The railway viaduct irc-3

by Edward Marston

  'Isn't this wonderful?' said Kilfoyle alongside him.

  'Yes, Liam.'

  'We'll teach them a lesson they'll not bloody well forget.'

  'Whose idea was it?' asked Leeming.

  'Eh?'

  'Launching this attack on the French. Who first thought of it?'

  'What does it matter?'

  'I was interested, that's all. Was it Shannon?'

  'Pierce is one of the leaders,' said Kilfoyle, 'but I fancy it was someone else who made the decision. Pierce just went along with it like the rest of us.' He let out a cackle. 'Oh, we need this so much, sure we do. We've not had a proper fight for months.'

  'What will Mr Brassey do?'

  'He can't do anything, Victor.'

  'I don't want to lose my job over this,' said Leeming, worriedly. 'I've got a family to feed back in England.'

  'Your job is safe – and so is mine. That's the reason we stick together. Mr Brassey knows which bloody side his bread is buttered. He can't sack all of us, or the rest of the Irish would walk out.'

  'Safety in numbers, eh?'

  'Only for us, Victor – not for the French.'

  'How many of them are there?'

  'Who cares? One Irishman is worth four of the buggers.'

  'What about me?'

  'You're the fella who knocked Pierce to the ground,' said Kilfoyle, admiringly, 'and I've never seen anyone do that before. You'll have to be in the front line. Pierce wants his best men at his side. Get yourself a weapon, man.'

  'Why?'

  'Because the French won't be fighting with bare hands, that's why.' He thrust the pick handle into Leeming's palm. 'Here – have this. I'll use my knife instead and poke out a few eyes with it.'

  There was no turning back now. Victor Leeming was part of a ravening pack of Irish wolves that was closing in on their prey. They could smell blood. Shannon pushed through the crowd.

  'Come on, Victor,' he urged. 'We need you for the first charge.'

  'I'm here,' said Leeming, holding up his pick handle.

  'Let's see who can open the most French skulls.'

  'Where's the camp?'

  'Just over the brow of the hill. In a few more minutes, we'll be haring down on them to massacre the bastards.' He punched Leeming on the shoulder. 'Are you ready for a fight?'

  'Ready and willing, Pierce.'

  Leeming spoke with more confidence than he felt. He was not merely facing the prospect of injury, he was taking part in a criminal act. If the superintendent ever discovered that he had been party to an affray, he would chew Leeming's ears off. The sergeant was glad that he was well out of Edward Tallis's jurisdiction.

  Shannon took him by the arm and dragged him to the front of the marchers. As they went up the hill, Leeming began to have more and more misgivings. He rarely criticised Colbeck's methods but this time, he believed, the inspector had been mistaken. In making his sergeant work as a navvy, he had exposed him to dire hazards. Yet Leeming could not break ranks now. The brow of the hill was only thirty yards away. Once they were over it, there would be carnage.

  Then, out of the dark, three figures appeared on the top of the hill. Silhouetted against the sky, they were an imposing trio. Even in the half-dark, Leeming recognised Colbeck, standing in the middle, with Thomas Brassey beside him. He could not identify the third man. Colbeck took out a pistol and fired it into the air. The Irishmen stopped in their tracks.

  'That's as far as you go tonight, gentlemen,' said Brassey.

  'Why?' demanded Shannon.

  'Because I say so – and so does Father Slattery.'

  'Yes,' said the priest, stepping forward and raising his voice so that all could hear. 'It's a pity that some of you don't come to a church service with the same kind of enthusiasm. When you want a fight, there's no holding you. When I tell you to join me in fighting the Devil, then it's only the bravest who show their faces.'

  'Out of our way, Father!' shouted Kilfoyle.

  'I stand here as a representative of Roman Catholicism.'

  'I don't care if you're the bleeding Pope!' cried someone.

  'The French are Catholics as well,' returned Slattery. 'Would you attack your own kind?'

  'Go back to your camp,' ordered Brassey. 'There'll be no brawl tonight. The French are not even here,' he lied. 'They were forewarned to pull out of their tents and shacks.'

  'Who by?' called Shannon.

