Peril on the Royal Train

by Edward Marston

  ‘I’ve already sent Colbeck on that particular errand,’ said Tallis, hoping that his initiative would be rewarded with approval. ‘The inspector has met Mr Renwick before. I dispatched him in case you wanted me to go with you to the palace.’

  ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ said Mayne. ‘I need nobody to hold my hand, Superintendent. Still,’ he went on, ‘you have done something right today. Given the circumstances, Colbeck is the ideal man to talk to Archibald Renwick.’

  After a space of several years, Renwick was pleased to see Colbeck again. When his visitor raised the subject of the celebration dinner, the general manager said how much he’d enjoyed meeting Madeleine and her father. Colbeck then informed him that the burglary at his home might be connected with a plot to assassinate members of the royal family. Renwick dismissed the claim out of hand at first. It sounded preposterous. After hearing about the investigation into the train crash on the Caledonian Railway, however, he soon changed his mind. As the truth dawned on him, he took a few steps backwards and rested against his desk for support. Still unsettled by the burglary, he was stunned when it took on a more sinister aspect.

  They were in the drawing room in the general manager’s house, a Regency mansion set in two acres of well-tended grounds. Renwick was a conscientious man. Colbeck had discovered that when they first became acquainted. A train robbery on the LNWR had brought the detective to the house on that occasion. This time, it was a potential crime of much greater magnitude.

  ‘This is terrifying,’ said Renwick, using a handkerchief to dab at his brow. ‘My wife will be mortified when she hears about this.’

  ‘Don’t tell her, sir.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’d only make her suffer the torments you’re experiencing. Spare her that agony. There’s nothing that Mrs Renwick can do to protect the royal family. Her contribution has already been made, inadvertent though it was. In talking to my wife about the burglary, she indirectly brought this conspiracy to our attention. Grateful as I am, I wouldn’t distress Mrs Renwick by telling her so. The time for that will be when the danger is past.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Renwick after consideration. ‘Isobel has a nervous disposition. Out of kindness, she needs to be kept in the dark. Thank goodness you came to warn me, Inspector,’ he continued, visibly sweating now. ‘I’ll have the royal train cancelled immediately.’

  ‘I’d advise against that, sir.’

  ‘We can’t jeopardise the lives of the Queen and her family.’

  ‘We can’t catch those behind this plot unless we can lure them out into the open,’ said Colbeck, ‘and that means allowing the present arrangements to stay in place. If Prince Albert and Her Majesty want to postpone the trip to Balmoral, then we’ll bow to their decision but I have a curious feeling that they won’t do that.’ He took a step closer. ‘There’s no need to tell you that discretion is everything. The fewer people who know the truth, the better it will be. It’s another reason why Mrs Renwick must not be told. Confine the facts to a small circle.’

  Renwick nodded before dabbing at his brow again with the handkerchief. He tried to remain calm but his heart was pounding and his brain racing. If he sanctioned the departure of the royal train on the agreed date, he could be sending some of its occupants to their deaths. Guilt coursed through him and made him shudder.

  ‘Why attack the train there?’ he asked. ‘It doesn’t make sense. When they reach Aberdeen, the royal party has to travel fifty miles to Balmoral by carriage. They’re much more vulnerable to an ambush there.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, sir.’

  ‘Why pick on a stretch of the Caledonian?’

  ‘It’s something that’s causing anguish to its general manager,’ said Colbeck. ‘He always believed that that disaster could never occur in the same place twice. Apparently, it can. Mr Craig is bracing himself for the second catastrophe.’

  ‘He can’t possibly protect every inch of the line.’

  ‘Quite so – it’s far too long. A whole army of policemen couldn’t defend it. In any case, their presence would alert the conspirators.’

  ‘Who are they, Inspector?’

  ‘We’ve yet to discover that, sir.’

