The Irishman chuckled. ‘I know. I’ve met a lot of wives in my time.’
‘I’m talking about holy matrimony.’
‘It never reached that stage in my case.’
Leeming was stern. ‘I thought you were a Roman Catholic.’
‘Oh, I am in most ways.’
Before the sergeant could chastise him for his lapse in faith, he was joined by Mauro Moscardi. The Italian was grinning from ear to ear. In spite of the attacks, his circus had got to Newcastle in the end. It had been feted on arrival and most tickets had already been sold for the opening performance, which would be attended by the Lord Mayor and his family. Other local worthies would also be in the audience.
‘Where is Inspector Colbeck?’ he asked.
‘He decided to go to Bristol,’ replied Leeming.
Moscardi was elated. ‘He’s going to arrest Sam Greenwood?’
‘He’s going to find out if there are any grounds for doing so.’
‘I can tell you one,’ said Mulryne. ‘Greenwood runs the worst circus in the country. He should be prosecuted for lowering the standards of the profession.’
‘He’s guilty of far worse crimes than that,’ claimed Moscardi.
‘What we need is cast-iron proof,’ said Leeming.
‘If the inspector has disappeared, does that mean you’ll be spending all your time looking for the killer of that woman?’
‘No, sir, I’ll be staying with the circus.’
‘That’s a relief. We need you.’
‘I have to ask you a favour, however.’
‘What is it, Sergeant?’
‘Well, let’s be honest, nobody would take me for a circus artiste.’
‘I don’t know,’ teased Mulryne. ‘You could pass for a clown any day.’
‘With your permission, Mr Moscardi, I’d like to disguise myself and mingle with your employees. If I worked alongside Brendan, for instance, I’d be taken as part of his team. That would make me virtually invisible.’
‘I’m happy to agree to that,’ said Moscardi.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And so am I,’ added Mulryne, ‘but you’re going to need instruction.’
‘I know how to look like a labourer.’
‘Yes, but you don’t know how to handle Jacko. When he’s not performing in the ring, he sits on my shoulder and keeps me company.’
Leeming was irritated. ‘When he did that to me, he knocked my hat off.’
‘That’s why you must learn his language and become his friend. Believe me,’ said Mulryne, ‘your time with us will be an ordeal if you don’t do that. It’s not Mr Moscardi who runs this circus – it’s that little monkey.’
Descending from the nursery, Madeleine Colbeck went along the corridor to the library. She expected to find Lydia Quayle reading in there. When she entered the room, however, she saw that her friend was gazing straight in front of her. Lydia was quite unaware of her presence. Madeleine didn’t know whether to speak to her or to withdraw quietly. In the event, she simply stood there and waited. After a while, Lydia came out of her trance.
‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed. ‘How long have you been there?’
‘An hour or two, that’s all,’ teased the other.
Lydia laughed. ‘Don’t exaggerate.’
‘To be truthful, it was a little while.’
‘That was unforgivably rude of me.’
‘There’s no need to apologise, Lydia. Your mind was obviously on something important.’ She looked around the bookshelves. ‘I used to love reading when I first moved in here. Robert is so proud of his library. Since the baby was born, however, I’ve hardly been in here, let alone actually read a book.’
‘It was something important, Madeleine.’
‘Was it?’
‘Yes, it came to me while I was sitting in here. Daniel Vance was something to do with my younger brother. I can’t remember exactly who he was but I think he was at school with Lucas.’
‘That must have been years ago.’
‘All of fifteen years or more, at least,’ said Lydia. ‘That’s why I couldn’t place him. I still can’t tell you who Daniel was but I know how to find out now.’
‘You can ask your brother.’
‘I’ll write to Lucas immediately. He loved his schooldays so he’ll remember everything about them.’ She got up to hug Madeleine. ‘I do apologise.’
‘It was all in a good cause.’
