Inspector Colbeck's Casebook Page 4

  ‘Isn’t it magnificent?’ said Stennard. ‘I’d have paid twice the money for it.’

  ‘With luck, my lord, it won’t have cost you anything.’ Colbeck looked around. ‘We’ll just have to hope that Sergeant Leeming was able to stay on our tail.’

  Leeming, in fact, was more concerned with staying in the saddle. Playful rather than mutinous, the horse kept bucking at unadvertised moments or going too close to bushes as if trying to brush off its rider. When the coach had reached its first location, Leeming had remained out of sight and watched through a telescope. Only when he saw the vehicle disappear into woodland did he come out of hiding and ride on. Pursuit was difficult but he eventually got within sound of the coach. He could hear its wheels rumbling over the road. When the noise stopped, however, he was lost. All that he could do was to wait patiently and listen.

  Long, slow minutes rolled past. He kept his ears pricked but he heard nothing. The horse, however, became aware of a sound and sprang into life. Before he realised what was happening, Leeming was being carried through the undergrowth at a canter. He emerged from cover onto an open road and saw that he was chasing a horse and cart that was rattling along at full tilt. He dug his heels into his mount to urge it on and soon began to close on the fleeing cart. Leeming knew, however, that catching it up was easier than stopping it. Though he had a pistol in his pocket, he needed two hands to hold onto the reins. In the event, the driver lost his nerve. As Leeming galloped level with him, the man heaved hard and brought the cart to a gradual halt. It took Leeming a little longer to rein in his horse. He’d never been so pleased to jump from the saddle. Apart from anything else, it allowed him to take out the pistol.

  ‘Don’t shoot, sir!’ pleaded the man.

  ‘I’m arresting you for the theft of a painting.’

  ‘I didn’t take it – I swear it. He paid me to hand it over, that’s all. I needed the money, sir. I’ve just been turned out of my cottage and have only the clothes I stand up in. Take pity on me,’ he begged, extending both palms in supplication. ‘Give me something to relieve my misery.’

  ‘I have just the thing,’ said Leeming.

  And he clapped the handcuffs onto the man’s wrists.

  Madeleine Colbeck was overjoyed to learn that her wish had come true. When they were actually on their way to Stennard Court the next day, she still couldn’t believe it.

  ‘This is a wonderful treat for me, Robert.’

  ‘You deserve it, my love.’

  ‘I never thought that Lord Stennard would agree to it.’

  ‘You underestimate your husband’s powers of persuasion,’ said Colbeck with a grin. ‘The truth of it is that he was so pleased to get the painting back that he could refuse me nothing – even though the case is not yet over.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll ever recover that money?’

  ‘I’m certain of it, Madeleine. I already have two suspects in mind.’

  ‘Will Victor Leeming be joining us at the gallery?’

  ‘No,’ replied Colbeck. ‘He’s too busy making enquiries about the suspects I just mentioned.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be doing that?’

  ‘Wait and see, my love.’

  They left the train at Berkhamsted and hired a cab to take them to the house. Stennard gave Madeleine a cordial welcome and insisted on taking her by the arm to show her around the exhibition. Colbeck trailed behind them. Drooling over each painting, their host took them from one to the other in sequence. At the end of one row, they crossed the gallery to work their way along the other wall. It was when they reached Turner’s painting that Stennard’s happiness swelled to its peak.

  ‘It’s the painting I most covet in the whole exhibition,’ he said with a grand gesture. ‘I’d give anything to own it.’

  ‘So would lots of collectors,’ remarked Colbeck.

  Madeleine was staring at it with open-mouthed admiration, studying once again its extraordinary use of colour. It was worth making the journey there simply to relish the work of a genius. All of a sudden, she stiffened and took a step forward to peer more closely. When she turned around, she was in evident distress.

  ‘It pains me to say this, my lord,’ she said, deferentially, ‘but it’s a fake.’

  ‘How dare you even suggest it!’ exclaimed Stennard.

