The railway viaduct irc-3

by Edward Marston

  'Still up, Maddy?' he asked.

  'Yes, Father,' she replied. 'I just wanted to finish this.'

  He looked over her shoulder. 'What is it – a portrait of me?'

  'No, it's the Sankey Viaduct.'

  'Is it? Bless my soul!'

  Since his vision was impaired after so much alcohol, he needed to put his face very close to the paper in order to see the drawing. Even then he had difficulty picking out some of the pencil lines.

  'It's good, Maddy.'

  'You've been drinking,' she said. 'I can smell it on your breath.'

  'I was celebrating.'

  'Celebrating what?'

  'I won ten games of draughts in a row.'

  'Are you ready for another game with me?'

  'No, no,' he said, backing away. 'I'll not let you take advantage of your poor father when he can't even see straight. But why are you drawing the Sankey Viaduct? You've never even seen it.'

  'Robert described it to me.'

  'I could have done that. I've been over it.'

  'Yes, Father, but you were driving an engine at the time. You've never seen the viaduct from below as Robert has. According to him, it was a painting rather like this that will help to solve the murder.'

  'I don't see how.'

  Madeleine put her pencil aside and got up from her chair. She explained how Ambrose Hooper had witnessed the body being hurled over the viaduct, and how he had duly recorded the moment in his watercolour of the scene. She felt privileged that Colbeck had confided the information to her. What both she and the inspector knew was that the murder victim had been on his way to an assignation, but it was something she would not confide to her father. Caleb Andrews would have been alarmed to hear that she had been involved in a police investigation. More worrying from Madeleine's point of view was that fact that he was likely to pass on the information over a drink with his railway colleagues. Discretion was unknown to him.

  'Why do you want to draw the Sankey Viaduct?' he wondered.

  'I was just passing an idle hour.'

  'You're never idle, Maddy. You take after me.'

  'Robert told me so much about it that I wanted to put it down on paper. It's not something I'd ever expect to sell. I was just trying to do what Mr Hooper did and reconstruct the crime.'

  'The real crime was committed by the guard on that train,' said Andrews with passion. 'He should have kept his eyes open. If he'd seen that body being thrown from the train, he could have jumped on to the platform at the next stop and caught the killer before he could sneak away.'

  'But the guard didn't see a thing, Father.'

  'That's my point.' Swaying uneasily, he put a hand on the back of a chair to steady himself. 'I'm for bed, Maddy. What about you?'

  'I'll be up soon.'

  'Next time you speak to Inspector Colbeck, tell him to consult me. I've got a theory about this crime – lots of them, in fact.'

  'I know,' she said, fondly. 'I've heard them all.'

  Madeleine kissed her father on the cheek then helped him to the staircase. Holding the banister, he went slowly up the steps. She returned immediately to a drawing that she had embarked on in the first instance because it kept Robert Colbeck in her mind. It was not meant to be an accurate picture of the viaduct. Madeleine had departed quite radically from the description that she had been given. She now added some features that were purely imaginary.

  Using her pencil with a light touch, she removed the brook and canal that ran beneath the viaduct by drowning them completely in the foaming waves of the English Channel. On one side of the viaduct, she drew a sketch of a railway station and wrote the name Dover above it. On the other, she pencilled in a tall, elegant man in a frock coat and top hat. England and France had been connected in art. The drawing was no longer her version of what had happened to Gaston Chabal. It was a viaduct between her and Robert Colbeck, built with affection and arching its way across the sea to carry her love to him. As she put more definition and character into the tiny portrait of the detective, she wondered how he was faring in France and hoped that they would soon be together again.

  Thomas Brassey did not only expect his employees to work long hours, he imposed the same strict regimen on himself. Accordingly, he arrived on site early that morning to discover that Robert Colbeck was there before him. The inspector was carrying a newspaper.

