Points of Danger Read online

  ‘Someone switched the points.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you see them?’

  ‘I was distracted. It’s obvious, now I think of it. Not long before Mr Swarbrick’s train came in, I was made to look the other way. Something hit me on the back of my neck and made me jump. Children round here love playing with catapults. My first thought was that one of them had aimed a stone at me. I charged off to search for him.’

  ‘Is that what you told Sergeant Duff?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but Bart – the sergeant – didn’t believe me.’

  ‘Did you catch the boy who aimed a stone at you?’

  ‘No, the little devil hopped it. But you can see the wound,’ he went on, turning around to show Leeming the back of his neck. ‘It drew blood.’ He brought something out of his pocket. ‘And here’s the stone.’

  ‘Yet Sergeant Duff didn’t accept your explanation.’

  ‘It’s only because he wanted someone to blame. Bart reckons that I got that wound on my way to work because nobody would dare to use a catapult on this station.’ He pocketed the stone. ‘But I know the truth.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Not long before Mr Swarbrick’s train was due. Actually, that was late, which is fairly normal for the ECR.’

  ‘So you think the points were switched when you were distracted.’

  ‘It’s as plain as the nose on your face.’

  ‘Frankly, it’s not. There must have been other people on the platform at the time. You might have been looking the wrong way but one of them would surely have spotted a figure walking towards the points.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Pryor, seriously, ‘and I may have the answer. Soon after I was hit on the neck, a goods train went slowly through the station. The long line of wagons would have blocked out any view of the points. That’s when it must have happened.’

  ‘It’s a plausible theory,’ conceded Leeming, ‘but that’s all it is. Have you been in trouble with Sergeant Duff before?’

  ‘It happens from time to time, sir. He’s like that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He gives us a roasting to keep us on our toes.’

  ‘You don’t like him, do you?’ Pryor withdrew into a watchful silence. ‘It’s all right. I’m not going to report to Duff anything you tell me in confidence. You can speak freely. We need to know all we can about the people based at this station – especially those with protective duties. Tell me about Sergeant Duff.’

  ‘He has too high an opinion of himself,’ said Pryor. ‘Everyone knows that. He thinks that he’s too good to be a railway policeman and that this job is beneath him.’

  ‘He struck me as a man who likes to swagger.’

  ‘That’s exactly what he does, Sergeant. He walks around as if he owns this station and boasts about the time when he worked in London.’

  ‘Oh? What was he doing there?’

  ‘He was in the Metropolitan Police Force.’

  ‘Why did he leave?’

  ‘Bart says it was because his wife could never settle so they came home to Norwich.’

  Pryor started to ramble on inconsequentially about life as a railway policeman and Leeming had to interrupt him to stem the gushing torrent. He couldn’t quite make up his mind about the man. He opened a palm.

  ‘Could I see that stone again, please?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Pryor, ‘of course, you can.’

  Taking it out again, he gave it to Leeming.

  ‘That’s odd,’ said the detective, scrutinising it. ‘Are you sure that this is what hit you on the back of the neck?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant, I found it on the platform.’

  ‘Then why doesn’t it have your blood on it?’

  When she had time alone again, Madeleine withdrew to her studio and read the letter once more. It no longer gave her the same excitement. Between them, Lydia and Madeleine’s father had robbed it of its magic. Someone had been so impressed by her artistic talent that he wanted to commission a painting from her. The fact that Lionel Fairbank already had prints of her work showed that he loved railways and the way that she depicted them on canvas. Madeleine had wanted to reply instantly to his offer and arrange a meeting to discuss the terms of the commission. She was no longer so keen to do so because Lydia had sown the seeds of doubt in her mind, raising the possibility – however remote – that her admirer might not be all that he claimed to be and might even turn out to be a threat to her.

  Caleb Andrews had poured scorn on the invitation, saying that his daughter couldn’t possibly produce a painting of a GWR locomotive because he would see it as an insult to him. His devotion to the LNWR was such that he couldn’t bear her taking an interest in other railway companies. Her readiness to accept the commission had unleashed all his prejudices and left her wondering what she should do. If she declined the commission, she’d be turning away someone who clearly had a passion for railway art; if, on the other hand, she accepted it, she’d be alienating her father. Madeleine wrestled with the question of which was the more important – her work or her father’s feelings.

  After thinking it over, she decided that an instant reply to Fairbank would be a mistake. What she needed most was her husband’s advice. Sooner or later, he’d write to her from Norwich and she would have an address where she could contact him. Colbeck would be wholeheartedly on her side and she felt the need for his support. Putting the letter aside, she picked up her brush and went over to her easel.

  After examining the compartment in which Jarvis Swarbrick had been killed, Colbeck asked to speak to the stationmaster. Freed led him back towards the platform, assuring him as he did so that Ned Grigson, the stationmaster had, reportedly, been a tower of strength in the emergency. When word spread among the passengers that someone had been shot dead on their train, there was fear and commotion. All that most people wanted to do was to flee the station as quickly as possible. Grigson had somehow managed to instil calm on the agitated travellers, persuading them to leave in an orderly manner instead of scrambling for the exits. The moment he saw the stationmaster, Colbeck could believe the report of his actions. Smart, slim and upright in his uniform, Grigson was an unusually tall, middle-aged man with a firm handshake, a warm smile and a silver beard. He seemed to embody wisdom, competence and unforced authority. Taking him at face value, Colbeck dared to believe that he’d finally met someone working for the ECR who really seemed to know what he was doing.

