Peril on the Royal Train

by Edward Marston

  The task that confronted Leeming was disheartening. He was looking for a man he’d never seen before in a city he didn’t know at all. It was like searching for a particular grain of sand on a very large beach. What drove him on was the recurring image of Margaret Paterson, a pretty woman sullied by circumstance and destined for a life of drudgery. Touched by her plight, Leeming was determined to find the husband who’d beaten and abandoned her. The description he’d picked up of Paterson seemed to fit dozens of the men who walked past him in the street. What he’d been given at the police station was a list of haunts favoured by railwaymen. Many of the pubs – including the one already visited by Leeming – would be well known to Paterson. They’d be his natural habitat. Since the majority of them offered cheap accommodation, he might have taken refuge at one of the pubs.

  Leeming had second thoughts about the advice. If Paterson had been involved in causing the train crash, he reasoned, would he seek out the company of railwaymen or would he go to ground elsewhere? The latter course of action seemed more likely. Instead of trailing around a sequence of pubs, therefore, Leeming decided to go back to the Gorbals as a first port of call. While he knew that Paterson had left his wife for good, he hoped that she – aware of his habits and inclinations – might give him more reliable guidance. There was another reason that drew him back to the tenement. He wanted to see her again.

  It was the same as before. As he walked through the stink and squalor of the slums, his top hat and frock coat excited a lot of jeers from undernourished children and outright abuse from unemployed men idling on corners. The sense of destitution and hopelessness made Leeming feel ashamed to be staying at The Angel Hotel. There was nothing angelic about the Gorbals. It was closer to the seventh circle of hell and, as such, more familiar territory for him. Leeming’s career as a policeman had begun in uniform, pounding the beat in some of London’s most run-down and crime-ridden districts. The Gorbals seemed like a darker version of the rookeries of St Giles. When he located the house, it was some time before

  Margaret Paterson came to the door. She was not pleased to see him and shrank back, pulling the baby against her chest and enfolding it in protective arms.

  ‘What’re ye after?’ she demanded, shrilly.

  ‘There’s no need to be alarmed, Mrs Paterson,’ he said, trying to calm her with a smile. ‘I simply need your help. We’ve been to the quarry where your husband used to work and he’s no longer there. We believe he may be back in Glasgow.’

  ‘Then ye can keep the devil awa’ from me.’

  ‘I don’t think he’d come back here. What we need is some help in finding him. Does he have any relatives in the city, people he’d go to if he needed somewhere to stay? What about his parents, for instance?’

  ‘They’re both dead.’

  ‘Does he have any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘Aye, but they’d turn him away as soon as look at him.’

  ‘Perhaps he has friends who’d offer him shelter.’

  Her laugh was scornful. ‘Lackey was guid at making friends,’ she said, ‘but even better at losing them. Nobody would take him in. He’d be too much trouble.’

  ‘So where might he go?’

  ‘Why should I care?’

  ‘Please, Mrs Paterson,’ he said as she tried to turn away. ‘This is very important. I wouldn’t have come here otherwise. I know you must be angry at the way your husband treated you and I deplore what he did. But I still think you’re the one person who might be able to help. You know him better than anyone. Put yourself in his position. Where might he go?’

  Her manner softened. Leeming’s plea was sincere and heartfelt. He’d not come to harass or threaten her. He simply wanted information.

  ‘There is one place …’ she murmured.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He spent a lot of time there in the ould days. Sometimes, he’d stay the night and go to work from there the next morning.’

  ‘Where is it, Mrs Paterson?’

  ‘It’s a pub called The Stag in Marigold Street,’ she said with asperity, ‘and I wish I could burn it to the ground. It was a gambling den. Lackey was there a’ the time. It’s where he lost his money and had us turned out o’ our home. We didnae always live heer, ye ken. We’d a proper hoose once. It was gambling that sent us down into this foul pit.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’ve to go now, sir.’