  'You've read the report, I daresay,' noted Brassey.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'I got my wife to translate it for me. I'm glad that they described Gaston as an outstanding civil engineer because that's exactly what he was. My only concern is that the report of his murder will bring droves of people out here to bother me.'

  'I doubt it,' said Colbeck. 'Since the crime was committed in England, reporters would have no reason to visit you. The police, on the other hand, may want to learn more about the deceased so I am sure that they will pay you a call at some time.'

  'I hope that you're on hand when they come, Inspector.'

  'Why?'

  'I need an interpreter.'

  'What about your wife?'

  'Maria doesn't like to come to the site. And who can blame her?' he said, looking around at the clamorous activity. 'It is always so noisy, smelly and dirty here.'

  'Building a railway means making a mess, Mr Brassey.'

  The contractor laughed. 'I've made more mess than anybody.'

  'All in a good cause.'

  'I like to think so.'

  Brassey unlocked the door of his office and the two of them went in. Various people began to call to get their orders for the day from the contractor. It was some time before Colbeck was alone again with him. Meanwhile, he had been studying the map of northern France that was on the wall.

  'Compared to us,' he remarked, 'they have so few railways.'

  'That will change in time, Inspector. Mind you, they've been spared the mad rush that we had. Everyone wanted to build a railway in England because they thought they would make a fortune.'

  'Some of them did, Mr Brassey.'

  'Only the lucky ones,' said the other. 'The crash was bound to come. When it did, thousands of investors were ruined, credit dried up and everything ground to a standstill. The Railway Mania was over.'

  'You survived somehow.'

  'We still had plenty of work on our books, in France as well as England. Many of our rivals went to the wall. It was the one good thing to come out of the disaster – we got rid of a lot of crooked promoters, incompetent engineers and contractors who gave us all a bad name. It stopped the rot, Inspector.'

  'Is that why you prefer to work in France?'

  'My partners and I will go wherever railways need to be built,' said Brassey. 'We've contracts in Canada, Italy and Denmark at this point in time.'

  'But this one is your major concern.'

  'At the moment.'

  'I can understand why,' said Colbeck, glancing at the map. 'If you can secure the contract for the extension of this line from Caen to Cherbourg, you'll have work in France for years to come.'

  'That's why nothing must jeopardise the project.'

  'We headed off one big threat last night.'

  'When will the next one come?'

  'I hope that it won't Mr Brassey.'

  'But you can offer no guarantee.'

  'No, sir. I fear not. What I can tell you is this. Gaston Chabal was murdered in England for reasons that are connected to this railway. As you pointed out to me,' Colbeck went on, 'he was much more than an engineer. He obviously had a pivotal role to play here.'

  'He did, Inspector. He was a sort of talisman.'

  'In more ways than one, it seems.'

  'I knew nothing of Gaston's private life when I took him on,' said Brassey. 'Even if I had been aware of his adulteries, I'd still have employed him. I'm a contractor, not a moral guardian.'

  'That's clear from the vast number of navvies you employ.'

  'Quite so, Inspector Colbeck. All sorts of irregularities go on in their camps but it's
none of my business. As long as a man can do the job he's paid for, he can have three wives and a dozen mistresses.'

  'I don't think that Chabal went to that extreme.' Colbeck moved away from the map to look through the window. 'I fear that it will all have come as a great shock to Victor.'

  'What?'

  'The moral laxity in the camp. He's a married man who tries to lead a Christian life. Some of the antics here will shake him to the core. He won't have seen anything like this before.'

  'It's one of the reasons I encouraged Father Slattery to join us.'

  'He's a courageous man, taking on such a task.'

  'And so is Sergeant Leeming,' said Brassey, a chevron of concern between his eyebrows. 'As a priest, Father Slattery is not in any physical danger. Your sergeant certainly is.'

  'Police work entails continuous danger, sir.'

  'I just wonder if you have him in the right place.'

  'The right place?'

  'Well, I agree that the people we are after may be somewhere among the Irish but we've hundreds and hundreds of those. The villains could be bricklayers or quarrymen or blacksmiths. Why do you think they are navvies?'

