‘How long did they stay at the Angel?’
‘They booked in for three nights, Sergeant Leeming. In the event, they only stayed for one.’
‘Why was that, sir?’
‘Not because of any shortcomings on our part,’ said Hindmarsh quickly. ‘Lady Hendry’s sudden departure was quite unexpected. When her husband got back from Newmarket, he was astonished that she was not here. After paying the bill, he left immediately.’
‘Did you find that behaviour rather strange?’
‘It’s not for me to say, Sergeant.’
‘Have Lord and Lady Hendry ever stayed here before?’
‘Yes,’ said Hindmarsh. ‘On two previous occasions.’
‘When there were races at Newmarket?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Did his wife accompany Lord Hendry to the races?’
‘No, sergeant – Lady Hendry always remained at the hotel.’
‘Does she have no interest in the Turf?’
‘Who knows, sir?’
‘You must have speculated on the reason.’
‘When guests book a room here,’ said Hindmarsh tactfully, ‘they can come and go as they wish. I do not keep an eye on them or pry into their private lives.’
Leeming was not hindered by any restraints. He was employed to pry. There was one obvious reason why the woman posing as Lady Hendry did not go to Newmarket. Lord Hendry was a familiar figure at any racecourse. Had he been seen flaunting his mistress, word would certainly have trickled back to his wife. Colbeck’s theory about the Lady Hendry with the hatbox had now turned into hard fact. The sergeant took out his notebook then licked the end of his pencil.
‘I need your assistance, Mr Hindmarsh,’ he said with what he hoped was a disarming smile, ‘and I don’t think you’ll be breaking a confidence in giving it to me.’
The manager was suspicious. ‘What kind of assistance?’
‘I want you to describe Lady Hendry to me.’
When he finished work that evening, Caleb Andrews paid his customary visit to a tavern frequented by railwaymen. He enjoyed an hour’s badinage with friends, a couple of pints of beer and, by dint of winning two games of dominoes, he did not even have to pay for the alcohol. As he sauntered home towards Camden, therefore, he was cheerful and the mood continued when he reached his house and found that Madeleine had supper waiting for him.
‘You’re back early for a change,’ she observed, giving him a token kiss of welcome. ‘Did you have a good day?’
‘Yes, Maddy – I’ve been to Crewe and back again.’
‘You must know every inch of that line.’
‘I could drive it in my sleep.’
‘Well, I hope I’m not a passenger when you do it.’ They shared a laugh and sat down at the table. ‘And thank you for coming back while I’m still up. It makes a big difference.’
‘I stopped playing dominoes while I was still winning.’
‘We could have a game afterwards, if you like.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Andrews, raising both hands as if to ward her off. ‘You have the luck of the devil whenever we play a game together. Cards, dominoes, draughts – it’s always the same. You manage to beat me every time somehow.’
Madeleine grinned. ‘I had an excellent teacher.’
‘It was a mistake to teach you at all.’ He forked some food into his mouth. ‘What have you been doing all day, Maddy?’
‘Working and reading.’
‘Have you started your latest painting yet?’
‘I’ve done a pen-and-ink sketch, that’s all.’
‘Will I be in this one?’
‘No, Father – just the locomotive.’
‘It has to have a driver,’ he complained.
‘Figures are my weak spot. I try to leave them out.’
He munched disconsolately. ‘What have you been reading?’
‘All sorts of interesting things,’ she said chirpily. ‘Robert lent me some books. He has hundreds of them in his library.’
‘I’m glad you mentioned Inspector Colbeck,’ he said, swallowing a piece of bread and washing it down with a sip of tea. ‘Next time he gets in touch, tell him I need to speak to him.’
‘What about?’
‘That severed head, of course. I’ve been thinking about it a lot and I’ve got an idea of what might have happened.’
‘Why not leave the detection to Robert?’
‘He’s always grateful for help from the public.’
‘Only if it’s useful to him.’