  ‘My wife knows the painting extremely well,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘And so do I. That’s a genuine Turner – take my word for it.’

  ‘Then where is the hare?’ asked Madeleine, pointing. ‘In the right-hand corner, there should be a hare. It’s not very distinct in the original but it’s there.’

  Stennard used his monocle to scrutinise the canvas. Refusing to believe that he’d been duped, he searched for the tiny animal but to no avail. It was not there. Madeleine had exposed a fraud.

  ‘There’s one way to make certain,’ said Colbeck, lifting the frame from its hood and lowering it to the floor. He turned it round to examine the back. Fresh tacks had been put into it. There were holes where the original ones had been removed. ‘The evidence is fairly conclusive, I think.’

  Stennard’s heart missed a beat as the saw the telltale holes. Turner’s work had been removed and a copy of it put in its place. His earlier delight was transformed into cold fury. He rounded on Colbeck.

  ‘We’ve been tricked,’ he roared. ‘I paid all that money for a fake.’

  ‘I had a feeling that it might be a clever copy,’ said Colbeck, smoothly. ‘They kept the original so that they could extract even more money out of you. In time, you’d have received a second demand.’

  ‘A second demand?’ Stennard goggled. ‘What is going on?’

  Colbeck moved away. ‘Excuse me, my lord. I have to authorise some arrests.’

  Herbert Stagg counted out the money with a gleeful chuckle. The short, stout man who’d called at his lodging was Ruthin Woodvine, an art dealer. He was paying Stagg for the valuable information he’d received. Woodvine shared his elation.

  ‘And the best part of it is that there’s more to come,’ he said, smugly. ‘When he realises that he paid for a fake, Stennard will stump up three times that amount to get the original back. We’ll have made a small fortune.’

  ‘Richmore would kill me if he knew what I’d done.’

  ‘You pulled the wool over his eyes good and proper.’

  ‘The real credit belongs to you, Mr Woodvine. You know about art.’

  ‘I know about people,’ corrected the other, ‘and know just how much they’re prepared to cough up for something they’re desperate to hang on their wall. Come,’ he went on, getting up from the table. ‘We must go and celebrate.’

  Stagg scooped up the money. ‘The first drink is on me.’ A loud knock on the door made him thrust the cash into his pocket. ‘That’s probably my landlord, asking for the rent. I’ll be able to pay him now.’

  He opened the door and found himself facing a determined Victor Leeming. Behind the sergeant were two uniformed policemen. Leeming doffed his hat.

  ‘Good day to you, Mr Stagg,’ he said. ‘I have a warrant for your arrest.’ His gaze moved to the art dealer. ‘And you, I suspect, sir, may be Ruthin Woodvine. You are also wanted in connection with the theft of a painting so you’ll have to come along with us. The game is up, I fear.’

  Stagg was rooted to the spot but Woodvine thought only of escape. Opening his frock coat, he put a hand inside to grab his revolver but he was far too slow. Leeming was on him at once, felling him with a single, uncompromising blow to the chin. As the art dealer collapsed at his feet, Leeming relieved him of the weapon.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Woodvine. I’ll take that.’

  ‘There must be some mistake,’ gibbered Stagg.

  ‘There was, sir, and it was your cousin, the coachman, who made it. If you tell barefaced lies to Inspector Colbeck, you’re bound to come to grief in the end.’

  Edward Tallis was basking in the reflected glory of his officers. A crime had been solved, the perpetrat
ors were behind bars and he had a glowing letter of thanks from Lord Stennard on the desk in front of him. He sought clarification.

  ‘What aroused your suspicion about the coachman?’ he asked.

  ‘It was that story about being held up on the way to the station,’ said Colbeck. ‘He claimed that the road was blocked. Yet when I drove a carriage along it, I couldn’t see any place where he could be impeded by an overturned cart. He could simply have driven around it. You see, sir,’ he continued, ‘there had to be collusion with someone at Stennard Court. It was the coachman. There was no second carriage that picked up the painting at the station. Lord Stennard’s coachman drove there at the agreed time with Woodvine as his passenger. Richmore wouldn’t have been able to identify the coachman again because it was raining and the man was hidden beneath a cape and hat. Stagg, of course, was part of the gang. The daring theft was only made possible by the fact that the coachman was his cousin.’