‘If you mean that we’ve solved a problem, you’re right. But the question still remains – why did someone claiming to be Daniel Vance follow me everywhere, then steal a dress of mine?’ she bit her lip. ‘It’s baffling.’
Throughout the journey, Colbeck had been wondering how he could detach himself from Underhill so that he could speak to people on his own. Unexpectedly, the vicar came to his rescue. Hearing that the inspector was investigating the murder, he asked to see him alone and took him into his study. Underhill was left in the drawing room with the vicar’s wife, a bosomy woman in her seventies with heavy jowls and an eyelid that kept winking inappropriately. Colbeck, meanwhile, was lowering himself into a chair and appraising his host. The Reverend Walter Berry was a white-haired old man with a scholarly hunch and a battered dignity. Colbeck noticed that his hands trembled constantly.
‘I understand that you were a close friend of Mrs Pulver,’ he said.
It was all that was needed to set the vicar off into a eulogy of a woman he’d admired deeply as a friend and respected as a true Christian. Much of what he said duplicated Underhill’s description of her but many new elements were added. Berry had been in charge of the funerals of her husband and two children. He spoke of the long hours he’d spent offering condolence and guidance. Her contribution to the village church was unmatched by anybody. Financially and spiritually, she’d devoted herself to it. Colbeck probed gently.
‘Did Mrs Pulver ever talk about her visits to London?’
‘She said nothing to me, Inspector, but she usually had a few words with my wife about the shopping she’d done. She always came back with something new.’
‘New clothing must have stood out in a village like this.’
‘It was always smart but very subdued.’
‘Did she ever speak of meeting someone in London?’
‘No, but she always returned in a buoyant mood. That’s more than I could have done. I hate trains and abhor railways. They’re the work of the devil.’
‘We must agree to differ on that subject,’ said Colbeck, ‘because they’ve been invaluable to me in the course of my work. Since you knew Mrs Pulver so well, I wonder if you could describe a typical week in her life?’
‘Yes, of course.’
The details he gave were largely those already gleaned from Underhill, though there were some useful additions. Colbeck learnt that she had been racked by guilt after the loss of her husband and children. Ordinarily, she’d have been in the boat with them but had been busy elsewhere on that fateful day. Having been born and brought up on a tiny island, she’d learnt to sail from a young age. It was a passion shared with her husband. In the wake of the calamity, she’d never gone back to the family cottage on the Welsh coast and had lost her love of sailing.
‘Did she have any reason to visit Northumberland?’ asked Colbeck.
‘None at all, as far as I’m aware,’ replied Berry.
‘It’s a remarkable part of the country.’
‘The north-east is a closed book to me, Inspector, but I’ve heard many people praise its scenic beauty – Mr Underhill is one of them.’
‘Oh?’
‘He has a cousin who lives in Durham and visits him occasionally. In their young days, they used to go on walking holidays in Northumberland.’
Colbeck was astounded. ‘Are you certain of this, sir?’
‘I’m only repeating what he told me.’
‘How much do you see of the gentleman?’
‘In the last couple of months,’ said the vica
r, failing to keep a faint note of disapproval out his voice, ‘we’ve seen rather more of him because he’s started to attend services at our church. Since his dear wife became disabled, she’s more or less housebound. They always used to go to the abbey church in Shrewsbury and there is no way that we can compete with something of that size. Yet Mr Underhill seems to prefer us. He told me that it was because he admires my sermons but I’m not so egotistical as to believe that.’
When he’d changed into coarse garb, Victor Leeming looked like a typical labourer. He blended easily with the team of men under the control of Brendan Mulryne. It meant that he had privileged access to the circus encampment and he enjoyed it to the full. One of his main jobs was to patrol the perimeter and keep interlopers out. Armed with a description of the wanted man, he scrutinised every male face that came near him but he saw nobody who bore any resemblance to him. At one point, he heard Mulryne’s voice berating someone. He picked his way between the caravans and arrived in time to see his friend grabbing someone by the scruff of his neck and helping him on his way. The man turned to unleash a mouthful of vile abuse then took to his heels as the Irishman threatened to punch him.