‘Well, this will be, Maddy,’ he argued. ‘I’ve worked it out, see? It was a crime of passion. A married woman who lives in Crewe betrayed her husband with a young man from London. The husband was so angry that he took his wife’s hatbox to London – I may even have been driving the train that took him there – and killed the lover before cutting his head off. Then he took it back to Crewe to give to his wife.’
Madeleine grimaced. ‘That’s a horrible story!’
‘It could also be a true one.’
‘I doubt that very much, Father.’
‘Let the Inspector be the judge of that.’
‘He already has been.’
‘I know I’m right, Maddy. I’ve solved the crime for him.’
‘If that were the case,’ she said, ‘Robert would be grateful. But he has his own notions about the murder. To start with, that hatbox was not going to Crewe at all.’
‘It had to be – that’s where it was unloaded.’
‘Only so that it could be transferred to another train.’
‘You know nothing,’ he said, irritated at the way she dismissed his idea. ‘I’ve put a lot of thought into this. It was a crime of passion.’
‘Robert has discovered who owned that hatbox.’
‘An unfaithful wife in Crewe.’
‘Someone who lives in Surrey,’ she explained. ‘He gave me no details but he’s picked up clues that are sending him off in another direction altogether.’
Andrews was hurt. ‘You’ve discussed the case with him?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Why didn’t you keep him here until I came back? You know how keen I am to help, Maddy. I’m a bit of a detective myself.’
‘Robert didn’t call here,’ she said, ‘but he sent me a short note to say that he’d be away for a few days and would speak to me when he came back.’
‘Where has he gone – back to Crewe?’
‘Yes, Father.’
He clapped his hands. ‘I knew it!’
‘But only to change trains, I’m afraid,’ Madeleine went on. ‘He was planning to spend the night at Holyhead before catching the morning tide tomorrow.’
He was startled. ‘Where, in God’s name, is the man going?’
‘Ireland.’
Robert Colbeck’s passionate interest in railways was not only based on the fact that they could get him from one place to another quicker than any other means of transport. They also gave him a privileged view of town and country that he would never have got from a coach, and he always saw something new to admire even on lines he had used many times. After leaving Euston on the LNWR, he changed trains at Crewe, had a few cheering words with Reginald Hibbert, now restored to his job as a porter at the station, then went along the North Wales coast by courtesy of the Chester and Holyhead Railway, a line built specifically to carry the Irish mail. Some of the panoramas that unfolded before him were stunning – dramatic seascapes, sweeping bays, craggy headland, sandy beaches and long, scenic stretches of unspoilt countryside. The train hugged the coast until it reached Bangor where it gave Colbeck an experience he had been looking forward to since the moment of his departure.
He had read a great deal about the Britannia Tubular Bridge over the Menai Straits and recognised it as one of the most significant advances in railway engineering. With only existing rock for intermediate support, the bridge had to span a gap of over 450 feet that could not be traversed by suspension techniques used e
lsewhere. Five years in construction, the Britannia Bridge comprised two very stiff rectangular wrought-iron tubes with cellular tops and bottoms to increase rigidity. With a novel application of beam action, the tubes were made to act as continuous girders over five spans. When it was finally opened in 1850, the bridge was daring, innovative and an instant success.
Colbeck was unable to appreciate its finer points as he crossed the bridge but he felt an excitement as they entered the tube and liked the way that the clamour of the train was suddenly amplified. By the time he reached Holyhead, he had travelled 84 miles on the CHR and had relished every moment of it. Having obtained the monopoly to carry mail by land, the company had hoped to extend this to sea and had secured the powers to own and operate steamships. To their utter dismay, however, the CHR failed to win the contract for taking the mail across the Irish Sea.
When he sailed on the following morning, therefore, Colbeck did so on a vessel owned by the City of Dublin Steam Packet Company. The first thing he noticed was that far more passengers poured off the incoming steamer than actually went aboard. Emigration from Ireland had reached its peak in the previous decade when a succession of disastrous harvests had driven hundreds of thousands out of their native land. Though the process had slowed markedly, it still continued as whole families left the poverty and hunger of Ireland in the hope of finding a better life in England or beyond its shores.