  'Instinct,' replied Colbeck. 'Instinct built up over the years. I feel that it was endorsed last night when that mob went in search of a fight. That was another attempt to disrupt this railway and to put you out of business. The villains used the same device as on the previous night, Mr Brassey.'

  'In what way?'

  'On the first occasion they used gunpowder. On the second, they used an equally deadly device – human gunpowder. Those Irish navvies were set to explode by the time they reached the French camp. No,' he decided, 'Victor is definitely where he needs to be. He won't thank me for putting him there, but he's in exactly the right place.'

  Working so hard left him little time for detection. Victor Leeming had to take on a convincing camouflage and that forced him to toil away for long hours with a shovel in his hands. There were breaks for food and times when he had to satisfy the call of nature. Otherwise, he was kept busy loading spoil into the wagons for hour after fatiguing hour. He talked to Liam Kilfoyle and to some of the others labouring alongside him but they told him nothing of any real use. It was only when the shift finally ended, and the men trooped off to the nearest tavern, that Leeming was able to continue his search. Since he had joined in the march on the French camp, he was accepted. It made it easier for him to talk to the navvies. With a drink in their hands, they were off guard.

  Yet it was all to no avail. Most of them refused to believe that an Irishmen could be responsible for the outrages, and none of them could give the name of someone with expertise in using gunpowder. At the end of a long evening, he abandoned his questioning and started to walk back towards the camp with a group of navvies. He braced himself to spend another night in the shack with Kilfoyle and the others, hoping that he would soon be released from that particular torture. The notion of coupling with Bridget, a big, buxom, shameless woman in her thirties, made his stomach heave.

  So preoccupied was he in fearful thoughts of what lay ahead that he did not notice he was being followed. When they reached the railway, the men struck. Grabbing him by the shoulders, they pushed Leeming behind a wagon then one of them hit him on the back of the head with something hard and unforgiving. He had no chance to put up any resistance. He fell to the ground like a stone. Sinking into oblivion, he did not even feel the repeated kicks that thudded into his body. In a matter of seconds, it was all over.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Superintendent Edward Tallis was almost hidden by a swirling fug of cigar smoke. He did not like what he saw and he was unhappy about what he heard. While the cigar helped him to relieve his tension, it had another important function. It largely obscured Victor Leeming from his gaze. Seated in front of the desk, Leeming was a sorry sight. His head was heavily bandaged, his face covered in ugly bruises and lacerations, his lower lip twice it normal size. One eye was almost closed, the other looked to the superintendent for a sympathy that was not forthcoming. When he shifted slightly in his chair, Leeming let out an involuntary groan and put a hand to his cracked ribs.

  Robert Colbeck was sitting beside the sergeant.

  'I think that Victor should be commended for his daring, sir,' he suggested. 'By working alongside the navvies, he was able to foil an attack on the French camp.'

  'Yes,' said Tallis, rancorously. 'He was also in a position to get himself all but kicked to death. That's not daring, Inspector, that's tantamount to suicide.'

  'I'd do the same again, Superintendent,' said Leeming, bravely, wincing at the pain of speaking.

  'You'll do nothing at all until you've recovered, man. I'm giving you extended leave until you start to resemble a human being again.' He leaned forward to peer through the smoke. 'Has your wife seen the state you're in?'

  'No, sir,' said Colbeck, trying to spare the sergeant the effort of talking. 'We felt that we should report to you first so that you understood the situation. For obvious reasons, we travelled back to England slowly. Victor could not be hurried in his condition. I thought it best if I speak to Estelle – to Mrs Leeming – before she actually sees her husband.'

  'That's up to you, Inspector.'

  'I'll tell her how courageous he was.'

  'Tell her the truth – he could have been killed.'

  'No, Superintendent,' rejoined Colbeck. 'The men who set on him drew back from murder. That would have brought the French police swarming to the site and they did not want that. The beating was by way of a warning.'

