Murder on the Brighton Express Read online

  By the time that Colbeck and Leeming arrived at the site, lanterns and torches had been lit to illumine the scene. A few bonfires had also been started, burning the wood from the fractured carriages and the ruined wagons. Having met in a fatal collision, the two locomotives lay on their sides like beached whales, badly distorted, deprived of all power and dignity as they waited for cranes to shift their carcases. A knot of anxious people had gathered around each iron corpse, men for whom the destruction of a locomotive was tantamount to a death in the family.

  As they picked their way through the debris, the detectives presented a curious contrast. Colbeck, the unrivalled dandy of Scotland Yard, was a tall, handsome, elegant man who might have stepped out of a leading role on the stage. Leeming, however, was shorter, stockier, lumbering and decidedly ugly. While the inspector looked as if he had been born in a frock coat, cravat, well-cut trousers and a top hat, the sergeant seemed to have stolen similar clothing without quite knowing how to wear it properly.

  They soon identified the man they had come to see. Captain Harvey Ridgeon was the Inspector General of Railways, a job that consisted largely of investigating accidents throughout the system. He was standing near the two locomotives, talking to one of the many railway policemen on duty. Colbeck was surprised to see how young he was for such an important role. Ridgeon’s predecessor had been a Lieutenant-Colonel who, in turn, had been preceded by a Major-General, both in their fifties and at the end of their military careers.

  Ridgeon, however, was still in his thirties, a fresh-faced man of middle height with an almost boyish appearance. Yet he also possessed a soldier’s bearing and a quiet, natural, unforced authority. Like all inspector generals, he had come from the Corps of Royal Engineers and thus had a good understanding of how the railways were built, maintained and run. When the detectives reached him, he had just parted company with the railway policeman. Colbeck performed the introductions. Though he gave them a polite greeting, Ridgeon was less than pleased to see them.

  ‘It’s good to meet you at last, Inspector Colbeck,’ he said. ‘Your reputation goes before you. But I fail to see why you made the effort to get here. What we need are doctors, nurses and stretcher-bearers, not a couple of detectives, however distinguished their record.’

  ‘We were summoned by the company itself, Captain Ridgeon.’

  ‘Then you must feel free to look around – as long as you don’t impede the railway policemen. They can be very territorial.’

  ‘We’ve found that in the past, sir,’ noted Leeming.

  ‘I’ve had occasional difficulties with them myself.’

  ‘I have to admire the way you got here so promptly,’ observed Colbeck, weighing him up with a shrewd gaze. ‘I didn’t expect you to turn up before morning.’

  ‘This was a dire emergency,’ said Ridgeon, taking in the whole scene with a gesture, ‘and I reacted accordingly. As luck would have it, I was staying with friends in Worthing so I was able to respond quickly when the alarm was raised. Had I still been in Carlisle, where I investigated an accident at the start of the week, then it would have been a very different matter. Before that, I was in Newcastle.’

  ‘You’re very ubiquitous, Captain Ridgeon.’

  ‘I have to be, Inspector. Accidents occur all over the country.’

  ‘That’s my complaint,’ Leeming put in. ‘There are far too many of them. Step into a train and you put your life in peril.’

  ‘Part of my job is to eliminate peril,’ said Ridgeon. ‘I only have powers to inspect and advise but they are important functions. Each accident teaches us something. My officers and I make sure that the respective railway companies learn their lesson.’

  ‘Then why do accidents keep on happening?’ Leeming saw two men vainly trying to lift a section of a wrecked carriage. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, moving away. ‘Someone needs a helping hand.’

  Taking off his coat, Leeming was soon lending his considerable strength to the two men. The timber was easily moved. Ridgeon and Colbeck watched as the sergeant started to clear away more debris.

  ‘We could have done with Sergeant Leeming’s assistance when the accident actually happened,’ said Ridgeon. ‘It was a case of all hands to the pumps then. Believe it or not, things are much better now. It was chaos when I first arrived. Those with the most serious injuries have all been taken away now.’

