A Christmas Railway Mystery Page 12

  ‘It was the late Colonel Rowan who persuaded me,’ he explained. ‘He was appointed alongside Richard Mayne as one of the first commissioners of the newly established Detective Department and he brought all the virtues of a military background into Scotland Yard. He was an Ulsterman of Scottish descent and a man of proven abilities. What he saw in me were the strengths that he himself possessed. The colonel was decisive, authoritative and industrious.’

  ‘That sums you up perfectly, Edward.’

  ‘Those qualities are yours as much as mine.’

  Wardlow chuckled. ‘We were hewn from the same rock,’ he said, slapping his thigh. ‘Oh, it’s such a treat to see you again and find you in such robust health. My gain is Scotland Yard’s loss.’

  ‘Don’t even mention the place. I’m back in the army now.’

  ‘And you’re obviously very glad to be there – just like me.’

  They raised their glasses in celebration then emptied them in one gulp.

  Victor Leeming was also interested in alcohol that evening. Alone in the back room at the Queen’s Tap, he was just about to take a first sip of his beer when a bearded man swooped down on him with a smile of recognition.

  ‘You must be Sergeant Leeming,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right. How did you guess?’

  ‘They don’t get many customers here dressed like you and Inspector Colbeck. This pub was built to serve GWR employees and they don’t tend to wear top hats and frock coats as a rule.’ He offered his hand. ‘My name is William Morris, by the way.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Leeming, taking the outstretched palm. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Morris. I hear that you’re a poet.’

  ‘That’s the other William Morris.’

  ‘Then you must be the editor of the Advertiser.’

  ‘It’s a title I bear with pride.’

  Though his visitor seemed pleasant and well spoken, Leeming nevertheless remained wary. His lingering fear of the press remained. During previous cases, he’d been deliberately misquoted in national newspapers and didn’t want the embarrassing experience repeated.

  ‘If you’ve come in search of an interview,’ he said, quietly, ‘I’ll have to disappoint you. I don’t talk to journalists on principle.’

  ‘That’s fine with me, Sergeant. I didn’t come to bother you. I just wanted to deliver these.’ He handed over a small sheaf of letters. ‘I printed details of the reward in today’s edition and this is the result. All that some people saw in the reward notice was the amount on offer and they promptly wrote down their claims and put them through our letter box. Had they been more attentive, they’d have seen that you and the inspector could be contacted at an office in the Locomotive Works.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Morris. It was good of you to take the trouble.’

  ‘I can’t promise that any of those letters will be genuine.’

  ‘Have no fear,’ said Leeming, glancing at them. ‘We’re used to sifting through bogus claims and ridiculous guesses. Among the earlier suggestions we had was the information that the killer was the late Mr Brunel.’

  Morris laughed. ‘Did he pop back from the grave to carry out the murder?’

  ‘Nobody has ever managed to do that, sir.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ said the other, thoughtfully, ‘I suppose that you could argue that Brunel was a sort of accessory before the event. If he hadn’t created the Works in the first place, the crime could never have taken place. However,’ he went on, looking down at the tankard, ‘I’m keeping you from that excellent pint of beer. It’s from Arkell’s Brewery and worthy of its popularity. If I get any more mail relating to the reward notice, I’ll pass it on to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Morris.’

  ‘And I leave you with a sad confession. I did try to write a poem once. It was unbelievably terrible. The other William Morris is much better at it.’

  Leeming waved him off and thought how much less predatory the provincial journalist was than his London counterparts. It had been a pleasure to meet and talk to Morris. The sergeant hoped he’d see the man again.

  To stave off the feeling of loneliness, Madeleine Colbeck had invited her father and Lydia Quayle to join her for dinner. The meal was over, the baby had been put down for the night and the three of them were now in the drawing room. Wherever they looked, the impact of the festive season was evident. Christmas cards stood on the mantelpiece and on every other available surface, a tree decorated with baubles occupied a place in the window and around its base were piles of boxes wrapped in brightly coloured paper. It would be Madeleine’s second night without her husband and she was acutely aware that Christmas Day was getting closer than ever.

  Aware of her friend’s anxieties, Lydia had taken care to keep off the subject but Caleb Andrews had no such concern for his daughter’s feelings.

  ‘He’s not going to be here on the day itself,’ he prophesied, gloomily.

  ‘Don’t say that, Father.’

  ‘We have to face the truth.’

  ‘Robert’s letter was quite optimistic.’

  ‘He was only trying to cheer you up, Maddy.’

  ‘From what I know of him,’ said Lydia, ‘I believe that he’ll move heaven and earth to be here in time to celebrate Helen’s first Christmas. Have faith in your son-in-law, Mr Andrews.’

  The old man stroked his beard. ‘Maybe I should go there to help him.’

  ‘No,’ said Madeleine, firmly. ‘Don’t even think of it.’

  ‘This is a crime committed in a Locomotive Works. Nobody knows as much about such places as me. They were my world. I can still hear that deafening clatter. I can still smell that awful reek. I’d see things that Robert didn’t.’

  ‘You’d be in the way, Father.’

  ‘I like to feel useful.’

