Inspector Colbeck's Casebook Read online

  As he enjoyed a glass of whisky in his lodging, he ran his eye down the obituary column and used a pencil to circle the details of two funerals in Brighton. Since they were on the same day, he had to choose between them and opted for the one that concerned the death of a former Member of Parliament. It would be an event of some significance with many visitors coming and leaving by train. Grief-stricken and off guard, they would be susceptible to his unique gifts of persuasion. After finishing the whisky with a last gulp, he crossed to the wardrobe and opened the door.

  ‘I think it’s time for the Reverend Youngman to make another appearance,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Or perhaps I should elevate him. Yes,’ he decided, ‘Paul, former Bishop of Chichester, has a pleasing ring to it. Having retired as a prelate, I’ll garner praise for taking on the humbler duties of a railway missionary.’

  Victor Leeming was given a task he enjoyed least, that of travelling on trains to a series of destinations. He went to a number of towns along the south coast, talking to station employees and giving them a description of the man known as the Reverend Youngman. In most cases, he came away empty-handed. Such were the crowds that thronged the platforms, it was impossible to pick out individuals. He had more success at Dover and Brighton. A stationmaster at one and a porter at the other remembered the clergyman clearly. They said that he always carried a valise and travelled first class. Enquiries at police stations in both places yielded no additional information. The confidence trickster was not known to the police either in Dover or Brighton. Yet he was patently in the area. Having established where the man’s primary territory was, Leeming felt able to catch a train back to London.

  Colbeck’s search also involved a number of blind alleys. Though the man he sought was reportedly in the capital, it took him the best part of the day to track him down. When he finally did so, he discovered that Nigel Buckmaster was holding a private rehearsal with a beautiful young actress in a room at an exclusive hotel. It was not Colbeck’s business to probe too deeply into the nature of the instruction that she had received but he knew from experience that the actor-manager always mingled work and pleasure in a way that made them indistinguishable.

  When they met in the bar, Buckmaster was as flamboyant as ever.

  ‘Well met, Inspector,’ he said, pumping Colbeck’s hand. ‘I’m glad to see you again. Life has been good to me since our first encounter.’

  ‘I have followed your career with interest.’

  ‘Then you will know that I now dominate the London stage like a Titan. I am at the pinnacle of my profession. Gone are the days when I had to peddle my talent around dingy theatres in the provinces.’

  ‘Your success is well deserved, Mr Buckmaster.’

  Colbeck knew that a combination of flattery and a free drink always made the actor more amenable. They had first met years earlier in Cardiff when the inspector was investigating a murder and when the actor was playing the title role in Macbeth. Events had thrown them close together and – because he was a genuine admirer of Buckmaster’s work – Colbeck and he had become friends.

  Over a drink in the bar, the conversation began with the theatre.

  ‘Your Hamlet was without compare.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. I intend to revive my production. The young lady you saw leaving just now has made an excellent impression on me. I auditioned her for the role of Ophelia.’

  ‘I hope that you will soon revive your Othello as well.’

  ‘The public clamour for it is very heartening.’

  Buckmaster was a tall, lean man with a face that was at once handsome and sinister and long dark hair that fell to his shoulders. Noted for his dandyism, Colbeck felt invisible beside his friend’s ostentatious attire.

  ‘I am looking for an actor,’ he said.

  ‘One sits before you, sir,’ said Buckmaster, arms spread wide.

  ‘This gentleman’s performances are of a more criminal nature. In short, he preys on gullible people in various guises and draws money out of them. What every victim has commented on is his voice. It is low and beguiling. My belief is that the fellow must have had training on the stage.’

  ‘That’s a reasonable assumption.’

  ‘We need to catch him before others fall into his clutches.’

  ‘In what guises does he appear?’

  ‘Well,’ said Colbeck, ‘his favourite seems to be that of a clergyman. He claims to be a missionary on the railways and is, by all accounts, highly plausible.’

  ‘The world is full of actors who’ve fallen on hard times and turned to crime. It will be difficult for me to pluck one out of the hundreds with whom I worked.’

