Points of Danger

by Edward Marston

  ‘No,’ replied Colbeck, ‘you stay here and say nothing to that over-eager reporter lurking outside. Sergeant Burridge will no doubt be able to tell you what action the police have so far taken.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to do so,’ said Burridge, obligingly.

  There was a flurry of farewells, then the two inspectors went off together. Burridge spread his arms in a gesture that invited a question.

  Leeming grinned. ‘Where do we find the best pub in Norwich?’

  Beth ‘Binnie’ Wymark had been housekeeper to the Swarbrick family for over fifteen years. During that time, she’d been thrilled by her employer’s achievements in public life and had shared in his private woes. Chief among the latter had been the death of his first wife from tuberculosis, a tragedy he dealt with by throwing himself into his political work. Binnie was a plump, plain, motherly woman who’d spent most of her life in domestic service. Having lost her husband to a heart attack after a mere five years of marriage, she’d been able to understand more than most people Swarbrick’s anguish at his bereavement. In the wake of his murder, it was her turn to feel the stabbing pain of loss once more.

  ‘Where is my stepmother now?’ demanded Andrew Swarbrick.

  ‘She’s asleep in bed, sir,’ replied Beth. ‘Mrs Swarbrick was so upset by what happened that the doctor gave her a sleeping draught.’

  ‘How long will it last?’

  ‘I was told not to disturb her until morning.’

  Pulling a face, he clicked his tongue in irritation. He’d arrived at the house to find it in a state of disarray. The murder had shocked the entire domestic staff. Every member of it had had great respect for their former master. Coupled with their sorrow was the unease that came from wondering what their respective futures might hold for them. Looking at Swarbrick now, Binnie feared the worst. If he was to inherit the house, changes were inevitable and her position might well be in danger. They were in the hall and Swarbrick was looking around with a possessive glint in his eye. His unexpected arrival had unnerved the housekeeper slightly.

  ‘Where will you be staying tonight, sir?’ she ventured.

  His tone was haughty. ‘Where else would I stay but right here?’

  ‘I’ll have your old room prepared for you at once.’

  ‘So I should hope, Mrs Wymark.’

  ‘Do you have any instructions?’

  ‘I have an abundance of them,’ he said. ‘Let me settle in first.’ He gazed around the hall again. ‘This place is even stuffier than I remember. Look at all these paintings – they’re so dull and lifeless. They’ll be the first to go.’

  ‘You’ll keep the portrait of your father, surely?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know about that, Mrs Wymark.’ He marched off to the drawing room with the housekeeper trotting at his heels. Above the mantelpiece was the oil painting of Jarvis Swarbrick, striking a pose in the lobby of the House of Commons. His son looked up at it with disdain. ‘To be honest, I never really cared for it.’

  ‘We all think that it’s a perfect likeness of him, sir.’

  ‘The servants’ opinions are an irrelevance. Whether or not the portrait remains is solely my decision.’

  ‘Mrs Swarbrick will have a view.’

  ‘Oh, I shan’t take any notice of that,’ he said, dismissively.

  They heard the sound of a horse approaching and of wheels scrunching the gravel. Beth glanced through the window.

  ‘It’s inspector Jellings,’ she said, ‘with another gentleman.’

  Alan Hinton was alarmed by Tallis’s strange behaviour. He was convinced that there was something seriously wrong with the superintendent, a man renowned for his alertness and ability to keep fatigue at bay. Those qualities seemed to have vanished. On two separate occasions when Hinton had met him, Tallis had been in a kind of trance, wholly unaware of the presence of someone else. Hinton had had occasional daydreams himself – most of them featuring Lydia Quayle – but he’d snapped out of them instantly as soon as anyone came near him. The superintendent hadn’t done that. Even though Hinton was standing so close to him, Tallis hadn’t seen or heard him. He seemed to be in a state of paralysis. It was very disturbing. While he never had what might be characterised as affection for the superintendent, Hinton had the highest regard. If the man was ill, he should be helped.