  ‘The most useful thing you can do is to stay in London and to stop moaning. It’s better if you don’t even mention Robert.’

  ‘Am I supposed to pretend he doesn’t exist?’ asked Andrews in disbelief.

  ‘You have to exercise discretion, as Lydia has been doing.’

  ‘Your husband is going to ruin Christmas for you. Admit it.’

  ‘No, it’s not true.’

  ‘Look around you, Maddy. He’s not here.’

  ‘Perhaps we should talk about something else,’ suggested Lydia.

  ‘Everyone thinks about their family at Christmas.’

  ‘I don’t, Mr Andrews.’

  The conversation came to an abrupt halt. Lydia had spoken without bitterness or regret. She simply stated a fact. Madeleine felt profoundly sorry for her friend’s alienation from her siblings. Lydia’s parents might both be dead but her two brothers and her sister were still alive as were several cousins, nephews and nieces. Members of the wider family had also lost touch with her. To be cut off from them all at such a time seemed unnatural. Lydia’s plight also saddened Andrews. Though he couldn’t fully understand how it had come about, he could see how isolated she must feel at such a time. He reached out to touch her arm.

  ‘You belong to us now,’ he said, softly, ‘so you do have a family.’

  After an acceptable but uninspiring meal at the Queen’s Tap, the detectives leafed through the correspondence provided by William Morris. None of it was either useful or convincing. Most of the correspondents simply suggested a name, supplied no evidence to support the allegation then asked when they could collect the reward money. The only name offered that was already on their list was that of Hector Samway. There was no mention of Daniel Gill, Simeon Cudlip or Gareth Llewellyn. One man, writing in a shaky hand, assured the detectives that he knew who the killer was but that he’d only yield up the name when they handed over the money.

  ‘That’s barefaced fraud!’ protested Leeming. ‘He’d take the money and run.’

  ‘Track him down and give him a scare.’

  ‘I’ll give him more than that, sir.’

  ‘With so many men employed at the Works,’ said Colbe
ck, sighing, ‘you’d have thought that at least one of them might have come up with evidence we can actually use.’

  ‘Not everyone has read the Advertiser.’

  ‘Mr Stinson has had reward notices put up in the Old Town as well as here. Everybody in Swindon will know that there’s money at stake.’

  ‘That means we’ll have more rubbish like this flooding in.’

  ‘We shall see, Victor.’

  They went back to their original list and discussed each suspect in turn. When they came to Alford’s name, Colbeck admitted that he’d been sceptical about the inclusion of the murder victim’s best friend. His conversation with Alford’s wife had forced him to reappraise the suggestion. Since Liza Alford had admitted she slept very soundly, it would have been possible for Alford to leave the house at night without her being aware of it. Colbeck learnt that he’d courted Betty Marklew, as she then was, assiduously and even proposed marriage. When she turned him down, he was deeply upset. While she didn’t put it into words, it became clear that his wife felt that she was second best. Until the relationship with Betty had ended, Alford had never looked at the woman he went on to marry.

  ‘What did Alford stand to gain by the murder?’ asked Leeming.

  ‘It would bring him closer to Mrs Rodman. He knew she’d turn to him.’

  ‘But he already has a wife.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘and do you know what she told me? Her husband was very angry when he heard that the vicar had stepped in to offer the family a refuge at the parsonage. Alford was keen for them to move into his house.’

  ‘It would’ve been far too small, surely?’

  ‘Betty Rodman would have been under his roof. That’s what he wanted. Let me add one more significant piece of information,’ Colbeck went on. ‘Mrs Alford had returned to her own house earlier on because she knew that her husband would call on Mrs Rodman on his way back from work. They’d agreed between them that one of them should be with her at all times.’

  ‘So Alford would have been alone with Mrs Rodman.’

  ‘I fancy that he’d savour the situation.’

  ‘Maybe he does deserve closer attention, then.’

  ‘All four main suspects do, Victor. I’m excluding the Welshman.’

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ said Leeming. ‘I don’t suppose you happened to see that poster for the concert when you came in here this evening?’ Colbeck shook his head. ‘I think that you ought to look at it, sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s been a change in the programme. Frank Rodman’s name has been crossed out and Llewellyn’s has been written in its place.’

  ‘That’s probably just a bit of fun on the Welshman’s behalf.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. I spoke to the landlord about it. They couldn’t find anyone else to take part in the concert at such short notice so they agreed to give the Welshman his opportunity.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me. It’s an additional reason for us to go to the Mechanics’ Institution on Saturday night.’

  Leeming was surprised. ‘We’re attending the concert?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Colbeck, seriously. ‘Has it never occurred to you that we’re likely to be in the same room as the killer?’

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘He might even be singing a solo.’

  Edward Tallis awoke on Friday morning with a sense of release. He was free from responsibility for once, he was staying with a close friend and he’d be going to join his old regiment at their barracks in Hythe. After a hearty breakfast with Wardlow and his wife, he was offered the chance to visit Canterbury and he promptly accepted. A religious man, Tallis was keen to see the cathedral, to admire its soaring architecture and to draw strength from being at the very heart of the Anglican Church. He was also interested to see the city itself, retaining much of its medieval geography and replete with relics of the past. When his friend joked that he might wish to call in on the local constabulary, the suggestion was met with a firm refusal. Tallis was on holiday. He intended to relish every moment of it.