  ‘There still seem to be plenty of walking wounded,’ said Colbeck, looking around. ‘Who is that gentleman over there, for instance?’

  He pointed towards a man in clerical garb whose hands and head were heavily bandaged yet who was helping an elderly woman to her feet. Having got her upright, he went off to console a man who was sitting on the grass and weeping copiously into a handkerchief.

  ‘That’s the Reverend Ezra Follis,’ explained Ridgeon. ‘He’s a remarkable fellow. He was injured in the crash but, as soon as he was bandaged up, he did his best to offer comfort wherever he could.’

  ‘He obviously has great resilience.’

  ‘He also has a strong stomach, Inspector Colbeck. When they hauled out the driver of the ballast train, he was in such a hideous condition that some people were promptly sick. That little clergyman is made of sterner stuff,’ Ridgeon went on with admiration. ‘He didn’t turn a hair. He threw a blanket over the remains then helped to lift them on to a cart, saying a prayer for the salvation of the man’s soul.’

  ‘How many fatalities have there been so far?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘Six.’

  Colbeck was surprised. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector,’ replied Ridgeon. ‘Given the circumstances, it’s a miracle. Mind you, some of the survivors have terrible injuries and are being treated in hospital. According to the Reverend Follis, the Brighton Express left the track and careered alongside it for a couple of minutes before hitting the other train.’

  ‘In other words, the passengers had time to brace themselves.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I must speak to the Reverend Follis myself.’

  ‘He’s an interesting character.’

  ‘I assume that the driver and fireman of both locomotives died in the crash,’ said Colbeck, sadly.

  ‘Those on the footplate of the ballast train were killed outright. The driver of the express must also be dead because he’s buried beneath his engine. Until a crane arrives, we can’t dig him out.’

  ‘What about his fireman?’

  ‘John Heddle was more fortunate,’ said Ridgeon. ‘He jumped from the footplate before the collision took place. He sustained a nasty head injury during the fall and was still very dazed when I spoke to him, but at least he survived and will be able to give us confirmation.’

  ‘Confirmation?’ echoed Colbeck.

  ‘Yes – of what actually happened. The general feeling among the passengers is that the express went too fast around a bend and jumped off the track. In short, the driver was at fault.’

  ‘That’s a rather hasty verdict to bring in, Captain Ridgeon. It’s very unfair to blame the driver before all the evidence has been gathered, especially as he’s not alive to defend himself.’

  ‘I’m not sure that he has a defence.’

  ‘There are recommended speeds for every stretch of the track.’

  ‘Everyone I’ve spoken to says the same thing,’ argued Ridgeon. ‘The speed was excessive. They were there, Inspector. These people were in the Brighton Express at the time.’

  ‘That’s precisely the reason I’d doubt their word,’ said Colbeck. ‘Oh, I’m sure they gave an honest opinion and I’m not criticising them in any way. But all the passengers have been through a terrible experience. They’ll be in a state of shock. You have to allow for a degree of exaggeration.’

  ‘I talk to survivors of accidents all the time,’ Ridgeon told him, eyes blazing, ‘and I know how to get the truth out of them. I won’t have you casting aspersions upon my methods.’

  ‘I’m not doing so, Captain Ridgeon.’

&nb
sp; ‘Well, it sounds to me as if you are.’

  ‘I’d merely point out that there are no bends of any significance on this stretch of line. Indeed, on the whole journey from London to Brighton, you won’t find dangerous curves or problematical gradients.’

  Ridgeon stuck out a challenging chin. ‘Are you trying to teach me my job, Inspector?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Colbeck, trying to smooth his ruffled feathers with an emollient smile. ‘I simply think that it would be unwise to rush to judgement when you’re not in full possession of the facts.’

  ‘I’ve garnered rather more of them than you.’

  ‘That’s not in dispute.’

  ‘Then have the grace to bow to my superior expertise.’

