The Railway Viaduct Read online

  THE RAILWAY VIADUCT

  EDWARD MARSTON

  EDWARD MARSTON was born and brought up in South Wales. A full-time writer for over thirty years, he has worked in radio, film, television and the theatre, and is a former Chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association. Prolific and highly successful, he is equally at home writing children’s books or literary criticism, plays or biographies.

  www.edwardmarston.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  1852

  Something was missing. His preliminary sketch of the Sankey Viaduct was both dramatic and satisfyingly precise, but it needed something to anchor it, a human dimension to give a sense of scale. He knew exactly where to place the figures, and he could easily have pencilled them in, but he preferred to rely on chance rather than imagination. Ambrose Hooper had been an artist for over forty years and his continued success could not simply be attributed to his sharp eye and gifted hand. In all that he did, luck played a decisive part. It was uncanny. Whenever he needed to add a crucial element to a painting, he did not have to wait long for inspiration to come. An idea somehow presented itself before him.

  Hooper was a short, slim, angular man in his sixties with a full beard and long grey hair that fell like a waterfall from beneath his battered old straw hat. On a hot summer’s day, he had taken off his crumpled white jacket so that he could work at his easel in his shirtsleeves. He wore tiny spectacles and narrowed his lids to peer through them. An experienced landscape artist, it was the first time that he had turned his attention to the massive railway system that had changed the face of the English countryside so radically over the previous twenty years. It was a challenge for him.

  Viewed from below, the Sankey Viaduct was truly imposing. It had been opened in 1830 as part of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway and was roughly halfway between the two places. Straddling a valley that contained both a canal and a brook, the viaduct was supported by nine identical arches, each with a span of fifty feet. Massive piers rose up with perpendicular certitude from the piles that had been driven deep down into the waterbeds, and the parapet coping reached a height of almost seventy feet, leaving ample room to spare for the tallest vessels that sailed on the canal. It was a predominantly brick structure, finished off with dressings and facings that gave it an added lustre. In the bright sunshine, it was a dazzling piece of architectural masonry.

  Hooper’s sketch had caught its towering simplicity. His main objective, however, was to show the stark contrast between the valley itself with its verdant meadows and the man-made intrusions of canal and viaduct. A few cattle grazed obligingly on his side of the waterway and Hooper was able to incorporate them in his drawing, timeless symbols of rural life in the shadow of industry. What he required now were human figures and – as ever, his luck held out – they not only appeared magically before him, they stood more or less in the spot where he wanted them to be.

  Two women and a small boy had come to look up at the viaduct. From the way that she held the boy’s hand, Hooper decided that the younger woman must be his mother and his guess was that the other woman, older and more fastidious, was her spinster sister, less than happy at being there. She was wearing too much clothing for such a hot day and was troubled by insects that flew in under her poke bonnet. While the boy and his mother seemed quietly excited, the other woman lifted the hem of her dress well above the ground so that it would not trail in any of the cowpats. The visit was clearly for the boy’s benefit and not for that of his maiden aunt.

  As he put them into his sketch with deft flicks of his pencil, Ambrose Hooper gave each of them a name to lend some character. The mother was Hester Lewthwaite, the wife of a provincial banker perhaps; her son, eight or nine years of age at most, was Anthony Lewthwaite; and the disagreeable third person was Petronella Snark, disappointed in love, highly critical of her sister and not at all inclined to indulge a small boy if it entailed trudging across a meadow in the stifling heat. Both women wore steel-ringed crinolines but, while Hester’s was fashionable, brightly coloured and had a pretty flounced skirt, Petronella’s dress was dark and dowdy.

  He knew why they were there. When he took his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat, Hooper saw that a train was due to cross the viaduct at any moment. It was something he had always planned to use in his painting. A railway viaduct would not suffice. Only a locomotive could bring it to life and display its true purpose. Gazing up, the artist had his pencil ready. Out of the corner of his eye, he then caught sight of another element that had perforce to be included. A sailing barge was gliding serenely along the canal towards the viaduct with three men aboard. Before attempting to sketch the vessel, however, Hooper elected to wait until the train had passed. It was usually on time.

  Seconds later, he heard it coming. Mother and child looked up with anticipatory delight. The other woman did not. The men on the barge raised their eyes as well but nobody watched with the same intensity as Ambrose Hooper. Just when he wanted it, the locomotive came into sight, an iron monster, belching clouds of steam and filling the whole valley with its thunder. Behind it came an endless string of gleaming carriages, rattling noisily across the viaduct high above the spectators. And then, to their amazement, they all saw something that they could not possibly have expected.

  The body of a man hurtled over the edge of the viaduct and fell swiftly through the air until it landed in the canal, hitting the water with such irresistible force that it splashed both banks. The mother put protective arms around her son, the other woman staggered back in horror, the three men in the barge exchanged looks of utter disbelief. It had been an astonishing sight but the cows accorded it no more than a cursory glance before returning to the more important business of chewing the cud. Hooper was exhilarated. Intending to portray the headlong dash of the train, he had been blessed with another stroke of good fortune. He had witnessed something that no artist could ever invent.