The sea was choppy and the crossing uncomfortable. Gulls accompanied them all the way and kept up a mocking chorus as they dived and wheeled incessantly around the vessel. Colbeck was glad when they eventually entered the relative calm of the harbour and when he was able to step onto dry land again. He would have been interested to travel on an Irish railway but it was not possible. The place he was visiting was not accessible by rail and was, in any case, only a twenty-minute ride by cab from Dublin.
Though vast numbers had fled Ireland, not all of those who remained lived in the squalor and penury that had driven the others away. The capital city was full of beautiful Georgian properties and fine civic buildings and there was ample evidence of prosperity at every turn. Ireland had its fair share of wealthy men and, judging by the mansion in which he lived, Brian Dowd was one of them. Set in a hundred acres of parkland, the house was an impressive piece of Regency architecture that stood four-square on a plateau and commanded inspiring views on every side. At its rear was the extensive stable block that Colbeck had come to visit.
He had no difficulty picking out Brian Dowd. Standing in the middle of the yard, the racehorse owner and trainer was a bull-necked man in his fifties with a solid frame and a gnarled face. He wore an old jacket, mud-spattered trousers and a bowler hat. Yelling orders to all and sundry, he had a natural authority that gained him unquestioning obedience. Colbeck ran an eye along the stalls and guessed that at least thirty racehorses were kept there. He walked across to Dowd and introduced himself. The Irishman laughed affably.
‘Have you come to arrest me, then, Inspector?’ he taunted. ‘Since when has there been a law against breeding a Derby winner?’
‘It doesn’t exist, Mr Dowd. Over the years, Parliament has put many absurd pieces of legislation in the statute book but it’s far too fond of racing even to contemplate such a ridiculous law as that.’ He shook hands with Dowd and felt the strength of his grip. ‘No, I come on a different errand.’
‘Pleasant or unpleasant?’
‘Unpleasant, I fear.’
‘Then let’s discuss this over a drink.’
He led Colbeck to an office at the edge of the stable block and took him in. Horses dominated the little room. Every wall was covered with paintings of them and their smell pervaded the whole place. Equine memorabilia covered the desk. While his visitor removed his top hat and looked around, Dowd produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from a cupboard. He poured the liquid out generously.
‘Irish whiskey,’ he said bluntly. ‘Never touch any other.’
‘That suits me, Mr Dowd,’ said Colbeck, taking a glass from him with a nod of gratitude. ‘We had a rough crossing. I need something to settle my stomach.’ He sampled his drink. ‘Excellent.’
‘You’ll not find better in the whole of the Emerald Isle.’
‘It was worth the long journey just to taste this.’
‘You’re a good liar.’
Colbeck smiled. ‘Part of my stock-in-trade.’
‘Sit yourself down, Inspector.’
‘Thank you.’
Putting his hat aside, Colbeck lowered himself into a chair and Dowd perched on the edge of his desk. As they sipped their drinks, each weighed the other man up. The Irishman had a friendly grin but his gaze was shrewd and calculating. Nobody as elegant and as quintessentially urban as Colbeck had ever been in the office before and he looked distinctly incongruous. That did not disturb the visitor in any way. He was relaxed and self-assured. Dowd had another sip of whiskey and savoured its taste before speaking.
‘So what’s this all about, Inspector Colbeck?’ he asked.
‘A murder, sir.’
‘Murder? I don’t like the sound of that.’
‘I’m hoping that you may be able to help me solve the crime.’
‘I’d gladly do so, my friend, but I don’t rightly see how. I’m no policeman. This murder happened in England, I take it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And who was the victim?’
‘We’re not certain,’ said Colbeck, putting his glass on the desk so that he could take a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘I got an artist to draw a rough portrait of the young man.’ He unfolded the paper and handed it over. ‘I came here in search of his identity.’
