Slaughter in the Sapperton Tunnel Read online

  The first thing they saw as they alighted was the gaping mouth of the tunnel over a hundred yards away. They then noticed the fairly steep sides of the cutting either side of them. Climbing up the grassy bank would involve an undignified scramble. Fit and able-bodied, the detectives would have no trouble, but there were much older passengers as well as a number of women. Colbeck summed up the situation at once.

  ‘They could do with men at the top, lowering ropes to haul people up. Come on, Victor,’ he said. ‘Some of the passengers will never get up there unaided. Let’s give them a helping hand.’

  Alan Hinton had left an hour ago, but Lydia was still there, enjoying her role as an unofficial aunt and dandling Madeleine’s baby daughter, Helena Rose, on her knee. The child was burbling happily.

  ‘It was a lovely surprise to see Alan again,’ said Lydia.

  ‘That’s why I asked him to stay.’

  ‘Thank you, Madeleine.’

  ‘I had a feeling you’d be pleased.’

  ‘Did he tell you what he was working on at the moment?’

  ‘If he has any sense,’ said Madeleine, teasingly, ‘he’ll be trying to devise a plan to see you more often. That’s more important to him than anything else.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’

  ‘You’re too modest, Lydia. He’s devoted to you. What he’d really like, of course, is to work with Robert. That would suit all of us. We’d be able to invite him here on a regular basis as we do with Victor Leeming. You could … just happen to be passing.’

  Lydia laughed. ‘Stop it!’

  ‘I’m simply being practical.’

  ‘You can be so naughty sometimes, Madeleine.’

  ‘Is that a complaint?’

  Before Lydia could reply, they heard the doorbell ring. She saw the grim look that suddenly appeared on her friend’s face and guessed what had put it there.

  ‘You’re expecting your father, aren’t you?’ Madeleine nodded. ‘What have you decided?’

  ‘I suppose that I’ll have to tell him the truth.’

  ‘It’s the best thing to do.’

  ‘I’m afraid that you’re right,’ said Madeleine. ‘Brace yourself, Lydia. My father is about to lose his temper again.’

  They heard the front door being opened and a brief exchange of voices. Short, wiry and beaming, Caleb Andrews was then shown into the drawing room by the maid. Madeleine stood up to give him a welcome, but it was his granddaughter who offered the warmest greeting. Jumping off Lydia’s knee, she ran across to him to receive an affectionate hug and to tell him her news. It was minutes before they were able to sit down. After a nervous glance at Lydia, Madeleine cleared her throat. Before she could even mention her husband’s name, however, Andrews slapped his knee in delight.

  ‘I’ve heard some marvellous news,’ he cried. ‘The Sapperton Tunnel is blocked. It’s yet another disaster for the GWR.’

  ‘Who told you?’ asked his daughter.

  ‘Word travels fast on the railway, Maddy. You should know that. Whenever there’s a major accident somewhere on the network, news of it spreads like wildfire. I burst out laughing when I heard.’

  ‘Then you should be ashamed of yourself, Father.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘When that train crashed, the driver and fireman might have been seriously hurt, if not actually killed.’

  He blinked at her. ‘How do you know about the crash?’

  ‘Robert has been sent to investigate it.’

  ‘What?’ He was livid. ‘My son-in-law is working for the GWR?’

  ‘He’ll solve crimes on the railway no matter where they are.’

  ‘And I admire him for doing so,’ said Lydia. ‘Madeleine is right to question your response to the news, Mr Andrews. As a former engine driver yourself, I’d have thought you’d show sympathy for anyone who works on the footplate.’

  ‘I do,’ he insisted, ‘and I’m sorry for those two men. In fact, I’m sorry for anyone forced to work for the GWR.’

  ‘Father!’ scolded Madeleine.

  ‘Brunel was to blame. He and his father designed that tunnel. If it had been built much wider then it couldn’t have been so easily blocked when a train was derailed. One track might have remained in use.’

