The Railway Detective irc-1

by Edward Marston

  ‘Where shall we go, Billy?’ she asked.

  ‘Wherever you wish,’ he replied.

  ‘We can eat well but cheaply at Flanagan’s.’

  ‘Then we’ll go elsewhere. That place is not good enough for you.’

  She giggled. ‘You say the nicest things.’

  ‘You deserve the best, Kate. Let me take you somewhere special.’

  ‘You’re so kind to me.’

  ‘No, my love,’ he said, slipping his arms around her, ‘it’s you who are kind to me.’ He kissed her once more. ‘I adore you.’

  ‘But you’ve known me less than twenty-four hours, Billy.’

  ‘That’s long enough. Now, where can we dine together?’

  ‘There’s a new place in Victoria Street,’ she told him, ‘but they say that it’s very expensive.’

  He thrust his hand deep into his leather bag and brought out a fistful of bank notes. Ings held them proudly beneath her nose, as if offering them in tribute.

  ‘Do you think that this would buy us a good meal?’

  ‘Billy!’ she cried with delight. ‘Where did you get all that money?’

  ‘I’ve been saving it up until I met you,’ he said.

  Madeleine Andrews was touched when Colbeck insisted on escorting her to the front door of the building. Light was beginning to fade and there was a gentle breeze. She turned to look up at him.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. You are very kind.’

  ‘It must have taken an effort for you to come here.’

  ‘It did,’ she said. ‘The worst of it was that I felt like a criminal.’

  ‘You’ve done nothing wrong, Miss Andrews.’

  ‘I shared my father’s guilt.’

  ‘All that he was guilty of was thoughtless indiscretion,’ he said, ‘and I’m sure that nobody could ever accuse you of that.’ Her gaze was quizzical. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I did not mean to stare like that.’

  ‘You seem to be puzzled by something.’

  ‘I suppose that I am.’

  ‘Let me see if I can guess what it is, Miss Andrews,’ he said with a warm smile. ‘The question in your eyes is the one that I’ve asked myself from time to time. What is a man like me doing in this job?’

  ‘You are so different to any policemen that I have ever met.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘They are much more like the man who showed me to your office.’

  ‘That was Sergeant Leeming,’ he explained. ‘I’m afraid that Victor is not blessed with the most handsome face in London, though his wife loves him dearly nevertheless.’

  ‘It was his manner, Inspector.’

  ‘Polite but rough-edged. I know what you mean. Victor spent years, pounding his beat in uniform. It leaves its mark on a man. My time in uniform was considerably shorter. However,’ he went on, looking up Whitehall, ‘you did not come here to be bored by my life story. Let me help you find a cab.’

  ‘I had planned to walk some of the way, Inspector.’

  ‘I’d advise against it, Miss Andrews. It is not always safe for an attractive woman to stroll unaccompanied at this time of day.’

  ‘I am well able to look after myself.’

  ‘It will be dark before long.’

  ‘I am not afraid of the dark.’

  ‘Why take any risks?’

  Seeing a cab approach in the distance, he raised a hand.

  ‘There is no risk involved,’ she said with a show of spirit. ‘Please do not stop the cab on my account. If I wished to take it, I am quite capable of hailing it myself.’

  He lowered his hand. ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘You must not worry about me. I am much stronger than I may appear. After all, I did come here on foot.’

  He was taken aback. ‘You walked from Camden Town?’

  ‘It was good exercise,’ she replied. ‘Goodbye, Inspector Colbeck.’

  ‘Goodbye, Miss Andrews. It was a pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I will see you again tomorrow,’ he said, relishing the thought. ‘I hope that you’ll forgive me if I arrive by Hansom cab.’

  She gave him a faint smile before walking off up Whitehall. Colbeck stood for a moment to watch her then he went back into the building. As soon as the detective had disappeared, a figure stepped out from the doorway in which he had been hiding. He was a dark-eyed young man of medium height in an ill-fitting brown suit. Pulling his cap down, he set off in pursuit of Madeleine Andrews.

