The Railway Detective irc-1

by Edward Marston

  ‘It’s not one that appeals to me,’ said McTurk, tapping his chest. ‘I’m proud to wear a uniform. It shows who I am and what I stand for.’

  ‘But it also warns any criminals that you represent danger.’

  ‘And what do you represent, Inspector Colbeck?’

  ‘The veiled sarcasm in your voice suggests that you’ve already supplied your own answer to that question,’ said Colbeck, tolerantly, ‘so I’ll not confuse you by giving you my reply. I simply came to thank you for your help and to tell you that we’ll be leaving for London soon.’ He could not resist a smile. ‘On what, I believe, you call an up train.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘They’re free to leave, Inspector – with the exception of the patient, that is. The stationmaster has very kindly offered a bed in his house to Mr Andrews, who seems to have made a slight improvement.’

  ‘That’s cheering news,’ said Leeming.

  ‘Yes,’ added McTurk. ‘The station can get back to normal.’

  ‘Normality will not be completely restored,’ said Colbeck, ‘until this crime has been solved and the villains are securely behind bars. Sergeant Leeming and I have done all that we can here. We move on to the next stage of the investigation.’

  ‘May one ask where that might be?’

  ‘Of course, Inspector. We’re going to pay a visit to the Post Office.’ He hovered in the doorway. ‘Now, please excuse me while I speak to Fireman Pike. He insists on staying with the driver even though there’s nothing that he can do.’ He waved to McTurk. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘And good riddance!’ muttered the other as Colbeck went out. He turned on Leeming. ‘A Detective-Inspector, is he? And how did he get that title?’

  ‘Strictly on merit,’ said the other.

  ‘The merit of knowing the right people?’

  ‘Not at all. He achieved his promotion by dint of hard work and exceptional talent. Inspector Colbeck is highly educated.’

  ‘I knew that there was something wrong with him.’

  ‘Don’t you believe in education, Inspector McTurk?’

  ‘Only in small doses,’ retorted the other. ‘Otherwise, it can get in your way. Book-learning is useless in this job. All that a good policeman really needs is a sharp eye and a good nose.’

  ‘Is that what you have?’ asked Leeming.

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Then they let you down, Inspector. Your sharp eye didn’t help you to spot that playing card in the mail coach, and your good nose failed to pick up the smell of deception when you questioned the two policemen who travelled on the train.’

  ‘That’s immaterial.’

  ‘Not to me. I put my trust in Inspector Colbeck’s education.’

  ‘You’d never get me working for that fop,’ sneered McTurk.

  ‘I can see that you don’t know him very well,’ said Leeming with a short laugh. ‘He’s no fop, I can assure you of that. But you’re quite safe from him. He’d never even consider employing you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you are what you are, Inspector McTurk. Criminals can see you coming a mile away. Let’s be frank about it, shall we? Even if you were stark naked, everyone would know that you were a policeman.’

  Herbert Shipperley was a short, thin, harassed man in his fifties with a bald head that was dotted with freckles and a face that was a mass of wrinkles. His responsibilities at the Post Office included supervision of the mail coaches that were run on various lines. News of the train robbery had struck him with the force of a blow and he was quick to see all the implications. Shipperley knew that he would be in the line of fire. Even though it was quite late, he was still in his office when the detectives called on him and introduced themselves. He backed away as if they had come to arrest him.

  ‘We just wish to ask you a few questions,’ explained Colbeck.

  ‘I’ve been bombarded with questions ever since people caught wind of the robbery,’ moaned Shipperley. ‘It’s only a matter of time before I have newspaper reporters banging on my door. They’ll blame me as well, whereas it’s the railway company that’s really at fault.’

  ‘We’re not here to apportion blame, Mr Shipperley. We merely wish to establish certain facts. Sergeant Leeming and I have just returned from the scene of the crime.’

  ‘What did you learn?’

  ‘Enough to see that we have a difficult case on our hands.’