  ‘I’ll be interested to read your report,’ said Colbeck, meeting his stern gaze without flinching. ‘Meanwhile, I’d be grateful for the names of the two drivers and the fireman who died.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Ridgeon.

  ‘Because, over the years, I’ve become acquainted with many people who work on the railway,’ came the reply. ‘I’ve been summoned twice before by the LB&SCR and got to know a number of their staff.’

  Ridgeon consulted the pad he was holding. ‘The driver of the ballast train was Edmund Liversedge and his fireman was Timothy Parke.’ He glanced up at Colbeck who shook his head. ‘The driver of the other locomotive, presumed dead, was in charge of the Brighton Express for the first time, another factor that I have to take into account. Inexperience on the footplate can be fatal.’

  ‘What was the man’s name, sir?’

  ‘Frank Pike.’ He saw Colbeck heave a sigh. ‘You know him?’

  ‘I knew him quite well at one time,’ said Colbeck, coming to a decision and taking a step backward. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Captain Ridgeon, the sergeant and I will get back to London at once. I’ll take upon myself the duty of informing Mrs Pike of the death of her husband. It’s the least I can do for her.’

  ‘There’s nothing to keep you here, Inspector. The investigation is in safe hands and will not need to involve the Detective Department in any shape or form.’ He flicked a hand. ‘Good day to you.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll be back first thing tomorrow,’ said Colbeck, resenting the curt dismissal. ‘I want to make a closer examination of the site.’ He gave a disarming smile. ‘You’ll be amazed how different things can look in daylight.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Round House was a vast and intricate structure of wrought iron and brick, built to accommodate the turntable used by trains belonging to the London and North Western Railway. Situated in Chalk Farm Road, it was always filled with clamour and action. Since its erection in 1847, it had attracted many visitors but few of them were female and fewer still were as handsome as Madeleine Andrews. In effect, she was a human turntable, making the head of every man there veer round sharply when she entered.

  Many engine drivers had taken their young sons to view the interior of the Round House. Caleb Andrews, a short, wiry man whose fringe beard was speckled with grey, was the only one who had taken a daughter armed with a sketch pad. Taller than her father, Madeleine was an alert, intelligent, spirited young woman who had taken over the running of their Camden house when her mother died. Andrews was known at work for his acid tongue and trenchant opinions but his daughter had tamed him at home, coping easily with his shifting moods and taking the edge off his irascibility.

  ‘There you are, Maddy,’ he said, raising his voice over the din and making a sweeping gesture. ‘What do you think of it?’

  She gave a shrug. ‘It’s magnificent,’ she agreed, running her eye over the interior. ‘It’s like an industrial cathedral. It’s even bigger than it looks from outside.’

  ‘Bigger and noisier – I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve driven on to that turntable. It must be hundreds.’

  ‘Do you think anyone would mind if I made a few sketches?’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare to mind,’ said Andrews, distributing a warning glare around the circle of railwaymen. ‘Any daughter of mine has special privileges.’

  ‘Does that mean I can stand on the footplate while an engine is being turned?’ she teased.

  He laughed. ‘Even I can’t arrange that for you, Maddy.’

  Fiercely proud of her, Andrews stood there with arms akimbo as she began her first quick sketch. Her interest in locomotives was not a casual one. Having discovered an artistic talent, Madeleine had developed it to the point where it had become a source of income. Prints of her railway scenes had been bought by several people. What she had never drawn before, however, was a turntable in action. That was why she had asked her father to take her to the Round House.

  Aware of the attention she was getting, she kept her head down and worked swiftly. It was left to Andrews to explain what she was doing and to boast about her modest success as an artist. Any talent she possessed, he was keen to point out, must have been inherited from him. While he chatted to his friends, Madeleine was sketching the locomotive that had just been driven on to the turntable before being swung round so that it could leave frontward. A simple, necessary, mechanical action was carried out with relative ease then the locomotive left with a series of short, sharp puffs of smoke.

