Peril on the Royal Train

by Edward Marston

  ‘Competent as any investigation will surely be, it’s unlikely to be led by someone with direct experience of a railway disaster. That’s where Sergeant Leeming and I have the advantage.’ Colbeck took a step towards him. ‘Do I need to remind you of the catastrophe that befell the Brighton express some years ago?’

  ‘No, you don’t – it was one of our greatest successes.’

  An express train had been derailed at speed and crashed into a ballast train coming in the opposite direction. The railway inspector had described it as an accident brought about by a serious error by the driver, a man killed on the spot and therefore unable to defend himself. Colbeck had proved that the disaster had been deliberately contrived by someone with an obsessive grudge against the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway and one of its regular passengers.

  ‘Investigating that crash gave us insights that can be put to practical use in Scotland,’ said Colbeck, reasonably. ‘We know how to avoid the blind alleys.’

  Tallis was unmoved. ‘You are staying here,’ he decreed. ‘As you well know, the Detective Department is plagued by an insufficient budget and a shortage of manpower. I can’t afford to send two of my best men hundreds of miles away for what may well be a lengthy investigation.’

  ‘You were happy enough to send us off to Devon last year.’

  ‘That’s immaterial.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Colbeck, locking horns with him. ‘What took us to Exeter was the murder of a stationmaster. Regrettable as it was, it doesn’t compare in scope and significance with a calamity like this. Three people have been killed and the damage to freight and rolling stock is immense. We simply must answer the call.’

  ‘Out of the question,’ snapped Tallis. ‘You could be away for weeks.’

  ‘I’ll stay in Scotland for months if that’s what it takes.’

  ‘You won’t be going anywhere near that benighted country. There’s work for you right on our doorstep. A publican had his throat cut in Whitechapel last night. You and Sergeant Leeming are to take charge of the investigation.’ He treated Colbeck to the withering stare with which he used to cow rebellious soldiers during his army days. Then he turned his back to signal that the discussion was over. ‘The details are in the folder on my desk,’ he said, coldly. ‘Study them on the cab ride to Whitechapel.’

  Colbeck ignored the command. Instead of touching the folder, he reached for a piece of blank stationery and took the quill from the inkwell. When he heard the scratch of the pen, Tallis swung round in disbelief.

  ‘What – in God’s name – are you doing?’ he cried.

  ‘I’m writing a letter of resignation,’ replied Colbeck. ‘It will take immediate effect. Send someone else to Whitechapel.’

  ‘But I’m giving you an order.’

  ‘You are no longer in a position to do so, sir. We’ve obviously come to a parting of the ways. My place is on the Caledonian Railway. If you refuse to sanction my departure, I’ve no alternative but to resign and go of my own accord.’

  ‘But you’d have no authority,’ blustered Tallis. ‘You wouldn’t have the weight of Scotland Yard behind you.’

  Colbeck’s retort was crisp. ‘At the moment, I feel that it’s right on top of me and it’s a burden I need to shed. As for authority,’ he went on, drawing himself up and casting off his natural modesty for once, ‘it lies in my reputation and there’s not a detective alive who can match my record of solving crime on the railways of Britain. I cannot – and will not – turn my back on this emergency. Now, sir,’ he added, motioning the other man back, ‘I beg you to stop looming over me so that I sever my links with Scotland Yard in favour of Scotland.’

  Tallis was thunderstruck. Colbeck was in earnest. Rather than obey orders, he was going to resign. The superintendent quailed at the thought of having to explain to the commissioner why the finest detective in the department had left them. Blame would fall directly on Tallis. There was a secondary fear. If the inspector did resign, he would not be abandoning the fight against crime. He’d simply continue that fight on a different basis. Instead of being able to utilise Colbeck’s rare gifts, Tallis might be in competition with them. Railway companies in dire need would turn first to a man of proven ability. Robert Colbeck, private detective, would be free to choose the cases he took on. It was a terrifying possibility.

  There was a final indignity. As he tried to draw solace from his cigar, Tallis discovered that it had gone out. His glowing certainty had also dimmed to the faintest glimmer. His will of iron cracked. He reached out a hand to grab Colbeck’s wrist.

