The Iron Horse irc-4

by Edward Marston

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

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

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

  ‘I wish that I shared your confidence.’

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

  ‘That would be a complete waste of time.’

  ‘Why?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘Why not leave it at the railway station?’

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

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

  ‘It’s highly likely.’

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

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

  Sergeant Leeming gurgled into his pillow.

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

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

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

  ‘Damnation!’ he swore.

  Then he ran off swiftly into the darkness.

  CHAPTER THREE

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

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

  ‘Breakfast is ready,’ she said.

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

  ‘That’s what I’m here for, Father.’

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

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

  He feigned innocence. ‘What game?’

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

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

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

  ‘You’d never forgive me if I did.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It concerns Inspector Colbeck.’

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

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

  ‘Tell me now.’

  ‘You said that you’d rather wait.’

  ‘Father!’

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

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

  ‘I always do, Maddy.’

  ‘Then stop annoying me.’

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

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

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

  ‘Investigation?’

  ‘It will be in all the newspapers.’

  ‘What will?’

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

  ‘Nothing unusual in that.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘There’s far too much of it, Maddy.’

  ‘There’s too much crime everywhere.’

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

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

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

  ‘All three?’

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

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

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

  ‘Is there?’

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

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

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

  ‘Constable Hubbleday volunteered for night duty, sir.’

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

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

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

  ‘Victor didn’t think so.’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘Being examined at the morgue by an expert.’

  ‘And where is the sergeant?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘What was the purpose of that?’

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

  ‘But that’s where it was unloaded.’

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

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

  ‘By starting with the hatmaker, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘What you failed to notice was that his name is on the underside of the lid.’

  ‘I assumed that it would be,’ claimed the superintendent gruffly. ‘It’s standard practice in the trade.’

  Colbeck was amused. ‘I didn’t know that you were so well informed about the running of ladies’ hat shops,’ he said wryly. ‘They are the last places in London where I’d expect to find you.’

  ‘This is no time for drollery, Inspector.’

  ‘I was merely making an observation, sir.’

  ‘One that’s entirely uncalled for,’ said Tallis.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Tallis looked at the ticket attached to the hatbox. ‘Mr D Key. I don’t suppose that particular key will open any doors for us. It’s sure to be a false name.’

  ‘Elijah Swinnerton, however, is certainly not.’

  ‘Who the devil is he?’

  ‘The milliner,’ said Colbeck with a disarming smile. ‘The one whose name you rightly assumed would be inside the hatbox.’

  Tallis bristled. ‘Do I detect a note of sarcasm?’

  ‘Mistakenly, sir.’

  ‘I’ll brook no mockery, Inspector.’

  ‘None is intended,’ said Colbeck, stretching out his hands. ‘If I may have the box back, Superintendent, then I propose to go and meet Elijah Swinnerton right now. I have every confidence that he will be able to point us in the right direction.’

  Jermyn Street had been a fashionable address ever since the reign of Charles II when it was first built and when it numbered luminaries such as the future Duke of Marlborough among its residents. It still boasted many fine houses but had also acquired a reputation for its hotels and its many shops. Gentlemen’s outfitters had started to appear alongside specialist shirtmakers, shoemakers and hatters. The bow-fronted establishment owned by Elijah Swinnerton was the only one that sold quality millinery and its popularity among wealthy ladies had grown steadily during the five years of its existence.

  Though the staff was entirely female, it was presided over by Swinnerton himself, a vigilant man who watched his employees with care and reserved for himself the privilege of serving any titled customers. Tall, slim, beak-nosed, dark-haired, of middle height and years, Swinnerton was immaculately attired in a frock coat and striped trousers with a red cravat bursting out from under his chin like a giant rose. Seasoned in all the arts of flattery, he was much liked by his customers for his fastidiousness, his delicate hand gestures and his confiding manner. Most men felt less at ease in his presence, finding him altogether too foppish to suit their taste.

  It was very busy in the shop that day and every member of staff was serving an individual customer. Elijah Swinnerton adopted a purely supervisory role until a tall, well-favoured, elegant man came through the door, carrying a hatbox. Struck by his appearance, the owner ran an appreciative eye over him before crossing to greet him.

  ‘Good day to you, good sir,’ he said, glancing at the hatbox. ‘I hope that you’re not here
to return one of our hats.’

  ‘Am I speaking to Mr Swinnerton?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Then perhaps I could have a word with you in private, sir.’

  ‘To what does it pertain?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when we’re alone, Mr Swinnerton.’

  ‘And who might you be, may I ask?’

  ‘Inspector Robert Colbeck from Scotland Yard.’

  Swinnerton’s unctuous smile vanished immediately and he looked round nervously, hoping that nobody else had heard the name. A visit from a detective was unlikely to bring good news and he did not want his clientele upset by any bad tidings. Escorting his visitor to a storeroom at the back of the premises, he closed the door firmly behind them. Alone with the man in a confined space, Colbeck caught a faint whiff of perfume. One shelf was lined with hatboxes very much like the one that he had brought. He held it up.

  ‘Do you recognise this, Mr Swinnerton?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied the other. ‘It was sold here.’

  ‘Does everyone buy a leather box with their hat?’

  ‘By no means, Inspector – most of the ladies with whom we deal already have a travelling hatbox. They take home what they purchase in a cardboard box with my name exquisitely emblazoned on its top.’

  ‘Buying something like this, then,’ said Colbeck, indicating the hatbox, ‘is the exception rather than the rule.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘So there’s a good chance that you might remember to whom this particular item was sold?’

  ‘It’s not a question of chance, Inspector,’ said Swinnerton, adjusting his cravat. ‘I keep a careful record of each sale. That record, of course, is highly confidential. Before I could even begin to think of providing you with a name, I’d need to know how Scotland Yard came by the item in the first place.’

  ‘That’s your right, sir, and I’m happy to oblige you. When this hatbox was damaged on Crewe railway station, a human head was found inside it.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ cried the other, shying away as if Colbeck had just produced a severed head from the box like a conjuror extracting a rabbit. ‘Please don’t tell me that the silk lining was soaked in blood.’