The Iron Horse

by Edward Marston

  ‘That’s your right, sir, and I’m happy to oblige you. When this hatbox was damaged on Crewe railway station, a human head was found inside it.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ cried the other, shying away as if Colbeck had just produced a severed head from the box like a conjuror extracting a rabbit. ‘Please don’t tell me that the silk lining was soaked in blood.’

  ‘It was not, sir. Whoever put the head in here took great care not to soil it in any way. It was even filled with aromatic herbs.’

  ‘A head in a hatbox – what a gruesome thought!’

  ‘I need to find the person who put it there, Mr Swinnerton.’

  ‘You may rely on my complete cooperation.’

  ‘Then tell me who bought this from you,’ said Colbeck. ‘That will at least give me a starting point.’

  ‘Excuse me for one moment, Inspector,’ said the other, opening the door. ‘The record book is kept in the shop.’

  ‘I apologise for coming at such an awkward time.’

  ‘Business always picks up when the Derby is in the offing. Every lady wants to look her best on Epsom Downs. It’s been like this for several days now.’

  Swinnerton went out and closed the door behind him, leaving Colbeck to take a closer look at the storeroom. As well as the row of leather hatboxes, there were a number of brightly coloured cardboard ones with the name of the milliner painted boldly on the lid. Evidently, it was a thriving enterprise with a constant demand for the hats that Swinnerton designed and sold. Catering for the upper echelons of society, the shop clearly fulfilled its requirements. When he returned with his ledger, the first thing that Swinnerton did was to lift up the hatbox so that he could look at the number on the back. He then referred to his record book, flipping over the pages until he came to the one he sought.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said, tapping the name with a long finger. ‘The hat and hatbox were sold two months ago. As a matter of fact, I handled the sale myself. Certain customers expect my individual attention, you know, so I have to oblige them. Yes, I remember the hat clearly – a little too flamboyant for most ladies but she carried it off well. It was almost as if it were made for her, Inspector.’

  ‘Made for whom?’

  ‘His wife,’ replied Swinnerton. ‘He came in with her and waited patiently while she tried on almost everything in the shop. That’s the hatbox he bought, no question of it. Though I can’t believe for a moment that he would have been responsible for putting a man’s head in it. That’s unthinkable. He would never dream of such a thing.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’m an astute judge of character, Inspector. One has to be in this trade. Dealing with the public sharpens one’s instincts.’

  ‘What did your instincts tell you about this gentleman?’

  ‘He’s a pillar of society – decent, upright, wholly incorruptible.’

  ‘May I know his name, please?’

  ‘Lord Hendry.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Swinnerton.’

  ‘Shall I furnish you with his address?’

  ‘There’s no need,’ said Colbeck, picking up the hatbox. ‘I think I know exactly where to find Lord Hendry.’

  Hands on hips, Lord George Hendry stood back to admire the painting that had just been hung over the marble fireplace. Every detail intrigued him, every nuance of colour was a delight. He was a stout, distinguished-looking man of medium height with a fleshy, rubicund face that looked much older than his fifty years and large, blue eyes that had a zestful glint. He was still gazing at the portrait when his wife came into the library, leaning heavily on her walking stick.

  ‘Aren’t you tempting Providence somewhat?’ she enquired.

  He turned round. ‘Providence?’

  ‘I would have thought it much safer to hang the painting after Odysseus had won the Derby, not before the race had even taken place. What happens if your horse loses?’

  ‘Out of the question, my dear.’

  ‘You’ve said that on many previous occasions.’

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘and my confidence has often proved to be without foundation. Not this time, Caroline. I have the best trainer and the best jockey. More to the point,’ he went on, indicating the racehorse in the oil painting, ‘I have the finest three-year old ever to enter the race. Look at a true thoroughbred, my dear, look at that conformation, look at that imperious quality the artist has caught so brilliantly. Every bookmaker in London has made Odysseus the favourite. I account him a certainty.’

