A Christmas Railway Mystery Read online

  Madeline was sad. ‘I wish I could share in it.’

  ‘What’s the problem – has Robert been sent away again?’

  ‘Yes, Lydia, he’s trying to solve a murder in Swindon and he won’t leave there until the job is done. Searching for evidence doesn’t stop for Christmas.’

  ‘But he must be here – for Helen’s sake as much as for yours.’

  ‘I’m praying that he will be, Lydia. It’s another reason why I came back in here. Painting helps me to forget all my worries. If I was sitting downstairs, I’d be worrying about Robert. The studio is my escape.’

  ‘Then I ought to let you get on with your work.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Madeleine, wiping her hands on a cloth, ‘I was about to break off, anyway. Helen will be waking up soon.’

  ‘Is she always aware of it when her father is not at home?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She misses him as much as I do.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I sense it and her eyes are darting about, looking for her father.’

  ‘Is ten days long enough to solve a murder?’

  ‘That depends. Some cases have dragged on for weeks. We’ll just have to hope that this isn’t one of them. It isn’t only Robert who’ll be fighting against time, of course. There’s Victor Leeming as well.’

  ‘Yes, he’s a family man, too. He’ll be desperate to see the smiles on his children’s faces on Christmas morning.’

  ‘What will you be doing?’

  ‘Well,’ said Lydia, soulfully, ‘I certainly won’t be spending Christmas with any of my family. It’s a time of the year when I feel very much an outcast.’

  When he left the surgery, Colbeck went straight to the general manager’s office, a large, cluttered, rectangular room with charts and designs hanging on the walls. Above the fireplace was a framed photograph of Isambard Kingdom Brunel, smoking a cigar and staring at something with intense pride.

  ‘That photograph was taken in the Erecting Shop,’ said Oswald Stinson. ‘You can see the sense of achievement in his eyes. I don’t think he’d look quite so pleased if he were in there now.’

  ‘It’s finally back in action, sir. He’d have been pleased with that.’

  Colbeck told him about his visit to the surgery and how he’d sanctioned the removal of the body. He also confessed that he’d spent some time exploring the Works to get his bearings.

  ‘I’ve always been fascinated by the way that locomotives, carriages and wagons are actually constructed. When I handled a case in Derby, they gave me a tour of the Works that was instrumental in helping me to solve the crime. It was a very interesting case.’

  ‘Excuse me for being selfish,’ said Stinson, levelly, ‘but I’m only interested in solving the murder that took place here. Can you give me any hope?’

  ‘There’s always hope.’

  ‘I’d like more reassurance, Inspector.’

  ‘Then I can guarantee that the killer will be caught. What I can’t predict is how long it will take us to catch him.’

  ‘Until you do, there’ll be a dark shadow over the entire Works.’

  ‘I understand that, sir. All I ask is that you give us the freedom to get on with our inquiry. Not to put too fine a point on it, we prefer to work without interference.’

  ‘You’ll get none from me.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’

  ‘I’ll help in any way that I can.’

  ‘Then perhaps you could loan me a ground plan of the Works,’ said Colbeck. ‘I enjoyed my tour but I wasn’t entirely sure what all the buildings were.’

  Stinson opened a drawer. ‘Let me give you this,’ he said, taking out a plan and unfolding it. ‘This will tell you all you need to know.’ He spread it out on his desk. ‘The only thing you won’t find on it is the new rolling mill.’

  ‘Oh, I think that I heard that, loud and clear.’ He pored over the plan and was struck by the clarity of the architect’s drawing. ‘The body was found here,’ he said, tapping the paper with a finger, ‘and the killer made his escape this way. The blood spots go all the way to the exit then they skirt the Engine Shed and disappear here.’ His finger indicated the spot. ‘What are these buildings?’

  ‘Those are offices and stores, Inspector.’

  ‘Did he have a key to get in, I wonder?’

  ‘I doubt it. They’re kept locked at night.’

