The Railway Viaduct

by Edward Marston

  ‘Hundreds of thousands.’

  Tallis glared at him. ‘Are you trying to be droll?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’m working from the figures in last year’s census. London has a population of well over three million.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘We can discount the large number of people that are illiterate and any children can also be taken out of the equation. It still leaves a substantial readership for the daily newspapers.’

  ‘Newspapers?’

  ‘You obviously haven’t read your copy of The Times this morning,’ said Colbeck, indicating the newspaper that was neatly folded on the desk. ‘I took the liberty of placing a notice in it and in the others on sale today.’

  ‘I was about to suggest that you did exactly that,’ said Tallis, reaching for his newspaper. ‘Where is the notice?’

  ‘Page four, sir. Why restrict the search to a handful of detectives when we can use eyes all over London to assist us? Somebody reading that,’ he said, confidently, ‘is bound to know where we can find the elusive Luke Rogan.’

  When the cab reached the railway station, Sir Marcus Hetherington alighted and paid the driver. He then bought a first class ticket and walked towards the relevant platform. On his way, he passed a booth from which he obtained a copy of The Times. Stuffing it under one arm, he marched briskly on with his cane beating out a tattoo on the concourse. A porter was standing on the platform, ready to open the door of an empty first class carriage for him. Sir Marcus gave him a nod them settled down in his seat. The door was closed behind him.

  While he enjoyed travelling by rail, he hated the hustle and bustle of a railway station and he always tried to time his arrival so that he did not have to wait there for long in the company of people whom he considered undesirables. Sir Marcus was not so aristocratic as to believe that trains should be reserved exclusively for the peerage but he did consider the introduction of the third class carriage a reprehensible mistake. It encouraged the lower orders to travel and that, in his opinion, gave them a privileged mobility that was wholly undeserved. When he saw a rough-looking individual, rushing past his carriage with a scruffy, middle-aged woman in tow, Sir Marcus grimaced. To share a journey with such people was demeaning.

  Moments later, the signal was given and the train sprang into life, coughing loudly before giving a shudder and pulling away from the platform. Another latecomer sprinted past the carriage to jump on to the moving train farther down. Sir Marcus clicked his tongue in disapproval. Now that they were in motion, he was content. He had the carriage all to himself and the train would not stop until it reached his destination. Opening his newspaper, he began to read it. Since he took a keen interest in political affairs, he perused every article on the first two inside pages with care. When he turned to the next page, however, it was a police notice that grabbed his attention.

  ‘What’s this?’ he gulped.

  The notice requested the help of the public to find Luke Rogan, the prime suspect in a murder investigation, who operated as a private detective from an office in Camden. A detailed description of the man was given and, to his chagrin, Sir Marcus could see that it was fairly accurate. Anyone with information about Rogan’s whereabouts was urged to come forward.

  ‘Damnation!’ cried Sir Marcus.

  He flung the newspaper aside and considered the implications of what he had just read. It was disturbing. If everyone in the capital was looking for Luke Rogan, he could not escape arrest indefinitely. The trail would then lead to Sir Marcus. He began to perspire freely. For a fleeting second, the shadow of the Railway Detective seemed to fall across him.

  ‘If you come down to Euston Station with me,’ offered Caleb Andrews, ‘I’ll show you how it was done.’

  ‘I think I already know,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘There are some empty carriages in a siding, Inspector. I could demonstrate for you.’

  ‘Robert is far too busy, Father,’ said Madeleine.

  ‘I’m only trying to help, Madeleine. What you have to do, you see, is to prop the door open while the train is in motion. Someone did just that a few months ago on a train I was driving from Birmingham,’ he explained. ‘Some villains got on with a strongbox they’d stolen. After a couple of miles, they jammed open the door and flung the strongbox out so that they would not be caught with it.’

  ‘I remember the case,’ said Colbeck. ‘When they came back later to retrieve their booty, the police were waiting for them. A farmer had found the strongbox in his field and raised the alarm.’