  ‘Then I hope, for your sake, that he is, George,’ she said, coming forward to take a closer look at the animal. ‘It’s a superb piece of work – quite inspiring, in its own way.’

  Lady Caroline Hendry did not share her husband’s passion for the Turf but she tolerated all of his sporting interests. If a painting had to be given pride of place in the library, she would rather it be of a champion racehorse than of one of the battle-scarred pugilists whom he chose to patronise. She was a short, full-bodied woman with a beauty that had slowly given way to a startling pallor savagely criss-crossed by age. Rheumatism and its attendant pain had put many of the lines in her face and hampered her movement. It did not, however, diminish her spirit or her Christian impulse.

  ‘Did you speak with the archdeacon?’ asked her husband.

  ‘I’ve just returned from the meeting.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He agreed that the charity was eminently worthwhile.’

  ‘You have to draw the line somewhere, my dear. You already give to far too many people. Why add to the burden?’

  ‘I only give to the deserving poor, George,’ she said.

  ‘But how do you know they are deserving?’

  ‘I take the archdeacon’s advice.’

  ‘Not in every instance,’ he recalled. ‘He had severe reservations about your donation to the lunatic asylum.’

  ‘I visited the place – he did not. The conditions there are quite revolting. I simply had to do what I could for those benighted souls.’

  He forced a smile. ‘As always, my dear, you were right.’

  Lady Hendry was a woman of independent means. Her private wealth had been an agreeable irrelevance when her husband had first met and fallen in love with her. He had been ensnared by her beauty, grace and sophistication. The fact that she took an interest in various charitable institutions only added to her appeal. Now, however, it was different. Lord Hendry strongly resented the recipients of his wife’s benevolence. On those occasions when he had heavy gambling debts to settle, he would have liked to turn to her for help but felt unable to do so. Someone who owned a splendid mansion at the heart of a large estate in Surrey could hardly claim to be one of the deserving poor.

  ‘How much do you propose to give this time?’ he asked.

  ‘Five hundred pounds.’

  He felt a pang of envy, thinking of how he could spend that amount of money. The familiar bitterness rose up within him but he concealed it behind another bland smile.

  ‘You could donate even more than that, Caroline.’

  ‘We felt that was the appropriate amount.’

  ‘There’s a very simple way to increase it.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, turning back to the painting. ‘Invest the money in Odysseus and let him double or treble it. I own the horse so you’ll be supporting the family into the bargain. After all,’ he went on with a chortle, ‘charity begins at home. Even the archdeacon would accept that, I dare venture.’

  Victor Leeming was more lugubrious than ever. The past twenty-four hours had been something of a nightmare. Forced to endure a long train journey, he had spent an uncomfortable night in the company of a severed head before having to suffer another four hours or more on the railway. Though he was allowed a brief respite to see his wife and children, all the pleasure from the encounter had been dissipated by his visit to the morgue where he had had to listen to details of the decapitation that had made his stomach heave. No sooner
had he taken the medical report back to Scotland Yard than he was grabbed by Robert Colbeck and taken off to another railway station. As the train rumbled south with ear-splitting assurance, Leeming retreated into a moody silence.

  Colbeck had no difficulty in reading his mind.

  ‘You’ll thank me for bringing you on this trip, Victor.’

  ‘I doubt it, sir.’

  ‘You are about to meet an interesting gentlemen.’

  ‘What is interesting about buying your wife a hat?’

  ‘You obviously don’t know who Lord George Hendry is.’

  ‘I rarely rub shoulders with the aristocracy.’

  ‘You might enjoy doing so on this occasion.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Lord Hendry is a devotee of the Turf.’

  ‘So are thousands of other people, Inspector.’

  ‘Very few of them own racehorses,’ said Colbeck. ‘Lord Hendry has a whole string of them. One horse is due to run in the Derby.’

  ‘Really?’ Leeming’s curiosity made his face glow. ‘It’s the only race I always place a bet on.’

  ‘Have you ever picked a winner?’

