Inspector Colbeck's Casebook Read online

  ‘Like you, Mr Moyle has a lovely wife. I wonder why she isn’t hanging over the mantelpiece – or a portrait of both of them, maybe.’

  ‘We may never know, Victor.’

  ‘I noticed that you didn’t tell her what had actually happened to him.’

  ‘Mrs Moyle was clearly worried before we even got here,’ said Colbeck. ‘I didn’t want to distress her even more by telling her that her husband had jumped out of a train. If she presses you for information, don’t give too much away.’

  ‘Where will you be, sir?’

  ‘I intend to call on Mr Welling. When I’ve spoken to him, I’ll catch the next train to Sheffield and join you at Doctor Scanlan’s house. One last thing,’ he added. ‘If you can get her to volunteer the information, see what you can learn about Mrs Moyle and her husband. This room is telling me an interesting story. I’d like to know if my instincts about it are sound.’

  Humphrey Welling was an affable man in his early fifties with prematurely white hair and a paunch. When he called at the house, Colbeck was given a cordial welcome and ushered into the library. Welling was surprised that a senior detective from Scotland Yard had been summoned to investigate what was simply an unfortunate accident.

  ‘They happen all the time on the railways,’ he said. ‘I would have thought that it was too starved a subject for your sword, Inspector.’

  ‘It may well be,’ said Colbeck, noting the quotation from Shakespeare.

  ‘Have you been in touch with the man’s family?’

  ‘We called on his wife earlier, sir. Mrs Moyle is now on her way to Sheffield.’

  ‘Moyle, is it? The fellow didn’t give me his name. To be honest, he was not the most communicative travelling companion. He spent most of the journey with his head buried in a newspaper.’

  Welling described what had happened, telling a story that tallied to the last detail with the statement he’d given at the police station. He expressed sympathy at what he assumed was the death of Rufus Moyle.

  ‘The gentleman is still alive,’ said Colbeck, ‘though he’s in a coma and his life is hanging by a thread. I didn’t want to alarm his wife by telling her that. Mrs Moyle will learn the full truth when she gets to Sheffield.’ He looked at the well-stocked shelves. ‘You’re a reading man, I see.’

  ‘I’ve only become one since my wife died,’ explained Welling. ‘That’s when I had this room converted into a library. It helps to stave off loneliness.’ He picked up the book on the table beside him. ‘This is what’s engrossing me at the moment. It’s a history of cricket. Do you take an interest in the game, Inspector?’

  ‘I try to, sir. In fact, I was telling my colleague about the report I read in The Times about Stephenson’s hat trick. It was achieved at Hyde Park in Sheffield.’

  ‘Yes and I kicked myself that I wasn’t there to witness the feat. I’ve seen Stephenson bat and bowl many times. He’s a born cricketer.’

  Having got him on a subject in which they were both interested, Colbeck let him roll on, feeling that he’d discover far more about the man if he learnt about his passions. When there was a lull in the conversation, he shifted its direction.

  ‘I gather that you’re a director of the Midland Railway.’

  ‘That’s right, Inspector.’

  ‘When it first came into existence, why didn’t the NMR, as it was called then, build a direct line to Sheffield?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Welling, settling back into his chair, ‘that’s a long story.’

  Having taken Beatrice Moyle to the house in a cab, Leeming bided his time. Doctor Scanlan gave his prognosis as gently as he could but it nevertheless had a stunning effect on Beatrice. She staggered backwards and would have fallen to the floor if Leeming had not caught her. He lowered her into a chair. It was several minutes before she recovered. When she did so, she insisted on seeing her husband. The doctor took her off into the room where the patient lay and Leeming heard her cry of horror. He waited for a long time before she emerged. The doctor was more or less supporting her. He helped her into a chair where she sobbed into a handkerchief. Scanlan took Leeming aside.

  ‘The situation is this,’ he whispered. ‘Mr Moyle is very near his end. His wife wanted to stay with him but feels she’d be unequal to the ordeal. She’s already overwrought. There’s a hotel where she’s stayed before. I suggest that you take her there, Sergeant. If there’s any change in his condition, I’ve promised that word will be sent at once – whatever time it might be.’

