Peril on the Royal Train Read online

  ‘What did you do that for?’ he said in annoyance.

  Regretting his anger at once, he reached out to give the dog a pat of gratitude. Angus had only been trying to warn him that someone was coming. A well-dressed man was driving a trap towards them. When he recognised Colbeck, the shepherd leapt to his feet and ran towards him, arriving almost breathless.

  ‘Have ye brought my money?’ he asked between gasps.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I have come to tell you that we acted on the information you gave us and arrested two men.’ Farr was elated. ‘Before you let your excitement get the better of you, you must know that neither of them had anything to do with the train crash.’ The shepherd’s joy turned to anguish. ‘They were, however, criminals, thieves who’d been robbing goods trains on the Caledonian. Since it was your evidence that led to their arrest,’ said Colbeck, putting a hand into his pocket, ‘the railway company decided – on my advice – that some sort of reward was due. It won’t be the four hundred pounds advertised, I’m afraid, but I hope that this will be some sort of consolation to you.’

  Colbeck handed over the money. Farr was thrilled. It was only thirty pounds but that was a substantial amount to him. It was something on which he and Bella could build their plans. Having expected nothing at all, Farr was overcome with emotion. Tears in his eyes, he shook Colbeck’s hand.

  ‘Ye came all this way to see me,’ he said in surprise. ‘I can’t thank ye enough.’

  ‘I keep my promises, Jamie.’

  Farr looked at the banknotes. ‘Is this all for me?’

  ‘You earned it,’ said Colbeck. ‘Your information put two criminals behind bars. Keep those sharp eyes of yours peeled. You never know what they might see.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Victor Leeming had learnt his lesson. On his two previous visits to the Gorbals, he’d worn his customary clothing. His top hat and frock coat made him stand out like a beacon in the darkness. Before he set off a third time, therefore, he changed into rougher garb that enabled him to merge with his surroundings. Baggy trousers, crumpled jacket and dirty cap lent him invisibility. Colbeck had taught him the value of having such a disguise at hand, though he was reluctant to put it on himself because he took such pride in his appearance. Leeming was untroubled by vanity. Dressed as a labourer of some sort, he felt very comfortable. The only problem was that he had to leave the hotel in his new incarnation and he was immediately pounced on by a vigilant manager who blocked his path.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said. ‘May I ask what you’re doing here?’

  ‘I’m staying at the hotel,’ replied Leeming.

  ‘I very much doubt that.’

  ‘Inspector Colbeck and I have rooms here.’

  The manager peered at him. ‘You are Sergeant Leeming?’

  ‘I am indeed,’ said the other, removing his cap to prove it. ‘If you’ll stand aside, I have somewhere to go.’

  ‘Yes, yes – I do apologise, Sergeant.’

  ‘It’s not necessary. I take it as a compliment.’

  Leeming put on his cap and walked out of the hotel. His disguise worked. If it could convince the manager of The Angel Hotel, it could fool anybody. His confidence surged. It soon buckled slightly. When he tried to hail a cab, none of them would stop for him because he didn’t look like the sort of customer who could afford the fare. In the end, he walked to a cab rank and brought out a handful of coins to show that he had money. Settling into a vehicle, he was taken on the long ride to the Gorbals.

  It was early evening when he got there and the streets were as drab and malodorous as ever. But he was no longer jeered at by children or given hostile stares from windows and doorways. When he found the tenement he was after, he banged on the door and waited. There was no response. He raised a hand to knock again.

  ‘She’s no’ there,’ said a voice.

  At first, Leeming didn’t hear it because it was muffled beneath the stabbing music of a hurdy-gurdy. The wizened old woman, barely strong enough to hold the instrument, was turning the handle. She paused in order to repeat the warning. Leeming swung round to face her.

  ‘Maggie went oot a wee while ago,’ she said.

  ‘Do you know when Mrs Paterson will be back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was really looking for her husband.’

  ‘Lackey doesnae live heer any more.’

  ‘I know that but I thought he might have come back to see his wife.’