  When they were ready to depart, they found the dog cart waiting for them outside the front door. Wardlow took up the reins and they set off down the drive. Tallis was glad to be alone with his friend once more. Mrs Wardlow had been a charming and attentive hostess but the superintendent was ill at ease in the company of women and lacked the ability to converse with them. Marriage had never appealed to him and he’d resolved that his bachelor status would remain intact until his death.

  They were soon discussing which of the sights of Canterbury they should see and in what order. As they joined the winding road to the city, they were so immersed in their debate that neither of them noticed that they were being watched from the cover of a nearby copse.

  When the detectives got to their office that morning, the first person who came to see them was Inspector Piercey. Still mouthing apologies for revealing information about the murder victim to William Morris, he asked for an opportunity to redeem himself. Colbeck saw a chance to unload on to him a task he’d asked Leeming to undertake. Handing the inspector the relevant letter, he told him to find out who’d written it and to arrest him for wasting police time and trying to obtain money by fraudulent means. Piercey was delighted to be a functioning part of the investigation and set off to prove that he, too, had skills of detection.

  The tempting prospect of a reward had produced a flurry of letters but all of them were based on guesswork rather than on evidence. Hector Samway’s name cropped up twice and so did that of Simeon Cudlip. Other suspects on the detectives’ list were not accused by anybody. One letter was three pages long.

  ‘Someone has written a whole life story,’ he observed.

  ‘Yes, Victor, and every line is riddled with malice. I don’t believe that he’s seriously suggesting that this man, Arthur Caldicott, really is the killer. He just wants us to give him a nasty shock by hauling him out of the Wagon Shop to question him.’

  ‘Should we set Inspector Piercey on to him?’

  ‘That’s exactly what we’ll do,’ said Colbeck, smiling. ‘A man in uniform gives most people a jolt and that’s what’s needed in the case of the spiteful individual who wrote this letter.’

  When they’d finished trawling through the correspondence, they decided that nobody would actually turn up in person because they were all at work. Colbeck suggested that it was time for him to meet Samway and Cudlip while Leeming went off to the Old Town to form his opinion of Daniel Gill. Before they could leave the office, however, they had an unexpected visitor. She was a short, dark-haired, shapely woman in her late twenties with anxious eyes set in a pretty face. In her sing-song accent, she told them that her name was Rachel Griffiths and that her husband worked in the rolling mills.

  Since she was clearly unnerved by the sight of the two detectives, Colbeck offered her a seat then spent a few minutes trying to make her feel more comfortable.

  ‘Thank you very much for coming to see us, Mrs Griffiths,’ he said, gently. ‘Whatever you say will be treated in confidence so you may speak freely. Let me remind you that we’re dealing with a truly horrific crime that has poisoned the atmosphere of the whole village. We’ve seen its effect wherever we’ve been. If it remains unsolved, the murder is going to blight Christmas for everyone here.’

  ‘That includes us,’ Leeming put in.

  ‘Anything you can tell us – anything at all you think might be of practical use to us – will be welcomed. Don’t be afraid of repercussions. Nobody needs to know that you came here but, if you do still feel afraid, you’ll get police protection.’

  There was a protracted silence. She studied both of them in turn.

  ‘Take your time, Mrs Griffiths,’ said Colbeck. ‘We can wait.’

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ she whispered. ‘I’m ashamed.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘You did say that nobody would know I’d come here, didn’t you?’

  ‘The sergeant and I give you our wo
rd.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Leeming. ‘You can trust us.’

  ‘What if you despise me?’ she asked, worriedly.

  ‘We’re not here to sit in judgement,’ Colbeck assured her. ‘Our only interest is in acquiring information that will lead to the arrest of the man who murdered Frank Rodman. Something brought you along here this morning and I’m fairly certain that it was not the promise of a reward.’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘Then please tell us what it was.’

  After another pause, she forced herself to speak, words coming out haltingly.

  ‘My husband is a good man, Inspector. I want you to know that.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘But he’s a lot older than me. That’s not an excuse,’ she added, ‘so please don’t think it is. The truth is that I have no excuse.’

  ‘Are you telling us that someone else … took an interest in you?’ said Colbeck.

  ‘There’s been more than one. I was plagued with them. It’s one of the reasons I got married in the first place. I hoped it would stop all that.’

  ‘Patently, it didn’t.’

  ‘You get used to things,’ she said, resignedly.

  ‘Do you live in what they call the barracks?’

  ‘We all do. They herded us in there like sheep.’

  ‘You don’t like it, do you?’

  ‘There are some good things about it,’ she conceded, ‘and I thought that he was one of them.’ She bit her lip. ‘I met someone and we … became friends. Since we all live on top of each other, it was very difficult for us to meet but there’s this empty room and he managed to get hold of the key.’

  ‘Keep going, Mrs Griffiths,’ said Colbeck. ‘You met this person from time to time, I suspect. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector.’