RC01 - The Railway Detective Read online

  THE RAILWAY DETECTIVE

  EDWARD MARSTON

  [Version: +1 April 2, 2012 - JeriPatrick]

  Allison & Busby Limited

  13 Charlotte Mews

  London W1T 4EJ

  www.allisonandbusby.com

  Copyright © 2004 by Edward Marston

  First published in hardback by Allison & Busby Ltd in 2004. Published in paperback by Allison & Busby Ltd in 2005. This ebook edition first published in 2009.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Digital conversion by Pindar NZ.

  All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any format other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-0-7490-0886-4

  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, and the settings for his crime novels range from the world of professional golf to the compilation of the Doomsday Survey. The Railway Detective is the first book in the series featuring Inspector Robert Colbeck and Sergeant Victor Leeming, set in the 1850s.

  www.edwardmarston.com

  Available from ALLISON & BUSBY

  The Railway Detective series

  The Railway Detective

  The Excursion Train

  The Railway Viaduct

  The Iron Horse

  Murder on the Brighton Express

  The Silver Locomotive Mystery

  The Restoration series

  The Frost Fair

  The Parliament House

  The Painted Lady

  The Captain Rawson series

  Soldier of Fortune

  Drums of War

  Fire and Sword

  In loving memory of my father, who spent his working life as an engine driver, and who instructed me in the mystery of steam locomotion.

  With thanks to Janet Cutler for her expert advice on Victorian railway companies.

  The landed proprietor often refused admission to the trespasser and his theodolite. At Addington the surveyors were met and defied in such force, that after the brief fight they were secured, carried before a magistrate and fined… The engineers were in truth driven to adopt whatever methods might occur to them. While people were at church; while the villager took his rustic meal; with dark lanthorns during the dark hours; by force, by fraud, by any and every mode they could devise, they carried the object which they felt to be necessary but knew to be wrong.

  JOHN FRANCIS

  A History of the English Railroads (1851)

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, 1851

  Euston Station was one of the architectural marvels of the day. Even the most regular passengers on the London and North Western Railway could still be impressed by the massive portico with its four Doric columns built of adamantine Bramley Fall sandstone, flanked by two pairs of pavilions, and standing on the north side of a large open space. The addition of two hotels, one either side of the portico, introduced a functional element that did not lessen the stunning impact of the facade. Those who passed through the imposing entrance found themselves in the Great Hall, a combined concourse and waiting room. It was a magnificent chamber in the Roman-Ionic style with a high, deeply coffered ceiling that made newcomers gape in astonishment.

  Caleb Andrews did not even notice it, nor did he spare a glance for the majestic curved double flight of steps at the northern end of the hall that led to a gallery and vestibule. Only one thing in the station interested him and that was the locomotive he and his fireman were about to drive to Birmingham. Andrews was a short, wiry character in his early fifties with a fringe beard that was peppered with grey. There was a jauntiness about him that belied his age and that concealed his deep sense of dedication to his work. Caleb Andrews was a man who thrived on responsibility.

  ‘It’s a fine day, Frank,’ he observed. ‘We should have a clear run.’

  ‘God willing,’ said Pike.

  ‘God doesn’t come into it, man. We are the people in charge. If we do our jobs properly, everything will go well. The important thing is to get there on time. Do that and we’ll earn ourselves another pat on the back.’

  ‘That would be nice, Caleb.’

  ‘It would indeed.’

  ‘Extra money would be even nicer.’

  Andrews gave a hollow laugh. ‘From this company?’

  Frank Pike nodded resignedly. Now in his thirties, the big, shambling man from the West Country knew that they would only get their stipulated wage. Fireman Pike had a round, flat, moon face that was marked by routine exposure to the elements and, as a rule, darkened by a somnolent expression. His large hands were badly scarred by his trade. He had the deepest respect for his companion and was delighted to work alongside him. Technically, a conductor was in charge of a train but not when Caleb Andrews was there. The driver always asserted his authority and his colleagues knew better than to arouse his combative streak.

  The two men were on the footplate, checking that everything was in readiness. Pike had got up a good head of steam and his fire shovel was at hand to add more fuel from the tender when necessary. The engine was throbbing with suppressed power. Andrews studied his instruments with a mixture of pride and affection. A locomotive was much more than an inanimate piece of machinery to him. She was a trusted friend, a living creature with moods, likes and dislikes, a complex lump of metal with her own idiosyncrasies, a sublime being, blessed with awesome might, who had to be treated correctly in order to get the best out of her.

  ‘Mr Allan knows how to design an engine,’ he said, appreciatively.

  ‘She’s one of the best,’ agreed Pike.

  ‘Mind you, there’s still room for improvement. They ought to let me spend a week or two at Crewe. I could point out a number of things that would make her run better yet use less oil.’

  ‘You always were a man of opinions, Caleb.’

  ‘They’re not opinions – they’re plain commonsense. The people who can give the best advice about how to build a locomotive are the men who drive her.’

  ‘I got no complaints.’

  ‘That’s because you’re too easily satisfied, Frank.’

