A Christmas Railway Mystery Read online

  ‘I deny that most strongly,’ said Wardlow, bridling.

  ‘One of your servants might incautiously have mentioned that you were having a visitor who was going to attend the reunion with you and …’ Hinton could see the indignation rising in the other man. ‘But that’s obviously not the case,’ he went on, trying to calm down his companion. ‘How the kidnappers caught wind of the fact that Superintendent Tallis would be coming to Kent, I just don’t know. And yet they did somehow.’

  ‘Don’t you dare accuse my domestic staff of being informers!’

  ‘It was Captain Ardingley’s suggestion.’

  ‘Then he should have known better than to make it. Instead of trying to blame me for what happened, you should be combing every blade of grass in the county in order to find Major Tallis. Now get off and do it!’

  ‘I’ll join the search myself.’

  Accepting the rebuke, Hinton went off with his cheeks burning.

  His strong instinct for survival had kept Tallis awake for most of the night but he was increasingly weary. It reached the point where he slid downwards until he was in a sitting position. Fighting to remain alert, he eventually succumbed to fatigue. How long he slept he didn’t know, but he might have slumbered on had he not felt a rat run across his thighs. The sensation brought him instantly awake and he put his back against the stall so that he could push himself upwards against it. When he looked around, he saw that nothing had changed. It was still freezing, he was still imprisoned in a stable and the handcuffs had chafed his wrists until they bled. There was no source of relief.

  As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he took a closer look at his surroundings. Escape by means of the door was impossible. He’d discovered that when he’d struck it repeatedly with his shoulder. Tallis had the feeling that boards had been nailed across the door in order to strengthen it. Since there was no window, he’d need to find another way to get out. He therefore prowled the stable, searching for a weakness. He found it in a corner where more light was pouring in because there was a gap between the boards. Because it was low down, he was able to use his foot to kick at it. It troubled him that he was using the toecaps of his best shoes but, in the emergency, a damaged shoe was an acceptable casualty. Tallis kept pounding away until he heard the rewarding sound of a nail being driven out of the timber support. Turning around, he used his heel to kick away as hard as he could at the loose board and it eventually gave way completely.

  The effort had made him pant heavily so he stopped for a rest, reasoning that if he took the wooden boards one by one, he might somehow kick his way out. It was a forlorn hope. He was suddenly aware that nails were being levered out of the timber as the boarding across the door was being removed. Someone was coming. Tallis didn’t know if he was being rescued or if his captors were outside. Fearing the worst, he took up a position near the door so that he could throw himself against anyone who came in and make a dash for freedom. That plan was immediately quashed.

  ‘Stand back!’ ordered a voice. ‘We’re both armed.’

  Reluctantly, Tallis obeyed. He retreated to the far side of the stable. The last board was levered away, then he heard the sound of a key in the lock. The next moment, the door was flung open, allowing light to flood in. Unable to shield his eyes from the sudden glare, he lowered his head. When he lifted it, he was looking at the barrel of a rifle. The newcomers wore rough clothing and had their hats pulled down over their faces. They noticed the missing board in the wall.

  ‘See what he’s done?’ asked one of them.

  ‘We can’t have that,’ said the other. He prodded the prisoner. ‘Turn around.’

  ‘What do you want with me?’ challenged Tallis, still facing him.

  ‘Do as I tell you!’

  ‘At least, tell me who you are.’

  Tallis’s brave defiance brought instant punishment. Jabbing him in the stomach with his rifle, the man used the butt of the weapon to club him to the ground. He turned to his accomplice.

  ‘Tie his ankles together then nail that missing board back in place. He’s not going to kick his way out of here again.’

  After his visit to the church, Colbeck made his way back to the Works and asked Stinson if he could study the employment records of the five people they’d singled out as suspects. The general manager had handed him the files and left him alone to peruse them. Since there were masses of employees, it took some time to pick out the relevant files. What Colbeck was looking for was a record of each man’s hours at work that week. Someone on the night shift would not have had the time or the opportunity to break into the church after dark. Conversely, those on the day shift wouldn’t have been able to sneak in there before it was locked early in the evening.

