Inspector Colbeck's Casebook

by Edward Marston

  ‘That’s one of the avenues you’ll have to explore.’

  Superintendent Edward Tallis was a stout, steely man in his fifties with a military background that had left him with a scar on his cheek. He had a shock of grey hair and a well-trimmed moustache that he was fond of caressing. With a lifetime shaped by the habit of command, he expected obedience from his subordinates and, because Colbeck did not always obey in the way that was required of him, there was a lot of tension between them. Whatever his reservations about the elegant inspector, however, Tallis recognised his abilities and invariably assigned the most difficult cases to him. Colbeck had a habit of getting results.

  The two of them were in the superintendent’s office in Scotland Yard. It was early in the morning after the murder and the scant information available was on the sheet of paper that Tallis handed to Colbeck. When he studied the paper, the inspector’s handsome face puckered with disappointment.

  ‘There’s not much to go on, I’m afraid,’ said Tallis with a sigh. ‘Beyond the fact that Matthew Proudfoot got into a train alive and was dead on arrival at his destination, that is. You have to feel sorry for the company. It’s not exactly a good advertisement for passenger travel.’

  ‘Did the train go on to Swindon?’

  ‘No, it’s been held at Reading, pending our investigation.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘The driver, fireman and guard were also detained there overnight. You’ll find their names on that sheet of paper.’ Rising from his desk, he walked around it to confront Colbeck. ‘There’s no need for me to tell you how crucial it is that this murder is solved as quickly as possible.’

  ‘No, Superintendent.’

  ‘Mr Proudfoot was a director of the Great Western Railway. That means they are putting immense pressure on me for action.’

  ‘I’ll catch the next through-train to Reading.’

  ‘Take Sergeant Leeming with you.’

  ‘No,’ said Colbeck, thoughtfully. ‘Victor can travel independently. I need the fastest train that I can get, but I want him to stop at every station along the way to make enquiries. This is high summer. There was good light between seven and eight yesterday evening. Someone may have seen something when Mr Proudfoot’s train went past.’

  ‘A phantom killer stabbing him to death?’

  ‘I doubt if we’ll be that fortunate.’

  ‘Keep me informed.’

  ‘I always do, Superintendent.’

  ‘Only when you are under orders to do so,’ Tallis reminded him. ‘I want none of your usual eccentric methods, Inspector. I expect you to conduct this investigation properly. Bear one thing in mind at all times. Our reputation is at stake.’

  Colbeck smiled. ‘Then I’ll do nothing to tarnish it, sir.’

  There were eight stations between Paddington and Reading and, thanks to his copy of Churton’s Rail Road Book of England, Robert Colbeck knew the exact distance between each of them. Travelling in the compartment of a first-class carriage with two uniformed Metropolitan policemen, he tried to reconstruct the final journey by Matthew Proudfoot. When, how and why was the man killed? Was it conceivable that the murder victim had, in fact, had a travelling companion who had turned upon him for some reason? If that were the case, was the other person male or female? And at what point did the killer depart from the train? Colbeck had much to occupy his mind.

  The first thing he did on arrival at Reading was to visit the undertaker who had taken charge of the body of the deceased. Sylvester Quorn was a small, wizened, unctuous man, dressed entirely in black and given to measuring each word carefully before he released it through his thin lips. Conducting the inspector to the room where the corpse was laid out on a cold slab, he watched over Colbeck’s shoulder as the latter drew back the shroud. The naked body of Matthew Proudfoot was large, white and flabby. Colbeck studied the livid red gash over the man’s heart. Quorn pointed a skeletal finger.

  ‘We cleaned him up, sir, as you see.’

  ‘Just the single wound?’ said Colbeck.

  ‘One fatal thrust, that was all.’

  ‘There must have been a struggle of some sort. What state was his clothing in when he was brought in here?’

  ‘The lapel of his coat was torn,’ said the undertaker, indicating some items in a large wooden box, ‘and his waistcoat was ripped where the knife went through. It was soaked with blood. So was his shirt.’

  ‘What about his effects?’