  Madeleine’s pencil danced over the paper and she scribbled some notes beside each lightning sketch. When she turned her attention to the structure itself, she craned her neck to look up at the domed roof. It was inspiring. The fact that the whole place was bathed in evening shadows somehow made the scene more magical and evocative. She was so absorbed in her work that she did not notice the man who came into the building and spoke earnestly to her father. After his jocular conversation with the others, Andrews was now tense and concerned, plying the newcomer with questions until he had extracted every last detail from him.

  On their walk home through the gathering gloom, Madeleine noticed the radical change in her father’s manner. Instead of talking incessantly, as he usually did, he lapsed into a brooding silence.

  ‘Is anything wrong, Father?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m afraid that it is.’

  She was worried. ‘You’re not in trouble for taking me there, are you? I’d hate to think that I made things awkward for you.’

  ‘It’s nothing like that, Maddy,’ he told her with an affectionate squeeze of her arm. ‘In fact, it’s nothing whatsoever to do with the LNWR. While you were drawing in there, Nat Ruggles passed on some disturbing news to me. There’s been a bad accident.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the Brighton line.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘According to Nat, there was a collision between two trains the other side of the Balcombe tunnel. I suppose the only consolation is that it happened in open country and not in the tunnel itself.’

  ‘Nor on the Ouse Viaduct,’ she noted.

  ‘That would have been a terrible calamity, Maddy. If the viaduct was destroyed in a crash, the line would be closed indefinitely. Nobody would be able to take an excursion train to the seaside,’ he pointed out. ‘As it is, there are bound to be deaths and serious injuries. The Brighton Express would have been going at a fair speed and you know how poor the braking system is.’ He showed a flash of temper. ‘All that those brainless engineers think about is making trains go faster and faster. It’s high time someone designed a means of stopping them.’

  He fell silent again and Madeleine left him to his thoughts. She knew how upset he was at the news of any railway accidents. He was always uncomfortably reminded of how hazardous his own job was. Andrews had courted disaster on more than one occasion but always escaped it. There was a camaraderie among railwaymen that meant a tragedy on one line was mourned by every rival company. There was no gloating. With regard to the LB&SCR, Caleb Andrews had even more reason for alarm. He had many friends who worked for the company and feared that one or more of them had been involved.

  When they reached the house, they let themselves in. Having met his daughter at
the end of his day’s shift, Andrews was still in his working clothes. He removed his cap and slumped into a chair.

  ‘I’ll make some supper,’ offered Madeleine.

  ‘Not for me.’

  ‘You have to eat something, Father. You must be starving.’

  ‘I couldn’t touch a thing, Maddy,’ he said with a grimace. ‘I don’t think I’d be able to keep it down. Just leave me be, there’s a good girl. I have too many things on my mind.’

  It was late evening when Robert Colbeck arrived at the house and he was pleased to see a light in the living room. After paying the cab driver and sending him on his way, he knocked on the door. When it was opened by Madeleine, she let out a spontaneous cry of delight.

  ‘Robert! What are you doing here?’

  ‘At the moment,’ he said with a warm smile, ‘I’m enjoying that look of surprise on your face.’ He gave her a token kiss. ‘I’m sorry to turn up on your doorstep so late, Madeleine.’

  ‘You’re welcome whatever time you come,’ she said, standing back so that he could step into the house. She closed the front door behind him. ‘It’s lovely to see you so unexpectedly.’

  ‘Good evening, Mr Andrews,’ he said, doffing his top hat.

  Deep in thought, the engine driver did not even hear him.

  ‘You must excuse Father,’ said Madeleine in a whisper. ‘He’s been upset by news of an accident on the Brighton line. Let’s go on through to the kitchen, shall we?’

  ‘But it was the accident that brought me here,’ explained Colbeck. ‘As it happens, I’ve just returned from the site.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Andrews, hearing him this time and getting up instantly from his chair. ‘You know something about the crash?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Andrews.’

  ‘Tell me everything.’

  ‘Give Robert a proper greeting first,’ chided Madeleine.