  ‘Wait,’ he said, moved by the insight into her life and wanting to relieve her predicament in some way. ‘I’m sorry I had to bother you again but what you’ve told me is very helpful and deserves a reward.’ Fumbling in his pocket, he took out some coins and thrust them at her. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Paterson.’

  Taking the money, she smiled for the first time and looked at him afresh. He was kind and generous. Her hostility melted into something closer to pleasure. As she studied his face, she wondered if she might earn more from him. Straightening her back and brushing her hair away from her forehead, she took a step closer to him.

  ‘If ye’ll gi’ me a moment to put the bairn down,’ she said, ‘I’ll invite ye in. It’s no’ a nice place but I’ll make up for tha’, sir, I promise.’

  Leeming was shocked. During his time in uniform, he’d been offered favours by prostitutes many times and had found them easy to resist. This was different. Margaret Paterson was a respectable woman with none of the practised wiles of a streetwalker. Reduced to the situation she was in, however, she was desperate to make money by any means. Leeming felt embarrassed on her behalf.

  Thrusting more money at her, he turned on his heel and marched away.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Work as a shepherd gave Jamie Farr ample time for reflection. While roaming the hills with his flock and his sheepdog, he was able both to do his job properly and reflect on his sudden change of fortune. He felt profoundly cheated. When he first spoke to the bearded railway policeman, he believed that he was in possession of information worthy of the advertised reward. In his ignorance, Farr hadn’t realised that there were several stages to go through before the money was his. Despite their combined efforts, he and Bella Drew had been unable to read the handbill in its entirety. The lack of education which had bonded them had also let them down at a critical moment. Farr regretted having given his evidence before he fully understood what would happen to it.

  Something else troubled him. The policeman had given him no guarantees. He’d simply gobbled up what the shepherd had to say then disappeared with it. Farr had disliked the man on sight, partly because he was employed by a despicable railway company but mainly because he inspired no trust. There was something mean and guileful about him. Farr sensed that he could be tricked out of the reward that was due to him. While the policeman knew how to find him, the shepherd had no idea how to make contact with McTurk. How would he ever know what use had been made of his evidence? If the policeman exploited it for his own purposes, Farr would be none the wiser. The notion that he’d been robbed continued to gnaw at his brain with sharp teeth.

  At least he knew the name. When he saw that they were still clearing the debris from the site, he asked some of the men about the big policeman with the black beard and was told that he was Superintendent Rory McTurk. From the way they talked about him, he gathered that McTurk wielded his power with full force. He was not a person to cross. Farr paid no heed to the advice. In order to get what he felt was due to him, he was prepared to take on anyone. His problem – and it made him simmer with frustration – was finding a way to go about it.

  A bark from Angus alerted him but there was no trouble with the sheep. What the dog had warned him about was a visitor. When he saw who it was, Farr went gambolling down the hill to intercept her. Bella Drew was striding along with the sun gilding her hair and the wind blowing it into cobwebs of spun gold. While his master was away, Angus patrolled the margins of the flock.

  ‘What’re ye doing heer?’ asked Farr when he reached her.

  ‘I wanted to see ye, Jamie.’

  ‘Th
ank ye. I’m glad ye came.’

  They stood in silence for a full minute, basking in the unspoken affection between them. Though neither understood it, they each felt a commitment to the other that excluded everything else. Bella tried to control her hair with a hand.

  ‘It’s windy up heer,’ she said.

  ‘I like it that way.’

  ‘Aye, it makes you feel guid.’

  He wanted to tell her that it was she who made him feel good but he lacked the confidence to say so. Instead, he settled for gazing at her with a blank smile.

  ‘What happened to that thing ye showed me?’ she wondered.

  ‘Do ye mean the handbill?’

  ‘Aye, I do.’

  ‘I gi’ my evidence to a p’liceman.’

  She was thrilled. ‘So ye’ll get the money?’

  ‘I hope so, Bella.’

  ‘Just think what ye could do with it!’

  ‘It’s no’ mine yet,’ he said.

  ‘But it’ll come one day, won’t it?’

  Farr was cautious. ‘It may or it may not.’

  ‘You don’t sound as if ye expect to get it,’ she said, face falling.