  ‘Everything is in here, Inspector.’

  Colbeck sifted through the garments in the box and felt in all the pockets. ‘I don’t find any wallet here,’ he said. ‘Nor a watch. A man like Mr Proudfoot would certainly have owned a watch.’

  ‘It must have been taken, sir – along with the wallet.’

  ‘Murder for gain,’ murmured Colbeck. ‘At least we have one possible motive.’

  ‘I have a request to pass on,’ said the other with an ingratiating smile. ‘You can imagine how shocked his family were by the news. His wife is inconsolable. Mr Proudfoot’s brother has asked if the body can be released as soon as possible.’

  ‘He’ll have to wait until it’s been examined by a doctor.’

  ‘But I’ve done that, Inspector. I’ve been examining cadavers for almost forty years. There’s nothing a doctor can tell you that I can’t.’

  ‘The coroner will want a qualified medical opinion at the inquest.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘A man in your profession should know that,’ said Colbeck, putting him in his place. ‘Who informed the family of the tragedy?’

  ‘I did,’ said Quorn, mournfully. ‘Being acquainted with the Proudfoots, I felt that it was my duty to pass on the bad tidings. The railway police agreed that I should do so, though one of them did accompany me to the house. He was so grateful that I did all the talking. It was no effort for me, of course. I deal with the bereaved on a daily basis. It requires tact.’

  Colbeck gazed down at the corpse for a few moments before drawing the shroud back over it again. He looked up at the undertaker.

  ‘How can you be tactful about a murder?’ he said.

  When he returned to the railway station, the inspector found the three men waiting to be interviewed in the stationmaster’s office. They were side by side on a wooden bench. None of them looked as if he had slept much during the night. James Barrett seemed deeply upset by what had happened but Alfred Neale had a degree of truculence about him, as if resenting the fact that he was being questioned. The person who interested Colbeck most was George Hawley, the guard, a plump man in his fifties with a florid complexion and darting eyes.

  ‘What did you do in the course of the journey?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘I did my job, Inspector,’ replied Hawley. ‘I kept guard.’

  ‘Yet you saw and heard nothing untoward?’

  ‘Nothing at all, sir.’

  ‘There was a definite struggle. Someone must have called out.’

  ‘I didn’t hear him.’

  ‘Are you sure, Mr Hawley?’

  ‘As God’s my witness,’ said the guard, hand to his heart. ‘The engine was making too much noise and the wheels were clanking over the rails. Couldn’t hear nothing above that.’

  ‘So you remained in the brake van throughout?’

  Hawley shrugged. ‘Where else could I go?’

  ‘What about you two?’ said Colbeck, turning to the others. ‘You spent the entire journey on the footplate?’

  ‘Of course,’ retorted Neale.

  ‘We’re not allowed to leave it, sir,’ added Barrett, quietly. ‘Or, for that matter, to have any unauthorised persons travelling beside us.’

  ‘Did the train slow down at any point?’ said Colbeck.

  ‘No, Inspector. We kept up a steady speed. The truth is,’ he went on, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand, ‘we didn’t wish to upset our passenger. Mr Proudfoot wanted a smooth journey.’

  ‘You look tired, Mr Barrett. Where did you sleep last night
?’

  ‘Here, sir. On this very bench.’

  ‘I was on the floor,’ complained Neale.

  ‘So was I,’ moaned Hawley. ‘At my age, I need a proper bed.’

  ‘Perhaps you should think of the murder victim rather than of yourself, Mr Hawley,’ scolded Colbeck. ‘I don’t believe that Mr Proudfoot deliberately got himself killed so that he could upset your sleeping arrangements.’

  ‘George meant no harm, sir,’ said Barrett, defensively. ‘He spoke out of turn. This has really upset him – and us, of course. It’s a terrible thing to happen. We feel so sorry for Mr Proudfoot.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Hawley. ‘God rest his soul!’

  ‘I ain’t sorry,’ affirmed Neale, folding his arms.

  ‘Alf!’ exclaimed Barrett.

