Inspector Colbeck's Casebook Read online

  ‘Enough of your drollery!’ said Tallis, clicking his tongue. ‘And, for heaven’s sake, don’t make that observation to Lord Stennard. He hates railways. That’s why no tracks have ever been laid across his land.’

  ‘If he hates railways,’ said Colbeck, perplexed, ‘why does he want a painting that features a train?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare to ask him.’

  Lord Stennard was a tall, slim, red-faced man in his sixties with a mane of white hair. He walked slowly down one side of his gallery, inspecting each painting in turn through the monocle held to his right eye. When he reached the end of the room, he crossed to the opposite wall to examine the exquisite portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds before moving on to one of John Constable’s landscapes. There were thirty paintings on display in the gallery. Some were owned by him but the majority were on loan for a limited period. It was less than a week before the great and the good of the county converged on Stennard Court to enjoy the private exhibition. Ostensibly, the collection was there for the benefit of his friends but, in reality, it was to satisfy his obsession with the work of great artists.

  To have so many fine paintings under his roof at the same time was a source of inestimable pleasure to him and he walked up and down the gallery every day to savour the collection. This latest perambulation, however, did not yield the same excitement. When he pulled himself away from Constable, he was confronted by the yawning space reserved for one of Turner’s masterpieces, Rain, Steam and Speed. Instead of arriving to complete the exhibition, it had been snatched away. The gap on the wall made him quiver with rage.

  ‘Damn you, Inspector Colbeck!’ he growled. ‘Where the devil are you?’

  When Colbeck and Leeming went into the room, the two couriers were seated. The younger of them, Stagg, stood to his feet but his companion, Richmore, remained in his chair. After performing the introductions, Colbeck told Stagg to sit down. The latter was dark-haired, bearded and in his thirties. But it was the surly Richmore who caught the inspector’s attention. Running to fat, he was a broad-shouldered man in his forties with, impossibly, a face even uglier than that of Victor Leeming. When the questions began, it was Richmore who supplied most of the answers. It turned out that he’d once been a policeman.

  ‘Why did you give the job up?’ asked Leeming.

  ‘Too much hard work and too little pay,’ replied Richmore.

  ‘There are other rewards than money.’

  ‘I never noticed any.’

  ‘Tell us exactly what happened from the moment you picked up the painting at the National Gallery,’ said Colbeck. ‘You start first, Mr Stagg.’

  Stagg was quiet and hesitant but he had a good memory, even recalling the times of the departure from Euston and arrival at Berkhamsted. Richmore took over and gave a more embellished account, doing his best to shift the blame for the loss of the painting onto his colleague. He stressed that he’d had far more experience than Stagg and had an unblemished record since working at the National Gallery.

  ‘Why did you take the painting by train?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘I thought it would be quicker and safer,’ said Richmore. ‘We sat in the brake van and guarded it like two hens sitting on a clutch of eggs.’

  ‘You say that the man in the carriage had a Colt revolver.’

  ‘That’s right, Inspector.’

  ‘Had you ever seen one like it before?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Richmore. ‘When the Great Exhibition was on, Samuel Colt was displaying his wares. I went along to see them. I wish I could have afforded to buy one. It would have been a lot more use than this.’

  He pulled a weapon from inside his coat and Leeming instinctively drew back.

  ‘That’s an old five-shot pepperbox pistol,’ said Colbeck. ‘It’s no match for a Colt. What about you, Mr Stagg? Were you armed?’

  Stagg shook his head. ‘We didn’t expect trouble.’

  ‘I did,’ claimed Richmore. ‘I’m always on guard.’

  ‘Then why did you get robbed so easily?’ asked Leeming.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault, Sergeant. I was distracted by Stagg.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ said Stagg.

  ‘You kept jabbering at me.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Right,’ said Colbeck, taking charge, ‘this crime only took place because someone knew that you’d be catching a particular train. How many people at the National Gallery were aware of your travel arrangements?’

  ‘Very few,’ said Stagg, ‘and they’re all above suspicion.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone else where you were going today and at what time?’

  ‘Not a soul, Inspector – I didn’t even tell my wife or my son.’

