Inspector Colbeck's Casebook

by Edward Marston

‘It’s the crucial factor. Is Huxtable a religious man?’

  ‘Not as far as I could see.’

  ‘Then the significance of that scene at the altar would mean nothing to him.’

  ‘He just looked so guilty, Inspector.’

  ‘And so did Harry Blacker when I first clapped eyes on him.’

  ‘Is he a likely suspect?’

  ‘No,’ said Colbeck, ‘but he did point me in the direction of someone who might be. Come on, Victor,’ he said, moving off. ‘We have a train to catch.’

  Leeming fell in beside him. ‘Are we going back to Euston?’ he asked, hopefully.

  ‘I’m afraid not. Do you know why the railway company chose Wolverton as a place for their depot and their factories?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘It’s almost equidistant between London and Birmingham. When I said that we had a train to catch, there was something I forgot to mention.’ Colbeck gave a teasing smile. ‘It won’t be the same train. You’ll go in the direction of London and I’ll go in the direction of Birmingham.’

  When they called in on Adam Revill later that afternoon, the warden had rallied. A couple of hours’ sleep had put some colour in his cheeks and given him the urge to sit up in bed and read. Anthony and Maria Vine were pleased to see the improvement in him. Maria placed a cup of tea on the bedside table.

  ‘There you are, Uncle Adam,’ she said. ‘It’s just as you like it.’

  ‘You’re so good to me, Maria – and so are you, Anthony.’

  ‘We’re both happy to help.’

  ‘I feel so much better now,’ said the warden. ‘The person who really needs your help is Simon Gillard. After making that grisly discovery in the church, he must be in a terrible state. I just wish that I was well enough to comfort him.’

  ‘Anthony says they’ve moved the body,’ explained Maria. ‘He walked past the church earlier on. The detectives seem to have disappeared.’

  ‘Well, I hope they come back soon,’ said Vine. ‘The murder has cast a pall over the whole town. We need someone to lift it from us. As for Simon, I agree that he’ll need a lot of support from us. He doesn’t have the strongest constitution. It’s been a real blow.’

  ‘You must be ready to take over, Anthony.’

  ‘I’m not a warden, my dear.’

  ‘You will be one day and there’s nobody who can compare with you when it comes to church affairs. That’s the kindest thing you can do for Simon. Tell him that you’ll take over his duties next Sunday. It will be a huge weight off his shoulders.’

  ‘Maria is right,’ said Revill. ‘You’re the man to step into the breach.’

  ‘I’d have to speak to the vicar first,’ said Vine, clearly attracted by the notion. ‘I’ll need his approval before I speak to Simon Gillard.’

  They heard a knock at the front door. Maria went off to see who it was.

  ‘That may be the vicar now,’ said Revill. ‘He promised to call this afternoon.’

  ‘Then I’ll seize my opportunity,’ said Vine.

  But it was not the Reverend Odell. They heard a voice talking to Maria then three sets of footsteps came up the staircase. Maria entered the bedroom with Colbeck and Leeming. Since he’d met Revill and Maria before, the sergeant took charge of the introductions. Vine shook hands with both men.

  ‘I’m so glad that you haven’t deserted us,’ he said. ‘We need this murder solved and solved quickly.’

  ‘We take the same view, Mr Vine,’ said Colbeck. ‘That’s why we went for a ride on the train. I went to Blisworth and the sergeant went to Bletchley. When he drew a blank there, he went on Leighton Buzzard.’

  Maria was baffled. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Everything turns on that key, Mrs Vine. Only three keys to the church existed so the killer must somehow have acquired a fourth. And that,’ Colbeck said, ‘means that he needed a locksmith to make one. He’d be too cunning to use someone here in Wolverton so he’d go to another town – Leighton Buzzard, as it turns out.’

  ‘The locksmith there was very helpful,’ said Leeming. ‘He remembered that he’d made a replica of a key to a church door only days ago and he remembered the man who asked him to do it. Of course,’ he went on, turning meaningfully to Vine, ‘you were careful not to give him your proper name. You called yourself Marklew.’