  Suspicion quickly alighted on Hector Samway and Simeon Cudlip. Both left the premises a couple of hours earlier than the others and, since they had no wives waiting at home for them, they could easily have hidden in the church or, having waited until night-time, found a way in. Gareth Llewellyn had worked overtime on two occasions that week, suggesting a need for extra money. Alford’s shift pattern matched that of the murder victim. Colbeck could find no motive that would impel Alford to cause the outrage in the church where he and his family were regular worshippers. Where would he have kept the missing head hidden for so long? Of the others, he was less certain. Cudlip might have relished the act and it might have appealed to Samway’s warped sense of humour. The Welshman, too, was capable of such a bizarre act. But was he the culprit?

  Daniel Gill was no longer at the Works but Colbeck took the trouble to look at his records. He saw that Gill had been warned about timekeeping and that his wages had been docked on one occasion because he’d been involved in a scuffle. What interested Colbeck most was the occupation Gill had been following before he joined the company.

  He’d been a locksmith.

  Victor Leeming, meanwhile, was doing some research on his own account. When he’d travelled to the Old Town in a cab, he’d kept the severed head as far away from him as he could in the confined space. While he had no wish ever to see the head again, he took an interest in the sack. It was not the kind of thing that would have been used for potatoes or some other vegetable. It was made of much thicker and heavier material. Wondering where it had come from, he made a tour of the Works. The detectives had been told by Stinson that they could go anywhere on the site as long as they took the obvious precautions and didn’t hold up the manufacturing process in any way. Leeming took the general manager at his word, going from shop to shop and from shed to shed.

  Sacks abounded – especially in the stores – but he could find none that were identical to the one used by the killer. Undaunted, he pressed on, enduring the heat of the Foundry, the ear-splitting din of the steam hammer and the death traps of the Erecting Shop where something seemed to have been deliberately strewn in his way at every point to trip him up. The sight of him blundering his way around caused a lot of amusement. After a comprehensive search, he walked past the hut used by the railway policemen. Three of them were enjoying a cup of tea inside. One of them was Edgar Fellowes.

  ‘Hello, Sergeant,’ he said, getting up. ‘Would you like to join us?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m looking for a sack.’

  ‘Then you should go to the stores. There are masses of them there.’

  ‘I know,’ said Leeming. ‘I’ve been there. But they didn’t have what I was after. The sack I have in mind is made of a much stronger material that could cope with almost anything.’

  ‘Then what you’re talking about is a coal sack. They’re reinforced to take a substantial weight.’

  ‘Where would I find one?’

  ‘If you go down to the siding, you’ll see dozens of them in piles. They’re used for bringing coal out of the wagons and into the Works. It’s loaded into sacks and brought here on a cart by one of the horses. We spend a lot of time guarding the coal wagons
,’ said Fellowes. ‘When the weather is as cold as this, coal has a nasty habit of disappearing if you don’t keep an eye on it.’

  ‘I’d like to see one of those sacks.’

  ‘Then I’ll take you there.’ He fell in beside Leeming and they walked off together. ‘You should have been here a month ago. They had a competition to see who the strongest man here was. Sacks of coal were lined up. Whoever lifted the greatest weight was to be the winner. One man stood out a mile.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Gareth Llewellyn.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It had never happened before. While involved in solving one crime, Colbeck was now preoccupied with another. In the past, he’d always given the current investigation all his energy and concentration. This time he found it impossible. The fate of Edward Tallis kept looming up in front of him. The two men had had their differences in the past but there was an underlying respect for each other that had never wavered. In addition – as Colbeck now discovered – a hitherto dormant affection for Tallis had suddenly sprung to life. It was the main reason why the latter’s plight played on his mind. Notwithstanding the man’s glaring defects, he liked him. Colbeck was realistic. Until a killer had been arrested in Swindon, he was unable to lend his skills to the manhunt elsewhere. Reminding himself of his priority, he set off to question Hector Samway.