  ‘Somebody must have known,’ insisted Leeming, turning to Richmore. ‘What about you, sir? Did you mention it to your friends, perhaps, when you had a drink with them? It’s very easy to let things slip out unintentionally.’

  Richmore was adamant. ‘I never speak to anyone about my work.’

  It was not until they were on the train to Berkhamsted that the detectives had a moment to review at leisure what they’d been told. On one point, they were in complete agreement.

  ‘Richmore was lying, sir,’ said Leeming.

  ‘I got the feeling that he’s had plenty of practice at it.’

  ‘He was full of himself. When a man like that has a few beers inside him, he can’t resist boasting to his friends.’

  ‘I fancy they’d be more likely to be acquaintances, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘Who’d want to have a braggart like Richmore as a friend? Would you?’

  Leeming grimaced. ‘I’d run a mile.’

  ‘What did you make of Stagg?’

  ‘I felt sorry for him. He got blamed for everything.’

  ‘He’s got a wife and child to support.’

  ‘Yes – losing his job would be a big blow.’

  ‘Stagg looked so unhappy.’

  ‘So would I if I’d had to work alongside a bully like Richmore.’

  Colbeck smiled. ‘We both work alongside a bully named Tallis,’ he pointed out. ‘Did you know he was a devotee of British art?’ He saw Leeming’s eyes widen in astonishment. ‘Yes, it was a shock to me as well. Despite evidence to the contrary, the superintendent has finer feelings, after all. Going back to the theft,’ he said. ‘If Richmore really was involved, he’d need an accomplice in Hertfordshire who could hire a carriage to make off with that painting.’

  ‘What will the thief do with it, sir?’

  ‘Well, he won’t hang it up on his wall, I can assure you of that.’

  ‘Then why bother to steal it?’

  ‘I can see that you’re not familiar with Turner’s paintings. This particular one is famous and it’s inspired many artists – my wife among them. Madeleine went to see Rain, Steam and Speed at least ten times at the National Gallery. Unfortunately,’ said Colbeck, ‘her own paintings of locomotives have nothing like the same value. As for the thief, I daresay that he might try to sell it back to Lord Stennard.’

  ‘But Lord Stennard doesn’t actually own it.’

  ‘He’ll feel responsible for its loss. After all, it was because of his request that it left the security of London and travelled to Berkhamsted.’

  ‘What sort of man is he?’

  ‘According to the superintendent,’ warned Colbeck, ‘he’s inclined to rant and rave. Can you imagine how Mr Tallis would behave if unsolved crimes soared in the capital, newspapers pilloried him mercilessly and the commissioner threatened him with dismissal?’

  Leeming was rueful. ‘I can imagine it all too well, sir.’

  ‘Then you’ve got a clear idea of what to expect from Lord Stennard.’

  The blistering harangue went on for the best part of five minutes. Stennard upbraided the detectives for not getting to his house sooner, for making no apparent progress in the investigation and for not understanding the significant part that Turner would have played in the exhibition. It was only when he ra
n out of breath that the tirade finally abated. Leeming felt so uncomfortable that he ran a finger around the inside of his collar but Colbeck was unperturbed. He conjured up an emollient smile.

  ‘When it comes to art, my lord,’ he said, ‘you are a man of impeccable taste.’

  Stennard was taken aback. ‘Oh … thank you, Inspector.’

  ‘This gallery is a tribute to your skill in selecting the very best paintings.’

  ‘Art is the nearest we mortals can get to the quintessence of beauty.’

  ‘I don’t see anything beautiful about a train crossing a bridge,’ grumbled Leeming, ‘for that’s all that Mr Turner gave us, I’m told.’

  ‘You must forgive the sergeant,’ said Colbeck. ‘He has yet to accept the railways as a vital part of our lives. In Turner’s gifted hands, a locomotive became a thing of pure magic.’

  ‘I might agree, Inspector,’ observed Stennard, waspishly, ‘if only the painting were actually here for me to enjoy it.’ He indicated the stretch of blank wall. ‘What will my guests think when they see that?’

