The Circus Train Conspiracy

by Edward Marston

  ‘Are you in charge here?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘My name is Seth Pearce. I own this farm.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry you’ve lost some animals, Mr Pearce. I hate rustlers as much as you do,’ said Gianni. ‘I’d string them up from the nearest tree.’

  ‘Hand over the man who stole from us and that’s what we’ll do to him.’

  ‘Nobody from the circus is to blame.’

  ‘I don’t trust you.’

  ‘We keep a strict control over the people we employ. In fact …’

  His voice died away as he saw the farmer’s shotgun pointing at him. Pearce was adamant that the circus was responsible. Unless he got an apology and full compensation, he would not allow them to traverse his land. As a result, Gianni feared, they’d be forced to make a wide detour. He resented being associated with a crime neither he nor anyone in the circus had committed. Further argument, however, would be unproductive. That was clear. Pearce looked as if he was getting very close to the point where he wanted to pull the trigger. As he rode away, Gianni was sent off with a chorus of expletives.

  Now that she’d alighted on the idea of a holiday, Lydia Quayle became more and more convinced that that was what she most needed. It would get her away from any threat from the stalker and enable her to gather her strength before moving into her house. Since money was no object, she was able to look far and wide for a suitable resort. Madeleine supplied a steady stream of suggestions.

  ‘What about Cornwall?’

  ‘It would certainly be on my list.’

  ‘I’ve always had an urge to visit Scotland. The nearest I got to it was Wylam in Northumberland when Robert took me to see Puffing Billy.’

  ‘You’ve got a painting of that in your studio.’

  ‘I used the sketches I took while I was there. It’s part of locomotive history, Lydia. That’s why I wanted to see it.’

  ‘I love your work, Madeleine, but I could never hang a painting like that on my wall. I’d prefer a landscape or a seascape that reminded me of an idyllic holiday.’

  ‘Yorkshire?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘The Lake District?’

  ‘That’s always appealed to me.’

  ‘You could always go abroad, of course.’

  ‘No, I think I’ll confine myself to England for the time being.’

  ‘Don’t leave Wales out. I’m told there’s some wonderful scenery.’

  Having set out together after breakfast, they’d already walked much farther than they intended. Madeleine was glad to see how poised and self-assured her friend had become. It was as if her problems with the stalker had never existed. If either of them was uneasy, it was Madeleine. When she was away from the baby for any length of time, she began to worry about her even though she knew she had no cause to do so. Sensing her eagerness to return to the house, Lydia agreed to go back to it and they opened another discussion of where she could best go for a holiday. It took them all the way to their destination. They were so preoccupied that neither of them noticed the cab on the other side of the road or saw the man peering out of it.

  When the two women went into the house, he used his cane to tap the roof of the vehicle. It drew away from the pavement and vanished around the corner. Sitting back in the cab, the passenger had the triumphant smile of someone who had just found a lost treasure.

  The task of speaking to the three potential suspects had been allotted to Victor Leeming. Having decided to start with Jake Goodhart, he first had to find him in a warren of streets. The former porter lived in a tenement so shabby and dilapidated that it reminded him of the ones he’d once visited in the Gorbals during investigations in Glasgow. There was the same desolate air about the place and the same filth in the gutters. After knocking on Goodhart’s door, he was startled when it swung open almost immediately. Goodhart’s glum face came into view. He wore grubby clothing and had a glove on one hand.

  ‘Are you Mr Goodhart?’

  ‘Aye, man.’

  ‘How are you, sir?’

  ‘Ah’m in reet bad fettle.’

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Leeming from Scotland Yard,’ said the other, ‘and I’m making enquiries relating to the derailment of a train.’

  ‘Ah heerd of that.’

  ‘I believe you spoke to Inspector Lill.’

  ‘Aye, man.’

  ‘I have a few additional questions. Might I come in, please?’

  ‘There’s nee need.’

  ‘Then we’ll talk here, if you insist.’