  His problem lay in finding someone to take his concern seriously. When he’d confided in two of his colleagues, they simply laughed, assuring him that Tallis’s behaviour had always been peculiar and that Hinton should learn to ignore it. But he simply couldn’t allow himself to do that. Knowing the ordeal Tallis had been through at the hands of his captors, he felt profoundly sorry for him. There had to be someone to whom he could turn in what he believed was an emergency. He even toyed with the notion of reporting his disquiet to the commissioner but he soon rejected the idea, fearing that the comments by a lowly detective constable wouldn’t be taken seriously. What he needed was someone as sensitive to Tallis’s needs as he was, someone he could trust to offer sound advice. Only one person came to mind.

  ‘Why did you spend so little time at the morgue?’ asked Colbeck.

  Swarbrick bridled. ‘Don’t be so damned impertinent!’

  ‘We were told that you hardly looked at the body.’

  ‘Would you enjoy looking at your dead father if someone had put an ugly hole in his head?’

  ‘I might not enjoy it, Mr Swarbrick, but I’d certainly give him, or any other victim, more than a cursory glance. The nature of any injuries tells you something about the person who inflicted them. One shot was all it took to kill your father,’ said Colbeck. ‘In my time, I’ve had to examine murder victims with dozens of hideous wounds, not to mention missing limbs.’

  ‘I went, I paid my respects and I left. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘You were somewhat irreverent, sir.’

  ‘Each of us grieves in his own way, inspector.’

  ‘That’s true, I suppose,’ said Jellings.

  He and Colbeck were in the library, seated either side of Andrew Swarbrick. It was a room with generous proportions and well-stocked shelves. At the mahogany desk in the window, Colbeck surmised, the former MP had written speeches for delivery in Parliament or at board meetings of the Eastern Counties Railway. While the father had reputedly been an effective debater, the son had now shown that he could also give a good account of himself in any argument. Whatever questions they fired at him were swatted contemptuously away. It was time for Swarbrick to ask a question of his own.

  ‘When will the body be released?’

  ‘There will have to be an inquest first,’ said Jellings, quietly.

  ‘Why? Isn’t it glaringly obvious what happened?’

  ‘It’s important to follow the legalities, sir.’

  ‘I should have thought you’d be keen to attend the inquest,’ said Colbeck, ‘because it will provide detail about your father’s murder. In your position, I’d want to know everything I could.’

  ‘Yes,’ retorted Swarbrick, ‘but you’re not in my position, are you? My main interest now is in the funeral arrangements.’

  ‘They’ll be left to Mrs Swarbrick, surely?’

  ‘He was my father, not hers.’

  ‘Your stepmother may still have prior claim, sir,’ said Jellings. ‘You and your father haven’t spoken to each other for years.’

  Swarbrick laughed. ‘What on earth makes you think that?’

  ‘I thought the two of you were estranged.’

  ‘We never met under this roof, perhaps, but I did see Father from time to time. As a matter of fact, we dined at the House of Commons only last week. He was not the only member of the family with an interest in politics, you know.’

  ‘Was Mrs Swarbrick aware of these occasional meetings?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said the other, curling a lip. ‘It was no business of hers. Blood is thicker than water, inspector. The ties between a father and son can never be entirely broken.’


  ‘I accept that, sir.’

  Mark Jellings was much more respectful towards him. Since the Swarbrick family had held such power in the city, his approach to any member of it was always tentative. Policemen who overstepped the mark with someone like Andrew Swarbrick would be swiftly put back in their place. Colbeck had no need for such deferential behaviour. As a member of the Detective Department of the Metropolitan Police Force, he was beyond Swarbrick’s sphere of influence and thus able to ask more robust questions. He’d taken against Swarbrick on sight. The man was arrogant, pompous and – on the evidence of his brief visit to the morgue – almost indifferent to his father’s fate. He showed no sign of being in mourning.

  ‘Since you seem to have kept in touch with your father,’ said Colbeck, ‘you may be able to help us.’