  ‘That’s very good of you.’

  ‘I’m surprised that he’s held out this long.’

  ‘I’ll take Mrs Moyle away for a while.’

  Overcome with grief, Beatrice took a last look at her husband before leaving. Their cab had been waiting outside so they were able to go straight to a hotel at the heart of the town. When Leeming tried to reserve a room for her, Beatrice insisted that she could manage that. After thanking him for his help, she went slowly upstairs. Leeming walked across to the reception desk and spoke to the duty manager.

  ‘Take good care of the lady,’ he said. ‘She’s had to bear some terrible news.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘This is not her first visit here, I believe.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said the man. ‘They’ve stayed here a few times in the last year.’

  ‘When did you last have Mr and Mrs Moyle as your guests?’

  The duty manager raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  When Colbeck left the train at Sheffield, he went quickly into the waiting room and stayed there until all the passengers had got off. Only when everyone had gone past did he take a cab to Scanlan’s house. Leeming had returned but there was no sign of the doctor. He came into the room with a gesture of helplessness.

  ‘Mr Moyle has passed away,’ he declared. ‘There was nothing I could do.’

  ‘You did all that was humanly possible,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘The astonishing thing is that he survived that fall from the train.’

  ‘I don’t believe that he was meant to, Doctor.’

  ‘Well,’ said Leeming, ‘I suppose I’d better go to the hotel where Mrs Moyle is staying and … pass on the sad news.’

  ‘Please do that.’

  ‘I discovered a strange thing, sir. She and her husband have stayed there before but she reserved the room under a very different name.’

  ‘That’s only natural,’ said Colbeck, ‘because the man with whom she stayed there was not her husband. I don’t know what alias he used but I’d wager anything that his real name is Humphrey Welling.’

  Leeming was astounded. ‘How did you find that out?’

  ‘I listened and then I looked. Mr Welling is altogether too plausible. He gave me an account of Mr Moyle’s leap from the train as if he’d been rehearsing it from a prepared text. He pretended to be hearing Moyle’s name for the first time when I mentioned it,’ recalled Colbeck, ‘but I saw a light in his eye when I told him that Mrs Moyle was on her way to Sheffield. As a result, he came here as well. My guess is that he will already have joined Mrs Moyle.’

  ‘Are you sure he’s here, Inspector?’

  ‘He caught the same train that I did, making certain that I didn’t see him board it. When we got to the station here, however, I lingered in the waiting room so that I could watch them both go by.’

  ‘Them?’ echoed Scanlan.

  ‘It was Mr Welling and a servant of his, a broad-shouldered fellow who admitted me to the house. Welling wouldn’t have the strength to overpower another man. Besides, he has a game leg. His servant, however, has the look of someone who’d do anything for which he was paid. In short,’ said Colbeck, ‘there were three of them in that compartment.’

  ‘Do you have any proof of that, sir?’ asked Leeming. ‘If you confront them, they’ll simply deny it and Mr Moyle is no longer alive to challenge them.’

  ‘Yes, he is, Victor.’

  ‘But I’ve just pronounced him dead,
’ said Scanlan, confused.

  ‘We know that,’ said Colbeck, ‘but they don’t. I think we should bring him back to life like a latter-day Lazarus. The message that the sergeant will take to the hotel is that Mr Moyle has rallied a little and should recover consciousness.’ His smile broadened into a grin. ‘That should produce a result, I fancy.’

  It was in the early hours of the morning when a figure crept stealthily around to the rear of the house. There was enough moonlight to help him find his way to a particular window. Since the curtains had been left slightly open, he was able to make out the shape of a body in the bed. Making as little noise as possible, he inserted a knife and flicked the catch on the sash window. He then lifted the window up and stepped cautiously through it, intending to grab the pillow to smother the patient to death. When he approached the bed, however, he found that he’d have a lot more resistance than he’d expected. A man leapt suddenly out of bed, grappled with him then flung him hard against the wall before felling him with a vicious right hook. As he collapsed to the floor, the visitor heard the door open and someone came in with an oil lamp to illumine the scene.