  ‘It’s good to meet you, inspector,’ said Grigson in a voice both deep and reassuring. ‘Your fame goes before you.’

  ‘I hear good things of you as well, Mr Grigson.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘As for fame, it’s more of a burden than a blessing. One’s actions are always being judged against past achievements and no human being can get everything right all the time.’

  ‘You seem to manage it,’ said Freed. He turned to Grigson. ‘The inspector would like to ask you some questions, Ned.’

  ‘I had a feeling he might,’ said Grigson with a smile, ‘so I took the precaution of writing a report of what happened while it was still fresh in my mind. If you’d care to step into my office, you can both read it.’

  ‘I’m very grateful to you,’ said Colbeck. ‘You’re obviously a man with foresight.’

  ‘It saves time.’

  Grigson ushered them into his office, a large, exceptionally tidy room with charts and timetables pinned neatly to the walls. When his guests sat down, he handed Colbeck his report. The stationmaster was in no way abashed by the presence of the chairman of the ECR.

  ‘I won’t apologise for our shortcomings,’ he said, ‘because there are too many of them. What I will do is to offer my sympathy that you had to travel from Bishopsgate, our London terminus. Mr Freed knows my low opinion of it.’

  ‘I share it, Ned,’ said Freed with embarrassment. ‘It does the ECR no favours. In time we’ll move to a better location in the capital.’

 
While the two of them had what was patently a regular discussion of the company’s hopes and aims, Colbeck was reading the report. It was long, well written and comprehensive. All that it lacked was the name of the person who had switched the points.

  ‘This is extremely helpful,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘Find him, inspector,’ urged Grigson. ‘Catch the villain who killed Mr Swarbrick and caused such turmoil in my station. If there’s anything at all I can do to help, just tell me what it is.’

  ‘In providing this,’ said Colbeck, holding up the report, ‘you’ve done all I would have asked of you.’

  ‘Who could possibly have done this?’ said the other, his attention shifting to Freed. ‘The whole city admired Mr Swarbrick. He did so much for us over the years. And now we’ve lost him.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Freed. ‘The full horror of it hasn’t sunk in yet. It’s a crippling blow to suffer.’

  ‘You seem to have a fairly large staff here,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘That’s true,’ replied the stationmaster, ‘but this is a busy place. We have a probationary clerk, goods clerks, booking clerks, parcel clerks and a one-legged old soldier who comes two days a week to help me tend the garden. Oh,’ he added, ‘then there are the railway policemen.’

  ‘I’m sure you know each and every one of them, Mr Grigson.’

  ‘It’s part of my job.’

  ‘Then I’d like you to go through them one by one,’ said Colbeck, taking out his notebook. ‘Start with the names of those on duty when the train went off on the branch line.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to give you a full list. But first I need to ask Mr Freed a question I should have put to him earlier.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Freed.

  ‘I’m very worried about Mrs Swarbrick. She was more or less carried off the train. I can’t stop wondering how she is.’

  ‘My wife is with her and should bring news fairly soon.’

  ‘There is someone else in the family, of course,’ said Grigson, quietly, ‘and that’s the son. Young Mr Swarbrick was an only child. The murder of his father will come as a terrible shock to him.’

  ‘There’s no question about that.’

  ‘How do you think he’ll react, sir?’

  When the ECR’s permanent London terminus was first opened in 1840, it bore the name of Shoreditch. Seven years later, it was enlarged and renamed Bishopsgate after the major thoroughfare in the heart of the financial district. The intention had been to lure more employees from the City into using the station. Whatever its name, the terminus remained a rather grubby, unimpressive, badly located place that seemed to attract pickpockets as readily as passengers. Striding towards the appropriate platform, Andrew Swarbrick kept a wary eye out for any loitering thieves, though his physique and fast pace were enough in themselves to frighten off any criminals.

  At the time when he’d turned his back on Norwich, he’d vowed never to return if his stepmother was still there. Circumstances had changed dramatically. As he settled into a first-class compartment, he actually began to look forward to the journey.

  Colbeck and Freed were just leaving the stationmaster’s office when Anthea Freed came bustling along the platform with a determined look in her eye. She was introduced to the inspector and, when she’d got her breath back, delivered her news.

  ‘Grace is fast asleep,’ she said. ‘The doctor gave her a sleeping draught.’

  ‘That may be the best thing for her,’ said her husband.

  ‘Inspector Jellings didn’t think so. He was dying to speak to her and had the gall to ask to be allowed to be the first to do so. Didn’t he realise how close Grace and I are? I’m her best friend.’

  ‘That’s whom she needs most at this point in time,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘I’m glad that someone else understands that.’

  ‘Your husband has explained Mrs Swarbrick’s domestic situation.’