  ‘Ye never know.’

  ‘What do ye have to do?’

  The question was like a pinprick and it made him wince. It was the most worrying aspect of the situation. Even if his evidence led to the arrest of the wanted men, there’d be no prospect of any reward until they’d been tried and convicted. Farr would have to appear in court and the very thought made him shudder. As a key witness, he’d be questioned closely. He wasn’t at all sure that he could survive the ordeal. McTurk, by contrast, would be very accustomed to judicial procedure. He’d have appeared in court as a witness many times. What was to stop him pretending that Farr’s evidence was really his own and reaping the benefit accordingly? It was the kind of deception of which he’d looked capable. Farr felt the gnawing sensation in his brain once more. Standing beside Bella, he vowed that he wouldn’t let anyone deprive them of their future together. When he made his decision, he blurted it out.

  ‘I’ve to go to Glasgow,’ he said.

  When he walked into Nairn Craig’s office, Colbeck was immediately reminded of Edward Tallis. The office was the same size as that of the superintendent and the furniture was practically identical. Most telling of all was the box of cigars on the desk. The only thing missing was the hectoring voice of Tallis himself.

  ‘I gather that you and Inspector Rae have been busy,’ said Craig.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Colbeck. ‘We spoke to Mr Weir of the NBR.’

  ‘I’m surprised that you could get a word in edgeways. Weir likes the sound of his own voice. His idea of conversation is an extended monologue.’

  ‘Oh, to be fair, he did hear us out.’

  ‘How did he respond?’

  Colbeck gave him an attenuated account of the interview with the other general manager. Craig was simultaneously amused and annoyed, diverted by a description of the way that Weir had lost his temper and infuriated that the man had issued a robust denial of any involvement in the crime by NBR employees.

  ‘While we were trying to repair the track,’ he complained, ‘the NBR was taking business away from us. They must have blood on their hands.’

  ‘Inspector Rae and Superintendent McTurk support that view.’

  ‘Do you still think that this fellow, Paterson, is a more likely culprit?’

  ‘Why else would he give up his job in the quarry on the eve of the crash?’

  ‘I wish I knew, Inspector.’

  ‘Not that we must place too much emphasis on Paterson,’ said Colbeck. ‘Other possibilities must be looked into. It could be the work of some other disgruntled former employee of yours or it might even be someone with a rooted objection to railways. That’s what prompted a train robbery we once investigated. The man behind it had an obsessive dislike of the whole system. Rightly or wrongly, he blamed the railway for the death of his wife.’

  ‘This whole business is so maddening,’ said Craig. ‘We have too many potential suspects. Before we know it, there’ll be other names to add to the list.’ He picked up a sheet of paper and offered it to his visitor. ‘We must include the author of this charming little billet-doux.’

  Colbeck took the letter. It was unsigned. Written in bold capitals, it ordered the company to cease running trains on a Sunday. The crash had been designed as a warning. If the Caledonian persisted in polluting the Sabbath, worse was to come.

  ‘It’s not the only anonymous threat we’ve had,’ said Craig. ‘Some have been so vile that I tore them up and threw them away.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ said Colbeck. ‘They might have been useful evidence.’

  ‘They were the work of cranks, Inspector.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘They were couched in language so wild and extreme.’

  ‘And what about this?’ asked Colbeck, holding up the letter. ‘Do you consider this to be the work of cranks?’

  ‘No – it smacks of misguided sabbatarians.’

  ‘Have they given you much trouble in the past?’

  ‘They’ve caused us a lot of inconvenience, principally at stations like Glasgow and Edinburgh. At first it was limited to demonstrations – dozens of people waving banners in the faces of our passengers every Sunday. More recently, however, it’s taken a rather disturbing turn.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Someone has climbed inside the sheds and daubed the engines with slogans. They’re a devil to clean off. We have nightwatchmen on duty but it nevertheless goes on. These people are fanatics, Inspector.’

  ‘Have none of them ever been caught?’

  ‘Not as yet – that’s why they’re getting bolder.’