  ‘Robert will find out the full details,’ said Lydia, trying to calm the old man down. ‘Until then, it’s pointless to speculate on what went wrong. But I must say that it’s unfair of you to blame the late Mr Brunel.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Madeleine. ‘It’s unfair and unkind.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear of any drivers or firemen being hurt on the railway,’ he said. ‘I’ve been badly injured myself, so I know how dangerous it is to work on the footplate. But I still think that this latest accident is typical of the GWR because it …’

  His voice tailed off as he saw the look in his daughter’s eye.

  ‘Let’s talk about something else,’ said Madeleine, firmly. ‘What will Helena think of her grandfather if all you can do is to crow over a rival railway company? She’s been dying for you to come.’

  As if to reinforce the point, the child grabbed a doll from the sofa and put it into the old man’s arms as a kind of peace offering.

  Andrews had the grace to look shamefaced.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The detectives worked as hard and unstintingly as the railway policemen. Having lugged their valises to the top of the bank, Colbeck and Leeming went back down again to offer an arm to anyone in difficulty and help them negotiate the steep climb. Once they’d reached the top, they repeated the process time and again, assisting others unable to manage on their own. One elderly lady needed both of them to steer her safely up the incline. Eventually, all the passengers had reached the summit where an array of vehicles awaited them. First class passengers were offered open carriages, while those in second class were guided to a phalanx of traps. Third class travellers had to settle for an assortment of carts, hastily assembled from nearby farms and covered in a thick layer of straw to hide the muck and stifle the stink.

  ‘What about us?’ asked Leeming.

  ‘I’m sure that Mr Rydall will have organised some transport for us, Victor.’

  ‘I hope it’s not one of those carts. I can smell them from here.’

  ‘One can’t be too selective in an emergency,’ said Colbeck. ‘If you’ll forgive a naval metaphor, it’s a case of all hands to the pumps. Ah,’ he added, as a thickset man with a greying beard walked across to them, ‘it looks as if we’ve been recognised.’

  ‘Inspector Colbeck?’ asked the newcomer, looking from one to the other.

  ‘That’s me,’ said Colbeck, ‘and this is Sergeant Leeming.’

  ‘I’m Sidney Walters, and I’m to take you both to Mr Rydall.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Follow me, please.’

  Walters set off with the detectives at his heels. He was polite and well-spoken with a distinctive Gloucestershire burr. Judging by his manner and appearance, Colbeck guessed that he was employed by Rydall in a senior capacity. As he opened the door of an open-topped carriage for them to get in, the man confirmed it.

  ‘I manage the estate,’ he explained. ‘As a rule, Mr Rydall would have sent someone else to meet you, but there’s nobody available. All of our labourers have been drafted into the team trying to clear the line and that goes for some of the servants from The Grange as well. It’s a crisis. Everybody has to do his share. It will take days, if not a week or more.’

  Colbeck and Leeming clambered into the carriage and put their luggage on the seats opposite them. Ahead of them, the last of the passengers were being driven away. Hauling himself up into his seat, Walters flicked the reins and the horse set off. The carriage bounced its way across the grass.

  ‘We understand that your shepherd has disappeared,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘Yes, he has,’ said Walters over his shoulder.

  ‘Does anyone know why?’

  ‘Edgar just went.
It is most unlike him. I fear trouble.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘He loves what he does, and, in any case, he has a family to support. Edgar would never let us down. Clearly, he went against his will.’

  ‘What about his sheepdog?’

  ‘Blackie has vanished as well.’

  ‘Has anyone searched for them?’

  ‘Will is doing that right now. He’s Edgar’s son. His sister, Annie, went with him. If he’s anywhere on Rydall land, they’ll find him. They know every inch of the estate.’

  ‘Has he ever gone off like this before?’

  ‘Never,’ said Walters, grimly. ‘He’d be too afraid of me to do anything so stupid. That’s why I’m worried about him. What Edgar Smayle has done is quite out of character.’

