The railway viaduct irc-3

by Edward Marston

  'Everyone seems agreed on that.'

  'Except his killer.'

  'Yes,' said Colbeck, thoughtfully, 'I've been trying to put myself in his position – the killer, that is, not Chabal. Why did he choose the Frenchman as his target? If you wanted to halt the construction of this railway, whom would you murder?'

  Filton was offended. 'I have no homicidal urges, I assure you.'

  'The obvious person would be Mr Brassey.'

  'Yes, that would be a calamity.'

  'Who would come next?'

  'One of his partners, I suppose.'

  'And then it would be the leading engineer, Gaston Chabal.'

  'Actually,' said Filton with a rare flash of pride, 'I was slightly senior to Gaston. I've been with Mr Brassey much longer and he always rewards loyalty.'

  'In other words, Chabal's death was not a fatal blow to the building of this railway.'

  'No, Inspector. It was a bitter blow but not a fatal one.'

  'Then he must have been killed for symbolic reasons.'

  'Symbolic?'

  'He was French,' said Colbeck. 'That was the conclusive factor. A Frenchman thrown from the Sankey Viaduct – I believe that act has a weird symbolism to it.'

  'What exactly is it?'

  'I've yet to establish that, Mr Filton.'

  'Do you still think his killer was an Englishman?'

  'I'm as certain as I can be.'

  'I wish I had your confidence.'

  'Everything points that way, sir.'

  'Not to my eyes. What possible connection is there between a crime near the Sankey Viaduct and the ones that have afflicted us here? The two railways involved have nothing whatsoever to do with each other.'

  'Yes, they do.'

  'What?'

  'Mr Alexander Marklew, for a start. He's a director of the London and North-West Railway and a major investor in this one. And there are lots of other hidden links between the two, I feel, if only we could dig them out.'

  'All that troubles me is what happens on this project, Inspector. We've had setback after setback. Unless they are checked, they could in time bring us to a dead halt.'

  'That's his intention.'

  'Who?'

  'The man I'm after,' explained Colbeck. 'The one responsible for all the crimes that have occurred. He's very elusive. All I know about him so far is that he's conceived a hatred of this particular railway and a passion for symbols. Oh, yes,' he added. 'One more thing.'

  'What's that?'

  'The fellow is utterly ruthless.'

  Sir Marcus Hetherington left the shareholders' meeting and called a cab with a snap of his fingers. He was a tall, slim, dignified man in his seventies with white hair curling from under his top hat and a red rose in the lapel of his frock coat. His short, white moustache was neatly trimmed. After telling the cab driver to take him to the Pall Mall, he clambered into the vehicle and settled back. Alone at last, he was able to let his mask of imperturbability drop. His face was contorted with fury and he released a few silent expletives.

  It had been a disappointing meeting. Unlike many landowners, he had not seen the advent of railways as a gross intrusion of his privacy or a precursor of the destruction of the England he knew and loved. He was keenly aware of their practical value. Since he was paid a great deal of money by way of compensation, he was happy for a line to be built across his estates. The proximity of the railway station enabled him to reach London much more quickly from Essex than by travelling in a coach. That was a bonus.

  Sir Marcus had always considered himself a forward-thinking man. Railways were set to revolutionise the whole country and he wanted to be part of that revolution. As a result, he took some of the capital he had received in compensation from one railway company and invested it in a couple of others. When the market was buoyant, dividends were high and he congratulated himself on his acumen. Once the bubble had burst so spectacularly, however, he had been one of the many victims. At the meeting he had just left, the chairman had informed the assembled throng that no dividends at all would be payable to shareholders for the foreseeable future. It was infuriating.

  When he reached the Reform Club, the first thing he did was to order a stiff whisky. Reclining in his high-backed leather chair, he sipped it gratefully and bestowed a patrician smile on all who passed. In the sedate surroundings of the club, he could not let his seething rage show. He had to simmer inwardly. One of the uniformed stewards came across to him and inclined his head with deference.

  'There's a gentleman asking for you, Sir Marcus,' he said.

