that Mr Tallis will no doubt treat as a phenomenon.’
‘Mr Tallis?’
‘My superintendent. He has a very low opinion of the French.
’
‘Oh, they’re a civilised nation at bottom,’ said Brassey with a guarded affection. ‘They make me feel very parochial at times. The trouble is that they are so easily aroused. I was here four years ago when the revolution broke out.’
‘That must have been quite frightening.’
‘It was, Inspector Colbeck. I was in no personal danger but my business interests were. Success as a contractor depends on stability and France became very unstable. When Louis Philippe was swept from the throne, there was a deep financial crisis.’
‘Yes – many people were ruined.’
‘I could have been one of them,’ admitted Brassey, flicking back his coat tails as he perched on the edge of his desk. ‘Stocks and shares fell heavily, none more so than those of the railways.’ He pulled a face. ‘It was a testing time for us. How much do you know about the French railway system?’
‘I know that it’s far less developed than ours,’ said Colbeck, ‘and that it’s never attracted anything like the private investment that we enjoy. For that reason, the French government has had to play more of a role – and that’s all very well until you have a violent change of government.’
‘It’s made this project so much more difficult.’
‘Do the government interfere?’
‘I’m answerable to the Minister of Public Works and he expects to be kept up to date with our progress. That was why Gaston Chabal was so useful to us – I got him to send regular reports in French. No,’ Brassey continued, ‘our real difficulty lay on the other side of the Channel.’
‘In England?’
‘It’s where so many of our private investors live, Inspector.’
‘I see.’
‘Ten years ago, they were happy to put money into a venture of this kind, knowing that they’d get an excellent return on their capital. After the revolution, they were much more reluctant. One of them told me that the trouble with the French was that they were too French.’
‘Emotional, unreliable and prone to overthrow governments.’
‘The gentleman in question put it more bluntly than that. Mark you,’ said Brassey, ‘not all the British investors turned tail. Some had the foresight to see that this railway could pay handsome dividends in time. One of them had the sense to come here to see for himself.’
‘Oh?’ said Colbeck. ‘Who was that?’
‘Alexander Marklew. He understands railways.’
‘And he’s actually been here?’
‘In the very early stages,’ replied the other. ‘I let Gaston Chabal talk to him about the potential of this railway. He had such a persuasive tongue. He managed to persuade Mr Marklew to invest. He also showed him and his wife around Paris – I think that helped.’
‘I’m sure that it did.’
Colbeck said nothing about the liaison with Hannah Marklew but it took on a slightly different aspect now. He suspected that part of the reason Chabal had cultivated the lady was to persuade her to urge her husband to buy shares in the railway. The intimacies of the bedroom were not without a commercial significance.
‘Clearly,’ said Colbeck, ‘you were able to raise the finance.’
‘Yes, Inspector, but the government remains our paymaster. They’ve built a whole series of time penalties into the contract. That’s why these setbacks are so annoying,’ said Brassey, pursing his lips. ‘They slow us down and cost us a lot of money.’ He saw someone through the window. ‘Ah, here’s Aubrey.’ He crossed to the door to open it. ‘Come on in,’ he said. ‘This is Inspector Colbeck.’
‘How do you do, sir?’ said Filton.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Colbeck, shaking his hand. ‘I believe that you talked earlier to Sergeant Leeming.’
‘Yes. I’ve just come from him.’
‘Oh?’
‘Now that he’s working in disguise, of course, I did not disclose the fact that I knew him. But, as I walked past, he slipped this into my hand.’ He gave a note to Brassey. ‘It’s for you, sir.’
‘Thank you, Aubrey.’ Brassey unfolded the note and read it. He then offered it to Colbeck. ‘I think you should see this, Inspector.’
‘Why?’
‘More trouble ahead.’
‘Really?’ Colbeck took the note from him.
‘We’re going to have a fight on our hands.’
‘Between whom?’ asked Filton, worried at the prospect.
‘The French and the Irish.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight, according to this,’ said Colbeck, reading the message.
‘Some Irish hotheads have decided that the French are to blame for all the attacks on us,’ said Brassey. ‘They’re acting as judge and jury. They want summary justice.’
‘Some of them just want a fight, I expect.’
‘Yes, Inspector. They enjoy a brawl for its own sake.’
‘Think what havoc they can wreak,’ said Filton, wringing his hands. ‘There’ll be dozens on both sides who are unfit for work tomorrow. And it won’t end there. If there’s bad blood between the Irish and the French, there’ll be another clash before long.’ He spread his arms in despair. ‘What on earth are we going to do?’