  ‘Hang a mirror there,’ suggested Leeming before quailing under Stennard’s basilisk stare. ‘It’s better than a bare space.’

  ‘We have days to spare yet,’ said Colbeck, ‘so there’s still a possibility that Turner will take his rightful place in the collection. As for our delay, my lord, do not ascribe it to idleness. It was occasioned by the fact that we had to talk to the station staff to see if any of them had witnessed the theft of the painting. Also, of course, we needed to speak to your coachman.’

  Stennard blinked. ‘Why on earth did you bother him?’

  ‘It was because I couldn’t understand why he was not at the station to meet the train as arranged and bring the painting here with the two couriers. His explanation was that he’d been held up because a cart had lost a wheel and overturned on the road, blocking his way. As a result of the accident,’ Colbeck continued, ‘it was over twenty minutes before he could continue on his way – except that it wasn’t an accident, of course. It was a deliberate means of stopping him so that another vehicle could get to the station in his stead.’

  ‘This is a conspiracy!’ yelled Stennard.

  ‘It was a well-devised plan.’

  ‘The National Gallery will never forgive me.’

  ‘I’m sure that they’ll be mollified when you return the painting.’

  ‘But I don’t have it in order to send it back, man.’

  ‘Oh, I suspect that it will be on that wall before too long,’ said Colbeck, confidently. ‘My guess is that the thieves stole it in order to sell it back to you – or back to the National Gallery.’

  ‘The Gallery needn’t be involved,’ said Stennard, quickly. ‘This is my problem and I’m ready to pay in order to make amends. Should I offer a reward for the safe return of the painting, Inspector? Will that lure them out of cover?’

  ‘They’ll need no encouragement, my lord. In all probability, they’ll already have set a price. You must agree to hand over the money,’ advised Colbeck. ‘It’s our best chance of making arrests.’ The door opened at the far end of the gallery and the butler entered, carrying a letter on a silver salver. Colbeck beamed. ‘Ah, it looks as if the demand has come sooner than I expected.’

  Being married to the Railway Detective meant that Madeleine Colbeck shuttled between joy and loneliness. When her husband involved her in the investigative progress – albeit covertly – she was exhilarated. When a case took him hundreds of miles away from home, however, she felt as if she’d been cut adrift. On hearing the details of his latest investigation, she expressed horror.

  ‘Someone stole my favourite painting?’ she cried in despair.

  ‘It was only for a short while, my love.’

  ‘Laying rough hands on a work of art is sacrilege – like defacing a church.’

  ‘Nothing will be damaged, Madeleine,’ Colbeck promised her. ‘If the painting is defaced in any way, it loses its value. They know that. It will be returned in good condition or they won’t get a penny.’

  ‘Is Lord Stennard really going to pay them what they demand?’

  ‘He’ll give the appearance of doing so. Victor and I will be on hand to ensure that we arrest the thieves and recover the money.’

  ‘Will it really be as simple as that?’

  ‘No,’ he confessed. ‘There may be unforeseen difficulties.’

  ‘Take care, Robert,’ she urged. ‘One of them has a gun.’

  ‘Victor will be armed. The superintendent agreed to that.’

  ‘What about you?’

  He smiled. ‘I’ll rely on my charm and affability.’

  Seeing the protest hovering on her lips, he silenced it with a kiss. They were in the studio where Madeleine had been working all day. Her latest project was a painting of a locomotive that her father had driven when he worked for the LNWR. Unbeknown to Caleb Andrews, it was a present for his forthcoming birthday. Colbeck ran an eye over his wife’s latest creation.

  ‘Where locomotives are concerned, Turner couldn’t hold a candle to you.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s nonsense, Robert, and you know it.’

  ‘His work is so opaque while yours has a bracing directness.’

  ‘Rain, Steam and Speed is real art whereas my aspirations reach no higher than producing a passable photograph of my subject.’

  ‘Don’t underrate your talent,’ he told her, studying the canvas. ‘You bring a locomotive to life, Madeleine, and a lot of people agree with me. If all they wanted was a photograph, they wouldn’t rush to buy your prints.’