  ‘Wheer’s Lill?’

  ‘The inspector is escorting the circus into town.’

  ‘We ’ad a street barney or two in t’old days.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Goodhart put up both fists. ‘Ah, you had a fight or two. Yes, I was told about that. You had a reputation for it.’ Goodhart jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘I understand. You have a wife and family now. You’re a good boy. I’d like to find out just how good you are.’

  Leeming asked him about his days on the railway and, by dint of guesswork, he managed to translate most of the dialect words that came out of the other man. He heard that Goodhart had been employed by the NCR for some time. Though he’d finished up as a porter, he’d had other jobs during his years with the company. One of them made Leeming’s eyebrows lift.

  ‘You were part of a maintenance crew, were you?’

  ‘Aye, man.’

  ‘What exactly did that entail?’

  Goodhart was bewildered. ‘Spake English, will ya?’

  ‘What did you do?’

  Goodhart talked fondly and freely about what had obviously been the most enjoyable period of his time on the railway. Most of his job consisted of repairing deficiencies on the track. That often meant replacing a section of line, fixing it firmly into new sleepers and bedding it in with ballast. Manual work had suited Goodhart. It took him up and down the NCR. When Leeming asked him how well he knew the route, Goodhart reeled off the names of all the stations between Newcastle and Carlisle. He was certainly strong enough to manhandle a couple of sleepers on his own.

  ‘Do you own a telescope, Mr Goodhart?’ The other man shook his head. ‘Have you borrowed one from a friend recently?’ There was a more guarded reaction this time. Goodhart looked away. ‘What happened to your hand?’

  ‘Ah cut it wi’ a knife.’

  ‘Do you mind if I have a look at it?’

  ‘Why d’ya want to do that, man?’

  ‘I’m interested, that’s all.’

  Inclined to refuse, Goodhart was conscious of his visitor’s rank. He’d long tried to avoid confrontations with policemen. He removed his glove with a tenderness that surprised Leeming. What emerged was a bloodstained bandage. He thrust his hand under the sergeant’s nose then drew it back quickly.

  ‘Ah’ve to go,’ he said.

  Without another word, he retreated behind the door and slammed it shut.

  Cyrus Lill caught up with the circus just in time. Mauro Moscardi had been incensed by what his brother had told him. Being accused of a crime was more upsetting to him than being denied access to someone’s land. He was also enraged when Gianni recalled the racial insults hurled at him. Gathering half a dozen sturdy men around him, Moscardi was just about to confront the farmer when Lill arrived in a trap. The inspector listened to what had happened then insisted on going along with them as a peacemaker. Gianni was sceptical.

  ‘They’re not interested in peace,’ he said. ‘They want a fight and we’ll give it to them. They can’t block our way.’

  ‘Technically, that track is a public right of way that runs over private land. They don’t have the authority to stop you.’

  ‘We’ll tell them that,’ growled Moscardi.

  He climbed into the trap with Lill and they set off. The others followed on horseback, all of them carrying weapons of some sort. Moscardi believed that a show of strength would be enough to defuse the situation. As soon as he saw Pearce and his men, he
realised that that was a vain hope. The farmer would not back down. The two sides squared up against each other. The inspector leapt from the trap and interposed himself between them.

  ‘I’m Inspector Lill of the Newcastle Constabulary,’ he said. ‘If a crime has been committed, the perpetrator will answer to us.’

  ‘The bastard is right behind you,’ claimed Pearce, pointing at Moscardi. ‘He’s obviously the owner of the circus so he gave the order to rustle our sheep.’

  ‘We never touched your sheep!’ roared the Italian.

  ‘Before hot words lead to violent blows,’ said Lill, holding up both hands, ‘let me tell you something, Mr Pearce. That is your name, isn’t it?’

  ‘What if it is?’ retorted the other.

  ‘Clearly, you don’t read the newspapers.’

  ‘We never have time.’