  ‘Don’t bank on it,’ said Swarbrick.

  ‘During the times you spent together, did he ever tell you that he sensed danger?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. It would have been completely out of character for him to do so. My father was fearless, inspector. Nothing worried him.’

  ‘His death was no accident, sir. Someone wanted him killed. Do you have any idea at all who that person might be?’

  ‘You’re the detective. Get out there and find him.’

  It was time to go.

  Since her father rarely called at that time of the evening without a prior arrangement, Madeleine was surprised to see him. She was even more astonished when he told her his reason for returning to the house.

  ‘I wanted to apologise, Maddy.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have lost my temper this morning.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said with a smile of resignation, ‘I’m used to that.’

  ‘I spoilt it for you,’ he confessed. ‘When you were excited about that commission you were offered, I poured cold water on the idea.’

  ‘Actually, it was very hot water. Your comments scalded my ears.’

  ‘I feel terrible about it,’ he said, penitently. ‘Do you forgive me?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to forget all about it.’

  ‘Well, I was wrong. I spoke out of turn. It’s your decision to make and not mine. I’m still not happy about it but I can see that you should be allowed to paint whatever you choose and to ignore your cantankerous old father.’ She gave him a kiss of gratitude. ‘I don’t deserve that.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ she agreed.

  ‘Right,’ said Andrews, ‘I’m off now.’

  ‘There’s no need, Father.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to intrude. It’s just that I’ve been brooding on it all day. I wanted to get it off my chest.’

  ‘I’m glad that you did.’

  She took him into the hall and paused at the front door. His visit had pleased her and it had certainly cleared the air where her commission was concerned. He’d promised not to interfere and that was heartening.

  ‘I’ll make it up to you, Maddy,’ he promised. ‘When you arrange to see this gentleman, I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Lydia has already agreed to do that.’

  ‘She can come as well, if she likes, but I ought to be there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s my duty as a father to protect you. What if this Mr Fairbank is not the nice old man you think he is? You’ll need me.’

  ‘We’ll be meeting at the art dealer’s gallery, Father. I’m in no danger. There’ll be other people there as witnesses. Nothing unpleasant will happen.’

  He took umbrage immediately. ‘Are you saying that you don’t want me there?’ he asked. ‘Are you telling me that Lydia Quayle knows more about steam locomotives than I do?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Mr Fairbank obviously loves railways and so do I. We’re bound to get on very well together.’

  ‘But you won’t,’ she said, ‘and that’s the trouble. As soon as Mr Fairbank starts to sing the praises of GWR locomotives, it will be like waving a red rag at a bull.’

  He was enraged. ‘Oh, so I’m nothing but a bull now, am I?’

  ‘Calm down, Father.’

  ‘I didn’t come here to be insulted.’

  ‘I’m just being realistic. Given your passion for the LNWR, it’s safer to keep you apart from someone who believes the GWR is better.’

  ‘Nothing created by Brunel can ever be better!’

  ‘You see. You’re doing it again.’

  ‘I’m merely stating a fact, Maddy.’

  ‘And how do you think Mr Fairbank will react if you state that same fact in front of him? It could lose me my commission.’

  ‘I’ll never shrink from telling the truth.’

  ‘My decision is made,’ said Madeleine, firmly. ‘Kind as your offer is, I won’t be taking it up. I’m going to see someone who has taken an interest in my work. That means a great deal to me, Father. I will not have you – or anyone else – getting in the way.’

  ‘If that’s your attitude,’ he said, angrily, ‘I’m off.’

  Flinging open the door, he stormed off along the pavement.

  When they actually reached the cottage, most of Leeming’s objections to it promptly disappeared. It was the most enchanting accommodation they’d ever had during an investigation. Standing in its own garden, it offered complete privacy, exceptional comfort and some pleasant views. Its rooms were comfortable and there was a pervading air of wealth. The detectives had three bedrooms from which to choose one each. Cecil Freed was as good as his word. Once he’d shown them around, he left them alone. Having given them both a cordial welcome, his wife had also withdrawn. Their hosts were soon replaced by a maid who asked what meal they wished to have cooked. When they’d made their choices, she hurried off to the kitchen in the main house.