  ‘That was my maiden name!’ cried Maria, looking at her husband. ‘Is this true, Anthony? Did you go to Leighton Buzzard?’

  ‘No,’ replied Vine, indignantly. ‘The locksmith is confused.’

  ‘We can soon clear the confusion,’ said Colbeck. ‘We can take you to meet the gentleman and he will confirm his identification.’ He confronted Vine. ‘You took advantage of Mr Revill’s illness, didn’t you? While he was confined to his bed, you borrowed his key, had a copy made and restored the original to its place here. Then you overpowered Mr Exton, got him into the church and committed the murder in front of the altar.’

  Vine spluttered. ‘I’d never dream of doing such a thing.’

  ‘We spoke to the vicar, sir. He told us what a deeply religious man you were.’

  ‘There’s nothing religious about battering a man to death,’ said Leeming.

  ‘I also spoke to Harry Blacker,’ resumed Colbeck. ‘He said that you were incensed when you heard that Mr Exton had defecated on your mother’s grave. There’d been bad blood between them when she was alive, apparently, but nothing excused what he did in that churchyard.’

  Maria was staring at her husband in horror and Revill was scandalised.

  ‘Did you take my key behind my back, Anthony?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes, he did,’ said Leeming.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this,’ said Maria, backing away.

  Abandoning denial, Vine tried to justify what he’d done.

  ‘He deserved it, Maria,’ he argued. ‘Have you forgotten all the other things he did to the church? I lost count of the number of times I had to scrub off the obscenities Exton had daubed on the walls. He mocked God. He laughed at Christianity,’ he cried, eyes darting wildly. ‘When he … did what he did over my mother’s grave, it was the final straw. I had to teach him a lesson. You must see that. I took him into church and made him beg forgiveness from God – then I killed him in front of the altar.’ He raised a palm. ‘Don’t ask me to feel sorry for him because I don’t. Divine guidance made me do it.’

  Colbeck nodded to Leeming who moved forward to make an arrest. But Vine was not going to surrender. Grabbing the sergeant by the shoulders, he flung him away then lifted the sash window in order to jump out. A yell of pain told them that he’d fallen badly and injured himself.

  ‘I’ll arrest him outside,’ said Leeming, leaving the bedroom.

  ‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, peering through the window. ‘From the look of it, you won’t get much resistance this time.’

  ‘Anthony can’t plead divine guidance,’ said Revill in bewilderment. ‘Thou shalt not kill. That’s what we’re taught. What Anthony did was … dreadful.’

  Maria was still transfixed by what she’d learnt about her husband. As she tried to take in the full horror of it all, her face crumpled and the tears gushed out. After a few moments, she collapsed into Colbeck’s arms.

  When the train pulled into Euston station, the detectives got out and walked along the platform. Both were pleased to have solved the crime so quickly and to have restored a degree of calm to Wolverton.

  ‘There you are, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘You’ll still be able to see your children before they go to bed.’

  ‘I’m sorry that I was so churlish on the way there, sir.’

  ‘Our interrupted Sunday was redeemed by an important arrest.’

  ‘I’m glad we don’t have people like Anthony Vine in our congregation,’ said Leeming. ‘He’s got a very twisted view of Christianity.’

  ‘He’s a devout man with a fatal weakness. He forgot one of the main precepts of the Bible – Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith t
he Lord. Mr Vine took too much upon himself,’ said Colbeck. ‘In trying to play God, he created a disaster for the very church he loved and served. It will be something to reflect upon as he’s waiting to mount the gallows.’

  A FAMILY AFFAIR

  In a sense, Caleb Andrews had never actually retired from the railway. He continued to turn up at Euston on an unpaid, unofficial basis in order to hear the latest gossip and to offer unsought advice to his former colleagues over a pint of beer at the pub they patronised. Andrews was a short, stringy man with a fringe beard decorating a leathery face. Known for his pugnacity, he also had a softer side and it was in evidence that evening as he listened to the harpist. A small crowd had gathered around the old man as he worked his way through his repertoire. Andrews was not the only onlooker who had to hold back a tear when he heard the strains of ‘Home, Sweet Home’. He marvelled at the way that the decrepit figure could pluck such sweet melodies from his strings. Well into his seventies, the harpist wore an ancient, ragged suit and a top hat battered into concertina shape. Beside him on the ground was a cap to collect any money from his transient audiences. Curled up asleep near the cap was a mangy dog of uncertain parentage.