Eyes gleaming and brow corrugated, Brian Dowd looked at the drawing with great concentration. He took a long time to reach a decision and even then he qualified it.
‘I could be wrong, mind you,’ he cautioned.
‘But you think you recognise him?’
‘I might do. It’s like the lad in one way, then again it isn’t.’
‘Make allowances for the fact that the face was distorted in death,’ said Colbeck. ‘When the artist drew this, by the way, he only had the head to work from. The body was hauled out of the Thames long after he’d finished.’
Dowd was aghast. ‘The lad was beheaded?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Dear God!’ exclaimed the other. ‘What monster did that?’
Colbeck explained the circumstances in which the head had been found and how the hatbox had been linked to Lord Hendry. The more the inspector spoke, the more convinced Dowd became that he knew the deceased. Folding the paper, he gave it back.
‘His name is John Feeny.’
‘Are you sure?’ pressed Colbeck.
‘Pretty sure – he used to work for me.’
‘As a jockey?’
‘No, Inspector,’ replied Dowd, ‘it was as a groom. That was the reason we fell out. John thought he had the makings of a jockey. I told him straight that he wasn’t good enough.’
‘What did he do?’
‘What any lad with real mettle would’ve done – he went off in search of a job at another stables. He’d no family here to turn to so he sailed off to try his luck in England.’
‘Did you keep in touch with him?’
‘I’d no reason to, Inspector. One of my other lads did, though. John Feeny couldn’t read or write but he got someone to send a letter or two on his behalf. Things were tough at first but he found a job in the end. He even boasted he’d soon be a jockey.’
‘That will never happen now,’ said Colbeck sadly.
‘No – and it’s a crying shame.’ He smacked his thigh. ‘Jesus, I feel so guilty! I wish I’d kept him here and given him a chance in the saddle. But,’ he added with a deep sigh, ‘it wouldn’t have been fair to other lads with more talent as riders. John Feeny was never strong enough or ruthless enough to make a living as a jockey.’
‘Could I speak to the person who kept in touch with
him?’
‘Of course – his name is Jerry Doyle.’
‘Did he tell you which stables Feeny was working at?’
‘He did, Inspector – I had a vested interest in knowing.’
‘Did they happen to belong to Lord Hendry?’ When the Irishman shook his head, Colbeck was disappointed. ‘I obviously made the wrong assumption.’
‘In the world of racing,’ said Dowd sagely before gulping down more whiskey, ‘you should never make assumptions of any kind. It’s far too dangerous, Inspector.’
‘I can see that.’
‘It was a big decision for someone like John to go to England but the lad seemed to have fallen on his feet.’
‘For whom was he working?’
‘Hamilton Fido.’
‘The bookmaker?’
‘There’s only one Mr Fido in this game,’ said Dowd bitterly, ‘and that’s one too many in my book. The man is as slippery as an eel and as vicious as a polecat. He gives racing a bad name. He ought to be drummed out of it in disgrace.’
‘You and he are clearly not on the best of terms.’
‘We’re not on any kind of terms, Inspector.’
‘Mr Fido has a horse running in the Derby – Merry Legs.’
‘She’ll be left standing by Limerick Lad.’
‘Odysseus is the favourite.’
‘Not from where I stand,’ asserted Dowd, ‘and I’ve spent my whole life around racehorses. I’ve seen both Odysseus and Merry Legs at their best. Neither of them cause me any worry.’
‘Let’s go back to John Feeny,’ said Colbeck, reclaiming his glass from the desk. ‘I believe that severed head was destined to come here. It could have been sent to you as a warning.’
‘I agree, Inspector.’
‘Someone is trying to frighten you off.’
‘It was a message for me,’ said Dowd grimly, ‘no question about that. Because he used to work here at one time, John Feeny was suspected of being a spy. Someone thought he’d been planted in the stables so that he could feed back information to me about a leading Derby contender. Since I was seen as the villain, they tried to send a piece of the lad back here to give me a scare.’
‘That means Hamilton Fido is somehow involved.’
The Iron Horse Page 6