  By the time he got back to The Black Dog, the fight had already started. Several people were involved and they had reached the stage of hurling chairs at each other or defending themselves with a broken bottle. Brendan Mulryne did not hesitate. Hurling himself into the middle of the fray, he banged heads together, kicked one man in the groin and felled a second with an uppercut. But even he could not stop the brawl. When it spilt out into the street, he was carried along with it, flailing away with both fists and inflicting indiscriminate punishment.

  Mulryne did not go unscathed. He took some heavy blows himself and the brick that was thrown at him opened a gash above his eye. Blood streamed down his face. It only served to enrage him and to make him more determined to flatten every man within reach. Roaring with anger, he punched, kicked, grappled, gouged and even sank his teeth into a forearm that was wrapped unwisely across his face. Well over a dozen people had been involved in the fracas but, apart from the Irishman, only three were left standing.

  As he bore down on them, they took to their heels and Mulryne went after the trio, resolved to teach them to stay away from The Black Dog in future. One of them tripped and fell headlong. Mulryne was on him at once, heaving him to his feet and slamming him against a wall until he heard bones crack. The next moment, a length of iron pipe struck the back of Mulryne’s head and sent him to his knees. The two friends of the man who had fallen had come back to rescue him. Hurt by the blow, the Irishman had the presence of mind to roll over quickly so that he dodged a second murderous swipe.

  He was on his feet in an instant, grabbing the pipe and wresting it from the man holding it. Mulryne used it to club him to the ground. When the second man started to belabour him, he tossed the pipe away, lifted his assailant up and hurled him through a window. Yells of protest came from the occupants of the house. Dazed by the blow to his head and exhausted by the fight, Mulryne swayed unsteadily on his feet, both hands to his wounds to stem the bleeding. He did not even hear the sound of the police whistles.

  Robert Colbeck sat in his office and reviewed the evidence with Victor Leeming. While no arrests had yet been made, they felt that they had a clear picture of how the robbery had taken place, and what help had been given to the gang responsible by employees in the Post Office and the lock industry. The Sergeant still believed that someone from the Royal Mint was implicated as well. Colbeck told him about the interview with Madeleine Andrews and how he had been able to still her fears.

  ‘The young lady was well-dressed for a railwayman’s daughter.’

  ‘Did you think that she’d be wearing rags and walking barefoot?’

  ‘She looked so neat and tidy, sir.’

  ‘Engine drivers are the best-paid men on the railway,’ said Colbeck, ‘and quite rightly. They have to be able to read, write and understand the mechanism of the locomotive. That’s why so many of them begin as fitters before becoming firemen. Caleb Andrews earns enough to bring up his daughter properly.’

  ‘I could tell from her voice that she’d had schooling.’

  ‘I think that she’s an intelligent woman.’

  ‘And a very fetching one,’ said Leeming with a grin.

  ‘She thought that you were a typical policeman, Victor.’

  ‘Is that good or bad, sir?’

  Colbeck was tactful. ‘You’ll have to ask the young lady herself.’ There was a tap on the door. ‘Come in!’ he said.

  The door opened and a policeman entered in uniform.<
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  ‘I was asked to give this to you, Inspector Colbeck,’ he said, handing over the envelope that he was carrying.

  ‘I’m told that it’s quite urgent. I’m to wait for a reply.’

  ‘Very well.’ Colbeck opened the envelope and read the note inside. He scrunched up the paper in his hand. ‘There’s no reply,’ he said. ‘I’ll come with you myself.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Bad news, Inspector?’ wondered Leeming.

  ‘No, Victor,’ said Colbeck, smoothly. ‘A slight problem has arisen, that’s all. It will not take me long to sort it out. Excuse me.’