‘He’s a friend, I tell you,’ said Liam Kilfoyle. ‘I can vouch for him.’
‘I don’t care,’ snapped Pierce Shannon. ‘He’s not coming.’
‘But he looks like a real fighter.’
‘He’s not Irish.’
‘Victor supports our cause.’
‘After only one day? No, Liam. I don’t trust him.’
‘Well, I do. I worked alongside him. The French are not going to take this lying down, Pierce. They’ll fight back. We need every man we can get. Victor Leeming is on our side.’
‘We’ll manage without the English bastard.’
It was late evening and, like everyone else who was gathering there, Shannon and Kilfoyle had been drinking. They had also armed themselves. Shannon was carrying a shillelagh that had drawn blood from many a skull in the past, while Kilfoyle preferred a pick handle. The rest of the men had chosen an assortment of weapons, including sledgehammers, shovels and lengths of thick, tarred rope. Brandy had roused passions to a fever pitch. When he joined the others, Victor Leeming found them in a turbulent mood.
‘Good evening, Liam,’ he said, picking out Kilfoyle by the light of the lanterns. ‘When are we going?’
‘You’re not going any-bloody-where,’ retorted Shannon.
‘Why not?’
‘Because you can fuck off out of here.’
Leeming turned to Kilfoyle. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Pierce is not happy about you,’ said the other, shuffling his feet in embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, Victor. You can’t come.’
‘Why not – what’s wrong with me?’
‘You’re a cock-eyed cunt of an Englishman, that’s why,’ said Shannon, waving his shillelagh. ‘This is our fight, not yours.’
‘I work on this railway as well as you.’
‘Yes – for one fucking day!’
‘If it was one pissing hour, I’d still want to take a crack at the French,’ said Leeming, boldly. ‘There’s jobs at stake here – mine as well as yours. If the French have been trying to stop us working on this railway, then they deserve a good hiding.’
‘See?’ said Kilfoyle. ‘He’s got balls, Pierce.’
Shannon was contemptuous. ‘We don’t need this ugly bugger,’ he said, raising his weapon again. ‘Go on – get out of here!’
It was a decisive moment. A menacing ring of Irishmen surrounded him. If he backed down, Leeming knew that he would be finished as a spy because he would be marked down as an outsider. The others would shun him completely. To win them over, he had to convince them that he shared their beliefs and commitment.
‘Stop waving that cudgel at me,’ he warned, ‘or I’ll take it off you and stick it up your arse!’
‘You and whose bloody army?’ demanded Shannon.
‘Calm down,’ said Kilfoyle, st
anding between them. ‘We don’t want you falling out with each other. Our enemy is the French.’
‘And the fucking English, Liam.’
‘Does that include Mr Brassey?’ challenged Leeming. ‘Or do you only curse him behind his back? Is he a fucking Englishman as well? Do you sneer at all of us?’
‘Mr Brassey is different,’ conceded Shannon.
‘So am I. That means I come with you.’
‘Over my dead body.’
‘What’s this idiot’s name, Liam?’
‘Pierce Shannon,’ replied Kilfoyle. ‘He’s one of our leaders. Whatever Pierce says, goes. That’s the way it is, Victor.’
‘Yes,’ reinforced Shannon. ‘That’s the way it is, shit-face.’
Leeming pretended to accept the decision. He glanced at the leering Irishmen around him. They began to jostle him. Without warning, he suddenly threw a punch that caught Shannon on the ear and knocked him to the ground. Leeming stamped on the hand that was holding the shillelagh, forcing him to release it. Two men grabbed the detective from behind but Shannon wanted personal revenge.
‘Leave go of the bastard!’ he yelled, struggling to his feet. ‘He’s all mine. I’ll tear out his heart and liver.’
The crowd moved back to give them room. The two men circled each other warily. Leeming could feel the hostility all around him. His one mode of escape was to earn their respect. Shannon lunged at him with both fists flying but the blows were all taken on the protective forearms that Leeming put up. He responded by hitting Shannon hard in the stomach to take the wind out of him, then followed with a relay of punches to the face and body. Blood spurted from the Irishman’s nose. It made him launch another attack but Leeming was much lighter on his feet. As Shannon lurched at him, he dodged out of his way and felled him with a vicious punch to the side of his head.
As their leader went down in a heap, three men clung on to Leeming so tight that he was unable to move. Shannon got up very slowly, wiped the blood from his nose with a sleeve then picked up his shillelagh. Eyes blazing, he confronted Leeming. Then he gave a broad grin of approval and jabbed him in the chest.
‘I like him,’ he announced. ‘He’s one of us, lads.’
The Railway Viaduct Page 9