A Christmas Railway Mystery Read online

  ‘Swindon.’

  ‘Swindon!’ said Caleb Andrews with disgust. ‘He’s working for the GWR?’

  ‘Robert has to go wherever he’s sent, Father.’

  ‘I feel betrayed, Maddy.’

  ‘Don’t be so silly.’

  ‘He knows how I feel about Brunel and his despicable railway company.’

  ‘Robert has a great respect for his achievements and you should remember that Mr Brunel passed away last year. Never speak ill of the dead.’

  Madeleine Colbeck knew that trying to defend the late Isambard Kingdom Brunel was a forlorn exercise. Because he’d spend his entire working life with rival railway companies, Andrews despised the GWR and poured scorn on its obsession with the broad gauge. The retired engine driver had spent most of his career on the footplate of locomotives from the LNWR, boasting for year after year that it had no peer. When his son-in-law was engaged to help another company, he was always critical but, when it happened to be the GWR, he was incensed.

  ‘Robert is their best detective,’ he said, jabbing a finger at her.

  ‘That’s one thing we can agree on, Father.’

  ‘Then he should be in a position to pick and choose his cases.’

  ‘Well, he’s not. If there’s an appeal for his help, he’ll respond to it. This time it happens to come from Wiltshire.’

  ‘But we’re only ten days from Christmas.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that.’

  ‘Trust the GWR to spoil it for you. While you and I are having Christmas dinner with my gorgeous little granddaughter, Robert will be tied down in the Railway Village in Swindon.’

  ‘I have more faith in him,’ said Madeleine, loyally. ‘He’ll solve the murder in time to be home for Christmas.’

  ‘What if he isn’t?’

  She left the question hanging in the air. Though she was always pleased to see her father, there were occasions when his prejudices offended her. Had the murder victim been an employee of the LNWR, Andrews would have been gushing with sympathy. Since he was in the pay of the GWR, however, the man aroused no compassion whatsoever in him. Andrews was a short, wiry individual in his sixties with a fringe beard threatening to turn from grey to white, but his fiery nature was undimmed by time. He’d been delighted when his daughter, a young woman of humble birth, had met and married the Railway Detective. Even after all this time, however, he was never at home in the fine house in Westminster with its many rooms, relative opulence and efficient servants. It was a far cry from the place where Madeleine had been born and brought up. While she had slowly come to accept it as the place where she deserved to be, Andrews still felt uneasy.

  ‘I thought you came here to see Helen,’ she said, ‘not to lose your temper.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Maddy. I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘If you’re likely to starting ranting about the GWR, I’m not taking you up to your granddaughter.’

  ‘Try stopping me.’

  ‘I’m serious, Father.’

  ‘So am I. Robert’s parents are both dead and so is your dear mother – God bless her. In short, I’m the only grandparent that Helen has and that gives me special rights. None of us will live for ever, Maddy,’ he went on, ‘so make the most of me while I’m still above ground. Helen needs to have someone from my generation in her little life. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, kissing her father on the cheek. ‘Let’s go up to the nursery, shall we?’

  Linking arms, they went happily up the stairs together.

  During his years as doctor at the Works, Gordon Burnaby had seen some grotesque sights. By its very nature, it was a place beset by hazards. In the course of their work, men had been blinded, severely burnt, left with serious fractures, suffered hideous disfigurement or, in some cases, died from wounds they’d picked up during their shift. Inured to the horrors of the job, he’d nevertheless been shaken when he first saw the corpse of Frank Rodman. It now rested on a table in the room used as his surgery. After issuing a warning to Colbeck, he pulled back the sheet to reveal the body. The inspector had visited too many morgues to be unsettled. While the doctor had looked at the victim as a pitiable human being, Colbeck treated him primarily as a source of clues. He first noticed the man’s muscularity, realising that Rodman would never have been easily overpowered in a fight. His eyes then roved over the vivid tattoos on both arms and on the bare chest. There were mermaids, an anchor, a whale and a variety of fish. A five-masted clipper had pride of place on his chest. On the back of one hand, two hearts overlapped.