  ‘I ain’t, Jim. No sense in being dishonest about it. I’m like most people who work for this company. I got reason to hate Mr Matthew Proudfoot and you knows why.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Colbeck, curiosity aroused. ‘Tell me more, Mr Neale.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Inspector,’ advised Barrett, shooting the fireman an admonitory glance. ‘Alfred lets his tongue run away with him sometimes. We may not have admired Mr Proudfoot, but we all respected him for the position he held.’

  ‘He gave himself airs and graces,’ sneered Neale.

  ‘Only because he was a director.’

  ‘Yes, Jim. He never let us forget that, did he?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Colbeck.

  ‘Mr Proudfoot was not a nice man,’ confided Hawley. ‘Before we set off from Paddington, he said some very nasty things to me.’

  ‘You’re lucky that’s all he did, George,’ said Neale, before swinging round to face Colbeck. ‘Every time he travelled by rail, Mr Proudfoot had a complaint. He’s had two drivers fined and one dismissed. He had the stationmaster at Slough reprimanded and reported any number of people he felt weren’t bowing down before Mr High and Mighty.’

  ‘In other words,’ concluded Colbeck, ‘there are those employed by the GWR who might have a grudge against him.’

  ‘We’ve all got a grudge against him, Inspector.’

  ‘That’s not true, Alf,’ said Barrett, reproachfully.

  ‘All except you, then. You’re too soft, Jim.’

  ‘I never speak ill of the dead.’

  Colbeck was interested in the relationship between the three men. As well as being workmates, they were clearly friends. James Barrett was the senior figure, liked and respected by his two colleagues, treating Neale in an almost paternal way. The driver’s main concern was to get his engine to Swindon. All that worried Alfred Neale was the fact that he had spent a night apart from his young wife. The railway police had informed her that his return would be delayed but given her no details. It made the fireman restive. George Hawley was a weak man who sided with anyone who seemed to be in the ascendancy during an argument.

  Looking from one to the other, Colbeck put a question to them.

  ‘Would any of you object to being searched?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ replied Barrett, calmly. ‘I wouldn’t, Inspector, though I don’t really see the purpose of it.’

  ‘Certain items were taken from Mr Proudfoot by the killer.’

  The driver stiffened with indignation. ‘You surely don’t think that we had anything to do with it?’

  ‘No,’ said Colbeck, ‘I don’t. But I want to be absolutely sure.’

  ‘You’ve no right to search me,’ declared Neale, angrily.

  ‘That’s why I’m asking you to turn out your pockets yourself.’ He pointed to the burly Metropolitan policeman who stood in the doorway. ‘If you find that too much of an imposition, Mr Neale, I could ask Constable Reynolds to help you.’

  Neale was on his feet. ‘Keep him away from me!’

  ‘Then do as I request. Put your belongings on that table.’

  ‘Come on, Alf,’ counselled Barrett, resignedly. ‘Do as the inspector says. That goes for you, too, George.’

  ‘I’m no thief,’ protested Hawley.

  Nevertheless, he emptied his pockets and put his few possessions on the table. Barrett followed suit and, after some cajoling, so did Neale. They even submitted to being patted down by Constable Reynolds as he searched for items concealed about their persons. None were found.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ said Colbeck. ‘I think that it’s safe to say that you’ve been eliminated as possible suspects.’

  ‘Does that mean we’re released, sir?’ said Barrett.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘But we have to deliver the train to Swindon.’

  ‘I need to inspect it first, Mr Barrett. After all, it’s the scene of the crime. I want all three of you there with me, please.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Hawley, collecting his meagre possessions.

  ‘Because I want you to show me exactly where you were at the time when – in all probability – Mr Proudfoot was murdered.’

  When the crime had been discovered the previous evening, the train had been backed into a siding. It comprised a locomotive, a six-wheeled tender, second-class carriage, first-class carriage and brake van. The train was guarded by two uniformed railway policemen, who stood to attention when they saw the inspector coming. As they approached, Robert Colbeck ran an admiring eye over the steam engine, glinting in the morning sunshine. It had a tall chimney, a sleek, compact boiler and a large domed firebox. Its two driving wheels were 84 inches in diameter and its name – Castor – was etched in large brass letters.