  ‘Not so far – I was born unlucky.’

  ‘Judgement is just as important as luck, Victor. The more you know about a particular horse, the better able you are to assess its chances of success. If you simply pick a name out of a newspaper, then you are making a blind choice.’

  ‘Do you think Lord Hendry will give us any advice?’

  ‘I’m sure that he will.’

  ‘Then I must ask a favour,’ said Leeming.

  ‘Favour?’

  ‘Could you please let me get the information about the Derby from Lord Hendry before you arrest him?’

  ‘I’ve no intention of making an arrest.’

  ‘But the severed head was in his wife’s hatbox.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he or she are guilty of putting it there. Neither are possible suspects, in my view. Who would be rash enough to place a head in a hatbox that they must have known could be traced to the person who sold it to them in the first place? My guess is that Lord and Lady Hendry are victims of this crime rather than the perpetrators. Our visit to Reigate is only the first stop on what may turn out to be a very long journey.’

  Leeming shuddered. ‘Does it all have to be by train?’

  ‘Unless you can provide us with a magic carpet.’

  They were travelling on the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway, a network that enjoyed a virtual monopoly in the area that it covered. Colbeck was impressed with their carriage but less impressed by the engine driver, who seemed unable to bring the train to a halt at the various stations without jolting the passengers from their seats. When they eventually alighted at Reigate, the detectives needed a cab to take them out to the Hendry estate. Leeming was contented at last.

  ‘This is more like it,’ he observed, settling back.

  ‘You were born in the wrong age, Victor. The future will be forged by railway engineers, not by those who design coach and cab.’

  ‘That’s a pity in my opinion.’

  ‘Lord Hendry would beg to differ.’

  ‘Why – is he another train fancier like you?’

  ‘No,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I’m sure he’s a practical man. When you move thoroughbred horses between racecourses, you have to do so with great care. If Lord Hendry wanted to enter one of his horses in some of the major meetings in Yorkshire, it would take him at least two weeks to get it there by road. In a train, horses can be carried from one end of the country to another in a matter of hours.’

  ‘Then they have my sympathy.’

  ‘You’re a Luddite, fighting a losing battle against the inevitable.’

  ‘And I’ll go on fighting,’ Leeming resolved.

  ‘What presents did your children have for Christmas?’

  ‘Not very many on my wage, sir.’

  ‘You gave them lots of things. I remember you telling me about them. And what was it that they liked best? Of all the gifts, which was the most popular?’ Leeming looked shifty. ‘Come on, admit it – what did your children get most pleasure from last Christmas?’

  ‘Something that you kindly bought for them.’

  ‘And what was that, Victor?’

  Leeming spoke through gritted teeth. ‘A toy train.’

  ‘I rest my case,’ said Colbeck with a smile.

  Lord Hendry was surprised to hear that two detectives had travelled down from Scotland Yard to see him and he had them shown into the library for the interview. After introductions had been made, they all sat down. Victor Leeming was mesmerised by the painting of Odysseus over the mantelpiece but Colbeck was more interested in the library itself. Lord Hendry had catholic tastes. Greek and Latin texts nestled beside novels by Richardson, Fielding and Smollett. Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire occupied a whole shelf in its handsome calf-bound volumes. Books of sporting prints abounded and there were learned works devoted to almost every subject under the sun.

  ‘You’re a reading man, I see,’ said Colbeck with approval.

  ‘When I have the time, Inspector,’ replied Lord Hendry.

  ‘What do you think of our present-day novelists?’

  ‘I’m bound to say that I’ve little enthusiasm for them. Dickens is too earnest and Mrs Gaskell too dreary. Why will they persist in writing about what they view as the downtrodden classes? Novels should be about people who matter. However,’ he continued, ‘I refuse to believe that you and Sergeant Leeming came all the way here in order simply to discuss my literary interests.’

  ‘Quite so, Lord Hendry,’ said Colbeck. ‘My superintendent would never have condoned that. We’re here in connection with a distressing incident that occurred yesterday at Crewe.’