  ‘Mebbe he did,’ said the woman. ‘I’ve only been in the street for twenty minutes or so. Maggie was leaving as I got heer.’

  ‘Have you any idea where she went?’

  ‘I thought it was Lackey ye was after.’

  ‘It is,’ said Leeming, falling back on an excuse he’d thought up earlier. ‘We worked in a quarry together but he left the job last weekend. He told me to look out for him when I was next in Glasgow. This was the address he gave me.’

  ‘Then he’s led ye astray. He left months ago.’

  ‘But he’s back in the city. I know that much.’

  ‘Then ye ken more than me,’ said the old woman. ‘Walking these streets every day, there’s no’ much I miss. I’ve no’ seen Lackey since Christmas. Tha’s when he left Maggie and the bairn on their own.’

  Leeming studied her. She was a true denizen of the area. In spite of her age, the woman seemed to have keen eyesight and a good memory. Having worked there all her life, she was a walking encyclopaedia of the Gorbals, knowing the names, faces and domestic arrangements of hundreds of people. As she brought a little music into their lives, she was permitted to step over the bounds of privacy. She was known, liked, trusted. Leeming had found a reliable source.

  ‘Perhaps you could help me,’ he said, hopefully.

  ‘How much is it worth? I’ll no’ earn a farthing if I talk to ye any longer.’ When some coins were pressed into her palm, she held them tight. ‘Thank ye, my friend. Ye’ve just bought ma attention.’

  ‘Where would he go?’ asked Leeming. ‘If Lackey came back to Glasgow, where would he stay?’ The woman was lost in thought for over a minute. Leeming prompted her. ‘Mrs Paterson gave me the name of a pub in Marigold Street but he wasn’t there. Yet he must lay his head somewhere. I promised to buy him a drink but I can’t do that if I can’t even find him.’

  ‘He could be at Telfer’s, I s’ppose,’ replied the other.

  ‘Is that another pub?’

  ‘No, it’s a place where ye go when ye’ve little money and need a rest. Lackey’s been there in the past, I ken that. It’s no’ a hoose ye’d stay in unless ye had to but, if Lackey’s gi’ up a job, mebbe it’s all the mahn can afford.’

  ‘Where is Telfer’s?’

  Leeming’s eagerness caused her slight alarm. She narrowed her eyes.

  ‘Ye’re no’ a p’liceman, are ye?’

  ‘No, said Leeming, ‘I hate the peelers.’ He spat on the ground to attest his credentials. ‘That’s what I think of them and I know that Lackey felt the same. I just want to see him. If he’s short of money, I may be able to lend him some.’

  ‘Then ye’ll never see a penny of it back,’ she warned.

  Stepping in close to him, she subjected Leeming to a long, searching stare. All that he could do was to stand there patiently. At length, she decided that she could trust him but wanted more payment. When she thrust out a hand, he slipped some more coins into it. Turning the handle of the hurdy-gurdy, she produced a penetrating sound that made Leeming’s ears ring. She raised her voice to speak over it.

  ‘I’ll tell ye where Telfer’s is …’

  A dozen of them assembled at the restaurant. Six of them were retired drivers but only five had brought their wives. Caleb Andrews was the odd one out. Having arrived with his daughter on his arm, he enjoyed the look of wonder on the faces of the others when he introduced Madeleine as the wife of Inspector Colbeck. They’d all heard of the Railway Detective and were eager for news of his latest case. Andrews d
ispensed what information he had as if he was directly involved in the investigation. There was general sympathy for the victims of the train crash. Every driver there had a tale about coming off the line because of an obstruction. They’d killed farm animals of every kind and one of them had hit a cart that had broken down on the track.

  The dinner was due to be served in a private room with a whiff of luxury about it. It was the sort of place to which they could never ordinarily afford to come. Drinks were served on arrival and everyone chatted amiably. What surprised them all was that there was no sign of their host and his wife. In fact, it was half an hour after the advertised time that Archibald Renwick and his wife arrived. They apologised for their lateness and tried to join in the spirit of the occasion but Madeleine noticed how tense the general manager was and how forced his wife’s smile appeared to be. Isobel Renwick was a plump woman with a large bosom and spreading midriff putting her red velvet dress under strain. Her husband, noticeably older than her, was a tall, erect, poised man with an air of distinction about him.