  ‘Tell me about this exhibition.’

  Colbeck did so at length. During his visit to the gallery, he’d made a mental note of every painting on display so that he could tell his wife about the treasure trove of art. As the names of Old Masters rolled off his tongue, Madeleine listened with fascination. Each new painting elicited a fresh gasp of pleasure.

  ‘Oh, Robert!’ she sighed. ‘I’d love to see the exhibition.’

  ‘Then you shall,’ he said, seriously. ‘I’ll make it a proviso. If the painting is returned to Lord Stennard, he has to let you have a private viewing of his gallery.’

  Victor Leeming blenched when he saw the horse he had to ride. The animal had a fiery look in its eye and bucked as soon as he approached it. A reluctant rider, he doubted his ability to stay in the saddle. Colbeck patted the horse’s neck to calm it down then helped the sergeant to mount.

  ‘I don’t feel safe up here,’ complained Leeming.

  ‘I asked for the most docile horse in the stable. Once he gets used to you, Victor, you’ll have no trouble.’ He indicated the carriage. ‘You only have one horse to worry about. I have two.’

  Dressed as a coachman, Colbeck’s task was to drive Lord Stennard to the place appointed for the exchange of money and painting. Leeming was to follow at a discreet distance. Now that he was in the saddle, he felt that he might just be able to control the animal, whereas he would struggle badly to drive the coach. Stennard came out of the house with a small leather bag in his hand. Colbeck opened the door so that his passenger could get into the carriage. After closing it behind him, Colbeck climbed up onto the box seat and gathered up the reins. They set off.

  The demand sent to the house had been well-written on crisp paper. The instructions were reinforced with a warning. If Stennard deviated in any way from what he was told to do, the painting would be destroyed. Colbeck knew that it was an empty threat. As the carriage rolled through the estate, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Leeming was keeping out of sight. The designated spot was on the open road about a mile away. When they finally reached it, they discovered that there was a change of plan. A long stick had been thrust into the soft ground beside the road. Fluttering at the top of it was a letter, held on by twine. Pulling the horses to a halt, Colbeck descended, picked up the letter and handed it to Lord Stennard who’d opened the door of the carriage.

  ‘What’s the p
roblem, Inspector?’

  ‘They’re being very cautious, my lord,’ replied Colbeck. ‘We’ve been drawn out into the open so that they can have a good look at us. We’ll be directed to a more sheltered location.’

  Stennard read the letter. ‘Take the left fork,’ he ordered.

  Colbeck resumed his role as the coachman. He flicked the reins and sent the horses off at a brisk trot. Leeming only knew the directions to the place they were just leaving. Colbeck was worried that he’d be unable to find them once they plunged into the woodland ahead but he had to obey orders. Taking the left fork, he drove on a winding road through trees so tall and close together that they blocked out most of the light. After half a mile, they came to a large clearing. As they emerged from the shadows, they found the sun dazzling. Colbeck brought the coach to a halt some twenty yards or more from a horse and cart. A thickset man in his fifties jumped down from the cart.

  ‘Where’s the money?’ he demanded.

  Stennard got out of the coach. ‘Show me the painting first.’

  The man lifted the painting off the back off the cart and walked across to them. Colbeck watched as the man removed the cloth so that Stennard could see Rain, Steam and Speed. He was so delighted that he handed over the leather bag at once. Before he released the painting, the man insisted on counting the money. Because he was poorly dressed and spoke roughly, Colbeck knew that he was merely a go-between and not one of the actual thieves. The inspector sensed that they were under surveillance from the trees ahead. That was where the real villains were lurking. Of Leeming’s whereabouts, he was less certain. The sergeant might have lost their trail completely.

  Having counted the money, the man turned round and signalled to someone concealed behind him. Then he gave the painting to Stennard, leapt up onto the cart with the leather bag and snapped the reins. The cart swung round before heading off at speed in the opposite direction. Stennard, meanwhile, was on his knees, holding the frame in his hands as if embracing a kidnapped child who’d been returned to him. Colbeck got down from the coach to look at Turner’s work and felt a thrill of recognition. It was truly a masterpiece.