  ‘Basically, then,’ said Renwick with alarm, ‘you know nothing whatsoever about these people beyond the fact that their target is the royal family. You don’t know where they come from or what their motive is. You haven’t any real suspects so there’s nobody you can arrest. They can cause a train crash then vanish without trace. More to the point,’ he went on, despair creeping in, ‘they can enter my house and somehow open a safe and you haven’t the slightest idea how they did it.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Mr Renwick.’

  ‘They’re ahead of you at every stage.’

  ‘Put more trust in us than that, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘The burglary not only gave us our first real advance in the investigation, it identified a suspect.’

  ‘How did it do that?’

  ‘Show me your safe and I’ll explain.’

  Renwick took him along a passageway and into the study, a large room with a mahogany desk, furniture and bookshelves. The shelves were crammed to capacity with matching volumes. On the one bare wall were some family portraits. Colbeck studied each of the bookshelves as if noting the titles.

  ‘How did the burglar know where to find the safe?’ asked Renwick. ‘It’s cleverly hidden. Well, you’d have no idea where it is, would you?’

  ‘Actually,’ said Colbeck, ‘I would, sir, because my father was a cabinetmaker and I grew up learning about secret drawers in desks and hidden alcoves in walls. My guess would be that your safe is here.’

  Taking hold of the edges of a bookcase, he pulled hard and it revolved outwards on hinges to reveal a large iron safe set into the brickwork.

  Renwick was sobered. ‘You did that so easily.’

  ‘No more easily than the burglar, sir. Housebreakers know all the favourite places for a safe. The study is one of them. It’s where one needs important documents and correspondence at hand. Once inside this room, the burglar would have located the safe in a matter of seconds.’

  ‘But he then had to open it,’ said Renwick, puzzled. ‘When it was installed, I was assured that it was impossible to open without a key.’

  ‘Then you were misinformed,’ said Colbeck. ‘There are people – blessedly few in number – who have a remarkable talent for opening any safe, no matter how solid and well constructed it might be.’

  ‘This is a Chubb safe, reputedly one of the best available.’

  ‘It was a good choice, sir, but it’s not entirely burglarproof. Are you familiar with the controversy at the Great Exhibition regarding famous locksmiths?’

  ‘I can’t say that I am.’

  ‘An American gentleman named Alfred Hobbs visited the exhibition. He was a notable locksmith and he astounded everyone by picking one of the best Chubb locks in twenty-five minutes. Then there was the famous Bramah lock that had been on display in a London showroom since 1790. Everyone who’d tried to pick it,’ said Colbeck, ‘had failed. It presented a more difficult challenge to Mr Hobbs but he did eventually succeed after forty-four hours. It wouldn’t have taken him that long to open your safe, Mr Renwick. He would have been in and out of this study within ten minutes.’

  ‘Yet you say that this fellow was a legitimate locksmith.’

  ‘Fortunately, he was. On the wrong side of the law, he’d have been a menace. His visit to this country caused uproar among bankers and insurance companies who believed existing locks were perfectly secure. They persuaded the Royal Society of Arts to offer a prize for a strong and utterly reliable lock. The winner of the competition was a locksmith named Saxby,’ recalled Colbeck. ‘But there was an unforeseen defect in his work.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Alfred Hobbs picked it within three minutes.’

  ‘Dear me!’ exclaimed Renwick.

  ‘Fortunately, Mr Hobbs return
ed to America. But there are other people with similar skills. In some cases, they’ve worked in the lock trade before turning to crime. That’s true of the man I have in mind.’

  Renwick’s hope stirred. ‘You know who the burglar was?’

  ‘I could hazard a guess.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Your house is well protected,’ said Colbeck, ‘and this is a safe that would test an ordinary cracksman. If I wanted something inside it – and the conspirators obviously did – then I’d hire the best man available.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Patrick Scanlan. He worked as a locksmith in Willenhall up in the Midlands until he decided that there was more money to be made as a burglar. In the criminal underworld he’s well regarded.’

  ‘Then you must arrest him at once,’ demanded Renwick. ‘I want to see the villain who dared to violate the sanctity of my home. I want him caught and punished.’