  'Me. And I didn't do it to save your skins. Some of you deserve to take a beating – it's the only way you'll see sense. I did it so that you could keep your jobs. This gentleman here,' he went on, pointing at Colbeck, 'is M. Robert, assistant to the Minister of Public Works.' Colbeck raised his hat to the mob and produced a barrage of jeers. 'Before you taunt M. Robert, let me tell that he's empowered to revoke our contract if he decides that we are not able to fulfil it peaceably. I don't think anyone could construe an invasion of the French camp as a peaceful act.'

  'Had you firebrands insisted on a fight,' said Slattery, taking over, 'you'd not only have been sacrificing your jobs and those of all the other navvies from across the Channel. In your wisdom, you'd also have been handing over the work to a French contractor who would refuse to employ a single one of you.'

  'Think on that,' said Brassey. 'You'd have been letting me, yourselves and your families down. You'd have had to sneak home in disgrace without any money in your pockets and no work awaiting you in England. Is that what you really want?'

  'No, sir,' bleated Kilfoyle.

  'What about the rest of you?'

  In response came a lot of shamefaced muttering. The fight had suddenly been taken out of the navvies. Several began to slink away at once. Alone in the crowd, Leeming was delighted. A calamity had just been averted by the intervention of Thomas Brassey and Father Eamonn Slattery. But it was the presence of M. Robert that had tipped the balance. Fear of losing their jobs, combined with the certainty that Brassey would never hire any of them again, brought them to heel. More of them turned round and left. The danger was over.

  The contractor and the priest had prevented a bloodbath, but Leeming knew that they did not deserve all the credit. The ruse had worked well because Robert Colbeck had devised it. Not for the first time, Leeming had been rescued by the inspector's guile.

  As soon as they got back to his office, Thomas Brassey lit a few oil lamps then he unlocked a cupboard and took out a bottle of whisky and three glasses. He poured a generous amount into the glasses then gave one each to Robert Colbeck and Aubrey Filton. The contractor raised his own glass with a smile.

  'I think we're entitled to toast a job well done,' he said.

  'I never thought that you'd pull it off, sir,' confessed Filton after taking his first sip. 'I thought someone might call your bluff.'

  'That's why I suggested that we involve Father Slattery,' said Colbeck, impressed by the quality of the whisky. 'I felt that he would give credence to the whole exercise. I'm still troubled by guilt at having had to deceive an ordained priest like that.'

  'He really thought that you were M. Robert.'

  'In a sense, of course, that's what I am.' He adopted a French accent. 'M. Robert Colbeck.'

  'You spoke the language so well, Father Slattery was taken in.'

  'The main thing is that the mob was as well,' said Brassey. 'I shudder to think what chaos would have followed if they'd reached the French camp. They hadn't withdrawn at all.'

  'I had a very good reason to make sure that the two parties didn't meet,' Colbeck explained. 'Victor Leeming was in that crowd somewhere. I need him to remain in one piece.'

  'He deserves my congratulations for what he did, Inspector.'

  'Save them until he delivers the real culprits up to us.'

  'Are you sure they're part of the Irish contingent?'

  'Yes, Mr Brassey. Their camp is almost adjacent to the railway, so it would be easy for someone to slip out at night to cause damage. The French are nearly a mile away and none of them would be aware of how you deployed yo
ur nightwatchmen. The same goes for the Welsh and the rest of your navvies,' said Colbeck. 'They're too far away. No, I believe that the men we're after might well have been in that mob tonight.'

  'Would they?' said Filton.

  'What better way to take suspicion off themselves than by accusing someone else of the crimes? It's an old trick, Mr Filton.'

  'Cunning devils!'

  'We played a trick on them tonight,' recalled Brassey. 'It was all your doing, Inspector. You'll have to meet my wife. Her French is almost as fluent as yours. Have dinner with us some time.'

  Colbeck smiled. 'That's very kind of you, Mr Brassey.'

  'Sergeant Leeming can join us as well.'

  'Only when he's finished the task he was set.'

  'He was very brave to take it on.'

  'Victor has already proved his worth. I just hope that he's not the victim of his own success.'