  ‘Remarkable!’ said Tallis, sitting back. ‘Turner’s original painting is back in its frame and the malefactors will each collect a very long prison sentence. There’s just one thing that puzzles me,’ he added, stroking his moustache. ‘Lord Stennard is an acknowledged connoisseur in the art world. Why didn’t he spot that the painting he bought back was a fake?’

  ‘Lord Stennard is blind in one eye and has such poor vision in the other that he uses a monocle. The coachman was aware of that. When the information was passed on to Woodvine, the art dealer saw his chance. I feel sorry for Lord Stennard. He can take in the sheer wonder of a painting in its entirety but his impaired eyesight means that he can’t appreciate the fine detail.’

  ‘So who did establish that the painting was a fake?’

  Colbeck thought fondly of Madeleine. ‘We were lucky to have an expert at hand, Superintendent.’

  THE RAILWAY CHURCH

  Old age had sapped his strength and bent his back but Simon Gillard’s devotion to duty was unaffected by the passage of years. Indeed, now that he had retired, he was able to dedicate himself completely to his work as churchwarden. Gillard needed no encouragement to drag himself out of bed on the Sabbath. He was always up early, lifted by a feeling of importance and filled with pure joy. It was the one day of the week when his bones never ached. During the short walk to church that morning, he went through his usual ritual, reminding himself of what he had to do before the congregation arrived for a service of Holy Communion.

  Gillard had to let himself into the church, unlock the cupboard in the vestry so that the sacristan could prepare the altar, slide the hymn numbers into the wooden display board above the pulpit, open the bible on the lectern at the appropriate page for the readings and set the offertory plate in position. There would be a number of other tasks to complete before the others turned up. Gillard knew the routine off by heart and drew immense solace from the thought that he was doing God’s work and serving the community. As he turned the key in the lock, the door opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges and he stepped inside.

  There were people in Wolverton who sneered at the church of St George the Martyr because it had been built fifteen years earlier by the London to Birmingham Railway Company to supply the spiritual needs of their employees and their families. Critics disliked what they saw as a church built on traditional lines with a decidedly utilitarian air about it. It blended in with the terraces of small, plain, relentlessly uniform railway houses. Some argued that the church had no history, no grandeur, no sense of being on consecrated ground and no right to be there. Gillard disagreed. To him, it was as inspiring as the greatest of medieval cathedrals. Alone in the church of St George the Martyr, he felt that he was in direct communication with the Almighty. Standing in the nave, as he did now, he looked towards heaven and offered up a silent prayer.

  His gaze then alighted on the altar and he froze in horror. Stretched out in front of it was the body of a man. His head had been smashed open and was soaked in blood. He lay there like some grotesque sacrifice. It was too much for Gillard. He gasped, tottered then fell forward into oblivion.

  The Sabbath was no day of rest for the detectives at Scotland Yard. If an emergency arose, they had to respond to it. Robert Colbeck and Victor Leeming had each attended services at their respective parish churches, only to return home to an urgent summons from their superintendent. Edward Tallis told them everything that could be gleaned from the telegraph he’d received from Wolverton, then he dispatched them there. An unwilling rail traveller on weekdays, Leeming was even gloomier when he was forced to catch a train on a Sunday.

  ‘I’d hoped to spend some time with my children,’ he moaned.

  ‘I, too, had other plans,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘It’s unfair on Estelle. She looks after them during the week. It’s only right that I do my share whenever I can.’

  ‘Police work often occurs at inconvenient hours, Victor. It can be irritating but we must try to see it from the point of view of the victim. He didn’t get himself killed on a Sunday morning specifically to ruin our leisure time with the family.’

  ‘Why bother us?’ asked Leeming. ‘This is a case for the local constabulary.’