  As a result, his painting would now celebrate a murder.

  CHAPTER TWO

  After a couple of tedious hours in court, Detective Inspector Robert Colbeck was glad to return to Scotland Yard so that he could write a full report on the case, and clear up some of the paperwork cluttering his desk. He got no further than his office door. Superintendent Tallis loomed into view at the end of the corridor and beckoned him with an imperious crook of a tobacco-stained finger. When they went into the superintendent’s office, Colbeck could smell the pungent smoke still hanging in the air. It was a telltale sign that a serious crime had been committed. His superior’s response to any crisis was to reach for his cigar box. Tallis waved a piece of paper at him.

  ‘This message came by electric telegraph,’ he said.

  ‘From where?’

  ‘Liverpool. That’s where the body was taken.’

  ‘Another murder?’ asked Colbeck with interest.

  ‘Another railway murder. It’s the reason I’m sending you.’

  The inspector was not surprised. After his success in capturing the gang responsible for the daring robbery of a mail train, the press had dubbed him unanimously as the Railway Detective and he had lived up to the name subsequently. It gave him a kudos he enjoyed, a popularity that Tallis resented and a burden of expectation that
could feel very heavy at times. Robert Colbeck was tall, lean, conventionally handsome and dressed as usual in an immaculate black frock coat, well-cut fawn trousers and an Ascot cravat. Still in his thirties, he had risen swiftly in the Detective Department, acquiring a reputation for intelligence, efficiency and single-mindedness that few could emulate. His promotion had been a source of great pride to his friends and a constant irritation to his detractors, such as the superintendent.

  Edward Tallis was a stout, red-faced man in his fifties with a shock of grey hair and a neat moustache that he trimmed on a daily basis. His years in the army had left him with the habit of command, a passion for order and an unshakable belief in the virtues of the British Empire. Though invariably smart, he felt almost shabby beside the acknowledged dandy of Scotland Yard. Tallis derided what he saw as Colbeck’s vanity, but he was honest enough to recognise the inspector’s rare qualities as a detective. It encouraged him to suppress his instinctive dislike of the man. For his part, Colbeck, too, made allowances. Seniority meant that Tallis had to be obeyed and the inspector’s natural antipathy towards him had to be hidden.

  Tallis thrust the paper at him. ‘Read it for yourself,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Colbeck needed only seconds to do so. ‘This does not tell us very much, Superintendent.’

  ‘What did you expect – a three-volume novel?’

  ‘It claims that the victim was thrown from a moving train.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘That suggests great strength on the part of the killer. He would have to pitch a grown man through a window and over the parapet of the Sankey Viaduct. Unless, of course,’ he added, handing the telegraph back to Tallis, ‘he opened the door of the carriage first.’

  ‘This is no time for idle speculation.’

  ‘I agree, Superintendent.’

  ‘Are you in a position to take charge of the case?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘What happened in court this morning?’

  ‘The jury finally brought in a verdict of guilty, sir. Why it should have taken them so infernally long, I can only hazard a guess. The evidence against Major Harrison-Clark was overwhelming.’

  ‘That may be,’ said Tallis with gruff regret, ‘but I hate to see a military man brought down like that. The major served his country honourably for many years.’

  ‘That does not entitle him to strangle his wife.’

  ‘There was great provocation, I daresay.’

  A confirmed bachelor, Tallis had no insight into the mysteries of married life and no taste for the company of women. If a husband killed his spouse, the superintendent tended to assume that she was in some way obscurely responsible for her own demise. Colbeck did not argue with him or even point out that, in fact, Major Rupert Harrison-Clark had a history of violent behaviour. The inspector was too anxious to be on his way.

  ‘What about my report on the case?’ he asked.

  ‘It can wait.’

  ‘Am I to take Victor with me, sir?’

  ‘Sergeant Leeming has already been apprised of the details.’

  ‘Such as they are.’

  ‘Such – as you so rightly point out – as they are.’ Tallis looked down at the telegraph. ‘Have you ever seen this viaduct?’

  ‘Yes, Superintendent. A remarkable piece of engineering.’

  ‘I don’t share your admiration of the railway system.’

  ‘I appreciate quality in all walks of life,’ said Colbeck, easily, ‘and my fondness for railways is by no means uncritical. Engineers and contractors alike have made hideous mistakes in the past, some of which have cost lives as well as money. The Sankey Viaduct, on the other hand, was an undoubted triumph. It is also our first clue.’

  Tallis blinked. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Of course, sir. It was no accident that the victim was hurled from that particular place. My belief is that the killer chose it with care.’ He opened the door then paused to give the other man a farewell smile. ‘We shall have to find out why.’