  The harpist’s musical taste was catholic, embracing everything from operatic arias to bawdy music hall songs and stretching to stirring marches more suited to a regimental brass band. Passers-by hovered long enough to hear a favourite tune and, in some cases, tossed a coin into the cap. Andrews did the same, then his sharp eye spotted a threat to the money. Lurking on the edge of the crowd was a ragamuffin who could be no more than nine or ten. He sidled towards the cap and was about to snatch it up when Andrews shouted a warning.

  ‘Watch out!’

  His yell was unnecessary because the dog had already come to life to protect its master’s income and bitten the boy’s wrist. Howling in pain, the ragamuffin darted off. As he turned to look after the thief, Andrews bumped into a well-dressed man who muttered an apology then walked swiftly past him. Thinking no more of the incident, Andrews listened to the harpist for another few minutes then headed for the pub where he’d spent so many happy times with his friends over the years. They gave him a warm welcome and someone bought him a drink. He revelled in the banter. Dirk Sowerby, his erstwhile fireman, then came in. Andrews insisted on treating him and moved to the bar counter. When he reached inside his coat for his wallet, however, it was not there. He came to an immediate conclusion.

  ‘I’ve been robbed!’ he protested.

  ‘It was embarrassing, Maddy.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Instead of buying Dirk Sowerby a drink, I had to borrow money off him to pay my way. I felt such a fool.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure that you had the wallet in your coat?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Andrews, irritably. ‘Of course, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’ve known you forget things before,’ Madeleine reminded him.

  ‘I’ve never forgotten my wallet and my watch, Maddy. I wouldn’t leave the house without them. You know that.’

  Madeleine nodded. During all the years she’d lived with her father, she couldn’t remember him forgetting anything of real importance. Andrews had a routine from which he never wavered. The truth had to be faced. Her father was the victim of a pickpocket. She was angry on his behalf but schooled herself to think calmly.

  ‘Do you have any idea when it might have happened, Father?’

  ‘I think so. It was when I listened to that harpist.’

  ‘Go on.’

  He recounted the events at Euston station and declared that the man who’d bumped into him was the culprit. Distracted by the music, Andrews felt, he’d been targeted. He was determined to get his money back.

  ‘I didn’t come here to seek Robert’s help,’ he said. ‘A detective inspector has more important things to worry about than a pickpocket. I just wanted to talk it through with you so that it became clear in my mind. It’s my turn to be a detective now,’ he went on, rubbing his hands. ‘I’ll show my son-in-law that he isn’t the only clever policeman in the family.’

  They were in the drawing room of the house that Madeleine shared with her husband, Robert Colbeck. She was an alert, attractive woman who had moved from a modest dwelling in Camden Town to a more luxurious home in John Islip Street in Westminster, slowly settling into the latter. Always pleased to see her father, she was sorry that he’d brought such bad news on this occasion.

  ‘Would you recognise the man again?’ she asked.

  ‘I think so. He wore a frock coat and top hat.’

  ‘Hundreds of men answer to that description, Father.’

  ‘I may only have seen him for a second but I’m sure I can pick him out.’

  She was dubious. ‘Be very careful,’ she said.

  ‘They’re obviously in this together, Maddy.’

  ‘Who are?’

  ‘The harpist and the pickpocket,’ he told her. ‘The one holds your attention while the other moves among the crowd, looking for prey.’

  ‘I think that’s unlikely,’ she said. ‘An old man with a mangy dog doesn’t sound as if he’d have anything to do with a well-dressed gentleman.’

  ‘He was no gentleman – he was a thief!’

  ‘What do you propose to do?’

  ‘I’ll go back to the station tomorrow to see if the harpist is there. If he is, I’ll watch from a distance to see if the dipper is there with him.’