  ‘Because they’re aware of our reputation, the LNWR asked for us by name. Doesn’t that make you feel proud?’

  ‘No, sir, it makes me feel annoyed. We’re being imposed upon.’

  ‘This murder has a unique distinction.’

  ‘Yes, it’s made me miss the best meal of the week with the family.’

  ‘Take a less selfish view,’ advised Colbeck. ‘The crime took place in the first church ever built by a railway company.’

  ‘If you ask me,’ grumbled Leeming, ‘the railways are a crime in themselves.’

  Colbeck laughed. ‘That’s precisely why I don’t ask you, Victor. Tell me,’ he went on, ‘are your children still playing with the toy train I bought them?’

  ‘That’s different, sir.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Leeming, reluctantly. ‘They play with nothing else.’

  ‘So the railway does have a useful purpose, after all.’

  ‘They’re too young to understand.’

  ‘And you’re far too old not to understand its value to us.’ He became serious. ‘A man has been slaughtered in a church – and on a Sunday. Doesn’t that make you want to track down the killer?’

  ‘It does, sir,’ said Leeming, roused. ‘What he did was unforgivable.’

  When a brutal murder took place, there was, as a rule, universal sympathy for the victim. That was not the case with Claude Exton. Staff on duty at Wolverton station all knew and loathed the man. More than one of them seemed pleased at the news that he was dead. What they did do was to provide useful background details for the detectives. Leeming recorded them in his notepad. Exton was an unpopular member of the community, a shiftless man of middle years who lurched from one job to another. He’d been banned from one pub for causing an affray and was thrown out of another for trying to molest the landlord’s wife. Other outrages could be laid at Exton’s door.

  ‘In other words,’ said Leeming, ‘he was a real reprobate.’

  ‘That’s putting it kindly,’ muttered the stationmaster.

  ‘Was he a churchgoer?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘No, Inspector. He always boasted that the only time they’d get him across the threshold of a church was for his funeral. It seems he was right about that.’

  The collective portrait of the deceased was unflattering but it gave them a starting point. Colbeck and Leeming walked swiftly to the church. Everyone had heard the news. People were standing outside their houses discussing the murder with their neighbours. A noisy debate was taking place on a street corner. There was a small crowd outside the church itself and a uniformed policeman was blocking entry to the building. When he saw them approach, the vicar guessed that they must be the detectives and he rushed across to introduce himself. In the circumstances, the Reverend John Odell was surprisingly composed. He was a sh
ort, tubby man in his fifties whose normally pleasant features were distorted by concern.

  ‘This is an appalling crime,’ he said. ‘A church is supposed to be a place of sanctuary against the evils of the world. I thank God that I got here early enough to stop any of my parishioners seeing that hideous sight.’

  ‘Were you the first to discover the body?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘No, Inspector. That gruesome task fell to the warden, Simon Gillard. When I arrived here with the sacristan, we found the poor fellow prostrate in the aisle. He’d fainted and injured his head as he hit the floor.’

  ‘We’ll need to speak to him.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to go to his house. As soon as he’d recovered, I had him taken straight home. Then I sent for the police.’

  ‘Is the body still inside the church?’ wondered Leeming.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ replied Odell. ‘I want it moved as soon as possible, obviously, but I thought you might prefer to see it exactly as it was found. Claude Exton was not a churchgoer but he nevertheless deserves to be mourned. Since we couldn’t use the church, I conducted a very short, impromptu service out here and we prayed for the salvation of his soul. Then I urged the congregation to disperse to their homes but, as you see, the news has attracted people of a more ghoulish disposition.’

  ‘Human vultures,’ murmured Leeming. ‘We always get those.’

  ‘I’m assuming that the warden unlocked the church this morning,’ said Colbeck. ‘Who else has a key?’

  ‘Well, I do, naturally,’ said Odell, ‘and so does the other warden but he’s ill at the moment. Between us, we hold the only three keys.’

  ‘So how did the killer and his victim get inside the church?’