  ‘There’s no need to write any more,’ he said with a note of appeasement, forcing his features into a semblance of a smile. ‘Let’s talk about Scotland, shall we? You may, after all, have a point.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  In the wake of the crash, there were two immediate priorities. The first was to recover the dead bodies, a simple undertaking in the case of the guard but a daunting one where driver and fireman were concerned. Their mutilated corpses, blackened by fire, were at the very bottom of the wreckage. Rescue workers strove hard to shift the mounds of debris in order to get the two men out before their relatives arrived. At all costs, they wanted to prevent grieving families from seeing the hideous sight that greeted them on arrival. Jock Laidlaw and Dougal Murray were unrecognisable, their heads smashed to a pulp and their roasted bodies twisted into unnatural shapes. Laidlaw had lost an arm. Both of Murray’s legs had been cut off at the knee. Death had been mercifully swift but it had left a repulsive signature.

  While a team of men addressed the first priority, another team turned its attention to the second. The line had to be cleared. It was a Herculean task but there were many volunteers. As word spread, people swarmed in from every direction, some carrying spades, axes or other implements, others merely bringing strong arms and a desire to help. They worked with railway employees throughout the evening and on into the night, reinforced by fresh assistance from the surrounding villages and farms. Darkness brought another problem. Fires were lit to illumine the scene and to burn some of the debris but they only cast a fitful glare over the devastation. It meant that the discarded freight was at the mercy of nocturnal predators, quick-fingered thieves who sought to exploit the disaster for their own ends rather than joining the rescuers. Railway policemen were powerless to stop them. They were hopelessly outnumbered and, even with lanterns in their hands, couldn’t easily pick people out in the dark.

  One of the few wagons that had somehow remained on the track was carrying a consignment of cheese, destined for a wholesaler in Edinburgh. Much of it would never reach him. Once discovered, the wagon became a magnet for the thieves who grabbed everything they could carry, hid it nearby then went back for more. And there were other foodstuffs on hand for those bold enough to steal them, not to mention crates of dead or squawking chickens tossed out uncaringly during the crash and piled up at crazy angles. If something could be carried, it was likely to disappear.

  Nairn Craig was disgusted by the reports he received next morning.

  ‘How could any decent man behave like that?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s human nature, sir,’ replied his companion, dourly. ‘A tragedy like this brings out the best in some people and the very worst in others. And it wasn’t only men involved. I heard the rustle of skirts clearly. Women can pilfer just as well. They and their menfolk swooped down like so many vultures.’

  ‘They should be sent to prison for a long time.’

  ‘That’s easier said than done, Mr Craig. How can you arrest people when you don’t know who they are? They were phantoms in the night. By dawn, they’d vanished into thin air. Besides,’ he said, raising a meaningful eyebrow, ‘they weren’t all driven by criminal intent. Wages are low for farm labourers and those out of work have even emptier bellies. There’s a lot of desperation in this shire, sir. When they see a chance like this, the needy can’t stop themselves.’

  ‘That’s no excuse, Superintendent.�
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  ‘It’s not an excuse – it’s an explanation.’

  ‘Theft is theft, whichever way you look at it.’

  Rory McTurk gave a nod of agreement. As superintendent of the railway police, he was one of the first on the scene and been appalled by what he found. He was a huge bear of a man with a black beard and bushy eyebrows that all but concealed the deep-set eyes. Relishing his authority, McTurk liked nothing better than ordering people about in his gruff voice. In the presence of the general manager of the Caledonian Railway, however, he was more subdued and deferential. Nairn Craig was a stout man of medium height and middle years with flabby cheeks that quivered as he spoke. Even though he wore the tallest of top hats, he still looked short beside the towering figure of the superintendent.

  ‘Naturally,’ he said, surveying the scene with an anxious eye, ‘our sympathies must be with the families of the deceased. But we must also concentrate on clearing the track and getting it repaired where it was ripped up. Every hour that we’re unable to run trains on this stretch of line is costing us money. More to the point, it’s a gift to our rivals. The North British Railway will be rubbing their hands. When our passengers and freight customers are denied uninterrupted traffic on the western route in and out of Scotland, they’ll obviously use the eastern route instead. The NBR will profit from our loss.’

