The Railway Viaduct

by Edward Marston

  ‘Then it has no connection with M. Chabal’s death, sir.’

  ‘I believe that it does.’

  ‘Why would someone track him all the way across the Channel,’ asked Leeming, ‘when they could have killed him here? More to the point, how could a mere labourer possibly know that Chabal was going to England in the first place? I’m sorry, Mr Filton. I think you are forging links where they may not exist.’ He consulted his notebook. ‘Let’s go back to the first incident, shall we? You say that gunpowder was stolen – for what purpose?’

  ‘I dread to think, Sergeant Leeming.’

  They moved swiftly. While one man kept watch, the other scuttled along the track in the darkness until he reached one of the largest of the wagons. He packed the gunpowder firmly beneath it and ran a fuse alongside the iron rail. Both men made sure that they were well clear of the danger area before the fuse was lit. When they saw it burning away purposefully in the direction of the wagon, they ran off quickly to their hiding place. The explosion was deafening. Shattering the silence, it lifted the wagon high off the track and blew it into small pieces that were dispersed everywhere at great velocity. Rolling stock in the immediate vicinity was also destroyed in the blast. A section of rail was plucked from the sleepers and snapped apart. Fires started. Injured men screamed in pain. Falling debris killed a dog.

  Another incident could be added to the list.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Robert Colbeck and Victor Leeming were staying at a cottage almost a mile away, but the noise of the blast woke them up. Though railway companies often used gunpowder to shift awkward obstructions, they would never do so at night. To someone like Thomas Brassey, it would be anathema. He was renowned for the care he took to keep any disruption to an absolute minimum in the locality where his men were working. Instead of putting all his navvies in one camp, and risking the uncontrollable mayhem that usually followed the creation of a private town, he placed as many of them as he could in houses, inns and farms in the area to spread them out. It was also a means of developing ties of friendship with local people and that was important.

  A nocturnal explosion meant trouble. The two detectives got up at once, dressed in the dark then walked swiftly in the direction from which the sound had come. There was no danger of their getting lost. They simply followed the track that had already been laid. As each new extension was added, it was used to bring fresh supplies of iron, timber, ballast, bricks and other materials required on site. Movement by rail was so much quicker and more efficient than having to rely on horses and carts or using barges on the river. It also helped to raise morale. When they saw that their track was already in operation, those working on it could measure the progress they had already made. They could take pride.

  As they got closer, Colbeck and Leeming could see a mass of torches and lanterns. Raised voices were then carried on the breeze towards them. They quickened their step until figures were slowly conjured out of the gloom. Dozens of people were moving about as they tried to establish the full extent of the damage. Thomas Brassey was supervising the operation. Colbeck and Leeming walked through the scattered wreckage to get to him.

  ‘What happened, Mr Brassey?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘We’re still not entirely sure,’ replied the contractor, ‘but it looks as if someone planted gunpowder beneath one of the wagons and blew it to pieces. We’ll have to wait until dawn before we can make a complete inventory of the damage.’

  ‘It must have been the stuff that was stolen earlier,’ said Leeming, confidently. ‘Mr Filton told me about it.’

  ‘Whoever used it knew what he was doing, Sergeant. One wagon was blown apart and four others were damaged beyond repair. As you can see, the track was ripped up as well.’

  ‘Was anyone hurt?’

  ‘Some of the nightwatchmen were injured by the debris but nobody was killed, as far as we know.’ He looked around and sighed. ‘This is the worst incident yet. Someone is trying to cripple us.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘This was simply another warning.’

  ‘Warning?’

  The detective recoiled from the clamour all round him.

  ‘Is there somewhere a little quieter where we might talk?’

  ‘Of course, Inspector. Come to my office.’

  Carrying a lantern, Brassey picked his way carefully through the gathering crowd and led them to the wooden hut. Once inside, he put the lantern on a ledge and lit some oil lamps, one of which was set on the large safe that stood in a corner. Brassey waved them into chairs before sitting down behind his desk.