  'In what way?' said Filton.

  'Those men we turned back earlier on will know that they were betrayed by someone,' said Colbeck. 'They'll want his name.'

  'Then I hope they never discover it.'

  'No,' said Brassey with a shiver. 'I wouldn't like to be caught out in the middle of all those Irishmen. They have hot tempers and they don't take prisoners.'

  'Sergeant Leeming will have to be careful.'

  'Extremely careful, Aubrey.'

  'He's done this kind of work before,' said Colbeck, 'though he's never dealt with navvies. As you told me earlier, Mr Brassey, they're a race apart. My hope is that Victor doesn't stick out too much. After tonight, some of those men will be desperate for revenge.'

  'It must have been you, Father Slattery,' he said, glowing with rage.

  'It was not, Pierce – on my word of honour.'

  'You betrayed your own fucking countrymen.'

  'That's something I'd never do,' vowed the priest, 'and I'm insulted that you should even suggest it.'

  'They knew we were coming.'

  'And I'm eternally grateful that they did. Otherwise, you and your drunken ruffians would have committed the most unholy crime.'

  'We were fighting on Mr Brassey's behalf.'

  'Try telling him that.'

  'We were,' said Shannon, vehemently. 'The Frenchies are trying to wreck this railway so that we lose the contract. That way, they can take over. The bastards want us all out of their country.'

  'If you conduct yourselves as you did tonight, I'm not surprised. When drink is taken,' said Slattery, 'you turn into wild beasts. You don't belong in civilised company. Truly, I was ashamed of you all.'

  They were in the Irish camp, talking by the light of a lantern outside one of the shacks. Most of those who had marched with Pierce Shannon had either gone off to bed or started drinking again. Shannon himself had waited until Father Slattery had reappeared. It was all he could do to keep his hands off the priest.

  'I still say that it was you, Father,' he accused.

  'Then you'd best bring a Holy Bible so that I can swear on it. That won't mean much to you, godforsaken heathen that you are, but it means all the world to me.' He put his face close to that of the other. 'I did not tell a soul about your plan.'

  'But you did know about it.'

  'Of course – thanks to you. To get support, you told everybody you could. That's how it must have leaked out. The person to blame is you and that jabbering mouth of yours. It never stops. Someone overheard you and reported it straight away.'

  'Is that what Mr Brassey told you?'

  'Yes,' replied Slattery. 'He called me to his office and said that he'd received information that there was to be an attack on the French camp. He asked me if I knew who was behind it.'

  Shannon was disturbed. 'Did you tell him?'

  'Of course not.'

  'How do I know that?'

  'Because I give you my word. If I'd named you and the other ringleaders, you'd all have been on the first boat back home. If nothing else does, that should prove my loyalty to my nation.'

  There was an extended pause while Shannon pondered.

  'Thank you, Father,' he mumbled at length.

  'I named no names,' said Slattery. 'Tell that to the others.'

  'I will.'

  'And don't invent any more hare-brained schemes like this.'

  'It wasn't me that thought of it.' Shannon lowered his voice. 'What else did Mr Brassey say?'

  'Only that you were mad to turn on the French. It could've meant him losing the contract altogether. As it is, the delays have cost him a lot of money. Did you know that there are time penalties of five thousand pounds a month if work is behind schedule?'

  'No, I didn't.'

  'Well, there are. Mr Brassey showed me the contract.'

  'Did he give you the name of the traitor?'

  'No, but I still think he was called Pierce Shannon. You opened your mouth once too often.'

  'Everybody knew that something was afoot tonight,' said Shannon, 'but only those who were coming knew the fucking time and place. Somehow, Mr Brassey got hold of those details.'

  'God works in mysterious ways.'

  'This was nothing to do with God. We've got a spy in our ranks.'

  'Then you should thank him – he saved your jobs.'

  'And what if these bloody raids go on, Father? What if we get another explosion or some more damage in the tunnel? What if someone starts a real fire next time? What would happen to our fucking jobs then? Answer me that.' Shannon was breathing heavily. 'And while you're at it,' he continued, angrily, 'you can answer another bloody question as well.'

