by Unknown
‘Keep still, Father.’
‘What’s wrong with me?’
‘You were badly injured,’ she explained, putting a delicate hand on his chest. ‘The train was robbed and you were attacked.’
‘Where’s Frank? Why isn’t my fireman here?’
‘I sent him home.’
Andrews was bewildered. ‘Home? Why?’ His eyes darted wildly. ‘Where are we, Maddy?’
‘In the stationmaster’s house at Leighton Buzzard.’
‘What am I doing here? I should be at work.’
‘You need rest,’ she told him, putting her face close to his. ‘You took some blows to the head and you fractured a leg when you fell from the footplate. Your arm is in a sling because you have a broken collarbone. Be very careful how you move.’
His face was puce with rage. ‘Who did this to me?’
‘There’s no need to worry about that now.’
‘Tell me. I want to know.’
‘Calm down. You must not get excited.’
‘Frank Pike shouldn’t have deserted his post. He’ll be reported.’
‘Forget him, Father,’ she advised. ‘All we have to think about is how to get you better. It’s a miracle that you’re alive and able to talk again. I thought I might have lost you.’
She brushed his lips with a tender kiss. Though his face was contorted with pain, he managed a faint smile of thanks and reached up with his free hand to touch her arm. Still hazy, torn between fatigue and anger, puzzled and comforted by his daughter’s presence, he struggled to piece together what had happened to him but his memory was hopelessly clouded. All that he could remember was who he was and what he did for a living. When he heard a train steaming through the nearby station, a sense of duty swelled up in him.
‘I must get out of here,’ he decided, attempting to move.
‘No, Father,’ she said, using both hands to restrain him gently.
‘Frank and I have to take the mail train to Birmingham.’
‘It was robbed yesterday. You were assaulted.’
‘Help me up, Maddy. We have to get there on time.’
‘There is no mail train,’ she said, trying to break the news to him as softly as she could. ‘The men who robbed you removed a section of the track. When you were knocked unconscious, Frank Pike was forced to drive the engine off the rails. He told me that it’s lying on its side until they can get a crane to it.’
Andrews was appalled. ‘My engine came off the track?’ Madeleine nodded sadly. ‘Oh, no! That’s a terrible thing to hear. She was such a lovely piece of engineering. Mr Allan designed her and I looked after her as if she was my own daughter – as if she was you, Maddy.’ His eyes moistened. ‘I don’t care what happened to me. It’s her that I worry about. I loved her like a father. She was mine.’
Caleb Andrews sobbed as if he had just lost the dearest thing in his life. All that Madeleine could do was to use her handkerchief to wipe away the tears that rolled down his cheeks.
The train that had sped through Leighton Buzzard Station continued on its journey to Birmingham, passing the spot where the robbery had occurred and allowing its passengers a fleeting view of the scene of the crime before taking them on into the Linslade Tunnel. Among those in one of the first class compartments was Inspector Robert Colbeck, who took a keen interest in the sight of the wrecked locomotive that still lay beside the line. He spared a thought for its unfortunate driver.
Though it had given him a very late night, he felt that his visit to the Devil’s Acre had been worthwhile and he had been struck once again by the fact that one of the most hideous rookeries in London was cheek by jowl with the uplifting beauty of Westminster Abbey. Rising early the next day, he had travelled by cab to Euston Station where he bought two different newspapers to compare their treatment of the story.
Edward Tallis had been right in his prediction. For anyone involved in law enforcement, reports of the robbery did not make happy reading. The stunning novelty of the crime and the sheer size of the amount stolen – over £3000 in gold sovereigns – encouraged the newspapers to inject a note of hysteria into their accounts, stressing the ease with which the robbery had been carried out and the apparent inability of either the mail guards or the railway policemen to offer anything but token resistance. The Detective Department at Scotland Yard, they told their readers, had never mounted an investigation of this kind before and were therefore operating in the dark.