  ‘Then you need to review your security arrangements, sir. The simple fact is that two men were able to stroll in here at night and gain access to the Erecting Shop. One of them was murdered there and the other walked boldly out of the Works without being seen. In your position, I’d be alarmed.’

  ‘I’m very disturbed, Inspector. Heads will roll over this.’ Realising what he’d said, he gestured an abject apology. ‘Do forgive me. In view of what happened to the victim, that was a dreadful thing to say.’

  ‘It was unintentional, Mr Stinson.’ He folded up the plan. ‘This will make our job much easier. Ever since I heard about the creation of this Railway Village, I wanted to see it. I just wish it could have been under happier circumstances.’

  ‘Solve this terrible crime and I’ll show you around in person.’

  ‘I may hold you to that.’

  ‘Until then,’ said Stinson, stroking his moustache, ‘my wife and I would like to extend hospitality to you and your sergeant. We live well away from the Works so we can offer you peace as well as comfort.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, sir, but we’d rather stay there, if you don’t mind. We need to mix with your employees and get to know what life in the village is like. Mr Rodman was killed by someone who knows this place intimately. This is where we’ll find him. As it happens,’ said Colbeck, ‘I asked Sergeant Leeming to find some suitable accommodation for us. The chances are that’s he’s doing that right now.’

  Having been designed in his office in 1842, the Queen’s Tap was an important part of Brunel’s legacy. Occupying a corner site, it was a solid structure built of local stone and boasting an impressive portico on the front elevation. Ales, wines and spirits were advertised in bold letters. The pub was an integral part of the village, not least because of the personality of its landlord, Hiram Wells, a man with a beaming smile and a welcoming manner. He was a tall, strapping character in his sixties with flowing grey hair and a full beard. Wells was delighted that the detectives were interested in staying at his pub. When Leeming called there, the landlord took him straight upstairs and showed him two rooms furthest away from the street. They were small but cosy and spotlessly clean. On the walls of one room were pictures of locomotives built at the Works. For that reason, Leeming decided that Colbeck should stay there. The sergeant elected to sleep in the other room, its walls adorned by framed watercolours. Since he hated railways, he felt that the restful landscapes of Wiltshire were more suited to his needs.

  Once terms had been agreed, they shook hands.

  ‘We left our luggage at the station,’ explained Leeming. ‘We’ll pick it up later and drop it off.’

  ‘That’s fine with me,’ said Wells.

  ‘Needless to say, we can’t tell you how long we’ll be here.’

  ‘I’ll do my best to make your stay a happy one, sir. To that end, I won’t pester you for details of what you find out. That’d be a real nuisance. You and the inspector need peace and quiet to think deep thoughts.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll make that clear to my customers.’

  ‘That will be a great help.’ Leeming studied him. ‘Are you a local man?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the other with a soft West Country burr, ‘I was born and bred not five miles away.’

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve heard a voice like yours. Everyone I’ve met at the Works seems to have a different accent.’

  ‘That’s because this is a rural area with no history of heavy industry. The Works are sited in lovely green fields I used to walk across as a boy. They had to get labour from places where
there was a tradition of manufacture. I reckon that Mr Brunel poached some of his men from other railway companies.’

  ‘That sounds like him.’

  ‘Go to the Works and you’ll hear voices from far afield.’

  ‘The one I’d like to ask you about,’ said Leeming, taking his cue, ‘comes from the other side of the Welsh border. Does the name Gareth Llewellyn mean anything to you?’

  ‘Yes, he was in here last night.’

  ‘I’m told that he was seen arguing with Mr Rodman.’

  Wells chuckled. ‘That was just friendly banter.’

  ‘Not according to my information. I heard that they squared up to each other.’

  ‘It was only in fun, Sergeant. Everyone knows my rules. Lively argument is allowed but, if you want a fight, you step outside.’

  ‘So they didn’t start trading punches?’

  ‘No, they just called each other a few rude names.’

  ‘What were they arguing about?’

  ‘I can show you,’ said Wells, heading for the stairs. ‘Follow me.’

  Leeming went after him, descending to the ground floor then going into the bar. Wells pointed to a large poster pinned up on the wall.