  ‘Well done, Victor!’ said Colbeck. ‘Put the handcuffs on him.’

  Having driven to the police station in the trap borrowed from the doctor, they left their prisoner in custody and went on to the hotel. After explaining the purpose of their visit to the duty manager, they went upstairs and roused the occupants of one room by pounding on the door. It was Beatrice Moyle who opened it a few inches, blinking in bewilderment when she saw the detectives. Colbeck gave Leeming the privilege of arresting both her and Humphrey Welling on a charge of conspiracy to murder. The prisoners were given time to dress then taken off to the police station to join their accomplice. As they left the building, Leeming wanted clarification.

  ‘However did you link Mr Welling with Mrs Moyle?’ he asked. ‘They just didn’t look like a married couple. Welling was so much older.’

  ‘So was her real husband, Victor. The lady is obviously drawn to more mature men. Unfortunately, marriage to Rufus Moyle did not live up to her expectations. She was a neglected wife in a house that reflected his personality and not hers.’

  ‘There was that portrait of him.’

  ‘It was only one of the indications that told me he was a strutting peacock.’

  ‘Then there was the fact that they had no children.’

  ‘I did say that she was a neglected wife and I meant it in the fullest sense. Mr Welling may not have seemed the ideal replacement but he was rich, indulgent and knew how to talk to a woman. How they first met,’ said Colbeck, ‘I don’t know but I believe there was genuine love on both sides. There had to be because that’s what drove them to the extreme of murder.’

  ‘Welling could have found out from Mrs Moyle when exactly her husband would be travelling to Sheffield,’ said Leeming. ‘He made sure that he shared the same compartment and his servant did the rest.’

  ‘Oddly enough, I rather liked Welling. He was an engaging companion and his love of cricket almost won me over. But he was also a ladies’ man whereas Moyle – remember the portrait and the attention to his appearance – sought company among his own sex.’

  ‘I can never understand people like that, sir.’

  ‘You don’t have to, Victor. You can simply bask in your glory.’

  ‘What glory?’

  ‘Don’t be modest,’ said Colbeck, patting him on the back. ‘You made three arrests in succession – Welling, his servant and Mrs Moyle. That’s what I’d call a hat trick.’

  HELPING HAND

  Having spent so many years in the army, Edward Tallis knew the importance of a disciplined way of life. As far as possible, he kept everything to an unvarying routine, leaving for work at precisely the same time every morning and organising each day in a similar manner. No matter how busy he was, he always found time for a brisk walk around noon to maintain fitness and to disperse the stink of cigar smoke that always clung to him. After leaving Scotland Yard that morning, he walked along Victoria Street. He was a big, straight-backed man with a moustache that he liked to stroke as if it were a favourite cat. His stride was long and his speed impressive. Few people could keep pace with him.

  Tallis was about to cross a side street when he became aware of commotion to his left. Farther down the street, people were yelling and jeering at someone. Unable to see the object of their scorn, Tallis walked towards the crowd. They were gathered around the window of a butcher’s shop, howling abuse at a man who’d just emerged from the alley that ran alongside the building. Leading the verbal assault was the butcher himself, a solid man in a long apron that almost touched the floor.

  ‘Bugger off!’ he shouted, waving a fist. ‘Take that lousy cur of yours away or I’ll be after the pair of you with my cleaver!’

  Other people felt obliged to add their own threats and some of the worst insults came from women. Tallis’s voice rose above the hubbub.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, the authority in his tone imposing an instant silence. ‘What is this fellow supposed to have done?’

  ‘Just look at him, sir,’ replied the butcher. ‘You can see that he’s a miserable good-for-nothing. I caught him sleeping in the yard at the rear of my shop. These people are my neighbours. We don’t want him here but he just won’t leave.’

  ‘You’re not giving him any chance to leave,’ argued Tallis. ‘How can he move when you’ve got him trapped here? If you all disappear, I’m sure that he’ll take the opportunity to be on his way.’ When they hesitated, his voice became peremptory. ‘Go home,’ he ordered. ‘I’m a detective superintendent in the Metropolitan Police. I’ll deal with this situation.’