  ‘I do what I’m paid to do, that’s all.’

  There was an air of fatalism about Pike. Though Andrews was very fond of him, he had long ago accepted that his fireman lacked any real urgency or ambition. Frank Pike was a reliable workhorse, a quiet, efficient, unassuming, conscientious man who never questioned what he was doing or looked beyond it to something better. Andrews, by contrast, had enough aspiration for the two of them. He was bubbling with energy. While most men of his years were anticipating retirement, all that he could think about was promotion.

  Like his fireman, Andrews wore a uniform of light-coloured corduroy and cap. Pulling a watch from his pocket to consult it, he clicked his tongue in irritation.

  ‘What’s keeping them?’ he said.

  ‘There’s minutes to go yet, Caleb.’

  ‘I like to leave on time.’

  ‘We will,’ said Pike, turning round to look b
ack down the train. ‘I think they’re loading the last box now.’

  Andrews put his watch away and gazed back down the platform. It was a short train, comprising an empty first class carriage, a bright red mail coach, a luggage van and a guard’s van. The locomotive and tender bore the distinctive livery of the northern division of the company. The engine was painted green, with main frames a paler shade of the same hue. Smoke box and chimney were black. The dome was green, as was the base of the safety valve, though the casing of the latter was polished brass. Hand-rails were covered polished brass and splashers were brass-headed. Wheels were black. The front cylinder caps were made of iron, polished to a sheen. Before she set out, she was positively gleaming.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ said Andrews, tapping his foot.

  Pike gave a tolerant smile. ‘You’re too impatient.’

  ‘I want to be on my way, Frank.’

  ‘So do I,’ admitted the other. ‘I always feel a bit nervous when we’ve so much money aboard. It must worry you as well.’

  ‘Not in the least.’

  ‘But we must be carrying a small fortune.’

  ‘I don’t care if we’ve got the Crown Jewels tucked away in the luggage van,’ boasted Andrews, sticking out his chest. ‘Makes no difference at all to me. Besides, we have plenty of guards on board to watch over the mail and the money. No,’ he went on, ‘the only thing that unsettles me is time-keeping. I’ve a reputation to maintain.’ He heard a shrill blast on a whistle. ‘At last!’ he said with relief. ‘Stand by, Frank.’

  ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Then let’s take her to Birmingham.’

  With a venomous hiss of steam and a loud clanking of wheels, the engine moved slowly forward as she pulled her carriages on the first stage of their fateful journey.

  By the time they hit open country, they had built up a steady speed. Caleb Andrews was at the controls and Frank Pike shovelled more coal into the firebox at regular intervals. The train surged on, rattling noisily and leaving clouds of dark smoke in its wake. Its iron wheels clicked rhythmically on the track. Having driven over the route many times, the two men were familiar with every bridge, viaduct, tunnel, change of gradient and curve in the line. They were also known to many of the people who manned the various stations, and they collected endless waves and greetings as they steamed past. Andrews acknowledged them all with a cheerful grin. Pike lifted his shovel in response.

  It was a glorious April afternoon and the men enjoyed the warm sunshine. After the harsh winter they had endured, it was a pleasant change. Their work took them out in all weathers and they had little protection against wind, rain, snow, sleet or insidious fog. Driver and fireman had often arrived at their destination, soaked to the skin or chafed by an icy blast. Even the heat from the firebox could not keep out all of the cold. Today, however, it was different. It was a perfect day. Lush, green fields surrounded them and trees were in first leaf. The train was running smoothly over the flanged rails.

  Forty miles passed uneventfully. It was only when they had raced through Leighton Buzzard Junction that they had their first hint of trouble. One of the railway policemen, who acted as signalmen, stood beside the line and waved his red flag to stop the train. Andrews reacted immediately. Without shutting off steam, he put the engine into reverse so that her speed was gradually reduced. Only when she had slowed right down was the tender hand-brake applied along with the brake in the guard’s van. Since she had been moving fast, it had taken almost half a mile to bring her to a halt.

  Driver Andrews opened the cylinder cocks with the regulator open, so that steam continued to flow without working on the pistons. The water level in the boiler was maintained. Andrews leant out to look at the bulky figure of another railway policeman, who was striding towards them in the official uniform of dark, high-necked frock coat, pale trousers and stovepipe hat. He, too, had been signalling with his red flag for the train to stop. Andrews was annoyed by the delay.

  ‘You’d better have good cause to hold us up,’ he warned.

  ‘We do,’ said the policeman.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘There’s a problem with the Linslade Tunnel.’

  ‘What sort of problem?’

  ‘You’re not going through it, Mr Andrews.’

  Tossing his flag to the ground, the policeman suddenly pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed it at the driver. Following his example, a group of armed men emerged swiftly from behind the bushes on either side of the line and made for the mail coach and the guard’s van. The latter was easy to enter but the locked doors of the mail coach had to be smashed open with sledgehammers before they could rush in and overpower the mail guards in their scarlet uniforms. While that was happening, someone was uncoupling the mail coach from the first class carriage in front of it.