  ‘This is the latest musical entertainment at the Mechanics’ Institution,’ he said, proudly. ‘They’re regular events. People in the village love their music. As you can see, the band will play an overture from a Mozart opera then there’s a whole list of performers. The one that might interest you,’ he went on, pointing to an item in the programme, ‘is this one right here. Someone was going to sing “The Standard Bearer”.’

  ‘Why should that interest me?’

  ‘The soloist’s name is Frank Rodman.’

  Leeming was taken aback. ‘The murder victim?’

  ‘He has a wonderful voice – or, at least, he did.’

  The sergeant took a closer look at the list of items in the entertainment and was amazed by its length and variety. Music, song and recitation made up the bulk of the evening. Rodman was due to have appeared near the end of the concert.

  ‘They always put Frank there,’ said Wells, ‘because he could stay onstage and lead everyone in the singing of the national anthem. I gather that there was a spot of bother last time he tried to do that.’

  ‘Was there?’

  ‘Some of the Welsh lads were in the audience and they claimed to have their own anthem. So they refused to sing “God Save the Queen”.’

  ‘And was Gareth Llewellyn among them?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘What exactly happened?’

  ‘I wasn’t there myself but it seems that it all ended peacefully. The Welshmen agreed to sing our anthem if they were allowed to sing theirs first.’

  ‘I didn’t know they had one.’

  ‘It was written three or four years ago, it seems.’

  ‘How did Mr Rodman react?’

  ‘He was annoyed at first, being interrupted when he was about to sing. I know that because he was still going on about it last night.’

  ‘Is that what he and Llewellyn were arguing about?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Wells with another chuckle. ‘Gareth was teasing Frank about his voice and saying that he couldn’t compare with a Welsh tenor. He was goading him but not in a spiteful way. They had a lively argument but there was never any danger of a brawl. In fact, they ended up drinking together and singing a duet. Like I told you, it was all in fun, really.’

  On arrival in Swindon, Colbeck’s first instinct had been to contact the victim’s family to offer sympathy and to promise retribution. As it was, he decided to visit the Works first to see the scene of the crime and gather what evidence he could. Hours had now passed since Rodman’s wife had been told of the murder so he hoped that she’d had time to adjust to it slightly. Armed with the address given him by Stinson, he walked along streets of red-brick houses arranged to form a grid pattern. Though the terraces appeared identical, there were varying classes of dwelling, ranging from the small, two-room cottages to larger, three-storey houses occupied by more well-paid employees. The accommodation was let by means of differing rental agreements. When he reached it, Colbeck saw that the Rodman abode was among the cheapest in the village.

  The appearance of someone of his elegance had already aroused interest. Women peered through windows at him and those he passed in the street assumed that he belonged to the management. Knocking on the front door, he got no response. He knocked even harder the second time and heard sounds from within. Eventually, the door inched open and a pair of eyes looked out at him.

  ‘Are you Mrs Rodman?’ he said, gently.

  ‘No, no, sir – I’m Liza Alford. Betty is inside.’

  After introducing himself, he asked if he’d be able to speak to Rodman’s wife.

  Liza was flustered. ‘I don’t know, Inspector … I’ll ask her.’

  She vanished into the house and was gone for a couple of minutes. When she returned the second time, she opened the door wide. Betty had agreed to see him but, she warned, the woman was in a very delicate state. He promised not to keep her long. Removing his hat, Colbeck followed her in. Betty Rodman was seated on a chair with a shawl around her. She was in an attitude of complete misery. Arm protectively around her, Liza sat beside her friend.

  ‘First of all,’ said Colbeck, softly, ‘allow me to express my profoundest sympathy. It’s a terrible thing to happen to anyone. I’ve not long left Mr Stinson. He sends his sincerest condolences.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Betty, voice barely rising to a whisper.

  ‘He acted with commendable speed and got in touch with Scotland Yard. I’ve been dispatched to deal with this tragic situation. I have a lot of resources at my disposal, Mrs Rodman, and I’ll deploy them to the full until we catch the man who killed your husband.’