  ‘This place is amazing,’ said Leeming. ‘All it needs is a barrel of beer and it would be perfect.’

  ‘Wait until you get upstairs, Victor.’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘I took a quick look at the bedrooms while you were bringing in the luggage. On the pillow in each one of them is a tract on the blessings of temperance.’

  ‘It doesn’t have any.’

  ‘It does while we’re guests here, especially when we’re in Mrs Freed’s company.’ He lowered himself on to the sofa. ‘What did you learn at the police station?’

  ‘I found out where the best pub is,’ said Leeming, happily.

  ‘I was asking about their response to the murder.’

  ‘Oh, they’ve done all the right things, sir, but not fast enough for my liking. Their problem is lack of numbers. If Norwich wants a good police force, it should pay a lot more for it.’

  ‘Sergeant Burridge seemed an able man.’

  ‘He does his job well and the important thing is that he’s on our side. I’m not sure that I can say that about inspector Jellings.’

  ‘He’s still weighing us in the balance, Victor. His fear is that we’ll get all the credit. He desperately wants the murder solved but only if he’s instrumental in arresting the culprits.’

  ‘There’s not much chance of him doing that,’ said Leeming. ‘What did you make of Andrew Swarbrick?’

  ‘I think he should definitely be on our list of suspects.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He stands to gain so much from his father’s death,’ said Colbeck, ‘and I don’t just mean in financial terms. He hinted that he’d like to take over his father’s seat in the House of Commons.’

  ‘Is that a strong enough motive for murder?’

  ‘We’ll have to see. Swarbrick is something of an enigma. He walks out of the family home because of his father’s choice of a second wife, yet he continues to see him in secret.’

  ‘Did he say why he despises the second Mrs Swarbrick?’

  ‘According to Jellings, it was because the marriage took place too soon after the death of the first one. There was no decent interval.’

  ‘Who decides how long that should be?’

>   ‘There are unspoken rules, Victor.’

  ‘What else told you that Swarbrick needs to be watched?’

  ‘It was the speed with which he reacted to the news and the composure he showed when he got here. Any other son would be distraught. It was almost as if he’d been waiting for the telegraph that brought him home. Mrs Swarbrick was lucky to be sedated. If it had been left to him, he’d have had his stepmother leave at once.’

  ‘Does he have a right to do that, sir?’

  ‘He’s the kind of man who believes he has the right to do anything he chooses. His sense of entitlement is overwhelming.’

  ‘I hate people like that.’

  ‘Swarbrick is not an engaging man,’ said Colbeck, ‘but his bad manners don’t of themselves mean that he plotted the murder. He must be on our list but not necessarily at the top.’

  ‘Who is above him?’

  ‘I fancy that it may be Mr Trant. From the very start my instinct was that this crime is rooted in the railway. Trant used to be an active member of the board of the ECR. Getting kicked unceremoniously off it would have hurt him deeply. Mistakenly,’ Colbeck went on, ‘he blamed Swarbrick for getting him ousted. By arranging to have him killed, he’d achieve two ends: he’d satisfy his lust for revenge and create a vacancy on the board which, I predict, he’s determined to fill.’

  ‘So our choice is between Andrew Swarbrick and Trant, is it?’

  ‘They’d need help from men like Constable Pryor, for instance.’

  ‘Sergeant Burridge warned me about him.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He said that Pryor was sly, lazy and not very intelligent.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Pryor is always short of money. He’d do anything to get it. And there’s something else to consider, sir.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, since he’s supposed to be dim-witted, how did he work out how the points were switched? He told me that it must have been when a goods train went through and acted as a screen. There’s no platform on the other side,’ said Leeming, ‘so the person who switched the points was blocked from view. Pryor could only have come up with that explanation if he knew it in advance. He’s too stupid to work it out for himself.’