  ‘He was a seafaring man at one time, I see,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘That was my deduction as well.’

  ‘There’s no sign of a fatal wound on the body.’

  ‘You’d have found plenty on the head,’ said Burnaby. ‘My feeling is that he was killed by repeated blows with a blunt instrument before being decapitated. If we ever find it, the skull will be in a dreadful state.’

  ‘That’s borne out by the blood spots I saw in the Erecting Shop. They’re so profuse that they couldn’t all have come from the severed neck. The whole head must have been smashed to a pulp and turned red.’

  ‘What does that say about the killer?’ asked Piercey, standing nearby.

  ‘It says that he needs to be caught as soon as possible. Rodman was the victim of a savage attack. Why his ankles and wrists were bound like this, I can only surmise but in time, I hope, all will become clear.’

  ‘He wasn’t just killed, he was slaughtered like an animal. It’s revolting.’

  ‘Inspector Piercey advised me to keep the body here until you’d seen it,’ explained Burnaby. ‘I’d rather not have it on the premises any longer than it need be. Once the word gets around, ghoulish workmates will ask for a chance to gape.’

  ‘We don’t want that.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Colbeck, ‘and we don’t want full details of his injuries released to the press.’ He gave a nod. ‘Thank you, Dr Burnaby. I’ve seen enough.’

  ‘Will there have to be a formal identification by someone in his family?’

  ‘Ideally, yes. I’m told that he was married but I’m not going to put his wife through the nightmare of seeing him in this state. Someone else will have to do it,’ said Colbeck before turning to Piercey. ‘You can have Mr Rodman removed to the morgue now, Inspector.’

  ‘I’ll arrange it at once,’ said the other going out.

  Colbeck looked at Burnaby, appraising him for the first time. Wearing a white coat that had seen better days, the doctor was a slim, tired-looking man in his forties with a bald head and a brow that was permanently corrugated. Having responsibility for the health of all the employees at the Works had clearly taken its toll.

  ‘Thank you for leaving the body in the state in which you discovered it, Dr Burnaby. You must have been tempted to cut away those cords.’

  ‘I felt that you should see exactly what we found.’

  ‘I’m glad that you did. The killer was sending a signal.’

  ‘When you find out what it was, please tell me.’

  ‘I will,’ said Colbeck. ‘Before he’s taken away, I suggest that you cut the cords binding his ankles and wrists. Whoever identifies him can be spared those particular details of the murder.’ Burnaby used a pair of scissors to cut off the two pieces of twine. ‘I’ll keep those. They’re evidence.’

  The doctor passed them over. ‘What happened to his clothing?’

  ‘The killer must have taken it with him.’

  ‘Why did he have to strip his victim naked?’

  ‘I imagine that it was an act of humiliation.’

  ‘It was so unnecessary.’

  ‘He didn’t think so.’

  ‘And why make off with the head?’

  ‘It was a souvenir of his triumph.’

  ‘What’s he going to do with it?’

  Colbeck gritted his teeth. ‘I dread to think.’

  The next moment, he recoiled from a sudden explosion of nois
e. There had been a steady drone of sound in the background but it was now augmented by a veritable cacophony as the Works came back to life. The relentless buffeting of the steam hammer made the floor tremble. Burnaby didn’t turn a hair.

  ‘They’ve started up,’ he said, calmly. ‘The whole place is operating at full pelt again.’

  Thanks to Edgar Fellowes, the garrulous railway policeman, Victor Leeming had learnt a great deal about the history of the community. At the start of the century, Swindon had been little more than a sleepy country town with a population of less than 1,200 souls. When the census was taken in 1841, numbers had still not increased markedly but the GWR changed all that by settling on the area for its new manufactory. While the Old Town remained defiantly rural, the Railway Village brought the din, stink, grime and general commotion of industry. Swindon underwent a revolution.