  'Did he give a name?'

  'He sent his card.'

  The steward handed it over and the old man glanced at it.

  'Send him in, Jellings,' he said, crisply, 'and bring him a glass of whisky. Put it on my account, there's a good chap.'

  Minutes later, Sir Marcus was sitting beside Luke Rogan, a thickset man in his forties with long, wavy black hair tinged with grey and a flat, but not unpleasant, face. Though well-dressed, Rogan looked decidedly out of place in a palatial club that was a home for Whig politicians and their like. There was a flashy quality about the newcomer that made him look rather incongruous beside such a distinguished figure as Sir Marcus Hetherington. When set against the educated drawl of the grandee, his voice sounded rough and plebeian.

  'You've more work for me, Sir Marcus?' he inquired.

  'I think so, Rogan.'

  'Tell me what it is. I've never let you down yet.'

  'I wouldn't employ you if you had,' said Sir Marcus, 'and you would certainly not be sitting here now. Tell me, do you read the newspapers on a regular basis?'

  'Of course,' replied the other with a complacent grin. 'In my line of business, I have to, Sir Marcus. Newspapers is how I gets most of my work. Well, it's how you and me got together, ain't it? You saw my advertisement and got in touch.'

  'What have you noticed in the course of your reading?'

  'That the police still have no idea how a certain person was thrown out of a moving railway carriage – and they never will.'

  'Their failure is gratifying,' said Sir Marcus, 'I grant you that. But we must never underestimate this fellow, Colbeck. He seems to have an uncanny knack of picking up a trail where none exists.'

  'Not this time. Inspector Colbeck is like the rest of them over at Scotland Yard – he's floundering, Sir Marcus.'

  'I begin to wonder.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I've just come from a shareholders' meeting of a railway company,' replied the other. 'The one thing of interest that the chairman told me was that Colbeck helped to prevent a serious crime from taking place on one of their trains earlier this year. The chairman could not speak too highly of him.'

  'Colbeck had some luck, that's all.'

  'His success can't be dismissed as lightly as that, Rogan. When I pointed out that the Railway Detective was faltering badly with his latest case, the chairman said that he'd heard a rumour to the effect that the inspector had gone to France.'

  Rogan was jolted. 'To France?'

  'It was not the kind of information I wanted to hear.'

  'Nor me, Sir Marcus.'

  'What I want to read about is the damage done to a particular railway line on the other side of the Channel, yet the newspapers have been uniformly silent on the subject.'

  'You can't expect them to carry foreign items.'

  'That's exactly what I do expect, man. Any periodical worthy of the name should have its own foreign correspondents. The Times will always report matters of interest from abroad.'

  'This would hardly catch their attention, Sir Marcus.'

  'Yes, it would. An Englishman is involved – Thomas Brassey.'

  'I'm sure that everything is going to plan.'

  'Then why is there no whisper of it in the press? Why is there no report from France about the damage caused to a railway in which they have invested both money and national pride?'

  'I can't tell you,' admitted Rogan.

>   'Then find out.'

  'Eh?'

  'Go to France, man. Discover the truth.'

  'But I'm handling other cases at the moment, Sir Marcus. I can't just drop them to go sailing off across the Channel. Anyway, I've no reason to suspect that the men I engaged will let me down.'

  'How much did you pay them?'

  'Half the money in advance,' said Rogan, 'just like you told me, the rest to be handed over when the job was done.'

  'And has the job been done?' pressed Sir Marcus.

  'Not yet.'

  'Not at all, I suspect. What was to stop these rogues from pocketing the money you gave them and taking to their heels? If that's the case, Rogan – and I hope, for your sake, that it's not – then I am out of pocket as a consequence of your bad judgement of character.'

  'Sir Marcus-'

  'Don't interrupt me,' snapped the other, subduing him with a frosty glare. 'There's unfinished business here, sir. If you accept a commission, you should see it through as a matter of honour. What you did for me in this country, I applaud. You obeyed your orders to the letter and were handsomely rewarded. But I begin to fear that you have let me down woefully in France itself.'