  ‘We want him just as much as you, sir,’ said Colbeck, ‘because he can tell us who hired him. As a rule, he’d never take such a risk in order to retrieve information about a train journey. It would be meaningless to Scanlan. He’d have been paid extremely well to enter your house – and, of course, there was the incidental bonus of the cash that you had in the safe.’

  ‘Why did he ignore my wife’s jewellery?’

  ‘Scanlan prefers to work alone. He never steals jewellery because he’d need a fence as an accomplice and that’s an unnecessary complication to him. His targets are money and secrets.’

  ‘What kind of secrets, Inspector?’

  ‘He’s a blackmailer as well as a thief. Safes tend to contain things of great value to their owner. In addition to valuables, there could be private correspondence intended for nobody else’s eyes. Do I need to explain?’

  ‘No, Inspector,’ said Renwick, virtuously. ‘There was nothing of that nature in my safe, I assure you. If this fellow is the burglar, he’ll have found no letters with which to embarrass me. How sure are you that Scanlan is the man you’re after?’

  ‘Anybody else would have stolen the jewellery as well.’

  ‘Do you know where to find him?’

  ‘I wish that we did, Mr Renwick. We’ve been after him for some time. The search will be intensified now. The first thing I did when I got to Scotland Yard this morning was to set it in motion. As we speak, Sergeant Leeming is leading the hunt for Patrick Scanlan.’

  Refreshed and invigorated by a night in his own bed, Leeming set about his task with enthusiasm. He’d been given a couple of younger detectives to assist him and he sent them off to explore Scanlan’s known haunts. Months earlier, a description of the burglar had already been sent to every police station in London and occasional sightings of him had been reported. Scanlan, however, continued to evade arrest. Leeming began his search with two advantages. First, he was back on his home territory. A Londoner born and bred, he was at his happiest and most effective when working in the nation’s capital. Second, he’d actually met Patrick Scanlan. Most of those hunting for him were relying on the detailed description pinned up in the police station and Leeming knew how misleading that could be. Scanlan took care to change his appearance from time to time. When he wore a beard, he looked nothing like the man depicted on the noticeboards. A complete change of apparel – and he could afford an expensive tailor – transformed him. Other forms of disguise were also used to keep recognition at bay.

  Nevertheless, Leeming was confident that he’d be able to identify the man if they came face-to-face because he’d already got close to the man. It had been a year earlier and Scanlan had made a rare mistake. The police closed in on him and, after wrestling him to the ground, Leeming had handcuffed him. He remembered the feeling of satisfaction as the burglar was taken into custody. Conviction would surely follow and a master criminal would be imprisoned for many years. That, at least, had been Leeming’s belief. In fact, imprisonment failed to last one night. Although he’d been searched beforehand, Scanlan had somehow picked the lock of his cell and the locks on the three doors between him and freedom. He’d been at liberty ever since, burgling houses at will and indulging in some profitable blackmail as well.

  It was Colbeck who suggested a new line of inquiry. As a result, Leeming set off for a rehearsal room near Drury Lane. It was there that he encountered a man he’d met before and he quailed slightly in front of him.

  ‘What is the meaning of this interruption, pray?’ asked Nigel Buckmaster.

  ‘I’d like a few minutes of your time, sir.’

  ‘We are rehearsing Othello. It requires all my concentration.’

  ‘You may be able to help us solve a crime,’ said Leeming.

  ‘Barging in here like this is a crime, in my opinion. Please depart, Sergeant.’

  ‘Inspector Colbeck sends his regards, sir.’

  Buckmaster’s manner softened at once. He’d met the detectives in Cardiff when on tour there with his troupe. Colbeck had turned out to be unusually knowledgeable about the theatre and highly appreciative of the actor’s skills. The sergeant, however, found those skills intimidating. Buckmaster was a tall, lean, lithe man in his thirties with flowing dark hair and an arresting handsomeness. His voice had a natural authority and his eyes were whirlpools of darkness. Looming over his visitor, he came to a decision and clapped his hands peremptorily. The motley group of actors turned towards him.