  When he got to the house, he saw that it was among the smallest in the block. Samway was a rarity in that he lived alone. Colbeck knocked on the door but got no response. He knocked even harder then stood back to look up at the bedroom window. The curtains twitched, showing that Samway was at home. After waiting for a minute or so, Colbeck knocked again to make it clear that he was not going to leave until the door was opened. His persistence paid off. Samway eventually unlocked the door and opened it a matter of inches.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked, gruffly.

  ‘I’d like to speak to you, sir.’

  ‘Why do you both keep pestering me? I’ve nothing to add to what I’ve already said. You and the sergeant have caused me enough trouble already.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware of that, Mr Samway.’

  ‘You questioned me at work. It means that everyone in the Foundry now knows I’m a suspect. That’s changed the way they look and talk to me. Friends I’ve had for years now back away from me as if I’ve got a disease.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘It’s your fault, Inspector.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be easier if we had this conversation inside the house? If I’m seen standing here, your neighbours might realise who I am then they’ll know that you’re under suspicion. Is that what you want?’

  ‘I want you to ask your questions then go,’ said Samway, inhospitably. ‘I’m certainly not inviting you into my house.’

  ‘Let’s do it your way, then,’ said Colbeck. ‘The reason I knew you were likely to be at home on a Saturday afternoon is that I was studying your shift patterns earlier on. You seem to like having Saturday off then working overtime on Sundays.’

  ‘It saves me from having to go to church.’

  ‘The Sabbath is supposed to be the day of rest.’

  ‘Do you ever work on a Sunday?’

  ‘Unhappily, I do. Crime happens seven days a week, alas.’ Sensing that Samway was anxious to get rid of him, Colbeck reeled off his questions. ‘Have you been out of the house today?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Do you know where Mrs Rodman lives?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Just answer my question, please.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said the other, forcefully.

  ‘That’s very strange. The house is in the next street. Every time you go to work, you walk right past it. I can’t believe that you’ve never seen Mr Rodman or his wife coming out of there.’

  ‘I knew Rodman lived somewhere in that street but I made sure I never bumped into him. If I’d seen him, I’d have ignored him.’

  ‘What about Mrs Rodman – did you ignore her?’

  ‘I haven’t seen Betty for years.’

  ‘Is that the truth?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Do you still feel hurt at what happened between you?’

  ‘Nothing happened between us, Inspector.’

  ‘That’s my point, sir.’

  ‘Look, what are you trying to say?’ asked Samway, irritably. ‘If you have any evidence against me, tell me. It’s my right to know what it is, surely? There’s something strange going on. Why are you here?’

  ‘Earlier today, someone put a letter through Mrs Rodman’s letter box that caused her great distress. Since you weren’t at work, you’d have been in a position to write and deliver that letter.’

  ‘I told you. I haven’t been out of the house today.’

  ‘What about last night?’

  Samway was wary. ‘I was here alone.’

  ‘Are you quite sure about that?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘So there’s nobody who can vouch for you, then.’

  ‘You’ll just have to take my word for it, Inspector.’

  Samway spoke as if issuing a challenge. Their eyes locked for a long time. Colbeck could see the anger, insolence and sheer defiance in the man. He didn’t for one moment believe Samway’s claim to be ignorant of Betty Rodman’s address and he felt that the man was very capable of sending her a devastating message by way of retaliation for the way she’d once rejected his advances. Whether or not the man was also the killer, Colbeck was not certain. Would he hack off his victim’s head then set it up on the main altar in the church? Gazing into the dark, unforgiving, malicious eyes, Colbeck thought he glimpsed the answer.

  The next moment, Samway abruptly closed the door in his face. Colbeck turned away but, before walking off, he glanced up at the bedroom. He saw the curtains twitch again and knew that Samway couldn’t possibly have got there yet. Somebody else was in the bedroom.