  ‘It was the first thing that crossed my mind, sir,’ said McTurk, pointedly.

  The manager blinked. ‘You think that they might be responsible?’

  ‘They’d be at the top of my list of suspects, I know that.’

  ‘Well,’ said Craig, rubbing his chin, ‘they’ve employed some underhand methods in the past to get the better of us, I grant you, but even they would draw back from something as despicable as this, surely.’

  ‘All’s fair in love and war, sir – and we’ve been at war with the NBR for many years. I’d put nothing past them. When the procurator fiscal launches his inquiry, I’ll point in their direction.’

  ‘You must do the same to Inspector Colbeck.’

  McTurk was startled. ‘What does he have to do with it?’

  ‘He’s the man we most need at a time like this, Superintendent. I sent a telegraph to Scotland Yard this very morning. Pray God he answers my plea.’ He saw the evident consternation on McTurk’s face. ‘Colbeck has no peer. You must have heard of the Railway Detective.’

  ‘I’ve done more than hear about him, sir,’ said McTurk, guardedly. ‘I’ve met the inspector. Our paths crossed when I was working in England. A mail train was robbed in broad daylight. It was a crime that I could easily have solved myself,’ he boasted, ‘but I was severely hampered by Colbeck.’

  ‘I’ve heard nothing but praise of the man.’

  ‘Oh, he’s well intentioned, I’ll give him that. But he’s too high-handed for my liking. Besides, he knows nothing at all about the operation of the Caledonian Railway. The only person who can get to the bottom of this outrage is someone with local knowledge – someone like me.’

  Craig was brisk. ‘I beg leave to doubt that, McTurk,’ he said. ‘This is beyond you. The procurator fiscal will set up an investigation but his men have no experience of dealing with a catastrophe on this scale. Inspector Colbeck does. He solved a not dissimilar crime in Sussex and was feted by the railway company involved. I read reports of it. As for local knowledge,’ he continued with a flick of the hand, ‘you can provide that, Superintendent. I’m sure that Colbeck will call on your expertise. I look to you to offer it.’

  McTurk squared his shoulders. ‘I’d do so unwillingly, Mr Craig.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because this is a Scottish disaster occurring on Scottish soil and only Scotsmen should be entitled to root out the villains behind it. We can do it alone, sir, without interference from south of the border.’

  Craig was caustic. ‘This is no time for misplaced patriotism,’ he said, sharply. ‘In my opinion, Scotsmen are much better at committing crimes than solving them. Spend a Saturday night in the rougher districts of Glasgow and you’ll see what I mean. I’m proud of being a Scot but I’m also aware of a bellicose instinct that lurks inside many of my fellow countrymen. You’re a prime example. You can be quickly stirred to action. That’s what makes you such a good railway policeman.’

  ‘I also have skills as a detective,’ contended McTurk.

  ‘Confine yourself to your duties, Superintendent. In a situation like this, I want the best man for the task and his name is Inspector Robert Colbeck. My only hope is that he’s on his way here even as we speak. Assist him to the best of your ability.’

  McTurk’s gurgling reply was muffled by his beard. He was seething. He’d not only been put in his place by the general manager, he’d been ordered to cooperate with a man he despised. The only way to assuage his anger was to prove that he could solve the crime on his own account and that’s what he determined to do.

  After clearing his throat, he spoke obediently.

  ‘Very well, Mr Craig,’ he said, ‘I’ll do all I can to help.’

  But he vowed inwardly that Colbeck would get no welcome from him.