  ‘What’s this about a warning?’ he said.

  ‘Somebody wishes you to think again about building this railway. I know that you have a contract to do so,’ said Colbeck before Brassey could protest, ‘but contracts can be revoked. The object of the exercise, I believe, is to frighten you off.’

  ‘I’m not a man who’s easily frightened, Inspector,’ said the other with defiance. ‘Whatever happens, I’ll press on.’

  ‘I admire your courage, sir, but you must expect worse attacks than the one you suffered last night.’

  ‘What could be worse than this?’

  ‘Lots of things,’ said Colbeck. ‘Blowing up the locomotive, for instance. That would have been far more costly and inconvenient than destroying some wagons. Breaking in here would be another option,’ he went on, pointing to the safe. ‘If they stole whatever you keep in there, I should imagine that it could create some serious problems for you.’

  ‘It could,’ admitted Brassey. ‘That safe holds money. My men like to get their wages on time. If the navvies were not paid when they expect it, there’d be ructions. That’s why a nightwatchman always patrols this area in the hours of darkness – to guard the safe.’

  ‘You had plenty of men on duty tonight, sir,’ Leeming pointed out, ‘but the explosion still took place.’

  ‘It means the people responsible must work for you,’ reasoned Colbeck. ‘They know exactly where any guards are deployed and they can find their way around in the dark. In short, they’re familiar with everything that happens on site. It enables them to stay one step ahead of you all the time.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ said Brassey. ‘Do I call in the police?’

  ‘That’s a decision only you can make, sir.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t make it lightly, Inspector. I’ve tried until now to contain the various setbacks we’ve suffered. Once I involve the police, our difficulties become common knowledge and newspapers start to take an interest. I’d hate that to happen,’ he confided. ‘Not everyone in this country is entirely happy to see an English contractor building a French railway. Adverse comment by the press could make things very awkward for us.’

  ‘Then we tackle the situation another way,’ decided Colbeck. ‘We have to catch the men who are behind all these incidents.’

  ‘And how do we do that?’

  ‘By having someone working alongside them. At the moment, we’re trying to solve the problem from the outside. That’s a handicap. What we need is someone inside the labour force who can sniff out these villains by rubbing shoulders with them.’

  ‘Such a man would be courting grave danger,’ said Brassey.

  ‘Only if he were found out.’

  ‘Navvies are very close-knit. They resent outsiders.’

  ‘Not if the outsider can win their confidence.’

  ‘Inspector Colbeck is right,’ said Leeming, glibly. ‘We’ve used this device before and it’s always worked. If the right man is chosen, he could unmask the villains in no time.’

  ‘I’m glad that you agree,’ said Colbeck, putting a hand on his shoulder, ‘because you are the person I had in mind.’

  Leeming gasped. ‘Me, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Victor – you can start work this very morning.’

  When light finally came, there was no shortage of volunteers to help in the work of clearing up the mess. The fires caused by the explosion had been swiftly put out
but, ironically, another one now had to be lit to burn the remnants of the wagons. Two men had been badly hurt in the blast and half a dozen had sustained minor injuries. The dog was duly buried. When the work was finally done, the men stood in a circle around the railway lines that had been hideously distorted by the blast. Threats of violence were made against the culprits.

  ‘They should be hung by their balls from the tallest tree,’ snarled Pierce Shannon, ‘then we could all throw rocks at the cruel bastards until they bleed to death.’

  ‘I agree with the principle that they should suffer,’ said Father Slattery, gently, ‘though I’d express myself with more restraint.’

  ‘That’s because you’re a priest. I can speak the truth.’

  ‘You’ll certainly speak something, Pierce, for I’ve never known a man with such a runaway mouth on him as you, but I’m not always sure that it’s the honest truth that passes those lips of yours.’

  ‘Whoever did this deserves to be crucified!’