  ‘In this case, we have a name.’

  ‘Then it’s certainly a false one. We thespians love to hide our true selves.’

  ‘That’s why I came to you, Mr Buckmaster. When I first heard the name, I was ready to dismiss it as an invention but it has tickled something in my memory. I have heard it before somewhere but I cannot, for the life of me, remember where. Actors – I need hardly tell you – are superstitious creatures. I begin to wonder,’ said Colbeck, thoughtfully, ‘whether the man I seek has perhaps fastened on the name of a character he once played on the boards.’

  ‘That would not surprise me in the least,’ said Buckmaster. ‘I have met several actors who have stolen names from elsewhere. In my own company, for instance, I have a Romeo Armstrong and a Mark Antony Williamson. Unfortunately, in both cases, their ambition far outruns their talents and neither will ever play the parts in which they cast themselves. What is the name of the villain you are after?’

  ‘He calls himself the Reverend Paul Youngman.’

  Buckmaster slapped his thigh. ‘Then he gives himself away.’

  ‘You know the name?’

  ‘I know the part and I know the rogue who played it. I was unlucky enough to engage him. The Reverend Youngman appears in a trifling comedy by Tom Taylor called A Love Denied, an early work rarely performed now. I had the misfortune to take the lead and play opposite one of the greatest scoundrels ever to infect our profession. Hell’s teeth!’ exclaimed Buckmaster. ‘He had the nerve to steal a scene from me. And his thievery did not end there. When I dismissed him from the company, he robbed the rest of the cast and made off with my valise.’

  Colbeck was delighted. ‘Who played the Reverend Paul Youngman?’

  ‘His real name is Douglas Aird.’

  ‘I owe you a thousand thanks, Mr Buckmaster. When I run him down, I’ll see if I can’t retrieve your valise.’

  ‘He is a disgrace to the profession.’

  Buckmaster emptied his glass then rose to his feet. Colbeck offered to buy him another drink but the actor dismissed the offer with a lordly wave.

  ‘Alas, I may not tarry,’ he said. ‘Another young hopeful is to audition for the part of Ophelia. She may well be tapping on the door of my room right now.’

  Armed with a name, the detectives found it much easier to pick up the scent. Having first tried Dover, they moved to Brighton and, by dint of making an endless series of enquiries, finally got an address on the seafront. Appropriately, Aird’s lodging was only four doors away from a costume-hire shop. Before they reached the place, the man himself stepped into view disguised as a bishop with a large pectoral cross dangling on his chest. In his hand, he was carrying a valise. He fitted the detailed description that Tallis had provided. Colbeck and Leeming followed him all the way to the railway station. When he stood alone on the platform, the detectives moved in.

  ‘Are you the Reverend Paul Youngman?’ asked Colbeck, politely.

  ‘I was,’ replied Aird, loftily. ‘In its wisdom, the Anglican Church saw fit to transform me into the Bishop of Chichester.’

  ‘And do you intend to continue missionary work on the railways?’

  Aird was unruffled. ‘God will not be mocked, sir. I’d be grateful if you and your friend will leave me alone or I will have to summon a policeman.’

  ‘I’m a policeman,’
said Leeming, stepping forward. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Leeming of Scotland Yard and this gentleman is Inspector Colbeck.’ Aird was very ruffled now. ‘Our superintendent would value a word with you, sir. I believe you owe him five pounds.’

  ‘When you’ve returned that,’ said Colbeck with a steely smile, ‘you can hand back the valise you stole from Nigel Buckmaster. It’s my sad duty to report that he does not speak well of you. And, while we’re on the subject of reparation, I daresay that Tom Taylor, the playwright, would like you to surrender the name of the clergyman you purloined from A Love Denied.’ He put a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Not to put too fine a point upon it, sir, you and your false identity are both under arrest.’