  Alan Hinton was in luck. He not only got safely back to Scotland Yard before his absence was noted, he was instantly recruited to assist in making an arrest. A man responsible for a string of burglaries had been finally traced to his lair. Since Hinton had helped to amass the evidence against him, it gave him a feeling of deep satisfaction to be involved in catching the man. It was not, however, a simple operation.

  Even though he had a sergeant and another detective constable with him, the arrest was fraught with difficulties. The burglar’s den was in a tenement in one of the more insalubrious districts of the city. It was a place where policemen – especially those in plain clothes – were reviled. When they arrived, they collected angry stares and muttered expletives from other residents. To their delight, the man they were after was at home, in bed with a prostitute he’d picked up for company. Startled by the arrival of three detectives who forced their way in, he jumped naked from the bed and began to fight them as if his life was in danger. The woman screeched and pummelled away at them with puny fists, before using her nails as claws. It was all they could do to subdue the pair and lead them, partly clothed, out of the building in handcuffs. The detectives were jeered at by passers-by.

  It was only when their prisoners were in custody that the three of them could assess the damage. Hinton had got off lightly, sustaining only a scratch on his nose and a torn sleeve. The other detective constable had facial bruises and was completely dishevelled, but it was the sergeant who’d suffered the most. Since he’d been the one to grapple with the naked burglar, he was bitten on the cheek, given a shining black eye and had his whole face covered in vengeful spit. Needing to attend to his wounds and appearance, he gave Hinton the privilege of reporting their success to the superintendent.

  Like most people at Scotland Yard, Hinton approached Edward Tallis’s office with a degree of hesitation, fearing what he might find on the other side of the door. The fact that he was actually bearing good news was no guarantee that he’d escape without criticism. Tallis was bound to notice the ugly scratch on his face and the torn sleeve. After taking a deep breath, Hinton tapped on the door, heard a growled command to enter and went into the office. Tallis was in the act of stubbing out his cigar, smoke still curling in the air around him like mist encircling a mountain peak.

  ‘What is it?’ he demanded.

  ‘Sergeant Vaughan sent me to report an arrest, sir.’

  ‘Then don’t just stand there, man. Do as you were told.’

  Having rehearsed what he was going to say, Hinton delivered the report succinctly. Tallis remembered the spate of burglaries and was glad that the culprit was now behind bars. There was, however, no word of praise or congratulation. Hinton had learnt not to expect it. Some fifteen or more months earlier, he’d been instrumental in saving Tallis’s life when the latter was abducted by two former soldiers from his old regiment. And there were other ways in which the young detective had been of enormous help to the superintendent. It was rarely acknowledged, and Tallis would sometimes walk past him without even recognising Hinton.

  Waiting to be dismissed, the visitor hovered.

  ‘Your sleeve is torn,’ said Tallis, disapprovingly.

  ‘The prisoner and his … female acquaintance resisted arrest, sir.’

  ‘What’s that on your nose?’

  ‘In the course of a fight, it was scratched.’

  ‘Get it seen to.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And the same goes for that sleeve.’ Tallis flicked his hand to send the detective constable on his way then changed his mind. ‘Wait!’ Hinton raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘You’ve done well – exceptionally well – and I’m not referring to today’s exploits. Thank you very much.’

  Hinton walked out of the office with a broad smile on his face.

  In other circumstances, they might have enjoyed the drive through the beautiful wooded valley of the River Frome. Every so often, a carpet of wild daffodils would come into view, swaying gently in the wind and lending an extra radiance. As they picked their way along, glorious vistas greeted them, but there was only limited time to admire them. They suddenly came out of the trees, reached the cutting and looked down at the western portal of the Sapperton Tunnel. Even though they had some idea what to expect, Colbeck and Leeming were shocked. What confronted them was a scene of utter devastation.

  Looking forlorn and wounded, the locomotive lay on its side with the coal from its tender scattered far and wide. Behind it were a number of wagons that had also been derailed and deprived of whatever freight they’d been carrying. The bulk of the rolling stock was still inside the tunnel, and they could only imagine what destruction had been caused there.