  Slattery bristled. ‘And I’ll not have you filching from the Holy Bible like that. Our Lord died upon a cross – he was martyred on our behalf. Never forget that. It would be sheer sacrilege to punish these evildoers in the same way.’

  ‘What would you do to them, Father?’

  ‘First of all, I’d ask them why they’ve been harrying us.’

  ‘I can tell you that,’ said Shannon, vengefully. ‘They’re swinish Frenchmen who can’t bear the thought that we build better railways than they do. They want to drive us all away.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going anywhere, Pierce.’

  ‘Neither am I – whatever the dirty buggers do to us.’

  Many of the navvies had been found accommodation in the surrounding farms and villages, but hundreds of them lived in the makeshift camp they had erected. Pierce Shannon was one of them, a short, compact, powerful Irishman in his thirties with a fondness for strong drink and a hard fight. Since there were so many people like Shannon on his books, Thomas Brassey had allowed a Roman Catholic priest to join them as a kind of missionary among the large Irish contingent, acting as a soothing presence and trying to turn their minds to higher things than merely satisfying their immediate needs.

  Eamonn Slattery was a white-haired man in his sixties with a haggard face and an emaciated body. Respected and reviled alike, he loved the community in which he worked and did his best to master the names of as many men as he could. Instead of preaching at them from an imaginary pulpit, he came down to their level and talked in terms that they could understand. He disapproved of the fact that some of the navvies lived with common-law wives – sharing them openly with other men in some cases – but he did not respond with outright condemnation. Instead, he turned his persuasive tongue on the women, telling them how much deeper and more fulfilling their relationships would be if they were blessed by the Church. Since he had been in the camp, he had already performed two marriages.

  ‘Why do you blame the French?’ asked Slattery.

  ‘Because they’re behind all this trouble we’ve been having.’

  ‘I see no evidence of it.’

  ‘That’s because you weren’t here when we were working on the Rouen to Le Havre Railway,’ said Shannon, pronouncing the names in a way that any Frenchman would find incomprehensible. ‘Because the ballasting was done before the mortar was properly dry, the viaduct at Barentin fell down with a bang. Jesus! The way they turned against us, you’d have thought we’d raped every fucking nun in the country and set fire to that Notre Damn Cathedral.’

  ‘Moderate your language, please,’ rebuked the priest.

  ‘They treated us like criminals, Father. It’s as well I can’t read French because the newspapers went for us with a cato’-bleeding-nine tails. Even when we rebuilt the viaduct,’ continued Shannon, ‘we got no credit for it. We were British scum, taking jobs off the French.’

  ‘That’s not the case here, though, is it? The majority of the work force is British but Mr Brassey has also engaged French navvies.’

  ‘Yes, but he pays them only half what we get – quite right, too.’

  ‘They do have cause for resentment, then.’

  Shannon was aggressive. ‘Whose bleeding side are you on?’

  ‘If you could ask me more politely, I might tell you. As it is, I remain sceptical about your claim that Frenchmen were behind that explosion. I’ll reserve my judgement, Pierce,’ said the priest, meeting his glare, ‘and I advise you to do the same.’

  ‘My mind is already made up and the same goes for a lot of us. We’re not going to sit back and let these bastards cause even more damage. When we come off shift this evening,’ said Shannon, bunching both fists, ‘we intend to settle a few scores with the French.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Well, we’re not going to pray with them, I can tell you that.’

  The visit to Mantes was a revelation. When he called at the house where Gaston Chabal had lodged, Robert Colbeck had to explain to the landlady why the engineer would not be returning. She was very upset to hear of the murder and had clearly been exceptionally fond of her lodger. Colbeck was allowed to inspect the man’s room. The first things he found were some letters from Hannah Marklew, one of which set a date for their rendezvous in Liverpool. On his way to the assignation, her lover had been killed. It was clear from the missives that Hannah had never been involved in such a situation before. She was naïve and indiscreet. She not only signed her Christian name, she gave her full address as well. Colbeck tore up the letters so that they would not fall into anyone else’s hands.