Robert Colbeck was mentioned as being in charge of the case and he was surprised to read a quotation from Superintendent Tallis, who referred to him as ‘an experienced, reliable and gifted detective’. When he remembered some of the less flattering things that his superior had called him in private, he gave a wry smile. One point made by both newspapers was incontrovertible. No crime of this nature had ever before confronted a Detective Department that, formed only nine years earlier, was still very much in its infancy. They were in uncharted waters.
While the newspapers used this fact as a stick with which to beat the men at Scotland Yard, the Inspector in charge of the investigation saw it as a welcome challenge. He was thrilled by the notion of pitting himself against a man who had organised a crime of such magnitude and audacity. Most of the offenders he had arrested were poor, downtrodden, uneducated men who had turned to crime because there was no honest way for them to make a living. London had its share of seasoned villains, desperate characters who would stop at nothing to achieve their ends, but the majority who trooped through the courts were pathetic figures for whom Colbeck felt a sneaking sympathy.
This time, however, it was different. They were up against a man of clear intelligence, a natural leader who could train and control a gang of almost a dozen accomplices. Instead of fearing him, as the reporters were inclined to do, Colbeck saw him as a worthy adversary, someone who would test his skills of detection and who would stretch the resources of Scotland Yard in a way that had never occurred before. Solving the crime would be an adventure for the mind. However long it might take, Colbeck looked forward to meeting the man behind the train robbery.
Meanwhile, he decided to catch up on some lost sleep. The train was moving along at a comfortable speed but there were stops to make and it would be hours before it reached Birmingham. He settled back in his upholstered seat and closed his eyes. It was a noisy journey. The chugging of the locomotive combined with the rattling of the carriages and the clicking of the wheels on the rails to produce a cacophony that tried to defy slumber. There was also a lurching motion to contend with as the train powered its way along the standard gauge track.
Because it offered more stability, Colbeck preferred the wider gauge of the Great Western Railway and the greater space in its carriages but he had no choice in the matter on this occasion. The company whose mail train had been robbed was the one taking him to Birmingham, and he was interested to see how it treated its passengers. His compartment was almost full and sleep would offer him a refuge from conversation with any of his companions. Two of them, both elderly men, were scandalised by what they had read in their newspapers.
‘A train robbery!’ protested one of them. ‘It’s unthinkable.’
‘I agree,’ said the other. ‘If this kind of thing is allowed to go on, we’ll all be in danger. Any passenger train would run the risk of being ambushed and we would be forced to hand over everything we are carrying of value.’
‘What a ghastly prospect!’
‘It might come to that.’
‘Not if this gang is caught, convicted and sent to prison.’
‘What chance is there of that?’ said the other, sceptically.
‘Detectives have already begun an investigation.’
‘I find it hard to put much faith in them, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they have almost no clues to help them. According to the Times, these devils came out of nowhere, stole what they wanted, then vanished into thin air. The detectives are chasing phantoms.’
‘Yet they claim that this Inspector Colbeck is a gifted policeman.’
‘It will need more than a gifted policeman to solve this crime.’
‘I agree with you there, my friend.’
‘My guess is that this Inspector will not even know where to start.’
On that vote of confidence in his ability, Colbeck fell asleep.
The Devil’s Acre was almost as menacing by day as by night. Danger lurked everywhere in its narrow streets, its twisting lanes and its dark alleyways. There was a pervading stink that never seemed to go away and an unrelenting clamour. Bawling adults and screaming children joined in a mass choir whose repertory consisted solely of a sustained and discordant din that assaulted the eardrums. Scavenging dogs and fighting tomcats added their own descant. Smoke-blackened tenements were built around small, shadowed courtyards, thick with assorted refuse and animal excrement. In every sense, it was a most unhealthy place to live.
Brendan Mulryne, however, loved the district. Indeed, he was sad that parts of it had recently been pulled down during the building of Victoria Street, thereby limiting its size and increasing the population of the area that was left, as those who had been evicted moved into houses that were already crowded with occupants. What the Irishman enjoyed about the Devil’s Acre was its raucous life and its sense of freedom. It was a private place, set apart from the rest of London, a swirling underworld that offered sanctuary to criminals of every kind in its brothels, its tenements, its opium dens, its gambling haunts and its seedy public houses.