  The only time that Brendan Mulryne had seen the inside of a police cell was when he had thrown the people he had arrested into one. It was different being on the other side of the law. When the door had slammed shut upon him, he was locked in a small, bare, cheerless room that was no more than a brick rectangle. The tiny window, high in the back wall, was simply a ventilation slit with thick iron bars in it. The place reeked of stale vomit and urine.

  The bed was a hard wooden bench with no mattress or blankets. Sitting on the edge of it, Mulryne wished that his head would stop aching. His wounds had been tended, and the blood wiped from his face, but it was obvious that he had been in a fight. His craggy face was covered with cuts and abrasions, his knuckles were raw. His black eye and split lip would both take time to heal. It had been a savage brawl yet he was not sorry to have been in it. His only regret was that he had been arrested as a result. It meant that he would lose money and leave The Black Dog unguarded for some time.

  When a key scraped in the lock, he hoped that someone was bringing him a cup of tea to revive him. But it was not the custody sergeant who stepped into the cell. Instead, Inspector Robert Colbeck came in and looked down at the offender with more disappointment than sympathy. His voice was uncharacteristically harsh.

  ‘Why ever did you get yourself locked up in here, Brendan?’

  ‘It was a mistake,’ argued Mulryne.

  ‘Police records do not lie,’ said Colbeck. ‘According to the book, you have been charged with taking part in an affray, causing criminal damage, inflicting grievous bodily harm and – shocking for someone who used to wear a police uniform – resisting arrest.’

  ‘Do you think that I wanted to be shut away here?’

  ‘Why make things worse for yourself?’

  ‘Because I was goaded,’ said Mulryne. ‘Two of the bobbies that tried to put cuffs on me recognised who I was and had a laugh at my expense. They thought it was great fun to arrest an old colleague of theirs. I’ll not stand for mockery, Mr Colbeck.’

  ‘Look at the state of you, man. Your shirt is stained with blood.’

  Mulryne grinned. ‘Don’t worry. Most of it is not mine.’

  ‘I do worry,’ said Colbeck, sharply. ‘I asked for help and you promised to give it. How can you do that when you’re stuck in here?’

  ‘The man to blame is the one who started the fight.’

  ‘You should have kept out of it.’

  ‘Sure, isn’t keeping the peace what I’m paid to do?’ asked Mulryne, earnestly. ‘I’m a sort of policeman at The Black Dog, excepting that I don’t wear a uniform. All I did was to try to calm things down.’

  ‘With your fists.’

  ‘They were not in the mood to listen to a sermon.’

  Colbeck heaved a sigh. ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘Is there anything you can do for me?’ said Mulryne, hopefully. ‘Ask at The Black Dog. They’ll tell that I didn’t start the affray. I just got caught up in it. As for criminal damage, the person at fault is the one who dived head first through that window. On my word of honour, I did my best to stop him.’

  ‘I know you too well, Brendan. I’ve seen you fight.’

  ‘Well, at least get them to drop the charge of grievous bodily harm. Jesus! You should feel the lump on the back of my head. It’s the size of an egg, so it is. I was the victim of grievous bodily harm.’ He got up from the bed. ‘Please, Mr Colbeck. I’m a wronged man.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘I’m such a peaceable fellow by nature.’

  ‘Tell that to the policeman whose teeth you knocked out.’

  ‘I did apologise to him afterwards.’

  ‘What use is that?’ demanded Colbeck. ‘And what use are you to me while you’re cooling your heels in here?’

  ‘None at all, I admit. That’s why you must get me out.’

  ‘So that you can create more havoc?’

  ‘No, Mr Colbeck,’ said Mulryne, ‘so that I can find out where Billy Ings is hiding. He’s within my grasp, I know it. I did as you told me. I spoke to Isadore Vout, the bloodsucker who loaned him money when he lost at the card table.’

  ‘Did he know where Ings could be found?’

  ‘With a doxy named Polly Roach who lives in Hangman’s Lane.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I paid her a call. When I asked her about Billy Ings, she spat out his name like it was a dog turd. They had a disagreement, you see, and he walked out on her. I fancy that he knocked her about before he went. He told Polly that he’d won a lot of money playing cards but she knows better now. It made her livid.’