‘What was he doing?’ asked Leeming.
‘He was doing what they all try to do – peep at the pretty girls in their pink tights. He just wanted to leer.’
‘I wish you hadn’t got rid of him like that, Brendan.’
‘Why?’
‘I’d have valued a word with him.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Jake Goodhart – we’ve been questioning him.’ He moved away. ‘I’ll see if I can catch up with him.’
But he went no further than a few yards. Something landed on his shoulder and brought him to a halt. The next moment, his hat went spinning in the air and the animal moved to his head. Jacko the monkey had arrived.
Mulryne shook with mirth. ‘He likes you.’
Writing to her younger brother gave Lydia Quayle an opportunity to review her situation. In becoming estranged from her family, she had really cut herself adrift. Her decision to move in with Beatrice Myler had been prompted by loneliness as much as affection. Looking back, she could see how carefully the older woman had prevented her from trying to repair the rift with her parents. Her father’s murder had forced her to reacquaint herself with the family but there was no happy reunion. The only person who gave her a welcome was Lucas. Her old brother Stanley had not wanted her anywhere near the family estate. Because of her friendship with Madeleine Colbeck, her status as an orphan had not troubled Lydia. She had simply exchanged one family for another. Then the stalker had entered her life and she realised how unprotected she was if she chose to live alone.
Who was Daniel Vance? That was the question that sent her to the writing table. Lydia could not remember meeting anyone of that name. Lucas Quayle was the only person who could help her. Yet even as she blotted her letter, she knew that her brother could only provide limited assistance. Daniel Vance was a pseudonym used by the man who tried to stay under the same roof as her and, she feared, might have come into her room at night. Lucas might be able to tell her who the real Daniel Vance was. Was he the stalker or simply a person hiding behind the name? And how could she get rid of him for good?
Speaking to the servants in the Pulver house, Colbeck was hampered by the presence of Donald Underhill but he nevertheless pressed on. The solicitor did have the grace to remain silent. From the looks that the domestic staff shot at his companion, Colbeck could see that he was not entirely popular. In view of what the vicar had told him, he wondered if the man attended the same church as Margaret Pulver in order to be invited back to the house after the service. From Underhill’s evident familiarity with the place, it was clear that he was a regular visitor. The solicitor’s earlier claim to have only seen Mrs Pulver occasionally was exposed as a glaring lie.
The most coherent of the servants was the housekeeper, Mrs Lanning. Apart from the fact that she’d been at the house from the moment when it had been bought by Richard Pulver and his wife, she had coped best with the news of the murder of her employer. Because the others were prone to burst into tears, Colbeck addressed most of his questions to the housekeeper, a short, tubby, watchful widow in her fifties.
‘How often did she go to London?’ he asked.
‘Oh, it was never more than once a month or so, sir.’
‘And did she always go alone?’
‘Yes, she did.’
‘I believe she usually came back with some shopping?’
‘Mrs Pulver was very particular about her clothes.’
‘So I understand.’
Colbeck had come to Shropshire with his valise. Out of it, he slowly took the coat and hat he’d found. They produced a gasp of horror from Mrs Lanning, who brought both hands to her face.
‘They belonged to Mrs Pulver,’ she said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’d know them anywhere, Inspector.’
‘What about these,’ he asked, taking out the shoes.
‘Yes, I recognise them as well. They were her Sunday best shoes.’
Underhill stepped forward. ‘Where did you get them?’
‘They were hidden close to the murder scene,’ said Colbeck. ‘You must have seen these shoes before as well, Mr Underhill. If Mrs Pulver wore them to church, you’d have seen them every Sunday when you attended a service there.’
‘Yes,’ admitted the other, uneasily, ‘I suppose that I did.’