  Douglas Aird gave a carefree laugh and tried to bluff his way out of the situation. When his charm failed, and when Colbeck produced a pair of handcuffs, the Bishop of Chichester swung the valise like an incense burner and knocked the inspector aside. He then lifted his cassock and took to his heels, sprinting along the platform as if the hounds of Hell were on his tail. In fact, it was Leeming who went in pursuit and who caught him without undue difficulty. Diving on Aird’s back, he brought him crashing down. As he hit the hard stone, Aird yelled out in pain.

  ‘If you think that hurt,’ said Leeming with a wolfish grin, ‘wait until you meet Superintendent Tallis again.’

  ON GUARD

  Jake Fullard had always wanted to be a guard. It gave him a wonderful sense of authority because he was in charge of a train. The engine driver and the fireman were subservient to him. If a train stopped for any reason other than at a signal, it was Fullard’s job to apply the brake in the brake van then walk back down the line to warn oncoming trains that there was a blockage ahead. By his count – and he was a pedantic mathematician – he had prevented fourteen potential collisions by his prompt action. Fullard was a slight man in his forties with a long neck and narrow shoulders. He had a full beard, bushy eyebrows and protruding ears. Highly efficient at his job, he was also known for the care he took in his appearance. He’d never venture outside the house unless his uniform was brushed clean and his boots polished. His preference was for acting as guard on passenger trains so he was irked when he found himself assigned to a livestock train. His wife, Hannah, bore the brunt of his annoyance.

  ‘I’m too good to be wasted on animals,’ he protested.

  ‘Yes, Jake, I’m sure you are.’

  ‘The noise is always deafening and you wouldn’t believe the stink.’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ she said. ‘It gets into your clothes sometimes.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous,’ he went on. ‘I’m the best guard in the whole company and they make me look after pigs, cattle, sheep and horses. I should be above that kind of thing. Apart from anything else, I hate farm animals. Whenever I get anywhere near one, I start coughing and wheezing.’

  ‘It’s not fair on you, Jake.’

  Hannah was a full-bodied woman in her forties with a pleasant face framed by a mass of dark curls. Fiercely loyal to her husband, she always oozed sympathy when she felt he’d been slighted.

  He gave her a token peck on the cheek before setting off for work. It was a dull morning with persistent drizzle falling from a leaden sky. Fullard walked the half-mile to the station at a brisk pace. On arriving there, he saw that the stock wagons had already been loaded and that the animals were protesting noisily at being penned up. When he was guard on a passenger train, he travelled inside the brake van and was protected from the elements. On a livestock train, however, he sat high up at the rear of the wagons so that he could keep an eye on them in transit.

  Fullard went first to the engine. The driver was puffing on his pipe while the fireman was complaining about the drizzle. After moaning about the animals, Fullard chatted with them for a few minutes then walked the length of the train towards the brake van. There were thirty wagons in all, each producing its individual cacophony and giving off its distinctive reek. Fullard checked each wagon to make certain that it was secure. He found the stink of the pigs particularly offensive and held his nose when close to them. When he reached the brake van, he was about to climb up on top of it when something hit him so viciously on the back of the head that his skull split open and his career as a guard came to a premature end.

  There were two things that Victor Leeming remembered about Devon. It was a long way from London and it was the scene of a hideous murder that he and Robert Colbeck had once investigated in Exeter. The county town was again involved because the death of Jake Fullard had occurred at Cullompton beside a train that was taking animals to market in Exeter. The detectives had been summoned from Scotland Yard by telegraph. Leeming was, as usual, afraid that they might be kept away from London for days. Colbeck was more sanguine.

  ‘Cullompton is a small town, Victor,’ he said. ‘People tend to know each other in places like that. It’s not like London where strangers can go unnoticed in a huge population. If anything out of the ordinary happened in Cullompton, somebody will have been aware of it.’

  ‘All we know is that the guard was trampled to death.’

  ‘Foul play is suspected.’

  ‘It could have been an accident. They happen all the time.’

  ‘This one is different – at least that’s what the railway company thinks.’

  ‘Where will you start, Inspector?’

  ‘I’ll view the body, examine the scene of the crime then speak to the driver and the fireman.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Do you really need to ask?’ teased Colbeck. ‘You’ll be taking statements from the animals. They’ll have lots to tell you, I’m sure.’