  ‘But you will recover everything, won’t you?’ bleated Shipperley. ‘I need to be able to reassure the Royal Mint and the bank – not to mention my own superiors. The loss of that mail is a tragedy,’ he cried. ‘It threatens the integrity of our service. Imagine how people will feel when they discover that their correspondence has gone astray. Help me, Inspector Colbeck,’ he implored. ‘Give me your word. You do expect to catch the robbers, don’t you?’

  ‘We hope so.’

  ‘I need more than hope to revive me.’

  ‘It’s all that I can offer at the moment.’

  ‘You might try a glass of whisky,’ advised Leeming. ‘It will calm your nerves. We’re not miracle-workers, I fear. We’ll do our best but we can give you no firm promises.’

  Shipperley sagged visibly. ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘We’re dealing with a premeditated crime,’ said Colbeck. ‘It was conceived and planned with great care and couldn’t possibly have been committed in the way that it was without the direct assistance of insiders.’

  ‘You’re surely not accusing me?’ gasped the other, clutching at his throat. ‘I’ve worked for the Post Office all my life, Inspector. My reputation is spotless.’

  ‘I’m sure that it is, Mr Shipperley, and I can say now that you’re not under any suspicion.’ He signalled to Leeming, who took out his notepad and pencil. ‘We simply want a few details from you, please.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The procedure for carrying money on the mail train.’

  ‘We go to great lengths to maintain secrecy.’

  ‘Word obviously got out on this occasion,’ said Colbeck. ‘We need to know how. Perhaps you can tell me how often you liaise with the Royal Mint or with the Bank of England to carry money on their behalf on the mail train. We’d also like to hear how many of your employees know the exact dates of each transfer.’

  ‘Very few, Inspector.’

  ‘Let’s start with the frequency of such deliveries, shall we?’

  Herbert Shipperley took a deep breath and launched into what turned out to be a prolonged lecture on how the mail trains operated, giving far more detail than was actually required. Colbeck did not interrupt him. In talking about his work, the man gradually relaxed and some of his facial corrugations began to disappear. The longer he went on, the more enthusiastic he got, as if initiating some new recruits into the mysteries of the Post Office. It was only when he had finished that his eyes regained their hunted look and the anxious furrows returned.

  ‘As you see, gentlemen,’ he said, stroking his pate with a sweaty palm, ‘our system is virtually foolproof.’

  ‘Until today,’ commented Leeming.

  ‘The Post Office was not in error.’

  ‘That remains to be seen.’

  ‘The information must have been leaked by the Royal Mint.’

  ‘Let’s consider the names that you’ve given us, Mr Shipperley,’ said Colbeck, thoughtfully. ‘Apart from yourself, only three other people here had foreknowledge of the transfer of money by means of mail train.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector, and I can vouch for all of them.’

  ‘But even they – if I understood you right – wouldn’t necessarily be able to say what was being carried on any particular day.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Shipperley. ‘It’s an extra safeguard. Only I would know for certain if the consignment were coming from the Royal Mint or the Bank of England. Coin, bank notes and gold bullion are sent to assorted destinations around the country. Some gold is periodically exported to France from one
of the Channel ports.’

  ‘Of the three names you gave us,’ said Leeming, glancing at his notebook, ‘which employee would you trust least – Mr Dyer, Mr Ings or Mr Finlayson?’

  ‘I have equal faith in all of them,’ said the other, loyally.

  ‘Then let me put the question a different way,’ suggested Colbeck, taking over. ‘Which of the three has the lowest wage?’

  ‘I don’t see that that has any relevance, Inspector.’

  ‘It could do.’

  ‘Then the answer is William Ings. He’s the most junior of the three in terms of position. However,’ Shipperley went on, ‘there’s not a blemish on his character. Mr Ings has always been strongly committed to the Post Office. He’s been with us longer than either Mr Dyer or Mr Finlayson.’

  ‘We’ll need to speak to all three of them.’