  'If you could phrase it more sweetly, maybe I will.'

  'Since you didn't betray us, who, in the bowels of Christ, did?'

  Victor Leeming had never spent such an uncomfortable night before. He was, by turns, appalled by what he saw, nauseated by what he smelt and disgusted that human beings could live in such a way. The Irish camp consisted of ragged tents, rickety wooden huts and ramshackle cottages built out of stone, timber, thatch and clods of earth. In such dwellings, there was no trace of mortar to hold things together. Gaps in the roof and walls would, in due course, let in wind, rain and snow. Vermin could enter freely. It was grim and cheerless. Leeming had seen farmyard animals with better accommodation.

  When he had been invited to go to the flimsy shack where Liam Kilfoyle slept, he did not realise that he would be sleeping on flagstones and sharing a room with five other people. Two of them were women, and Leeming was shocked when the men beside them each mounted their so-called wives and took their pleasure to the accompaniment of raucous female laughter. It was worlds away from the kind of tender union that Leeming and Estelle enjoyed. Simply being in the same room as the noisy, public, unrestrained rutting made him feel tainted. Kilfoyle, by contrast, was amused by it all. As he lay beside Leeming, he whispered a secret.

  'The fat one is called Bridget,' he said, grinning inanely. 'I have her sometimes when Fergal goes to sleep. You can fuck her as well, if you want to.'

  Leeming was sickened by the thought. 'No, thank you.'

  'It's quite safe. Fergal never wakes up.'

  'I'm too tired, Liam.'

  'Please yourself. I'll have Bridget later on.'

  Leeming wondered how many more nights he would have to endure such horror. During his days in uniform, he had raided brothels in some of the most insalubrious areas of London but he had seen nothing to equal this. He could not understand how anyone could bear to live in such conditions. What he did admire about the navvies was their brute strength. After one day, his hands were badly blistered and he was aching all over, yet the others made light of the exhausting work. Navvies had incredible stamina. Leeming could not match it for long. To take his mind off his immediate discomfort, he tried to probe for information.

  'Liam?'

  'Yes?'

  'What if we were wrong?'

  'Wrong about what?'

  'The French,' said Leeming, quietly. 'Suppose that it wasn't them who set off that explosion?'

&n
bsp; 'It had to be them, Victor.'

  'Yes, but suppose – only suppose, mind you – that it wasn't? If it was someone from this camp, for instance, who'd be the most likely person to have done it?'

  'What a stupid question!'

  'Think it through,' advised Leeming.

  'What do you mean?'

  'Well, it has to be someone who knows how to handle gunpowder, for a start. It's very easy to blow yourself up with that stuff. Is there anyone here who's had any experience of blasting rock before? I heard that the gunpowder was stolen from near here.'

  'It was.'

  'Who could have taken it?'

  'Some bleeding Frenchie.'

  'It's a long way to come from their camp.'

  'Yes,' said Kilfoyle slowly, as if the idea had never occurred to him. 'You're fucking right, Victor.'

  'So who, in this camp, knows how to handle gunpowder?'

  'Not me, I can tell you that.'

  'Somebody must have had experience.'

  'So?'

  'I just wondered who it might be, that's all.'

  'He needs catching, whoever the bastard is.'

  'Have you any idea at all who it could be?'

  'No.'

  'Think hard, Liam.'

  'Don't ask me.' He fell silent and cupped a hand to his ear so that he could hear more clearly. A loud snore came from the other side of the room. 'That's Fergal,' he said with snigger. 'Fast asleep. I'm off to shag his wife.' He sat up. 'Shall I tell Bridget you'll be over to take your turn after me?'

  Leeming's blushes went unseen in the dark.

  Caleb Andrews was late getting home that night. When he came off duty at Euston, he went for a drink in a public house frequented by railwaymen and tried to bolster his confidence by beating his fireman at several games of draughts. His winnings were all spent on beer. As he rolled home to Camden, therefore, he was in a cheerful mood. His supremacy on the draughts board had been restored and several pints of beer had given him a sense of well-being. He let himself into his house and found his daughter working by the light of an oil lamp.