  ‘Is the tunnel itself badly damaged?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Walters. ‘A lot of the brickwork was badly chipped. Navvies will have to make extensive repairs to the walls, but they can’t even start to do that until the mess inside the tunnel is cleared away.’

  ‘It’s reminiscent of a case we had in Scotland. Do you remember, Victor? In that instance also, the whole train had been deliberately derailed to cause maximum damage.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Don’t you agree?’

  But Leeming hadn’t even heard him. His attention was fixed elsewhere. After the initial shock of viewing the hideous scene outside the tunnel, his gaze had drifted to the canal that ran parallel with the railway. Narrowboats were being pulled by horses and skimmed the water, blithely unconcerned at the tragedy that had happened not far away. The contrast could not have been starker, and it prompted a comment from the sergeant.

  ‘Water is a safer way to travel,’ he murmured.

  Dozens of people were working hard around the stricken locomotive and its overturned wagons, moving debris away and retrieving the freight that had been spilt across the grass before placing it in a series of piles. A hundred yards down the track, the last of the passengers from the train on which Colbeck and Leeming had travelled were climbing gratefully into the carriages of a replacement that would take them on to Stroud, Stonehouse, Gloucester or Cheltenham. What they’d leave behind them was a scene of frenetic activity.

  Standing in the middle of it and imposing whatever control he could was Stephen Rydall, a tall, striking man in his sixties with a bushy moustache and an air of unforced authority. He’d been there for long, punishing hours, refusing to have a rest or pause for refreshment because he was driven on by a sense of duty. The outrage had occurred on his doorstep and caused untold damage to property owned by the railway company in which he held an important position. What had been inflicted upon them, therefore, had great personal relevance to him.

  Having yelled orders to all and sundry, Rydall broke off to help one of his farm labourers move a heavy spar of timber out of the way. When he pulled himself back up to his full height, he noticed two figures striding towards him. Realising who they must be, he felt a surge of relief. Identifying at a glance which one of them was the senior detective, he shook Colbeck’s hand with an edge of desperation, then exchanged a handshake with Leeming.

  ‘I’m Stephen Rydall,’ he said. ‘I cannot tell you how grateful I am to see you, gentlemen. I’ve had glowing reports of the way you solved
that murder in Swindon.’

  ‘We’ve had failures as well as successes,’ warned Colbeck.

  ‘The GWR is eternally gratefully for what you did there.’

  ‘We grew to like Swindon,’ Leeming put in. ‘We stayed at the Queen’s Tap where they serve the best—’

  ‘Mr Rydall is not interested in our memoirs,’ said Colbeck, cutting in and shooting the sergeant a warning look. He turned back to Rydall. ‘When exactly did it happen, sir?’

  ‘It must have been close to six o’clock this morning, Inspector. It was the first train of the day through the Sapperton Tunnel.’

  ‘Who raised the alarm?’

  ‘That would be Peter Doble, the landlord of the Daneway Inn. It’s by the western portal of the canal tunnel,’ said Rydall, pointing a finger. ‘As you can imagine, there was a terrible noise. Others further afield would have heard it – I certainly did – but Doble was the first to react.’

  ‘That’s a job for you, Sergeant,’ said Colbeck. ‘Make your way to this inn and interview Mr Doble. Mr Walters will show you the way. Find out exactly what the landlord saw when he came over here.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Leeming.

  ‘And bear in mind that you are not there to discuss the quality of his beer but to investigate a crime that’s had the most terrible consequences. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Inspector.’

  ‘When we first saw the wreckage,’ said Colbeck as Leeming walked away, ‘we both had the same reaction. We wanted to take off our coats and join in the clearance work.’

  ‘You’re far better employed finding out who caused this havoc,’ said Rydall. ‘It hasn’t just torn up our timetable on this stretch of the line, it’s going to be very costly. Much of the freight has been damaged beyond repair. One of the wagons was carrying boxes of fruit when it smashed into the side of the tunnel. Everything was squashed flat. The wagon looks as if it bled to death.’