  'It was my own fault,' admitted Leeming, his swollen lip distorting the words. 'I asked too many questions.'

  'I accept my share of the blame, Victor.'

  'No, sir. It was the correct decision.'

  'I beg to differ,' said Tallis, mordantly. 'Correct decisions do not result in a vicious attack on one of my men that will put him out of action for weeks.'

  'You approved of our visit to France,' Colbeck reminded him.

  'I've regretted it ever since.'

  After giving him a day and night to make a partial recovery from the assault, Colbeck had brought Leeming back to England by means of rail and boat, two forms of transport that only served to intensify the sergeant's discomfort. Scotland Yard had been their first destination. Colbeck wanted the superintendent to see the injuries that Leeming had picked up in the course of doing of his duty. Neither compassion nor congratulation had come from across the desk.

  'And what was all that about a Catholic priest?' said Tallis.

  'It was Father Slattery who found Victor,' Colbeck told him. 'In fact, he seems to have disturbed the attackers before they could inflict even more damage.'

  'Even more? What else could they do to him?'

  'I didn't have the opportunity to ask them, sir,' said Leeming, rashly attempting a smile that made his whole face twitch in pain.

  'Father Slattery is a good man,' said Colbeck. 'He acts as a calming influence on the Irish.'

  Tallis indicated Leeming. 'If this is what they do when they're calm,' he said with scorn, 'then I'd hate to see them when they're fully aroused. Navvies are navvies. All over the country, police and local magistrates have trouble with them.'

  'Mr Brassey's men are relatively well-behaved, sir.'

  'Comment would be superfluous, Inspector.'

  Tallis glowered at him before expelling another cloud of cigar smoke. He was trying to rein in his anger. In allowing the two men to go to France, he had had to raid his dwindling budget and account to the commissioner for the expenditure. All that he had got in return, it seemed, was the loss of a fine officer and a succession of tales about the problems encountered by a railway contractor in France.

  'None of this has any bearing on the murder,' he announced.

  'But it does, sir,' insisted Colbeck. 'If you look at the events carefully, you'll see how the death of Gaston Chabal fits into the overall picture. There's a logical development.'

  'Then
why I am not able to perceive it?'

  'Perhaps you have the smoke of prejudice in your eyes.'

  Tallis stubbed out his cigar then waved an arm to dispel some of the smoke that enveloped him. Before he could take Colbeck to task for his comment, the inspector went on.

  'Everything we learned in France confirmed my initial feeling.'

  'And what was that?'

  'The answer to this riddle lies across the Channel.'

  'It's true,' said Leeming. 'We could feel it.'

  'Feeling it is not enough, Sergeant,' said Tallis, coldly. 'I want firm evidence and you have signally failed to provide it. Mr Brassey may be experiencing difficulties on his railway – in spite of the calming influence of this Catholic priest – but it's no concern whatsoever of ours. The Froggies must solve any crimes that take place on French soil. Mr Brassey should call in the local police.'

  'I've explained why he's reluctant to do that,' said Colbeck.

  'Not to my satisfaction.'

  'There's an international dimension to this murder.'

  'It took place in this country. That's all that matters to me.'

  'We'll only apprehend the killer if we help to solve the crimes that are bedevilling the new railway in France. I must go back.'

  Tallis was peremptory. 'Out of the question.'

  'Then the murderer of Gaston Chabal will go unpunished.'

  'No, Inspector, he must be caught.'

  'In that case, sir,' said Colbeck with gentle sarcasm, 'I'll be interested to hear your advice on how we are supposed to catch him. You are clearly in possession of important details that have so far eluded Victor and me.'

  'What I am in possession of are these,' said Tallis, lifting a pile of correspondence from his desk. 'They are letters from the railway company, demanding action, and they come on a daily basis. This morning, one of their directors was here in person to ambush me. Mr Marklew did not mince his words.'