  Deprived of the pleasure of baiting the man, some complained and others rid themselves of a few expletives but they all drifted away under Tallis’s stern gaze. With a dark scowl, the angry butcher withdrew into his shop and slammed the door behind him. Tallis was at last able to take a proper look at the person who had been at the centre of the rumpus. Tall, skinny and dishevelled, he was of indeterminate age. The lank hair that hung down from under his battered hat merged with his ragged beard. His clothing was tattered, his boots falling apart. What had enraged the crowd was his sinister appearance. One eye was closed shut and there was a livid scar down his cheek. Cowering behind him was a small, bedraggled dog with its tongue hanging out. The animal had been frightened by the crowd but the man had shown no fear, taking their invective on the chin as if used to such contempt.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Tallis.

  ‘Joel Anstey, sir.’

  ‘I fancy that you’ve been in the army.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Anstey, saluting. ‘I was proud to serve Queen and Country.’

  ‘I feel the same.’ He stepped forward to examine the man’s face. ‘Where did you get those injuries?’

  ‘It was in the Crimea. A few weeks after we arrived there, I had my cheek sliced open by a Russian sabre. A year later, I lost my eye. But I don’t regret my days in the army, sir,’ he went on. ‘I spent the happiest years of my life in uniform.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘Would it surprise you to know that I was considered handsome at one time? What woman would look twice at me now?’

  ‘And did you sleep in the butcher’s yard?’

  ‘No, sir – I merely climbed in there to see if he’d thrown out any old bones.’ He indicated the dog. ‘Sam is hungry.’

  ‘You look as if you both are.’

  ‘When the butcher found us, he threw a bucket of water over Sam.’

  ‘Well, you were trespassing.’

  ‘We did no harm, sir.’

  Tallis sized him up. The man was articulate and respectful. There was no trace of self-pity. Evidently, he cared more for the dog than for his own welfare.

  ‘You sound as if you were born here in London,’ observed Tallis.

  ‘I was, sir – in the parish of St Martin-in-the Fields.’

  ‘There’s a workhouse just behind
the National Gallery.’

  ‘I’m not so desperate as to go there,’ said Anstey with a flash of indignation. ‘Besides, they’d turn me away. I’m able-bodied and far too young. I’m still well short of forty.’

  Tallis was taken aback because the man looked considerably older.

  ‘What was your trade, Anstey?’

  ‘Before I went in the army,’ replied the other, ‘I was a saddler but you need two good eyes to handle leather and, in any case, I’ve lost the trick of it. I’m not asking for money, sir,’ he insisted. ‘I just want work so that I can earn my keep and feed Sam properly. We need a helping hand, that’s all.’

  Tallis was moved by his plea. Poverty and homelessness were ever-present in the nation’s capital. Untold thousands lived on the streets and scratched out a bare existence as best they could. Joel Anstey’s story was a familiar one but it somehow touched the superintendent at a deep level.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.

  ‘I’m surprised at the superintendent,’ said Madeleine. ‘I don’t wish to be unkind but he never struck me as a compassionate man.’

  ‘Tallis has the occasional impulse to help someone,’ said Colbeck with a smile, ‘and he’s a good Christian. Something about this person obviously spoke to him. When he asked me if we could find him a few days’ work, I said that we could.’

  ‘Why can’t this man tend the superintendent’s garden?’

  ‘He doesn’t have one, Madeleine. He lives alone in a set of rooms. And as you know, Victor’s little house has no garden at all. That’s why Tallis turned to me.’ He put affectionate hands on her shoulders. ‘I didn’t think that you’d mind.’

  ‘I don’t, Robert,’ she said, ‘but I suspect that Draycott will.’

  Colbeck groaned. ‘Ah, I was forgetting him.’

  ‘He likes to rule the roost in the garden.’

  ‘I’ll warn Anstey not to tread on his toes.’

  ‘Draycott can be very touchy.’

  ‘We’re not having him throwing his weight around, Madeleine. When all’s said and done, we pay Draycott’s wages. If we choose to let someone else work in the garden,’ said Colbeck, reasonably, ‘then nobody is in a position to stop us.’