  ‘What’s wrong with her, Mr Barrett?’ he enquired.

  ‘Old age,’ said Barrett, sadly. ‘Castor’s over ten years old now and she’s starting to look it. There’s a problem with her valve gear that needs to be put right and her boiler piping has to be overhauled. She’s part of the Firefly class, designed by Mr Gooch.’

  ‘Yes,’ added Neale, proudly. ‘Castor hauled the first train between London and Bristol when the line was opened in 1841. The fireman that day was a certain Jim Barrett.’

  Barrett smiled fondly. ‘It was an honour.’

  ‘Why did you have a second-class carriage in tow?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘Due for repair at Swindon, sir,’ said Barrett. ‘It was damaged in a collision. It was Mr Proudfoot who had the first-class carriage attached and, of course, we needed a brake van.’

  ‘Let’s start there.’

  Reaching the van, Colbeck took hold of the iron handrail and pulled himself up. The driver and fireman remained on the ground but the guard followed him. The brake van was little more than a wooden hut on wheels. Colbeck noted that few concessions had been made to comfort. On a stormy day, wind and rain could blow in through the open windows. He glanced at Hawley.

  ‘Where were you when the train was in transit?’

  ‘Sitting in that corner,’ said the guard, pointing to the bench that ran along the rear of the van. ‘Never moved from there, Inspector.’

  ‘I think I can see why.’ Colbeck bent down to retrieve a large stone jar from under the bench. He sniffed it. ‘Beer,’ he announced. ‘Do you always drink on duty, Mr Hawley?’

  ‘No, no, sir. I hardly ever touch it.’

  ‘Then why have you got a gallon jar of the stuff on board?’

  ‘It must have been left there by someone else,’ said Hawley.

  But they both knew that he was lying.

  After fixing him with a sceptical glare, Colbeck jumped down to the track and moved along to the first-class carriage that was coupled to the brake van. He hauled himself up to examine the scene of the crime. The carriage comprised three compartments, each capable of accommodating eight passengers. The seats were upholstered and great care had been taken with the interior decoration, but all that Colbeck was interested in was the blood on the floor of the central compartment. It told him the exact place where Matthew Proudfoot had been murdered.

  Colbeck stayed in there a long time, trying to envisage how the killer had struc
k the fatal blow, and how he had got in and out of the carriage. When he eventually dropped down to the ground again, his curiosity shifted to the second-class carriage.

  ‘No point in going in there,’ said Barrett. ‘Doors are locked.’

  ‘Were they locked throughout the journey?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘Yes, Inspector.’

  ‘Who has the key?’

  ‘I do,’ said Hawley.

  ‘I’d like to borrow it.’

  Taking the key from the guard, Colbeck clambered up and unlocked the doors of the second-class carriage. Going into each compartment in turn, he searched them for signs of recent occupation but found nothing beyond a newspaper that was two days old. Colbeck put his head through the window to look back at the first-class carriage. Those below beside the track were amazed when Colbeck, having taken off his top hat, suddenly emerged through the window and made his way around the back of the carriage before flinging himself across the gap to grab the handles on the adjacent first-class carriage.

  Hawley snorted. ‘You’d never do that when the train was going fast,’ he observed, grimly. ‘Not unless you was feeling suicidal.’

  ‘That reminds me, George,’ said Barrett, ‘you did check that second class was empty before we left Paddington, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Jim.’ A long pause. ‘I think so, anyway.’

  ‘Someone could have been hiding in there.’

  ‘I’d have seen him.’

  ‘That depends on how much drink you’d had beforehand,’ said Colbeck, swinging back athletically to the second-class carriage to retrieve his hat. ‘No wonder you heard no sounds of a struggle when the train was in motion, Mr Hawley. I suspect that you may have been fast asleep.’

  ‘I never sleeps on duty,’ denied the guard, hotly. ‘It ain’t allowed.’

  ‘Nor is drinking a gallon of beer.’