  'That's not true, Sir Marcus.'

  'Prove it.'

  'I will, if you'll bear with me for a while.'

  'My patience is exhausted.' Taking something from his pocket, he slapped it down on the little table that stood between them. 'Take that and study it carefully.'

  'What is it?'

  'A list of sailings to France. Choose a boat and be on it today.'

  'Today?' spluttered Rogan. 'That's impossible.'

  'Not if you put your mind to it, man. Now stop arguing with me and be on your way. And whatever else you do,' he added, spitting the words out like so many bullets, 'don't you dare return from that confounded country with bad news for me. Is that understood?'

  Rogan gulped down his whisky then grabbed the piece of paper from the table. After pulling out his watch to check the time, he got to his feet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  'Yes, Sir Marcus,' he said, obsequiously. 'It's understood.'

  'I don't think we've met before, have we?' said Father Slattery, offering his hand. 'Welcome to France, my friend.'

  'The name is Mulryne,' said the other, extending his vast palm for the handshake. 'Brendan Mulryne.'

  'I thought it might be. I've heard the stories.'

  'Don't believe a word of them, Father. You know what terrible liars the Irish are. I'm just an ordinary lad who likes to keep his head down and get on with his work.'

  'Is that why you weren't at church on Sunday?'

  Mulryne feigned ignorance. 'I didn't know there was a church.'

  'Then it's blind you must be, Brendan Mulryne, for everyone in the camp knows where we hold our services. We've no building as such and the altar is an old table with a piece of white cloth over it, but we can still worship the Almighty with the respect He deserves.'

  'I'm glad to hear it.'

  'I would have thought that sheer curiosity would have brought you along. You must have heard us singing the hymns.'

  'No,' said Mulryne. 'I was too far away. The truth is, Father, that I was attending a service in the village church.'

  They both knew that it was a lie but Slattery did not challenge him. He had stopped to speak to Mulryne during a break when the navvy was wolfing down some bread and cheese and glistening with sweat. He was not pleased to be cornered by the priest.

  'You're a Dublin man, I hear,' said Slattery.

  'So I am.'

  'And your father was a navvy before you.'

  'Are you planning to write my life story?' asked Mulryne. 'You know more about me than I do myself.'

  'Would you call yourself a Christian?'

  'That I would.'

  'And are you a loyal Catholic?'

  'Since the day I was born, Father.'

  'Then we'll look forward to the time when you join us for worship on a Sunday. They tell me that you've a good voice, Brendan.'

  'I can carry a tune,' said Mulryne through a mouthful of bread and cheese. 'I've always been musical.'

  'Then maybe you can favour us with a solo some time.'

  'Oh, I don't think that the songs I know would be altogether suitable for a church service, Father Slattery. They're Irish ditties to amuse my friends. Nothing more.'

  'We'll see, we'll see.'

  Slattery gave him a valedictory pat on the arm before moving off. Liam Kilfoyle scrambled down the embankment to speak to Mulryne. He looked after the priest.

  'What did he want, Brendan?'

  'The chance to preach at me next Sunday.'

  'Did you tell him you're not a church-going man?'

  'But I am, Liam,' said Mulryne, taking another bite of his lunch. 'I'm a devout churchgoer. As soon as I see a church, I go – as fast as I bleeding can.' They laughed. 'It's not God I have the argument with, you see. I believe in Him and try to live my life by His rules. No, it's that army of creeping priests who get between us. They're in the way. I prefer to talk to God directly. Man to man, as you might say. What about you?'

  'I'm too afraid of what God would say to me, Brendan.'

  'Confess your sins and cleanse your soul.'

  Kilfoyle was uneasy. 'I'll think about it,' he said. 'One day.'

  'Make it one day soon.'

  'You're starting to sound like a bastard priest now!'

  'Sorry, Liam,' said Mulryne, jovially. 'What can I do for you?'

  'It's the other way round. I may be able to do you a turn.'

  'How?'