  ‘Are they bold enough to cause a train crash?’

  Craig shivered. ‘I’ve a horrible feeling they soon will be.’

  Ian Dalton was astonished at what he saw. After luncheon at the home of Tam and Flora Howie, he was taken to a shed at the bottom of the garden. It was protected by two large padlocks. When Howie used keys to open them, he flung open the door and let his visitor view the display. It was not the many tins of white paint that made Dalton gasp in surprise. It was the collection of items stolen from railway premises. Station signs, fire buckets, shovels, baskets, posters and dozens of other things were there in abundance. There was even a porter’s trolley. Howie and his wife were clearly accomplished thieves.

  ‘Where did you get it all?’ asked Dalton, examining a trunk.

  ‘We picked it up wherever we found it,’ said Howie. ‘I used the trolley to purloin that trunk. Flora distracted the porter while I did so.’

  ‘That’s my role,’ she said. ‘I take the attention away from Tam. It always works.’ She patted the trunk. ‘Whoever owned this would have complained bitterly about its loss and the porter would have taken the blame for the disappearance of the trolley. You’ve no idea how easy it is to steal things in a crowd.’

  Dalton gave a half-laugh. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he told them. ‘I suppose that I ought to condemn theft as a crime but your activities have been in a good cause. That excuses it, in my opinion.’

  ‘You’re not disgusted, then?’ asked Howie.

  ‘On the contrary, I’m full of admiration.’

  ‘We have a small museum here.’

  ‘It doesn’t just irritate the railway companies,’ said Flora. ‘It spreads confusion. When there are no signs there, passengers don’t know which way to go. Instead of taking them, Howie has tried a new trick now. He changes them over to cause even more chaos.’

  Dalton surveyed the collection and let out a whistle of amazement.

  ‘It must have taken you ages to accumulate all this,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve been at it for months.’

  ‘When do you do it?’

  ‘Most of the time, it’s in broad daylight. Well,’ she said, spreading her arms, ‘do Tam and I look like a pair of unscrupulous thieve
s?’

  ‘No, you look exactly what you are – decent, honest, law-abiding citizens who wouldn’t dream of committing a crime.’

  ‘It’s not a crime to defend the Sabbath,’ asserted Howie.

  ‘Quite so – the end more than justifies the means.’

  ‘We decided that a long time ago, Ian.’

  ‘So it seems. I’m sorry I’ve been so tardy in reaching the same conclusion.’

  Howie put a warning finger to his lips. ‘The rest of the congregation must never know, mind you.’

  ‘Oh, no – they’d never believe what I’m seeing.’

  ‘Gregor Hines would have a heart attack if he were here,’ said Flora.

  ‘I disagree,’ said her husband. ‘He’s made of sterner stuff than that. Gregor would run to the nearest police station and betray us. We’d be drummed out of the kirk even though we’re fighting on its behalf. He’s an old fox, cunning enough to suspect that I might have been leaving messages in white paint on locomotives. That, I fancy, might just be acceptable to him, but not this,’ he added with an expansive wave of the arm. ‘He’d see our booty as the fruit of unpardonable criminality.’

  ‘I see it as a lesson in how to strike effectively,’ said Dalton.

  ‘We’re glad that you approve, Ian.’

  ‘It’s quite remarkable. Both of you have shown such bravery.’

  ‘It’s not bravery,’ said Flora. ‘It’s a simple case of belief. Tam and I are guided from above. I’m sure it’s the main reason we’ve never been caught. God has pointed the way and we’ve taken it.’

  ‘The question is this,’ said Howie, gazing into Dalton’s eyes. ‘Have we scared you off or are you ready to assist us?’

  ‘I can’t wait to start,’ declared the other. ‘Just tell me what to do.’

  ‘Come back tonight, Ian. We’ll see if you have any artistic gifts. When it’s dark enough, we’ll slip into an engine shed and leave a few messages in white paint. That’s as good a starting place as any.’

  Dalton laughed. ‘This is so exciting – we’re on a mission!’