After questioning the housekeeper at length about daily life in the house, he switched back to the period of time when the husband and children were still alive. Not surprisingly, Mrs Lanning had gone to the Welsh coast at weekends to look after them. She spoke of their regular trips with affection.
‘Did they get to know others in the sailing community?’
‘Oh, yes, Inspector. Mr Pulver was a very sociable man. He used to invite people back for drinks.’
‘Can you remember any of them?’
‘I’m not sure. It was over five years ago now.’
‘Does the name Owen Probert mean anything to you?’
‘Let me think …’
To jog her memory, Colbeck described the man to her and she remembered that someone of that name had come to the cottage with his family a few times.
‘Was he ever invited here?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘he left Wales shortly before that terrible accident at sea. I don’t think Mrs Pulver ever saw him again.’
Colbeck was less certain about that. Having established a possible link between the woman and one of his suspects, he was determined to look more closely into it when he returned north. He was very conscious that he was standing next to someone who also provided a link between Margaret Pulver and Northumberland but he decided not to tackle Underhill about his claim to have been in the county only once before. It was better, he felt, that the solicitor didn’t know that his statement had been contradicted by the vicar.
Mrs Lanning’s eyes were fixed almost covetously on the clothing.
‘Will you be leaving those things here, Inspector?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Strictly speaking, they represent evidence that should be available at the inquest. I brought them to get confirmation that they belonged to Mrs Pulver.’
‘But I’ve already identified the body for you,’ said Underhill, peevishly.
‘Corroboration is always valuable, sir.’
After plying the housekeeper with more questions, Colbeck thanked her for her help then crossed to the fireplace to look at a painting above the mantelpiece. It showed a stretch of railway line against a rural background and seemed out of place beside mementoes of Richard Pulver and the two children. Studying it, Colbeck guessed what he was looking at.
‘This is the line that runs through your land.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ said the housekeeper. ‘Mrs Pulver had it painted by a local art
ist. There’s a framed plan of the whole line in the study. Because she showed such an interest in the work, the engineer gave her a copy. He was invited in for a drink sometimes and they talked endlessly about the branch line. Building it took ages and there was a lot of noise and disruption but Mrs Pulver didn’t mind that at all. She used to walk down to the site almost every day to see what was happening.’
‘There you are, Inspector,’ said Underhill, butting in. ‘You’ve discovered something you’ve never seen before – a woman with an abiding interest in railways.’
‘They are rare creatures, I admit,’ said Colbeck with a smile, ‘but I have met one of them before. In fact, I had the good sense to marry her.’
Having been startled by the monkey, Leeming made an effort to befriend him with gifts of food. If he tried to get rid of the animal, Jacko would only torment him even more. It was easier to allow him to sit on his shoulder as he walked through the camp. At one point, Jacko leapt to the ground, took Leeming’s hand and walked beside him like a small child. When someone stepped out to block their way, the monkey leapt back into the sergeant’s arms. Tapper Darlow was not impressed.
‘So this is how you spend your time, is it?’ he said. ‘Instead of hunting for the man who tried to cripple my railway, you play games with a monkey. And why are you dressed like that, anyway? I didn’t recognise you at first.’
‘I’m part of the circus now, sir. Your railway suffered only one attack. The circus has already had to cope with three. I’m here to prevent a fourth.’
‘Where’s the inspector?’
‘He’s making enquiries elsewhere, Mr Darlow.’
‘Do they relate to the NCR?’
‘Of course, they do,’ said the other, the lie coming easily to his tongue.
‘What has he found out?’
‘I’m sure you’ll get a full report eventually.’
‘I want confirmation that you’re actually working on the case.’
‘Then I can tell you I’ve spoken to all three suspects you kindly picked out for us, sir. Enticott tried to shoo me away but I stood my ground. Since he’s going to work for another railway company, he said some disparaging things about the NCR.’
The Circus Train Conspiracy Page 19