  ‘We got bigger and bigger,’ said Edgar Fellowes, ‘and the two separate halves grew closer and closer. Twenty years ago, two constables were enough to look after the town. They have Inspector Piercey in charge of a small team now.’

  ‘How much crime is there?’ asked Leeming.

  ‘Oh, we have our fair share of petty offences. Drunkenness and causing an affray are always worse at the weekend when the men can get a little boisterous. Pilfering and trespass is what I deal with most of the time. There’s far too much of it on the site. Since there are single men, of course, we have a brothel here. There’s a police raid every so often and it closes down, only to open up very quickly in another part of the village. Laws to control men’s natural urges never really work. What we’ve never had before,’ he said, solemnly, ‘is a murder. Until it’s solved, the whole town will be on edge.’

  ‘Then we’ll do our best to catch the man responsible very quickly. To do that, of course, we’ll need somewhere to stay.’

  ‘Mr Stinson will arrange that, surely. He’s got a very big house.’

  ‘If we’re offered accommodation there, Inspector Colbeck will certainly turn down the invitation because we’d have to eat our meals with the manager and issue regular reports. We work best when nobody is looking over our shoulder. We like to be able to come and go as we please.’

  ‘Then your choice is between the Glue Pot and the Queen’s Tap.’

  ‘Which one sells the best beer?’

  ‘The Glue Pot,’ said Fellowes, ‘but the beds are softer at the Queen’s Tap.’

  ‘Then that’s the one we’ll choose. It’s going to be tiring work so we’ll need a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘Try to get rooms at the back. It’s quieter there.’

  They were on their way to the Brass Foundry where Frank Rodman had once worked. Instead of waiting until the end of his shift when the man left the Works, Leeming wanted to see Fred Alford now. After his long chat with Fellowes, the sergeant felt that he was better prepared to carry on the investigation. He just wished that his companion would stop giving him unsought advice.

  ‘You’d be better off going to the rolling mill,’ said Fellowes. ‘That’s where you’ll find the Welshmen.’

  ‘I’d rather speak to Mr Alford first.’

  ‘He’s not the killer, I can tell you.’

  ‘He’s the nearest thing Rodman had to a friend so he’ll know things about the victim that nobody else can tell us.’

  ‘That’s true,’ conceded the other, ‘but I still think that—’

  ‘Think what you will,’ said Leeming, cutting him short. ‘My decision is final. Mr Alford is the one I want to meet.’

  ‘Oh, very well …’

  ‘And I don’t need you trailing behind me.’

  Fellowes was hurt. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to be in the way.’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful but I can manage on my own now.’

  Reluctant to go, Fellowes had no choice. After urging Leeming to get in touch with him if he needed more help, he moved away. The sergeant went briskly on to the Foundry, introduced himself to the foreman and discovered that he had to shout to make himself heard. When Alford was released to talk to the detective, the two of them stepped outside. Leeming was curious.

  ‘How can you work in a place like that?’

  ‘You’ll have to speak up. I’m a bit deaf. Most of us are.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Leeming, raising his voice. ‘I understand that you and Mr Rodman were friends.’

  ‘Yes, Frank was good company when you got to know him.’

  ‘I was told that he was too fond of a brawl.’

  ‘He wasn’t that bad, Sergeant.’

  ‘When did you learn about his murder?’

  ‘It was when I arrived for work. We were turned back. This place went dead silent for once. It was creepy.’

  ‘What did you do, Mr Alford?’

  ‘I ran straight home and told my wife that she had to get to Frank’s house as soon as possible. Betty was already in a terrible state because he’d gone missing. We were up half the night looking for him.’

  ‘Who told her that her husband had been murdered?’

  ‘That would be my wife, Liza.’

  ‘Mrs Rodman must have suspected that something had happened.’

  ‘None of us foresaw anything as bad as this, Sergeant. Betty is a strong-minded woman but this will be too much for her. Apart from anything else, she’ll be forced to leave that house of theirs. I hope you’re not going to ask her to identify the body,’ he went on, a hand on Leeming’s arm. ‘It would be cruel.’