  When they met Madeleine, they were fulsome in their praise.

  ‘We love the painting,’ said Renwick, giving her a congratulatory handshake. ‘As soon as I saw it, I knew that I had to have it.’

  ‘Yes,’ added his wife, ‘I couldn’t believe it when my husband said that he wanted to hang a picture of a steam locomotive in our dining room. They’re such ugly, noisy things and they belong on a railway line. When I laid eyes on it, however, I was won over at once. You turned it into something beautiful.’

  ‘Cornwall was beautiful,’ Andrews piped up. ‘I should know. It was a joy to be on the footplate. I was the one who told Maddie she ought to paint Cornwall.’

  ‘Then we have to thank you as well,’ said Renwick.

  ‘In fact – now that I’m retired – I may take up painting myself.’

  ‘I’ll be interested to see what you produce.’

  ‘Maddy must get her artistic skills from somewhere.’

  Madeleine smiled, knowing full well that she didn’t inherit those skills from her father. The only painting he’d ever done was on the walls of the kitchen and he’d made a complete mess of it. She made no reference to the incident, not wishing to let him down in front of Renwick and in front of the other drivers who obviously held Andrews in high esteem. It was lovely to see her father in his element, basking in the general manager’s praise and trading reminiscences with his friends. Madeleine also liked the curiosity she aroused because of her husband’s fame. It helped to ease the pain created by his absence.

  A table plan had been drawn up and Andrews was disappointed that he was not placed next to Renwick. Never one to be cowed in the presence of someone more senior in the LNWR, he’d hoped for the opportunity to tell the general manager how he might improve the running of the company. Madeleine was grateful that her father wasn’t allowed to foist his advice on Renwick. Having heard his trenchant opinions many times, she didn’t want the evening to be spoilt by his litany of complaints. At a celebratory event like that, there was no place for argument. It would destroy the mood of happiness.

  The meal was excellent, the service brisk and the wine plentiful. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves with the exception of Renwick and his wife. The general manager was quite unable to relax and the speech he made in honour of the retired members of his staff, though generous and well meant, was strangely muted. Instead of coming from the heart, it came word for word from the piece of paper on which he’d written it and which he read without ever lifting his face to his audience. Yet if he seemed uninvolved in the proceedings, Isobel Renwick was even more detached. She kept looking over her shoulder as if expecting someone to creep up on her and, when her husband introduced some weak humour into his speech, she had to wrench her features into a smile.

  Madeleine was so worried about the woman that she took the trouble to have a quiet word with her. As the guests began to exchange their farewells, Andrews finally managed a private chat with Renwick. The general manager’s wife hovered near the door, anxious to leave yet afraid to go through the door alone. She stood back to let others go out, nodding politely as they went past. Madeleine went over to her.

  ‘I’m sorry that you haven’t enjoyed the evening, Mrs Renwick,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all,’ insisted the other woman. ‘I loved every moment of it. Meeting people like your father is a pleasure. My husband always says that it is drivers like him who are the backbone of the LNWR, hence this dinner in honour of them.’

  ‘My father was very touched to be invited.’

  ‘I was looking forward to seeing you, Mrs Colbeck. That painting of yours opened my eyes to the sheer beauty of a locomotive. Archie calls them a triumph of engineering and I’m finally seeing why.’

  She kept tossing glances in the direction of her husband but he was still deep in conversation with Andrews. Wanting to know why the woman was so nervous, Madeleine didn’t feel that she could press her on the subject. Instead, she bade her adieu and made to move way. Isobel grasped her by the wrist.

  ‘I must apologise for my rudeness,’ she said.

  ‘I was unaware of it, Mrs Renwick.’