  Edward Tallis was more confused than ever. Since light had largely faded, he couldn’t even be certain what day it was. Waking up very slowly, he was immediately conscious of the excruciating pain in his skull. When he tried to raise a hand to the injury, however, he was reminded of the handcuffs cutting into his wrists. His ankles were also bound now, making it extremely difficult for him to sit up. He tried to piece together what had happened. Having tried to escape, he’d upset his captors. They not only restricted his movement even more, one of them had clubbed him to the ground and opened up another wound on his head. He felt as if someone was repeatedly hitting him on the same spot on his skull.

  Who were they and why were they treating him so brutally? He’d been no random prisoner, Tallis was certain of that. He’d been picked on deliberately. That meant that one or both of the men had crossed his path in the past. Even though he couldn’t really see them in the gloom, they’d taken care to pull their hats down to evade recognition. He concluded that he’d been involved in the arrest and conviction of the men and decided to work his way back through the cases in which he’d been instrumental over the years. There were several of them and many had involved threats of violence from criminals in the dock. Somewhere in the long catalogue of cases, he believed, were the two men who had captured, taunted and tormented him.

  Before he could even begin to sift through his past, however, Tallis had to wait until the pain began to ease. With his head throbbing so remorselessly, his brain would simply not work properly. He also needed to change his position. Being face down in the dank straw was both unhealthy and hideously uncomfortable. Tallis therefore made a supreme effort to turn over by rotating his body. The first few attempts were miserable failures, compounding his agony, but he didn’t give up. He kept going until he gave a determined heave then spun onto his back. With his full weight pressing down on his wrists, he had to endure more pain, but he felt that he’d secured a minor triumph.

  By means of wriggling, he slowly made his way towards the stall
. When he eventually banged his head against it, the pain burnt even more fiercely and he had to wait for several minutes before it began to subside slightly. At least he’d reached his destination. He could now work his body around so that it lay parallel with the stall. Once he’d done that, he tried to sit up by throwing himself upwards with all his power. But his strength had already been sapped by his earlier efforts. Instead of getting the upper part of his body upright, he simply flopped back down to the stable floor and bruised his shoulder.

  As he lay there suffering, he tried to focus his mind on the possibility of rescue. His old friend, Captain Wardlow, would have raised the alarm and instigated a manhunt. The problem was that the detective who could lead it most effectively was engaged in a separate investigation in Swindon. It was maddening.

  ‘Colbeck,’ he said to himself. ‘Where are you, man?’

  Having established where the sack containing the severed head must have come from, Leeming’s instinct was to confront Llewellyn at once, but he remembered Colbeck’s earlier warning that it would be cruel to spoil a Welshman’s opportunity to sing. In any event, he had no clear evidence that Llewellyn was the killer, merely that the man knew where to acquire a reinforced sack. He therefore decided to follow Colbeck’s suggestion and call on Simeon Cudlip. On the night of the murder, the clerk had visited the brothel in such a state of excitement that he’d frightened Euphemia and annoyed her mother intensely. According to Claire Knight, she’d ordered him to leave and told him that he was barred from coming to the house again. Apparently, Cudlip had slunk away.

  Cudlip, Samway and Fellowes were all clients of the brothel and there were doubtless others in Swindon who sought the place out. It was that particular trio, however, which interested Leeming. As a widower, Samway was not entirely a surprise visitor to Claire Knight’s abode but it was a different matter with Fellowes. He was a married man and a representative of law and order, who ought to be reporting the existence of the brothel to Inspector Piercey instead of taking advantage of its services. Leeming wondered if he’d been seduced into sampling what was on offer in return for his silence. The crucial name to emerge from Leeming’s own visit to the house was that of Simeon Cudlip, a man who seemed to enjoy keeping the detectives at bay as if murder was some sort of parlour game at which he believed he excelled. At their last meeting, Leeming felt that the clerk had all the answers prepared in advance. Caught off guard on a Saturday afternoon, he might be more vulnerable.