  As he watched the burst of activity, Caleb Andrews was outraged.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.

  ‘The train is being robbed,’ replied the policeman, still holding the weapon on him. ‘All you have to do is to obey orders. Stand back.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Do as I tell you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Stand back!’ ordered another voice, ‘or I’ll shoot you.’

  Andrews looked up to see a well-dressed man at the top of a shallow embankment, aiming a rifle at him. There was an air of certainty about him that suggested he was more than ready to carry out his threat. Pike tugged anxiously at his friend’s elbow.

  ‘Do as they say, Caleb,’ he advised.

  Andrews was truculent. ‘Nobody tells me what to do on my engine,’ he said, as he was pulled back a little. ‘I won’t let this happen.’

  ‘They have guns.’

  ‘They’ll need more than that to frighten me, Frank.’

  ‘Will we?’ asked the bogus policeman.

  Having hauled himself up onto the footplate, he levelled the pistol at the driver’s temple. Pike let out a cry of protest but Andrews was unmoved. He stared at the interloper with defiance.

  ‘Take her on, Mr Andrews,’ said the other, crisply.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Drive the train, man.’

  ‘Not without the mail coach, the luggage van and the guard’s van.’

  ‘You won’t be needing those.’

  ‘I’ve got my responsibilities,’ argued the driver.

  ‘Your only responsibility is to stay alive,’ said the policeman, letting him feel the barrel of the weapon against his skull. ‘Now – are you going to obey orders?’

  Andrews put his hands on his hips. ‘Make me,’ he challenged.

  For a moment, the other man hesitated, not quite knowing what to do in the face of unexpected resistance. Then he moved quickly. Grabbing the pistol by the barrel, he used the butt to club the driver to the floor, opening up a gash on the side of his head that sent blood oozing down his cheek. When the fireman tried to intervene, the gun was pointed at him and he was forced to step back. Badly dazed, Andrews was groaning at their feet.

  ‘Don’t hit Caleb again,’ pleaded Pike.

  ‘Then do as I tell you. Start her up.’

  ‘Let me see to that wound of his first.’

  ‘No,’ snapped the other, turning the pistol towards Andrews. ‘Drive the engine or your friend is a dead man.’

  Pike obeyed at once. More concerned about the driver’s safety than his own, he released the brake as fast as he could. Andrews, meanwhile, had recovered enough to realise what had happened to him. With a surge of rage, he threw his arms around the ankle of the man who was trying to take over his beloved locomotive. His recklessness was short-lived. It not only earned him two more vicious blows to the head, he was dragged to the edge of the footplate and tossed to the ground.

  Horrified at the treatment of his friend, Pike could do nothing to help him. With a loaded pistol at his back, he set the train in motion and prayed that Caleb Andrews had not been too badly injured in the fall. The locomotive, tender and first
class carriage trundled forward, leaving the mail coach, luggage van and guard’s van behind. Had he been able to glance over his shoulder, Frank Pike would have seen a disconsolate group of guards, surprised by the speed of the ambush, relieved of their weapons and forced to dismount from the train and remove their shoes.

  When the engine had gone a hundred yards and started to pick up speed, the man who had pretended to be a railway policeman gave Pike a farewell slap on the back before jumping off the footplate. He made a soft landing on a grassy verge and rolled over. The fireman soon saw why he had been abandoned. Ahead of him in the middle distance was the opening of the Linslade Tunnel, but there was no way that he could reach it. A whole section of track had been levered off its sleepers and cast aside. Those behind the ambush were bent on destruction.

  Seized by panic, Pike did what he could to avert disaster but it was in vain. Though he put the engine into reverse and tried to apply the brake, all that he did was to produce a firework display of sparks as the wheels skidded crazily along the rails. Seconds before he ran out of track, Pike had the presence of mind to leap from the footplate. Hitting the ground hard, he rolled over then watched in alarm as the locomotive veered over sharply, like a giant animal shot for sport.

  The noise was deafening. Ploughing after the engine, the tender and the first class carriage ended up as a tangled mass of iron, seen through a fog of billowing smoke and angry steam. Frank Pike had to hold back tears. When he jumped to the ground, he had twisted his ankle but he ignored the pain. Pulling himself up, he turned his back on the hideous sight and limped back along the line to the fallen driver, hoping that Caleb Andrews was still alive.

  CHAPTER TWO

  As soon as he entered the room, Robert Colbeck knew that a serious crime must have been committed. The air was thick with pungent smoke and Superintendent Edward Tallis only reached for his cigar case when he was under severe pressure. Seated behind his desk, the older man was scanning a sheet of paper as if trying to memorise important details. Colbeck waited patiently for the invitation to sit down. Tall, slim and well-favoured, he was impeccably dressed in a dark brown frock coat, with rounded edges and a high neck, well-cut fawn trousers and an Ascot cravat. Catching the light that streamed in through the window, his black leather shoes were shining brightly. In the prosaic world of law enforcement, Inspector Robert Colbeck stood out as the unrivalled dandy of Scotland Yard.