  'Are you still looking to earn some extra money?'

  'I'm desperate.'

  'And you don't mind what you have to do to get it?'

  'I draw the line at nothing,' Mulryne told him. 'As long as I get paid, I'll do whatever I'm asked. And there's another thing you ought to know about me.'

  'What's that?'

  'When it's needed, I can keep my big mouth shut.'

  'Good,' said Kilfoyle. 'I'll pass the word on.'

  The letter came as a complete surprise. Written in an elegant hand, it was addressed to Colbeck and had been sent to Thomas Brassey's office. It was passed on to the inspector as a matter of urgency. He did not at first recognise the name of Hortense Rivet. As soon as he read the letter, however, he realised that he had met the woman when he called at Gaston Chabal's house in Paris. Madame Rivet had been the engineer's mother-in-law. Since she requested a visit from Colbeck, he did not hesitate. He caught the next available train from Mantes and arrived in Paris with his curiosity whetted. As she was so anxious to see him again, Colbeck hoped that Madame Rivet might have valuable information to pass on to him.

  A cab took him to the Marais and he rang the bell once again. On his previous visit to the house, Chabal's wife had opened the door with a glow of anticipatory pleasure on her face. This time, he was admitted by an old, black-clad servant with sorrow etched deeply into her face. She conducted him into the drawing room. Madame Chabal was still prostrate with grief in her bedchamber, but her mother came at once when she heard that Colbeck was there. Hortense Rivet was genuinely touched that he had responded so swiftly to her letter. As she spoke little English, they conversed in French.

  'I was not sure that you were still here,' she began.

  'I still have many enquiries to make in France, Madame.'

  'Do you know the name of the man who killed Gaston?'

  'Not yet,' he confessed, 'but we will. I'll not rest until he's caught and punished.'

  She looked into his eyes for a full minute as if searching for something. Then she indicated a chair and sat opposite him. Hortense Rivet had impressed him at their first meeting. When he had told Chabal's young wife that her husband had been murdered, she had been quite inconsolable but her mother had shown remarkable self-control, knowing that she had to find the strength to help them both through the harrowing experience. Madame Rivet's beauty had been somehow enh
anced by sadness. Wearing mourning dress, she was a slim and shapely woman in her early forties. The resemblance to her daughter was evident. Colbeck could see exactly what the young widow would look like in twenty years' time. It made him wonder yet again how Gaston Chabal could have betrayed such a lovely wife.

  'How is your daughter, Madame?' he asked, solicitously.

  'Catherine is suffering badly. The doctor has given her a potion to help her sleep. When she is awake, she simply weeps. Since we heard the news, Catherine has hardly eaten.'

  'I'm sorry to hear that.'

  'I wanted to thank you for the way that you broke the tidings to us, Inspector. It was difficult for you, I know, and I was not able to express my gratitude to you at the time. I do so now.'

  'That's very kind of you.'

  There was a long pause. She studied his face before speaking.

  'You strike me as an honest man, Inspector Colbeck.'

  'Thank you.'

  'So I will expect an honest answer from you. I would like you to tell me how Gaston was murdered.'

  'I've already told you, Madame,' he reminded her. 'He was stabbed to death in a railway carriage.'

  'Yes,' she said, 'but you did not tell us where the train was going at the time and what my son-in-law was doing on it in the first place. You spared us details that would only have caused us even more pain. I would like to know some of those details now.'

  'The French police were given a full account of the murder.'

  'There are reasons why I do not choose to turn to them, Inspector. The main one is that the crime did not occur in France. They only know what they have been told. You, on the other hand,' she went on, 'have been in charge of the investigation from the start. You are aware of every detail. Is that not true?'

  'There are still some things we don't know,' he warned her.

  'Tell me the things that you do.' She saw his reluctance. 'Do not be afraid that you will hurt my feelings, Inspector. I am not as frail as I may look. I have already buried my husband and seen my only son go to an early grave. They both died of smallpox. I have survived all that and found a new life for myself. What I must do now is to help Catherine through this tragedy.'