  ‘We’ll need a relative or close friend.’

  ‘Then it will have to be me, I suppose,’ said Alford. ‘But why is it necessary? Someone’s already identified him, haven’t they?’

  ‘That was Constable Fellowes, the railway policeman.’

  ‘You can rely on anything Edgar tells you.’

  ‘He recognised Mr Rodman by his tattoos.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose he must have known about those.’

  ‘There’s something you need to be told,’ said Leeming, sadly, ‘and it’s something I’d rather you keep from Mrs Rodman at this stage. According to Fellowes, the victim’s head had been hacked off and taken away.’

  ‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Alford, stomach beginning to heave. ‘Why, in God’s name, would anyone do that?’

  ‘We don’t know, sir, but you can understand why that particular detail would distress Mrs Rodman beyond bearing. In time, naturally, she’ll have to be told but she needs to be protected from the truth for a while.’

  ‘I understand. That’s very considerate of you, Sergeant.’

  ‘We’ve had rather too much experience of grieving widows, sir. In the early stages, we always try to … soften the blow, so to speak. However,’ he continued, ‘let’s put that aside and concentrate on the man behind this unspeakable crime. Fellowes feels certain that he was someone who got into a row with Mr Rodman.’

  ‘Quite a few people have done that,’ admitted Alford.

  ‘We’ll need names, sir.’

  ‘Then the first one I can give belongs to a man Frank was arguing with last night at the Queen’s Tap. The two of them were squaring up to each other. I tried to tear Frank away but he ignored me, so I left.’

  ‘Was the argument getting heated?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘And who was the person Mr Rodman was arguing with?’

  ‘It was Gareth Llewellyn,’ said Alford. ‘He works in the rolling mill.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Marriage to Robert Colbeck had transformed Madeleine’s life. Under his guidance, there’d been two major developments. From time to time, he’d been able to involve her in an investigation, taking great care to hide the fact from Edward Tallis, a man who’d never countenance the use of female detectives. It had given Madeleine great pleasure to work alongside her husband, albeit covertly, but the second development brought her even more joy. Discovering that his wife had artistic talent, Colbeck had encouraged her to seek instruction from a professiona
l artist. Her progress had been so remarkable that she’d reached the point where her paintings were good enough to be sold. Since she took her inspiration solely from railways, she earned the unstinting approval of both her husband and her father. Being immersed in her latest project had always been a way to stave off loneliness when Colbeck was working elsewhere.

  The birth of their daughter had changed everything. It robbed her of the chance to be part of an investigative process but meant that she never felt deserted when her husband was assigned to a distant part of the country. Looking after the baby kept her fully occupied. In the early stages, the responsibilities of motherhood had also deprived her of the time and urge to immerse herself in her work. The studio had been left empty for months. At long last, the situation had changed. She was at her easel when a visitor came in.

  ‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’ asked Lydia Quayle.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Madeleine. ‘I was hoping you’d call. That’s why I left word that you should be shown up to the studio.’

  ‘I thought you’d given up painting for a while.’

  ‘That was Helen’s doing. I felt that I needed to be on duty for her.’

  ‘But babies spend most of the time asleep, don’t they?’

  ‘Helen doesn’t and, even though we’ve got a nanny to help us, I thought I’d be letting her down if I sneaked in here and picked up a paintbrush.’

  ‘So why are you here now?’

  Madeline shrugged. ‘I just wanted to start work again.’

  She was delighted to see her friend. Lydia Quayle provided the female companionship that she lacked. The women had met in grim circumstances. Colbeck had been in charge of the investigation into the murder of Lydia’s estranged father and he’d sought his wife’s assistance. When Madeleine met Lydia on his behalf, the two of them had been drawn slowly together and were now firm friends. Since the birth of the baby, Lydia had been a regular visitor to the house.

  ‘Christmas is almost here,’ said Lydia, thrilled. ‘I was in Oxford Street yesterday and the shops were very busy. There’s an excitement in the air.’