  ‘Is that necessary, Inspector?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Colbeck. ‘What time will they arrive for work tomorrow morning?’ The other man looked uncomfortable. Colbeck took a step closer. ‘Is there a problem, Mr Shipperley?’

  ‘Yes,’ he confessed. ‘Mr Dyer and Mr Finlayson will definitely be here but I can’t guarantee that Mr Ings will turn up.’

  ‘Oh? Why is that, pray?’

  ‘He’s been sick all week and unable to work.’

  Leeming put a tick against one of the names in his notebook.

  When she heard the knock on the front door, Maud Ings rushed to open it, first drawing back the heavy bolts. Her expectation changed instantly to disappointment when she saw, by the light of her lamp, that the caller was a complete stranger. Inspector Robert Colbeck touched the brim of his hat politely then explained who he was. Mrs Ings was alarmed to hear of his occupation.

  ‘Has something happened to William?’ she asked.

  ‘Not that I know of, Mrs Ings.’

  ‘That’s a relief!’

  ‘My understanding was that your husband was at home.’

  She shifted her feet uneasily. ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

  ‘His employer told me that he was ill.’

  ‘Why?’ she said in surprise. ‘Has he not been to work?’

  ‘I wonder if I might come in,’ said Colbeck, quietly.

  The house was at the end of a terrace not far from Euston Station. It was small and neat with a presentable exterior. Once inside, however, Colbeck saw signs of sustained neglect. Wallpaper was starting to peel on some walls and the paint work was in a poor condition. There was a distinct smell of damp. The room into which he was conducted had no more than a few sticks of furniture in it and a threadbare carpet. There was an air of neglect about Maud Ings as well. She was a slim, shapeless woman in her late thirties with a haggard face and unkempt hair. He could see from the red-rimmed eyes that she had been crying. A moist handkerchief protruded from the sleeve of her dress.

  Embarrassed by her appearance, she took off her apron then adjusted her hair with a hand. She gave him an apologetic smile.

  ‘Excuse me, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I was not expecting company.’

  ‘But you were expecting someone, Mrs Ings. I could tell that by the alacrity with which you opened the door. Did you think that I might be your husband?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does he not have a key to his own front door?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then why did you bolt it against him?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Perhaps you should sit down,’ he suggested, seeing her distress. ‘I’m sorry that I called at such an inopportune hour but I had no choice. It’s imperative that I speak to Mr Ings.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, sitting down.

  ‘It’s a matter that relates to his work at the Post Office.’

  ‘Is he in trouble, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘What has he done?’

  ‘Well,’ he replied, taking the chair opposite her, ‘Mr Ings failed to report for work this week. He sent word to say that he was sick.’

  ‘But there’s nothing wrong with him.’

  ‘So why did he lie to his employers?’

  Maud Ings bit her lip. ‘William has never let them down before,’ she said with vestigial affection for her husband. ‘He works long hours at the Post Office. They don’t appreciate what he does.’ She gave a shrug. ‘It may be that he is unwell. That’s the only thing that would keep him away. The truth is that I haven’t seen him this week.’

  ‘And why is that, Mrs Ings?’

  ‘My husband is…staying elsewhere.’

  ‘Do you have an address for him?’

  ‘No,’ she said, bitterly, ‘and I don’t really want it.’

  Colbeck took a swift inventory of the room then looked at her more closely. Maud Ings was evidently a woman who was at the end of her tether. Apparently abandoned by her husband, she was still hoping that he might come back to her even though he had caused her obvious suffering. The remains of her youthful prettiness were all but obscured now. Colbeck treated her with great sympathy.

  ‘I regret that I have to ask you about your private life,’ he said, ‘but it’s germane to my investigation. Mrs Ings, it’s not difficult to see that you and your husband were short of money.’

  ‘I did my best,’ she said, defensively. ‘I always managed on what he gave me, however little it was.’