  ‘Then let me tell you about two stories you missed. A train carrying the circus was derailed not far from Fourstones, causing untold suffering among the passengers and forcing Mr Moscardi to shoot an Arab horse whose legs had been broken. As someone experienced in animal husbandry, you’ll know how painful that was to him.’

  ‘It’s not as painful as having your sheep stolen.’

  ‘The second item you missed concerned an attack on the circus when it went through a copse. Bushes were set on fire to cause a stampede. Mr Moscardi was lucky not to lose more of his horses, remarkable animals that are vital to the circus.’

  ‘Why are you telling us this?’

  ‘It’s because, in the wake of the two attacks, I arranged for constables to accompany the circus in order to protect it. They’ve been there day and night. If someone had rolled up with three dead sheep, my men would have noticed at once and arrested the people who did the rustling.’

  ‘I’d have arrested them myself,’ affirmed Moscardi, banging his chest, ‘and fed them to the lions bit by bit. There are no criminals in my circus.’

  ‘I can vouch for that,’ said Lill. ‘When we knew that the circus was coming to us, we asked for a report from the Carlisle Constabulary. They told us that there had been no trouble whatsoever and that Mr Moscardi’s employees were above reproach. They’re all decent people,’ he continued with a glance over his shoulder, ‘and they must be thinking that Northumberland folk like you offer poor hospitality.’ He stepped forward and directed his question at Pearce. ‘Why don’t you gather evidence before you make wild accusations?’

  ‘We had evidence,’ replied Pearce. ‘A man actually saw people from the circus stealing our sheep. He swore by it.’

  ‘I’d like to meet this man.’

  ‘He was a stranger to the area. He’s moved on.’

  ‘I’m sure he has.’

  ‘He couldn’t have seen my men rustling,’ said Moscardi, ‘because none of them would dare to do such a thing. My guess is that he knows exactly what happened to those sheep because he stole them himself in order to put the blame on us. I think he’s the same man who attacked us twice before. His name is Bev Rogers.’

  ‘You’re right, Mauro,’ agreed his brother. ‘He’ll do anything to stop us.’

  ‘There is another explanation,’ Lill reminded them, ‘and Mr Pearce ought to be mindful of this. We’ve had Gypsies in the area. For the last couple of weeks, we’ve had reports of stolen chickens, stolen ducks and even a missing milk churn. They wouldn’t baulk at rustling a few sheep.’

  Mauro stepped forward until he was inches away from Seth Pearce.

  ‘I give you my word that we’re not rustlers,’ he said, seriously. ‘I’m sorry you’ve lost your sheep, Mr Pearce, but they were stolen by someone who hates our circus. That’s my belief, anyway. The inspector’s given you another possibility but I think I’m right. The man you met was Bev Rogers. I feel it in my bones.’

  Pearce looked into his eyes and saw a blazing sincerity. He turned to the people who’d come with him. To a man, they were signalling that they didn’t think the circus was in any way responsible.

  ‘I owe you an apology, Mr Moscardi,’ said Pearce, reluctantly.

  ‘Does that mean we can use the road?’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘We’ll help you,’ volunteered Gianni. ‘I’ll forget about the insults you flung at me and I’ll search the area thoroughly with some of my men. We’ll find those sheep of yours. My brother told you who the rustler was. It’s the man who’s been lying in wait for us since we left Carlisle.’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ said Lill. ‘We’re forgetting something. There’s one way to test your theory, Mr Moscardi.’ He turned to Pearce. ‘You spoke to this so-called witness, did you?’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ replied Pearce.

  ‘Before I ask you for a full description of him, let me suggest that he might have had one hand bandaged. Am I right?’