  ‘The point I’m trying to make is that the box was heavy – almost as heavy as that Frenchman. Yet it was slung out with ease.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Madeleine. ‘You weren’t there.’

  ‘I was driving the train.’

  ‘But you didn’t actually see them throw anything out.’

  ‘Stop interrupting me, Maddy.’

  ‘You make a fair point, Mr Andrews,’ said Colbeck, trying to bring the conversation to an end, ‘and I’m grateful. But we’ve moved on a long way from the Sankey Viaduct.’

  ‘You should have come to me at the time, Inspector.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Colbeck had paid a return visit to Luke Rogan’s office to see if there had been any sign of the man. The uniformed policeman who had been keeping the place under surveillance assured him that Rogan had not entered the building by the front or rear doors. Since he was in Camden, only a few streets away from her house, Colbeck decided to call in on Madeleine but it was her father’s day off so he had to contend with Caleb Andrews. It was several minutes before he was finally left alone with Madeleine.

  ‘Can I make you some tea, Robert?’ she asked.

  ‘No, thank you. I only popped in for a moment.’

  ‘I’m sorry that my father badgered you.’

  ‘I never mind anything that he does,’ said Colbeck, tolerantly. ‘But for him, we’d never have met. I always bear that in mind.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘You were the strongbox thrown from that particular train.’

  ‘I’m not a strongbox,’ protested Madeleine with a laugh.

  ‘I was speaking metaphorically.’

  ‘You mean, that I’m very heavy and difficult to open.’

  ‘No,’ said Colbeck, giving her a conciliatory kiss. ‘I mean that you possess great value – to me, that is.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you say so?’

  ‘I was dealing in images.’

  ‘Well, I’d prefer you to speak more directly,’ she chided him. ‘It would help me to understand you properly. I still don’t know what you meant about my drawing of the viaduct helping you to solve a murder. All you would tell me was that it was symbolic.’

  ‘Highly symbolic.’

  ‘It was a sketch – nothing more.’

  ‘Show it to me again,’ he invited, ‘and I’ll explain.’

  ‘In simple language?’

  ‘Monosyllables, if you prefer.’

  Madeleine fetched her portfolio and extracted the drawing of the Sankey Viaduct. She laid it on the table and they both scrutinised it.

  ‘What you did was to bridge the Channel between England and France,’ he pointed out. ‘All the way from Dover to Calais.’

  ‘I drew that picture out of love.’

  ‘But it’s a symbol of something that certain people hate.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘I’ll tell you, Madeleine. The railway that’s being built from Mantes to Caen will not end there. In due course, an extension will be added to take it to Cherbourg.’

  ‘I don’t see anything wrong in that.’

  ‘There’s an arsenal there.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘The railway that Thomas Brassey is constructing will in time provide a direct route between Paris and a main source of arms and ammunition. That’s bound to alarm some people here,’ he continued. ‘It’s less than forty years since we defeated France and
that defeat still rankles with them. Louis Napoleon, who rules the country, is an emperor in all but name. Emperors need imperial conquests.’

  Madeleine was worried. ‘Do you think that France would try to invade us?’ she said, turning to look up at him. ‘I thought we were completely safe.’

  ‘I’m sure that we are,’ said Colbeck, ‘and I’m equally certain that Mr Brassey is of the same opinion. If he believed for one moment that he was endangering his native country by building that railway, he would never have taken on the contract.’

  ‘Then why did someone try to wreck the project?’

  ‘Because he is afraid, Madeleine.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Potential aggression from the French.’

  ‘But you just said that we had nothing to fear.’

  ‘Other people see things differently,’ he said, ‘and it was only when you showed me this drawing that I realised how they could view what was happening in northern France. A railway between Paris and Cherbourg is a source of intense concern to some Englishmen.’

  ‘All that I can see is my crude version of the Sankey Viaduct.’