  ‘You were quite right. I wasn’t able to take full enjoyment from this evening and neither was my husband. The truth is that we had a rather distressing incident at home and it’s been preying on our minds.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Madeleine with sympathy, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘The house was burgled last night.’

  ‘That must have been frightening.’

  ‘It was, Mrs Colbeck. We were in bed at the time and didn’t hear a thing. Neither did any of the servants but, then, they sleep in the attic rooms. The thief came and went like a ghost. It made us feel so vulnerable,’ said Isobel, chewing her lip. ‘All the doors were locked yet somehow a burglar got in and managed to open the safe.’

  ‘Was very much stolen?’

  ‘As it happens, he only took the money that was there. But that’s not the point. If he’d taken nothing at all, we’d still have been upset. Our home was invaded. We’ll never be able to feel safe there again.’

  ‘It must have been dreadful for you.’

  ‘It was,’ said Isobel, wringing her hands. ‘I was horrified that he might have stolen my jewels but, for some reason, he left them in the safe. Archie was even more worried than me. There were some important documents in there, including some that related to Her Majesty the Queen. Thank heaven the thief didn’t spirit those away!’

  Telfer’s turned out to be a dingy lodging house, comprising four adjacent buildings knocked into one and filled on three levels with an array of beds, bunks and noisome mattresses. Accommodation was cheap and included free soap, razors, pen and ink, salt and pepper, and a newspaper. Few of the guests had the time or energy to read the daily news. They tumbled into bed at an appointed hour and, when they tumbled out again to go to work, someone immediately took their place. Telfer’s was a place of continuous occupation, a male dormitory that stank of dirty sheets and unwashed bodies. Leeming had seen similar establishments in London. It was a house of last resort and that told him something about Lackey Paterson.

  Once again, he had to buy information. Ebenezer Telfer was a white-haired old man with one arm but it didn’t seem to impede him in any way. Though his guests ebbed and flowed throughout the day and night, he knew who they all were and how many hours they’d bought in one of his unappetising beds. Leeming learnt that Paterson was not due back until later that evening and so he took up a position outside the house. Various men shuffled past him, either going in or coming out. His disguise kept inquisitive looks at bay. Sorry for anyone compelled to live in such a way, he had no sympathy for the man he was tracking. Paterson had beaten his wife and deserted her. She’d been left in the utmost misery. Her husband didn’t merit compassion. All that was due to him was contempt.

  The wait took longer than he’d expected and Leeming began to wonder if he’d
either been given the wrong information by Telfer or if one particular guest had decided to spend the night elsewhere. After another half an hour, Leeming was ready to abandon his vigil altogether. Then he saw someone approaching with a drunken sway. As the man walked beneath the gas lamp opposite, he was caught in the spill of light. Leeming got a good look at him and felt sure that it could be his quarry. He let him get as far as the door before accosting him.

  ‘Lackey Paterson?’ he asked.

  ‘Who’re ye?’ grunted the other, sizing him up.

  ‘I’d like a word with you, Mr Paterson.’

  ‘Get oot of ma way.’

  When he tried to push his way past Leeming, he found his arm being grabbed and that ignited his temper immediately. Swinging a fist, he caught the detective on the side of the head and sent him reeling. He then staggered off in a forlorn attempt to run away. Once he’d overcome the shock of the blow, Leeming went after him and soon caught up with him. Paterson tried to hit him again but he was too slow. His punch was blocked and a fist explored his stomach. It took all the fight out of him. Bent double, he moaned in agony.

  ‘Let’s have that word now, shall we?’ said Leeming.

  Time meant nothing to Colbeck when he was absorbed in a case. He stayed at the desk in his office until late evening, sifting through the available clues once again then poring over the ordnance survey map that included the crash site. He picked out the location of Jamie Farr’s cottage and wondered what the shepherd would do with the reward he’d received. He was still scrutinising the map when there was a knock on the door and it opened to reveal Inspector Rae.

  ‘I saw a light under the door,’ he said. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘No, no, come on in, Inspector.’

  ‘The trail has gone cold.’