  ‘Yet Mr Ings earned a reasonable wage at the Post Office.’

  ‘Earned it and threw it away, Inspector.’

  ‘Was he a drinking man?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, as another flicker of affection showed, ‘William was no drunkard. I can clear him of that charge. He was a good man at heart – kind and considerate.’ Her voice darkened. ‘At least, he was for a time. That was before he caught the disease.’

  ‘What disease?’

  ‘Gambling. It ruined our marriage, Inspector.’

  ‘I take it that he was not a successful gambler.’

  ‘Only now and then,’ she said, wistfully. ‘That was the trouble, sir. William had a run of luck at the start and he thought that it would last. He bought me a new coat with his winnings and some lovely furniture.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Then his luck changed. We had to sell the furniture last month.’

  ‘Yet he still went on gambling?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector.’

  ‘Do you know where he went to play cards?’

  ‘I do now,’ she said, vengefully. ‘I got it out of him in the end. I mean, I had a right to know. I’m his wife, Inspector. Sometimes, he’d be away all night at this place. I had a right to be told where it was.’

  ‘And where was it, Mrs Ings?’

  ‘Devil’s Acre.’

  ‘I see.’

  Colbeck knew the area only too well. It was a favoured haunt of the criminal fraternity and notorious for its brothels and gambling dens. If her husband were a regular visitor to Devil’s Acre, then Maud Ings had been right to describe his addiction as a disease. No decent or sensible man would even dare to venture into such a hazardous district. Colbeck was seeing an aspect of William Ings that had been carefully hidden from his employer. Herbert Shipperley might believe that Ings had an unblemished character but the man consorted regularly with criminals around a card table.

  Colbeck was certain that he had picked up a scent at last.

  ‘Is that where your husband is now?’ he asked. ‘Playing cards?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Can you be a little more precise, Mrs Ings?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘He wouldn’t tell me exactly where he went in case I tried to follow him there. And I would have, Inspector,’ she went on with an edge of desperation. ‘William left us with no money.’

  ‘He left you with a roof over your head.’

  ‘That’s true, Inspector. I’ve still got a home for myself and the children. It’s one consolation. And he did promise that he’d send me something when the money came through.’

  ‘Fro
m his wages, you mean?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think it would be from his winnings at a card table,’ she said, ‘because he always seemed to lose.’ She peered at Colbeck. ‘Why are you so interested in my husband? I still don’t understand why you came here looking for him.’

  ‘Earlier today,’ he explained, ‘there was a train robbery.’

  ‘He’d never get involved in anything like that,’ she protested.

  ‘Not directly, perhaps, but the mail train that was ambushed was carrying a consignment of money. Mr Ings was one of the few men who knew that the money would be in transit today.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he betrayed the secret.’

  ‘No,’ he conceded, ‘and it may well be that your husband is completely innocent. What I need to do is to establish that innocence as soon as is possible so that we can eliminate him from our inquiries. Now,’ he said, softly, ‘I realise that this is a difficult time for you but I must press you on the matter of his whereabouts.’

  ‘I told you, Inspector. I don’t know where he is.’

  ‘You must have some idea, Mrs Ings.’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘When did he leave?’

  ‘Last weekend.’

  ‘Did he offer you no explanation?’

  ‘William simply packed a bag and walked out of the house.’

  ‘He must have had somewhere to go to,’ insisted Colbeck, watching her carefully. ‘Somewhere – or someone.’

  Her cheeks reddened. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Inspector.’

  ‘I think that you do.’

  ‘William is not that sort of man.’

  ‘Your husband is a trusted employee at the Post Office,’ he told her, calmly, ‘a man with access to important information. On the eve of a serious crime that may be linked to his place of work, Mr Ings not only pleads illness and stays away, he leaves his wife and children to fend for themselves while he goes elsewhere.’ He fixed her with a piercing stare. ‘I think that we have rather more than a curious coincidence here, Mrs Ings. Don’t you?’