  Hers were not the only billets-doux he found in the room. A Frenchwoman, signing herself with the letter ‘D’, wrote with even greater passion from somewhere in Paris. She was more circumspect. No address was given in her letters, only the city from where the mail was dispatched. Colbeck checked the rest of the correspondence. Business letters showed that Chabal had built himself a reputation that brought in several offers of work. One person, from England, invited him to return there in order to give some more lectures on his work as a civil engineer. The fee was tempting.

  Even when working on a railway, Chabal kept an extensive wardrobe and Colbeck found a jacket identical to the one that had taken an unfortunate dip in the Sankey Canal. There were many other clues to the character of the deceased and they helped to give the inspector a full portrait of him. When he went downstairs, he found the landlady in tears, stunned by the loss of her charming lodger and horrified at the manner of his death. Colbeck told her that, once Chabal’s family and friends were informed of his demise, someone would soon come to claim his effects.

  Paris was his next destination. Boarding a train at the station, Colbeck went on the short journey from Mantes, intrigued to see what had been for so many years the capital of Europe. It was a city that celebrated the arts, and composers, musicians, dancers, artists, poets and authors from many countries had flocked there in search of inspiration. Chopin, Liszt, Mendelssohn, Donizetti, Rossini, Verdi, Wagner and Heine had all resided there at one time or another. Two English authors whose novels were on Colbeck’s bookshelves back home in London – Dickens and Thackeray – had also lived in the city. It was a place of cosmopolitan talent with superb art galleries, concert halls and opera houses to display it.

  Colbeck was not disappointed. Driven in a cab along its broad boulevards, he marvelled at its sumptuous architecture and tried to take in its full wonder. The buildings of Paris reflected an empire that no longer existed but that could still stir the imagination. What he noticed was the abundance of outdoor cafes, where customers were enjoying a leisurely drink in the sunshine while reading a newspaper, playing dominoes or talking with friends. Like any major city, Paris had its share of slums and Colbeck saw something of them when he was taken through a maze of back streets. The grinding poverty in the mean tenements was exacerbated by the prevailing stink of the drains.

  Before he reported the death of Gaston Chabal to the police
, and left them to track down his family, Colbeck wanted to visit the address that Thomas Brassey had given him for the late engineer. The detective hoped to find out a little more about the man on his own account. Once the French police were involved, he would have to surrender the initiative to them. The address was in the Marais, one of the oldest and most interesting parts of the city, and it took its name from the marshes on which it was built. When the cab pulled up in a busy street, he saw that the dead man had owned a tall, narrow house with a hint of Gothic extravagance in its façade. It was large enough to require servants, so Colbeck could expect someone to be at home.

  He alighted from the cab and was immediately reminded how much taller he was than the average Frenchman. Most of those who bustled past him were distinctly shorter and had darker complexions. From the hostile glances he was given, Colbeck could see that the passers-by had guessed his nationality. He pulled the bell rope and heard it ring deep inside the house. The door was soon opened by a pretty young woman with a look of hope and expectation in her eyes. When she saw that a stranger had called, she let out a sigh.

  Colbeck thought that she could be no more than sixteen or seventeen. It was clear from her manner and her elegance that she was no servant. Since he had been informed that Chabal was unmarried, he assumed that she might be a relative of his. Breaking the sad news to her would be painful but it had to be done. Lifting his hat in a gesture of courtesy, Colbeck gave a smile.

  ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle,’ he said.

  ‘Madame,’ she corrected.

  ‘Ah.’ He looked down and saw her wedding ring.

  ‘Vous êtes un ami de Gaston?’ she asked.

  It was an awkward question and Colbeck did not wish to answer it on a doorstep when people were walking past all the time. Since he had bad tidings to impart, he needed to do so in privacy. He reached for a polite euphemism.

  ‘J’ai fait sa connaissance.’

  ‘C’est mon marie.’

  Colbeck was shaken. He was talking to Gaston Chabal’s wife.