  ‘Look beyond it,’ he advised.

  ‘At what?’

  ‘The railway that will connect the French capital to a port with military significance.’ He gave an apologetic smile. ‘I’m afraid that I’m going to have to use a word that you don’t like.’

  ‘Will it explain what all this is about?’

  ‘I think so, Madeleine.’

  ‘What’s the word?’

  ‘Metaphorical.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘We’re back to that again.’

  ‘Your drawing is to blame,’ he said, indicating it. ‘You’ve created what someone clearly dreads – a viaduct between England and France. In his mind – and we have to try to see it from his point of view, warped as it might be – the railway between Paris and Cherbourg will be a metaphorical viaduct between the two countries. It’s a potent symbol of French imperial ambition.’

  ‘Is that why a man was killed?’ she said, trying to assimilate what she had been told. ‘Because of symbols and metaphors?’

  ‘Chabal was an engineer with an important role in the project.’

  ‘According to father, lots of engineers work on a new railway.’

  ‘Quite true. Mr Brassey has a whole team of them.’

  ‘Why was this particular man murdered?’

  ‘He had the wrong nationality – he was French.’

  ‘Did he have to be thrown from the Sankey Viaduct?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You’re going to tell me that that was symbolic as well, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘It’s something to do with whatever you called it a few moments ago.’

  ‘A metaphorical viaduct. I’m only guessing,’ he went on, ‘and I could be wrong. There are just too many coincidences here. Someone is so horrified at the prospect of that railway being built that he will go to any lengths to stop it.’

  ‘What sort of a man is he, Robert?’

  ‘One who has an implacable hatred of the French.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He probably fought against them.’

  Nobody else was allowed in the room. It was on the first floor of the mansion and it overlooked the rear garden. It was kept locked so that none of the servants could get into it. The first thing that Sir Marcus Hetherington did when he let himself in was to lock the door behind him. He gazed around the room and felt the familiar upsurge of pride and patriotism. What he had created was a shrine to England’s military glory. Banners, uniforms and weapons stood everywhere. Memorabilia of a more gruesome kind were contained in a glass case. Its prime exhibit, a human skull, was something that he cherished. It had belonged to a nameless French soldier who had fallen at the battle of Waterloo. Sir Marcus had killed him.

  He wandered around the room, examining various items and luxuriating in the memories that they kindled. Then he crossed to the window. It was a fine day and sunlight was dappling the back lawn, but he was not looking at the garden. His gaze went up to the flag that was fluttering in the breeze at the top of its pole. He gave it a salute. Turning back, he surveyed his collection once more, drawing strength from it, finding consolation, recapturing younger days. On the wall above the mantelpiece was a portrait of himself in uniform. It never failed to lift his heart.

  Crossing to a rosewood cabinet, he opened the top drawer and took out a wooden case that he set down on the table. When he lifted the lid of the case, Sir Marcus looked down fondly at a pair of percussion duelling pistols with plated turnoff barrels and walnut stocks inlaid with silver. The weapons gleamed. Packed neatly around them was a small supply of ammunition. He removed the pistols from the case and held one in each hand. The sensation of power was thrilling. It coursed through him for minutes. When it finally began to ease, Sir Marcus started to load the pistols.

  Now that he was involved in the investigation once more, Victor Leeming was eager to take on more work. He spent the morning on the hoof, tracking down some of the people who had attended the lecture given by Gaston Chabal. It had been a largely fruitless exercise but it made him feel useful again. Instead of meeting the inspector at the Lamb and Flag, he agreed to visit Colbeck’s house in John Islip Street so that they could have more privacy. Robert Colbeck’s father and grandfather had been cabinetmakers with a string of wealthy clients. When he inherited the house, he also inherited examples of their work. In the drawing room where he and Leeming sat, a large cupboard, two matching cabinets and a beautiful mahogany secretaire bore the Colbeck name.

  ‘How are you feeling today, Victor?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Tired but happy to be so, sir.’