Mulryne felt at home. People he had once hounded as a policeman were now his neighbours and he tolerated their misdemeanours with ease. It was only when a defenceless woman was being beaten, or when a child was in distress, that he felt obliged to intervene. Otherwise, he let the mayhem continue unabated. It was his natural milieu. Unlike strangers who came into the Acre, he could walk its streets without fear of assault or of attracting any of the pickpockets who cruised up and down in search of targets. Mulryne’s size and strength bought him respect from almost everyone.
Isadore Vout was the exception to the rule. When the Irishman found him that morning, the moneylender was at his lodging, enjoying a breakfast of stale bread and dripping that he first dipped into a mug of black, brackish tea. Rich by comparison with most people in the area, Vout led a miserly existence, wearing tattered clothes and eating poor food. He was a short, skinny weasel of a man in his fifties, with long grey hair that reached his shoulders and a mean face that was forever set in an expression of distaste. He was not pleased when the landlady showed in his visitor. His voice betrayed no hint of respect.
‘Wor d’yer want, Mulryne?’ he said through a mouthful of food.
‘First of all,’ replied the other, standing over him, ‘I’d like a little politeness from that arsehole you call a mouth. Unless, that is, you’d like me to pour the rest of that tea over your head.’
‘Yer got no right to threaten me.’
‘I’m giving you friendly advice.’ Pulling up a stool, Mulryne sat beside him at the table and saw what he was eating. ‘Bread and dripping, is it?’ he noted with disgust. ‘And you, able to dine off the finest plate and eat like a lord.’
‘It’s been a bad month, ain’t it?’
‘You never have a bad month, you leech. There’s always plenty of blood for you to suck out of people who can’t afford to lose it. That’s why I’m here, Isadore. I want to talk about debts.’
Vout was surprised. ‘Yer want to borrow money?’
‘I wouldn’t borrow a penny from a creeping Shylock like you.’
‘Yer’d get a good rate of interest, Mulryne.’ He nudged his visitor. ‘Friends of mine have special terms, see?’
‘I’m no friend of yours, you old skinflint. Special terms?’ repeated Mulryne with derision. ‘I don’t give a fiddler’s fart for your special terms.’
‘Then why are yer botherin’ me?’
‘Because I need information from you. There’s a man who probably turned to you for a loan – God help him! I want to know where he is.’
‘I can’t tell yer,’ said Vout, guzzling his tea.
‘You haven’t heard his name yet.’
‘Meks no diff’rence, Mulryne. I never discusses business matters. Them’s confeedential.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Shut the door when yer leaves – and don’t come back.’
‘I’m going nowhere until I get an answer,’ warned Mulryne.
‘Sling yer ’ook, you big, Irish numbskull. Yer wasting yer time.’
‘Now you’re insulting my nation as well as trying my patience.’
‘I wants to finish my grub, that’s all.’
‘Then let a big, Irish numbskull offer you some assistance,’ said Mulryne, grabbing the remainder of the food to stuff into his mouth. ‘Like more tea to wash it down, would you?’
Holding the moneylender’s hair, he pulled his head back and poured the remaining tea all over his face until Vout was squealing in pain and spluttering with indignation. Mulryne felt that more persuasion was still needed. He got up, pushed the other man to the floor, took him by the heels and lifted him up so that he could shake him vigorously. A waterfall of coins came pouring out of his pockets. Isadore Vout shrieked in alarm and tried to gather up his scattered money. Without any effort, Mulryne held him a foot higher so that he could not reach the floor.
‘Put me down, yer madman!’ wailed Vout.
‘Only when you tell me what I want to know.’
‘I’ll ’ave yer locked away fer this!’
‘Shut up and listen,’ Mulryne ordered, ‘or I’ll bounce your head on the floor until all your hair falls out.’
By way of demonstration, he lowered his captive hard until Vout’s head met the carpet with such a bang that it sent up a cloud of dust. The moneylender yelled in agony.