  ‘It’s caused her endless worry,’ she said, ‘though she has an even bigger cause for concern now, of course. Her stepson rejected her and she’s now been robbed of her dear husband. Oh, I do feel so sorry for her. But let’s talk about the search for the killer,’ she went on, briskly. ‘Have you had time to form an opinion yet, inspector?’

  ‘Not really, Mrs Freed.’

  ‘What do your instincts tell you?’

  ‘At the moment,’ he confessed, ‘my attention is fixed elsewhere. Sergeant Leeming and I have to find some accommodation in the city.’

  ‘No search is needed. We insist that you stay with us.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Freed. ‘That goes without saying.’

  ‘It’s a kind invitation, sir,’ said Colbeck, ‘but we’d prefer to … be on our own.’

  ‘Of course you do and we’re not expecting you to stay in the main house with my wife and I watching you like hawks. That would only impede you. We have a cottage in the grounds. You and the sergeant can have that as well as the services of a maid and, of course, our cook.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘We won’t hear any argument,’ said Anthea. ‘It’s all settled.’

  ‘The cottage will give you much more privacy,’ argued Freed. ‘If you stay at a hotel, you’ll be plagued by reporters.’

  ‘That is a consideration,’ admitted Colbeck.

  ‘My wife and I will be delighted to act as your hosts.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We have only one requirement, inspector. No alcohol is allowed on the premises. Temperance is a virtue that’s close to my heart. I’m counting on the fact that you and your companion will not bring intoxicating liquid on to our property. Is that understood?’

  It was more of a command than a question.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Without realising it, Victor Leeming had been right. The superintendent was a changed man. The outer shell of steel might be back and so might the caustic tongue, but they were hiding his pain and his deep insecurity. Edward Tallis had never feared danger in the past. His military career pitched him time and again into perilous situations and – especially in India – he’d always survived them. There had also been many occasions during his days in the Metropolitan Police when he’d faced desperate criminals without flinching. He’d been shot at, stabbed, belaboured with a cudgel and even had a rope put around his neck, yet had nevertheless won through in the end. Tallis had seemed invincible.

  To the naked eye, he still was the looming figure he’d always been. Underneath the daunting carapace, however, there’d been a steady loss of self-belief. He’d been forced to accept that he was mortal, after all, and that – but for the intervention of others – he’d now be in his tomb. When he’d been kidnapped while staying with an old army friend, he was held prisoner by two brutal men who’d already scrawled their names on his death warrant. Try as he might, he couldn’t possibly escape on his own. He was completely at the mercy of his captors and mercy was a concept entirely foreign to them.

  Had his rescuers come an hour later, they’d have found the blood-covered corpse of Edward Tallis. That thought haunted him constantly and kept him awake at night. It was the reason he returned to Scotland Yard much earlier than he should have done, shunning the advice of his doctor. At home, he was in torment; in his office, smoking his customary cigar, surrounded by evidence of his status, he could pretend to be the heartless martinet he’d always been. Yet even there he was no longer safe. Memories of the abduction still disturbed him at a deep level. Though he was trying to read a report, his mind was miles away, focussed on the farm in Kent where he’d been kept a prisoner awaiting execution. He could feel the ropes biting into him, the pangs of hunger gnawing at his stomach, the sense of isolation making him shiver. He could hear the triumphant sneers of the two men as they mocked and threatened him.

  The more he thought about it, the more intense became his agony. In his febrile reconstruction of events, there was no rescue at the hands of his three colleagues. Tallis was utterly helpless, unable to speak let alone to move. He was like a car
cass, hung from a hook, listening to blades being sharpened. As the fear intensified, he closed his eyes and tried in vain to block out the terror.

  ‘Superintendent …’ said a tentative voice.

  Tallis only half-heard the sound.

  ‘Superintendent …’ It was louder now.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Tallis.

  ‘It’s me, sir – Constable Hinton.’

  ‘Thank God! Have you come for me, after all?’

  He opened his eyes and saw the young detective standing in the middle of the room. Tallis wasn’t tied up at all. He was free.

  Hinton was apologetic. ‘I did knock, sir,’ he said. ‘When you said nothing, I let myself in.’

  ‘How long have you been there?’

  ‘It must be a couple of minutes, sir.’

  ‘Really?’ Tallis was horrified. Lost in thought, he’d had no idea that someone was standing only feet away from him. His anger surged. ‘What the devil do you want?’

  ‘I’ve brought this telegraph for you,’ said Hinton, stepping forward to place it carefully on his desk as if putting food through the bars of a lion cage. ‘It’s from inspector Colbeck.’

  ‘Stop staring at me that way!’ snapped Tallis.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. Can I go?’

  ‘Yes, you can – be quick about it!’

  Hinton scuttled out and closed the door behind him, leaving the superintendent to realise the significance of what had just happened. He’d been so lost in his private world that he was unaware that someone not only knocked on his door, his visitor had come into the room and stood patiently for two minutes at least until he dared to attract Tallis’s attention. He’d then looked at the superintendent in quiet alarm. Hinton had been very upset by the older man’s behaviour. If he told the other detectives about it, the superintendent’s authority would be undermined. Tallis had to find a way to control his demons.

  Snatching up the telegraph, he read the message from Colbeck.