  ‘You must not overdo it.’

  ‘Knocking on a few doors is no effort,’ said Leeming. ‘I just wish that I had more to report. None of the four people I called on could possibly have hired Luke Rogan. You can cross them off the list.’

  ‘That saves me the trouble of bothering with them.’

  ‘How many names are left?’

  ‘Less than twenty. We are slowly whittling them down.’

  ‘Why are you so sure that the man we want actually attended that lecture? If he detested the idea of that railway being built in France, wouldn’t he avoid a man who was talking about it?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Colbeck. ‘He’d want to find out as much about it as he could. Also, of course, he’d be keen to take a closer look at Gaston Chabal. The man represented everything that he loathed and feared. No, he and Rogan were there together, I’m certain of it. They may not have sat beside each other – they probably took care to stay apart in order to conceal their relationship – but they were both at that lecture.’

  ‘Then we are bound to find him in the end.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Colbeck stirred his tea before tasting it. Leeming had already finished one cup and was halfway through the second. He chewed on the slice of cake that he had been offered.

  ‘What did Mr Tallis have to say about it all?’

  ‘He was pleased, Victor. Or, to put it another way, he smoked no cigars, had no tantrums and was almost disarmingly civil. All that he craves is a little success,’ said Colbeck. ‘It stops him from being pilloried in the newspapers.’

  ‘Talking of the newspapers, sir, I saw that notice you put in this morning’s edition. It’s sure to get a response.’

  ‘Not all of it entirely reliable, alas.’

  ‘No,’ said Leeming, wearily. ‘The promise of a reward does things to some people. They invent all sorts of stories to try to get their hands on the money. But they won’t all be fraudulent. There may be some wheat among the chaff, sir.’

  ‘I’m counting on it.’

  ‘You gave a good description of Rogan. It tallied with the one I had from Horace Eames.’

  ‘I also relied on what Madame Hennebeau told me. She was clearly very fond of the man but, then, so were a number of women.’
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br />   ‘Luke Rogan will be on the run by now. You’ll have flushed him out of his hiding place good and proper.’

  ‘That was the idea behind using the press,’ said Colbeck. ‘I wanted to scare Rogan and drive a wedge between him and his employer. When he realises that we’ve identified his hired killer, the man who set everything in motion will want to distance himself from Rogan. My guess is that he’ll go to ground immediately.’

  ‘Here in London?’

  ‘Well, it won’t be in France, we may be certain of that.’

  While his visitor drained his teacup, Colbeck told him about the conversation he had had earlier with Madeleine Andrews regarding her sketch of the Sankey Viaduct. Leeming was almost as confused by his talk of symbols and metaphors as she had been, but he trusted the inspector to know what he was talking about. What interested him was Colbeck’s theory that the man who had engaged Rogan had probably served in the army at one time.

  ‘I wish you’d told me that before, Inspector,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I could have asked the people I interviewed this morning if they knew anyone who’d been at that lecture with a military background. It’s a small world – engineers and such like. They all seem to know each other.’

  ‘That’s in our favour.’

  ‘Do you have any more names for me?’

  ‘Haven’t you done enough work for one day?’

  ‘No,’ said Leeming, ignoring the stab of pain in his ribs. ‘I’m only just starting to warm up, sir. Use me as much as you wish.’

  ‘Mr Tallis would admonish me, if he knew.’

  ‘You employed Brendan Mulryne behind his back and got away with it. Unlike him, I do work at the Detective Department.’

  ‘But you’re supposed to be on sick leave, Victor.’

  ‘I’m sick of sick leave. Give me some more names.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Colbeck, taking a slip of paper from his pocket and handing it over. ‘There are four more people for you to chase down. Be sure to find out if any of them bore arms against the French at one time. That would make them fifty or more at least.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  ‘And take a cab. You don’t have to go all over London on foot. Keep a record of your cab fares and I’ll reimburse you.’