  ‘I will return shortly,’ announced Buckmaster as if declaiming a speech from the battlements. ‘Do not waste time in idle discourse. Learn your lines and rehearse your moves.’ With an arm around Leeming’s shoulders, he swept him off to the adjoining room. ‘Now, then,’ he said, eyes flashing, ‘how may I help you?’

  Leeming blurted out his request. ‘Inspector Colbeck wishes to know if you could recommend a good elocution teacher.’

  ‘But the fellow has no need of one,’ said the actor in surprise. ‘He speaks beautifully. Were he not wedded to the police force, I’d employ him instantly. You, on the other hand, have a voice in sore need of help. Its timbre is unpleasing on the ear and you have the distressing habit of talking out of the side of your mouth.’

  ‘This is nothing to do with the inspector or me, sir.’

  ‘Then why do you come bothering me?’

  ‘Allow me to explain.’

  Without mentioning Scanlan by name, Leeming told him about a burglar who’d come from Willenhall to settle in London. What made him stand out among Cockney criminals was his Black Country accent. Indeed, it was his distinctive vowels that led to the arrest in which Leeming was involved. Yet they’d not given him away again and Colbeck suspected that Scanlan had taken the trouble to get rid of them. Money would have been no object. He could pay well for a new voice.

  ‘Who is the finest speech tutor in London?’ asked Leeming, respectfully.

  Buckmaster drew himself up. ‘He stands before you,’ he said, striking a pose. ‘I’ve rescued every voice in that rehearsal room. They come to me as gibbering idiots and I turn them into something resembling – and sounding like – professional actors. Needless to say, I only do this for members of my own company. I’d never lower myself to give elocution lessons to members of the public.’

  ‘Do you know anyone who does?’

  ‘I know dozens of people – failed actors, every one of them.’

  ‘And who is the best?’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ said Buckmaster, wrinkling his nose in disdain. ‘Most of them are not fit to carry spears on stage, let alone take a leading role. They’d mangle every iambic pentameter in Shakespeare. That’s why the theatre has discarded them as rank failures. So they set themselves up as self-appointed experts on voice instead.’

  Leeming was still struggling to work out what iambic pentameters were. As the actor went on to praise his own work at the expense of those driven out of the profession, the sergeant barely heard a word. He suddenly realised why he was there.

  ‘There must be someone you can recommend
, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Only two of them would pass my rigorous standards.’

  ‘What are their names?’

  ‘Do you have a notebook?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Leeming, producing it from his pocket with a pencil.

  Buckmaster snatched both from him. ‘I can give you their names and their addresses,’ he said, scribbling on an empty page. ‘Don’t mention me, whatever you do. It will only excite envy. While I’ve soared, they both fell to earth.’

  Taking notebook and pencil back from him, Leeming looked at the open page.

  ‘Do they both live in taverns?’

  ‘No – but that’s where you’ll find them. Rejection turns a man to drink.’

  ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Buckmaster.’

  ‘I must return to my rehearsal,’ said the other with a grand gesture. ‘But do give my regards to Inspector Colbeck. He’s an astute theatregoer. He was once kind enough to describe my performance of Othello as masterly. Audiences will be able to feast on it once again at the Theatre Royal. I daresay that you saw the playbills on display as you came past.’

  ‘Yes, sir, a blind man couldn’t miss them.’

  ‘And don’t despair about your own voice. It’s not beyond a cure. If I had you in my company,’ said Buckmaster, taking him by the shoulders, ‘I could improve it in every way. Instead of talking like a costermonger with a mouth ulcer, you could pass as an aristocrat in six weeks.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Leeming, defiantly, ‘but I like my voice the way it is.’

  When he got back from market, the first thing that Jamie Farr did was to run to her cottage. As he came over the hill, he saw Bella in the garden, taking the washing down from the line. She looked bored and fatigued. As soon as she noticed him, however, her face was split by a grin and her whole body came alive. After taking the washing indoors, she came out again and raced up the hill to meet him, flinging herself breathlessly into his arms.