  For a man who hated railways as much as Victor Leeming, even a small journey was something of a trial. If he couldn’t walk somewhere, the detective sergeant’s preferred mode of travel was a horse-drawn cab. Indeed, he’d often thought that his life would have been much easier and far less stressful if he’d joined the army of London cab drivers. There was much to be said for serving those citizens who could afford the luxury of a cab. Some of them would tip the driver handsomely. And though he’d be out in all weathers, Leeming would at least see more of his wife and children. As a detective, he was at the mercy of distant crimes. Today was a case in point. Being sent off to Scotland for an indeterminate period was his notion of purgatory. He felt deprived. Seated in a train racing north with a rhythmical rattle, he grimaced and made an already unappealing face look positively grotesque.

  ‘Scotland is a foreign country,’ he moaned. ‘They speak a different language up there.’

  ‘They speak the same language but with a different accent,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘That’s not true, sir. When I was in uniform, I worked with a constable from Glasgow and could only understand one in every five words he spoke. If he lost his temper – and he did that whenever drink was taken – then I couldn’t hear a word that I recognised. It was probably just as well. Knowing him, they’d have been vile.’

  ‘You’ll soon get used to Scottish idiosyncrasies, Victor. It’s only if we come up against someone who speaks in a broad dialect that we may have trouble. In any case,’ Colbeck went on, ‘language difficulties have never deterred you in the past. You managed very well when we had that spell in France.’

  Leeming scowled. ‘That’s not how I remember it.’

  Though their investigation had had a successful outcome, it had left the sergeant with some searing memories. He’d not only been forced to endure a choppy crossing of the English Channel in both directions, he’d been pitched into a nation of gesticulating Frenchmen and their bold women, then beaten up so badly by Irish navvies that he’d had to withdraw from the fray and return home to recuperate. Leeming didn’t want a repeat of the experience in Scotland.

  ‘At least, we won’t have to sail anywhere,’ he said.

  ‘You never know,’ teased Colbeck. ‘They have plenty of lochs and rivers up there. We may have to use a boat at some stage. That shouldn’t worry you, Victor. After all, you’re an experienced sailor now.’

  It was a reference to a case that had taken them across the Atlantic Ocean to make two arrests in New York City and to extradite the criminals. It was an episode that still featured regularly in Leeming’s nightmares. He was an unashamed landlubber. If it were left to him, he decided, he’d banish sailing ships along with the entire railway network.

  Not for the first time, Colbeck seemed to read his thoughts.

  ‘Would you rather travel to Scotland
by means of stagecoach, Victor?’ he asked. ‘It would be tedious, tiring and take us days. Thanks to this express train, we’ll be there this evening.’

  ‘But we have no details,’ protested Leeming. ‘We don’t know where the crash actually occurred and what precisely happened. And we certainly don’t have a clue who or what might have caused it.’

  ‘The telegraph mentioned rock on the line.’

  ‘How can we possibly find out how it got there?’

  ‘We follow the obvious guidelines.’

  ‘I didn’t know that we had any, Inspector.’

  Colbeck smiled. ‘That’s because you’re too busy thinking about Estelle and the children. Forget your family. The sooner we solve this crime, the sooner you’ll be reunited with them. Now,’ he added, ‘what day is it today?’

  ‘Monday.’

  ‘That gives us our first clue, Victor.’

  Leeming was baffled. ‘Does it?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Colbeck. ‘If today is Monday, the crash took place on Sunday. Immediate suspects must be rabid sabbatarians.’

  ‘Who on earth are they?’

  ‘People who believe we should observe the Sabbath in every particular. It should be a day of rest on which everyone attends church or chapel instead of riding around on the railways. From the moment the trains reached Scotland, there were demands that they didn’t operate on Sundays.’

  ‘Would these sabbatarians actually wreck a train?’

  ‘It’s a possibility we have to bear in mind, Victor. Religion can ignite the most violent passions. We’ve seen it happen before.’

  ‘But if they planned this disaster, they must have known there’d be a risk of death for anybody on board that train. “Thou shalt not kill” is what the Bible tells us. Would they ignore that commandment in order to remind people that Sunday is the day of rest?’ Leeming scratched his head. ‘That doesn’t make sense, sir.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Colbeck, ‘but extremism has a way of blinding people to such contradictions. They act on impulse. And if lives are sacrificed in pursuit of their cause, they may even see it as a justifiable way to gain publicity.’