  Sidney Heyford was a tall, stringy, ginger-haired individual in his forties who seemed to have grown in height since his promotion to the rank of inspector. When he had first joined the local constabulary, he had been fearless and conscientious, liked by his colleagues and respected by the criminal fraternity. He still worked as hard as ever but his eminence had made him arrogant, unyielding and officious. It had also made him very proprietorial. When he first heard the news, he let out a snort of disgust and flung the telegraph aside.

  ‘Detectives from Scotland Yard!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Constable Praine. ‘Two of them.’

  ‘I don’t care if it’s two or twenty. We don’t want them here.’

  ‘No, Inspector.’

  ‘We can solve this crime on our own.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so, Constable. It was committed on our doorstep.’

  ‘That’s not strictly true,’ said Praine, pedantically. ‘The Sankey Viaduct is halfway between here and Manchester. Some would claim that they have a right to take over the case.’

  ‘Manchester?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector.’

  ‘Poppycock! Arrant poppycock!’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so, Constable.’

  ‘The train in question did depart from Manchester.’

  ‘But it was coming here, man – to Liverpool!’

  In the eyes of Inspector Sidney Heyford, it was an unanswerable argument and the constable would not, in any case, have dared to quarrel with him. It was not only because of the other man’s position that Walter Praine held his tongue. Big, brawny and with a walrus moustache hiding much of his podgy young face, Praine nursed secret ambitions to become Heyford’s son-in-law one day, a fact that he had yet to communicate to the inspector’s comely daughter. The situation made Praine eager to impress his superior. To that end, he was ready to endure the brusque formality with which he was treated.

  ‘I’m sure that you are right, Inspector,’ he said, obsequiously.

  ‘There is no substitute for local knowledge.’

  ‘I agree, sir.’

  ‘We have done all that any detectives from the Metropolitan Police would have done – much more, probably.’ Heyford turned an accusatory glare on Praine. ‘How did they get to know of the crime in the first place?’ he demanded. ‘I hope that nobody from here dared to inform them?’

  ‘It was the railway company who sent the telegraph.’

  ‘They should have shown more faith in us.’

  The two men were in the central police station in Liverpool. Both wore spotless uniforms. Inspector Heyford had spent most of the day leading the investigation into the murder. When he finally returned to his office late that afternoon, the waiting telegraph was passed to him. It had immediately aroused his possessive streak.

  ‘This is our murder. I mean to keep it that way.’

  ‘We were the first to receive reports of it.’

  ‘I’ll brook no interference.’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘And, for heaven’s sake, stop repeating that inane phrase,’ said Heyford with vehemence. ‘You’re a police constable, not a parrot.’ Praine gave a contrite nod. ‘What time should we expect them?’

  ‘Not for another hour or so at least.’

  ‘How did you decide that?’

  ‘I checked the timetables in Bradshaw,’ said Praine, hoping that his initiative might be rewarded with at least a nod of approval. Instead, it was met with a blank stare. ‘They could not have set out much before the time when that telegraph was sent. If they arrive at Lime Street by six-thirty, they will be here not long afterwards.’

  ‘They shouldn’t be here at all,’ grumbled Heyford, consulting his pocket watch. ‘I need to master all the details before they come. Get out of here, Constable, and give me plenty of warning before they actually cross our threshold.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector.’

  �
�Make yourself scarce, then.’

  Walter Praine left the room, acutely aware of the fact that he had failed to ingratiate himself with his putative father-in-law. Until he managed to do that, he could not possibly muster the confidence that was needed to make a proposal of marriage. Glad to be rid of him, Heyford began to read carefully through the statements that had been taken from the witnesses. It was only minutes before there was a timid knock on the door.

  ‘Yes?’ he barked.

  The door opened and Praine put a tentative head around it.

  ‘The gentlemen from Scotland Yard are already here, sir,’ he said, sheepishly. ‘Shall I show them in?’

  Heyford leapt to his feet. ‘Here?’ he cried. ‘How can that be? You told me that we had at least an hour.’

  ‘I was mistaken.’

  ‘Not for the first time, Constable Praine.’

  Quelling him with a glare, Sidney Heyford opened the door wide and went into the outer office, manufacturing a smile as he did so. Robert Colbeck and Victor Leeming were studying the Wanted posters on the walls. Both men had bags with them. After a flurry of introductions, the detectives were taken into the little office and invited to sit down. Heyford was not impressed by Colbeck’s elegance. With his stocky frame and gnarled face, Leeming did at least look like a policeman. That was not the case with his companion. To the man in uniform, Colbeck’s debonair appearance and cultured voice were completely out of place in the rough and tumble world of law enforcement.

  ‘I’m sorry that it’s so cramped in here,’ Heyford began.

  ‘We’ve seen worse,’ said Leeming, looking around.

  ‘Much worse,’ agreed Colbeck.

  ‘Ashford in Kent, for instance. Six thousand people and only two constables to look after them from a tiny police house.’

  ‘Some towns still refuse to take policing seriously enough. They take the Utopian view that crime will somehow solve itself without the intercession of detective work.’ He appraised Heyford shrewdly. ‘I’m sure that Liverpool displays more common sense.’