  ‘Frank didn’t deserve to die like that,’ said Liza.

  ‘I agree, Mrs …’

  ‘I’m Liza Alford.’

  ‘She’s my best friend,’ added Betty. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without her.’ She squeezed Liza’s hand in gratitude. ‘Who did this, Inspector?’

  ‘That’s what I’m here to find out,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’m wondering if you – or Mrs Alford, for that matter – might be able to help me. You both know this village very well. I don’t. On the surface, it seems like a nice place to live.’

  ‘It was,’ affirmed Liza, ‘until this happened.’

  ‘It all started last night,’ said Betty, speaking slowly and staring at the floor. ‘Frank didn’t come home. He was a good man, Inspector. If he gave his word, he kept to it. When he didn’t turn up at the time he promised, I knew something was wrong. All I could do was to sit here and fret.’

  ‘In the end, Betty came and knocked on our door,’ said Liza, taking over. ‘Fred, my husband, scoured the whole village with her but there was no sign of him. Then Fred went off to work and they told him there’d been a murder. He wouldn’t leave until he knew who the victim was.’

  ‘He must already have guessed.’

  ‘He kept praying that it wasn’t Frank.’

  ‘After what happened last night,’ said Betty, ‘I expected bad news but nothing like this. I thought he’d had an accident or something.’

  ‘Most people would have thought the same, Mrs Rodman,’ said Colbeck. ‘Now then, I’m going to ask both of you a question and I’d like you to think carefully before either of you gives me an answer. Do you understand?’ The women nodded in unison. ‘Can you think of anyone – anyone at all – who might have had a reason to kill Mr Rodman?’

  There was a long pause. The taut silence was eventually broken by Betty.

  ‘A lot of people didn’t like Frank,’ she confessed. ‘That wasn’t his fault. They didn’t know how kind he could be and what a wonderful father he was.’

  ‘Did anyone ever threaten him?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Liza, ‘because they’d be too afraid.’

  ‘Mr Rodma
n had been in the navy, hadn’t he?’

  ‘That was when he was much younger.’

  ‘Why did he turn his back on the sea?’

  ‘I made him,’ said Betty, woefully. ‘He was happy as a sailor. It’s all he ever wanted to be. But I didn’t like the idea of a husband who went away for months on end. So I made him give it up. This is my reward,’ she went on, lower lip quivering. ‘Instead of an absent husband, I’ve got a dead one. It’s my fault, Inspector. If I hadn’t forced him to leave the navy, he’d still be alive. I’m as much to blame as the man who killed him.’

  Bursting into tears, she brought both hands up to her face.

  CHAPTER SIX

  One of the most striking buildings in the village was St Mark’s Church, a large, imposing, neo-Gothic structure that served the spiritual needs of the community. Constructed of limestone, it was roofed in tile and lead and surmounted by a crocketted spire that soared to a height of 140 feet and looked down on the industrial sprawl below it with a watchful eye. To the Rev. Howard Law, it was at once a home and workplace. He was a familiar figure in the area, admired for his dedication, scholarship and ability to relate easily to people of all ranks of society. Law was a slender man in his forties with a youthfulness that made him look ten years younger. His face was unlined, his back straight and his movements unusually lithe. In the years that he’d been in the Railway Village, he’d made himself popular even among those who worshipped elsewhere on a Sunday.

  The church had a capacious interior, comprising a five-bay nave with a clerestory, a north aisle and a south aisle with a three-bay chapel and a three-bay chancel. When Jennifer Law came in, therefore, it was impossible to see her husband at first because there were so many hiding places in the gloom. The vicar’s wife was a plump woman with dimpled cheeks and an emerging double chin. Time had been far kinder to her husband. Unlike him, her face was wrinkled, her shoulders rounded and her mobility restricted. In trying to hurry, she was almost out of breath. Eager to speak to her husband, she was tempted to call out for him but she knew that would have been quite improper on consecrated ground. She therefore began a desperate search, finally running him to ground in the vestry.