  The town was a hundred and eighty miles from London but the express train got them there speedily. They found Cullompton station in turmoil. Farmers were demanding to know why their animals were still stuck in a siding and threatening to sue the company if they weren’t on sale in Exeter market on the following morning. Passengers awaiting trains had drifted over to a position from which they could see the actual spot where the dead body had been found. Word had spread quickly in the town and dozens of people had congregated out of curiosity. Martin Rimmer, the tubby stationmaster with a walrus moustache, was besieged.

  ‘Thank God you’ve come,’ he said when the detectives introduced themselves. ‘It’s been like a madhouse here.’

  ‘What exactly happened?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘We don’t rightly know, Inspector. Jake Fullard is an experienced guard who prides himself on the way he does his job. Yet he got trampled by a wagonload of bullocks. The driver and fireman only realised that something was amiss when a couple of the animals went galloping past them. Others charged off in another direction and three of them mounted the platform and caused mayhem among the passengers. Dan Ferris, the farmer who owns them, has only just finished rounding them up. I’m not looking forward to meeting him,’ said Rimmer, grimacing. ‘Dan’s language is ripe at the best of times.’

  ‘Were there any witnesses?’

  ‘None have come forward.’

  ‘Has there been any attempt to find them?’

  ‘One of the local constables has been doing the rounds in search of anyone who might be able to shed light on what happened.’

  ‘Where’s the guard now?’ asked Leeming.

  ‘He’s in my office, Sergeant. I wasn’t sure whether to leave him here or have him moved by the undertaker. In the end, I decided to keep him.’

  ‘Good,’ said Colbeck. ‘Has the family been informed?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Rimmer, nervously. ‘Hannah Fullard and her daughter both know that Jake is dead. What they haven’t been told, however, is whether or not he was murdered. We’re hoping that you could confirm that.’

  ‘Let’s go and see him.’

  The appearance of the detectives had aroused a lot of interest and there was a heavy murmur all round them as they walked towards the stationmaster’s office. Two uniformed railway policemen were standing outside to keep p
eople at bay. When they realised who the newcomers were, they stepped aside. Rimmer unlocked the door to let the detectives into the office then he locked it behind them. Curtains had been drawn to keep out prying eyes, so there was diminished light.

  The body of Jake Fullard was stretched out on a trestle table and covered with a blanket. Though the faces of the dead were an all too common sight to Colbeck and Leeming, both of them recoiled slightly when the blanket was peeled back. Fullard’s face had been smashed in by the impact of several hooves. Covered in gore, it lacked eyes and a nose. The black beard was now a dark red. Colbeck drew the blanket back so that the whole body was revealed. In their escape from the wagon, the bullocks had left muddy hoof marks all over the guard and had doubtless broken many of his bones in the process.

  ‘What makes you think he was murdered, Mr Rimmer?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘It’s the wound on the back of his head, Inspector. It’s far worse than anything else. Yet he was lying on his back in the grass beside the track,’ explained Rimmer. ‘It was wet from the rain we had this morning and quite soft. As you can see, the bullocks did the damage to the face and the front of his body. How did he get that horrible gash in the back of his head?’

  Colbeck removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it round his hand before gently lifting up the guard’s head. He and Leeming could see that the skull had taken a fearful blow that could not have been the work of scampering hooves.

  ‘Were you called to the scene, Mr Rimmer?’

  ‘Yes, I was, Inspector.’

  ‘And what did you see?’

  ‘Well,’ said the stationmaster, ‘I saw Jake on his back and the wagon empty. What made it worse, you see, was that they’d all jumped on top of him. When they’re unloaded, a ramp is used so that they can come down it one at a time. In this case, the bullocks each leapt three feet before they landed on top of poor Jake.’

  ‘I don’t think he would have felt a thing,’ said Colbeck, sadly. ‘My guess is that he was dead before the first bullock hit him. That blow to the head was lethal.’ He eased the head back down again. ‘Have you searched his pockets?’