  Hiring a trap for the purpose, Colbeck drove to the place where the dead body had actually been discovered. Leeming had given him explicit instructions how to reach it and marked the location on the map. It did not take Colbeck long to find it. Since he was able to get the trap within twenty yards of the spot, he could see that the murder victim would not have had to be carried far. As he looked down at the grave, he wondered why someone had travelled all the way from Shropshire to such a secluded spot. Margaret Pulver had been known to visit London in the past. Why had she come to Northumberland? Did she go there of her own volition or had compulsion of some sort been involved? Was the killer a local person who’d invited her there in the guise of a friend? Why was someone as well versed in the woman’s movements as Donald Underwill unable to account for her presence in the north or – Colbeck could not dismiss the possibility – had he actually taken her there himself?

  There were too many imponderables. He couldn’t even decide if he was looking for a man or a woman. All that Leeming had done was to examine the grave and the immediate area. Colbeck was more systematic. He widened the search considerably and used a stick to poke about in the bushes. Someone had taken care to remove labels from the victim’s clothing so that they could not help to identify her. Margaret Pulver’s shoes had also been missing. What had the killer done with them?

  The area had been searched before but without success. He therefore went further afield, using a stick to poke every bush apart. It took well over an hour of painstaking work before he got his reward. In the course of it, he got mud on his shoes, dirt on his hands and had his hat knocked off by a low branch. Colbeck’s main fear was that his frock coat might be snagged on a twig and torn. His vanity made him move with care. He eventually came upon a rabbit hole stuffed with earth and his interest was immediate. Scraping the earth away with his stick, he found what he’d hoped to chance upon. The treasure trove comprised a coat, a hat, a pair of shoes and a small silver crucifix. He held it up to the light to examine it.

  ‘Perhaps she was a saint, after all,’ he said.

  Leeming was given short shrift by the second of the people on whom he called. Geoffrey Enticott was as brusque with him as he had been with Colbeck. He repeated that he was leaving the NCR to work for the NER because he’d been offered a promotion. With a family to support, he found the increase in salary irresistible. It would mean that they had to move south but they were more than willing to do so. No matter how much he pressed the man, Leeming could get nothing out of him that raised the slightest suspicion. The sergeant retreated and shifted his interest to Owen Probert, the other man who’d left a managerial position with the NCR.

  ‘Do I offer congratulations or sympathy, sir?’ asked Leeming.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Inspector Colbeck told me that you were attending an interview.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Probert, ‘and I was offered the post.’

  ‘Good for you, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘After all those years on the railway, the coal trade will be a big change.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  They were in Probert’s cottag
e in Hexham and the Welshman was less than welcoming. He was sour and laconic. Leeming smiled at him.

  ‘You don’t like policemen, do you, sir?’

  ‘I like them well enough if they keep out of my way.’

  ‘Have you been in trouble with the law at any time?’

  ‘I find that question insulting,’ said Probert. ‘It’s just as insulting as the ones the inspector put to me. I resent the fact that you’re both treating me as a suspect in an inquiry for the simple reason that I resigned from the NCR. Why are you still pestering me? I gave honest answers to your superior so I’d be grateful if you could leave me alone.’

  ‘One of your answers was not exactly honest,’ said Leeming. ‘When Mr Enticott’s name was mentioned, you denied knowing him.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’ve just come from the gentleman. I asked him about you and he said that you’d worked in adjoining offices for a while. Is that true or false?’

  ‘It’s … true to some extent,’ confessed Probert.

  ‘Then why say you didn’t know him?’

  ‘What I meant was that I didn’t know him as a friend. To be frank, I didn’t like the man so I kept out of his way. Lots of people worked in the same offices. I saw dozens of faces every day.’

  ‘You’d have recognised Mr Enticott’s – it’s very distinctive.’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’

  ‘Why didn’t you like him?’

  ‘If you’ve met him, you should be able to work out why.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Leeming, ‘he was a bit short with me.’

  ‘I’d prefer the word “abrasive”,’ returned Probert.

  ‘Then you haven’t met our superintendent. Compared to him, Mr Enticott was quite amiable. Talking to the superintendent is like being caught in a roll of barbed wire. It hurts.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘Where do you come from, Mr Probert?’

  ‘Isn’t that rather obvious?’