  Madeleine was alarmed. ‘Don’t do anything rash,’ she said. ‘It might be better if I came with you tomorrow.’

  ‘I can manage on my own,’ he insisted. ‘I don’t need you and I don’t need the famous Railway Detective. This is my case, Maddy, and I mean to solve it.’

  Early next morning, Andrews was part of the hustle and bustle of a major railway station once again. People queued for tickets then went in search of the appropriate platforms. There was constant noise and movement. From a vantage point near the main entrance, Andrews kept his eyes peeled. Hours oozed past but there was no sign of the harpist. What he did see were several men who looked vaguely like the one who’d bumped into him the previous evening. Madeleine had been right. His loose description of the supposed pickpocket fitted any number of male passengers. During their brief encounter, Andrews had had no time to register the man’s height, age or colouring. He couldn’t even decide if he’d heard an educated voice or a Cockney twang. Detective work was not as straightforward as he’d imagined.

  The musician finally arrived around noon. Covered by a piece of cloth, his Irish harp was small enough to be carried under his arm. The mangy dog trailed after him. He took up a different position this time, squatting down on the ground near a cloakroom where luggage could be deposited. Music soon filled the air. Andrews drifted across so that he could keep the old man under surveillance. Busy people rushed past but there were small groups that loitered for short periods to listen. The first few coins clinked into the cap. The dog fell asleep.

  After an hour or so, the harpist stopped for refreshment. From inside his coat, he pulled out a hunk of bread and a piece of cheese. His audience vanished instantly. Once he resumed, however, more and more people moved across to hear him. When the crowd thickened, an impeccably tailored man walked slowly towards the cluster. Andrews watched him like a hawk. As he eased his way to the front of the queue, the man rubbed against several other people with gestures of apology. Andrews recalled the polite gentleman who’d bumped into him. Was he looking at the same man? It was a strong possibility. Indeed, the more he studied the newcomer, the more certain he became that he’d identified a pickpocket.

  When the man broke away from the crowd, he bumped accidentally into a woman and immediately raised his hat to her before striding off. It was exactly what had happened to Andrews. What looked like a chance collision was, in fact, an opportunity for the pickpocket to claim another victim. The evidence, Andrews decided, was now overwhelming. It was him.

  Disregarding the fact that he had no p
ower of arrest, Andrews ran after the man and clutched at his arm. The stranger turned to face him.

  ‘May I help you, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Andrews, ‘you can return my wallet for a start. You stole it from me yesterday evening when I was listening to your accomplice playing his harp.’

  ‘What the devil are you talking about?’

  ‘You’re a pickpocket. I’ve been watching you at work.’

  ‘I work in a bank,’ said the man, testily, ‘and I’ll be late if I miss my train.’

  ‘You’re going nowhere,’ said Andrews, tightening his grip.

  ‘Leave go of me,’ ordered the man, ‘or I’ll call a policeman.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I wish to do.’

  Train passengers were treated to the extraordinary sight of a wiry old character, clinging like a limpet to the arm of an elegant gentleman who was doing everything he could to shake him off. Both were yelling simultaneously for a policeman. It was only a minute before one came over to see what the commotion was. He was a hefty individual in his thirties with rubicund cheeks.

  ‘What’s going on here, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Get this imbecile off me!’ pleaded the man.

  Andrews released him. ‘Arrest him, constable,’ he said. ‘He’s the pickpocket who stole my wallet yesterday. That harpist is his accomplice.’

  ‘I’ve never set eyes on the fellow before.’

  ‘The two of you work hand in glove.’

  ‘Now calm down, the pair of you!’ said the policeman. ‘We’ll get nowhere if you both jabber away.’ He turned to the man. ‘You tell me your story first, sir.’

  Angered by the deference in his tone, Andrews tried to complain but he was silenced by the policeman with the threat of arrest. The man gave his account of what had happened then opened his frock coat wide.

  ‘If you think I stole anything,’ he challenged, ‘search me.’

  Andrews had the unsettling feeling that he may have been mistaken, after all.

  ‘Go on,’ urged the man. ‘You called me a pickpocket. Prove it.’