  He gave a brief description of what had happened and explained that they had traced the hatbox to him. Seeing indignation show in the man’s face, Colbeck assured him that he was not a suspect in the case. He failed to mollify Lord Hendry.

  ‘Swinnerton had no right to give you my name,’ he said sharply.

  ‘He had no choice, Lord Hendry. This is a criminal investigation. Withholding evidence would have made him liable to arrest.’

  ‘Breaking a confidence like this also renders him liable to the harshest reproach, Inspector, and I shall deliver it. Elijah Swinnerton will get no more business from me, I promise you that.’

  ‘All that concerns me is one particular hatbox.’

  ‘It concerns me as well,’ said the other. ‘That hatbox was stolen from a hotel where my wife and I stayed earlier this year. We went to the races in Newmarket.’

  ‘Is that where the hotel was?’

  ‘No, Inspector – it was in Cambridge.’

  ‘Which hotel would that be?’

  ‘That’s of no consequence.’

  ‘Have you any idea who took the hatbox?’ asked Leeming, finally tearing his eyes from the painting and feeling that he should make a contribution. ‘Did you report the theft to the police, Lord Hendry?’

  ‘No, Sergeant.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I chose not to, man. It was only a hatbox. Fortunately, there was no hat inside it so I did not feel that it justified a hue and cry. To be honest, I’d forgotten the whole business.’

  ‘What about your wife?’ said Colbeck.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Well, she must have been upset by the theft. What did she do when she first discovered it?’

  ‘Let’s keep her out of this, shall we?’ said Lord Hendry quietly. ‘My wife is not in the best of health. Losing that hatbox was a shock to her at the time. If she heard what became of it, it would cause her a lot of unnecessary distress. I’d rather she was not brought into this at all. I’m sure that I can count on your discretion, Inspector.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘And while we’re on the subject, I’d be very grateful if my name could be kept out of any newspaper r
eports. It would not only trouble my wife deeply, it would cause a lot of distraction for me. With the Derby in the offing, I need to concentrate all my energies on the race. I could never do that with reporters snapping at my heels.’

  ‘We’ll keep them well away from you.’

  ‘Especially if you give us any advice about the Derby,’ said Leeming with a hopeful smile. ‘You must have a good idea who the serious contenders are.’

  ‘The only serious contender,’ declared Lord Hendry with a gesture in the direction of the fireplace, ‘is the horse in that painting. I commissioned it by way of celebration of his victory. There’s the winner, Sergeant – Odysseus.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  ‘There are other horses in the race,’ Colbeck reminded them.

  ‘None that can touch Odysseus,’ insisted Lord Hendry.

  ‘What about Merry Legs?’

  ‘An overrated filly.’

  ‘Hamilton Fido is a shrewd judge of horses.’

  ‘I question that.’

  ‘Mr Fido did win the Derby once before, Lord Hendry.’

  The older man appraised him. ‘You seem to know a lot about the Turf, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Are you a confirmed racegoer?’

  ‘My job gives me little opportunity to be one,’ said Colbeck sadly, ‘but I do read the racing pages and I like an occasional wager. From what I hear, this year’s Derby will be a three-horse race.’

  ‘With Odysseus being the winner,’ said Leeming.

  ‘We shall see, Victor. I fancy that Merry Legs, owned by Hamilton Fido, will not be easily beaten.’

  ‘Yes, she will,’ said Lord Hendry firmly.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘That’s my business, Inspector.’

  ‘What about Limerick Lad? He, too, will pose a challenge.’

  ‘If that’s what you feel, put your money on the horse.’

  ‘I think I’ll bet on Odysseus,’ said Leeming.

  Colbeck was circumspect. ‘And I’ll make up my mind nearer the time of the race,’ he decided. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a piece of cartridge paper and unfolded it. ‘This is an artist’s impression of the young man whose head was discovered in the hatbox. It’s a rough approximation of what he must have looked like. I wonder if you might recognise him.’