‘Stop it!’ he pleaded. ‘Yer’ll crack my skull open.’
‘Will you do as you’re told, then?’
‘No, Mulryne. I never talks about my clients.’ His head hit the floor once again. ‘No, no!’ he cried. ‘Yer’ll kill me if you do that again.’
‘Then I’d be doing the Devil’s Acre a favour,’ said Mulryne, hoisting him high once more. ‘We can do without vultures like you. Now, then, you snivelling rogue, what’s it to be? Shall I ask my question or would you rather I beat your brains out on the floor?’
It was no idle threat. Seeing that he had no alternative, Vout agreed to help and he was promptly dropped in a heap on the carpet. He immediately began to collect up all the coins he had lost. Mulryne brought a large foot down to imprison one of his hands.
‘Yer’ll break my fingers!’ howled Vout.
‘Then leave your money until you’ve dealt with me.’
Removing his foot, the Irishman took him by the lapels of his coat and lifted him back into his chair. He put his face intimidatingly close. Vout cowered before him.
‘Who’s this man yer knows?’ he asked in a quavering voice.
‘His name is William Ings.’
‘Never ’eard of ’im.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Isadore.’
‘It’s the truth. I never met anyone called that.’
‘There’s an easy way to prove that, isn’t there?’ said Mulryne, looking around the dingy room. ‘I can check your account book.’
‘No!’
‘You keep the names of all your victims in there, don’t you? If I find that William Ings is among them, I’ll know that you’re lying to me. Now, where do you keep that book?’
‘It’s private. Yer can’t touch it.’
‘I can do anything I like, Isadore,’ said Mulryne, walking across to a chest of drawers. ‘Who’s to stop me?’
As if to prove his point, he pulled out the top drawer and emptied its contents all over the floor. Vout leapt up from his seat and rushed across to grab his arm.
‘No, no,’ he shouted. ‘Leave my things alone.’
‘Then tell me abo
ut William Ings.’
The moneylender backed away. ‘Maybe I can help yer,’ he said.
‘Ah, I’ve jogged your memory, have I?’
‘It was the name that confused me, see? I did business with a Bill Ings, but I can’t say for certain that ’e’s the same man. Wor does this William Ings look like?’
‘I’ve never seen him myself,’ admitted Mulryne, ‘but I’m told he’s a fat man in his forties who can’t resist a game of cards. Since he lost so much, he’d turn to someone like you to borrow. Did he?’
‘Yes,’ confessed Vout.
‘How much does he owe you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘He paid off his debt,’ said the other. ‘In full. Ings told me that ’e ’ad a big win at cards and wanted to settle up. Shame, really. I likes clients of ’is type. They’re easy to squeeze.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘Who knows?’
‘You do, Isadore,’ insisted Mulryne. ‘You’d never lend a farthing unless you had an address so that you could chase the borrower for repayment. Find your account book. Tell me where this man lives.’
‘I can’t, Mulryne. I took ’im on trust, see? Someone I knew was ready to vouch for ’im and that was good enough for me.’ He gave a sly grin. ‘Polly has done a favour or two for me in the past. If ’e’s with ’er, Bill Ings is a lucky man, I can tell yer. I knew I could always get to my client through Polly.’
‘Polly who? Does she live in the Devil’s Acre?’
‘Born and bred ’ere. Apprenticed to the trade at thirteen. ’Er name is Polly Roach,’ he said, grateful to be getting rid of Mulryne at last. ‘Ask for ’er in Hangman’s Lane. You may well find Mr Ings there.’
Robert Colbeck woke up as the train was approaching Birmingham and he was able to look through the window at the mass of brick factories and tall chimneys that comprised the outskirts. It was a depressing sight but, having been there before, he knew that the drab industrial town also boasted some fine architecture and some spacious parks. What made it famous, however, were its manufacturing skills and Colbeck read the names of engineers, toolmakers, potters, metalworkers, builders and arms manufacturers emblazoned across the rear walls of their respective premises. Through the open window, he could smell the breweries.