  ‘I’m the one who is livid,’ asserted Colbeck. ‘You let me down.’

  ‘I could never walk away from a fight.’ He took his visitor by the arms. ‘Help me, please. If you don’t get me released, it will be too late.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Polly Roach has gone looking for Ings as well,’ said Mulryne, ‘and it’s not to give him her best wishes. There’s only one thing on her mind.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Revenge.’

  The Devil’s Acre was a comparatively small district but it was teeming with inhabitants, packed into its houses and tenements until their walls were about to burst. Tracking someone down in its labyrinthine interior was not a simple task, even for someone like Polly Roach who had lived there since birth. It had such a shifting population. She first tried the various gambling dens where William Ings was known but he had not been seen at any of them that day. Polly reasoned that he must have found himself a bed for the night and that meant he paid someone to share it with him.

  There was no shortage of prostitutes in the Acre. Clients could pick anyone from young girls to old women. Polly Roach knew from personal experience the sordid acts that they were called upon to perform. It was what set William Ings apart from all the other men who had paid for her services. He had made no demands on her. He came in search of a friend rather than a nameless whore who would simply satisfy his urges and send him on his way. Ings wanted a confidante, a source of sympathy, someone who would listen patiently to his bitter complaints about his private life and offer him succour.

  Polly Roach felt that she had done just that. Over a period of several months, she had soothed his wounded pride. She had lost count of the number of times he talked about his unhappy marriage, his problems at work and his disputes with his neighbours. Until he met her, his life had had no joy or purpose. Polly had given him direction. Seeing how she could benefit herself, she had flattered him, advised him, supported him, even pretended that she loved him. If he had come into some money, she had earned her share of it and was determined to get it. William Ings was going to pay for all the time she had devoted to him.

  Hours of searching for him eventually paid off. After questioning almost anybody she encountered, Polly met an old acquaintance who recognised the description of William Ings and said that he had seen him in the company of Kate Piercey. He was even able to give her an address. Incensed that she had been replaced by a younger woman, Polly fingered the knife under her skirt and went off to confront the man who had cast her aside so unfairly.

  When she reached the tenement, she hastened up the stairs to the attic room and saw the light under the door. It was no time for social niceties. She kicked the timber hard.

  ‘Come out of there, Billy!’ she shouted.

/>   To her surprise, the door swung back on its hinges to reveal the hazy outline of a small, dirty, cluttered room with bare rafters. What hit her nostrils was a smell of damp mixed with the aroma of cheap perfume, a kind that she herself had used in the past. There was an oil lamp in the corner but it had been turned down so that it gave only the faintest glow. Polly turned up the flame in order to see more clearly. A hideous sight was suddenly conjured out of the dark. When she realised that she was not alone in the room, she let out a cry of horror. On a bed in the corner, lying side by side as if they were asleep, were William Ings and Kate Piercey. Their throats had been cut.

  Polly began to retch and her first instinct was to run from the scene. Self-interest then slowly got the better of fear. Though Ings was dead, she might still get what she wanted. She breathed in deeply as she tried to compose herself. Averting her gaze from the bed, she used the lamp to illumine the corners of the room as she looked for Ings’s leather bag so that she could take the money that she felt was hers. But she was too late. His belongings were scattered all over the floor and the bag was empty. In desperation, she grabbed his jacket and felt in the inside pocket but his wallet was no longer there. Not a penny of his money was left. Whoever had murdered them, had known exactly where to look. She gazed ruefully at William Ings. Her hopes of escape had bled to death. Polly Roach was condemned to stay in the Devil’s Acre forever.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When word of the crime reached him, Inspector Robert Colbeck took an immediate interest. Murder was not a rare phenomenon in the Devil’s Acre and, ordinarily, he would have been content to let someone else lead the investigation. But the fact that one of the victims was a middle-aged man alerted him and he persuaded Superintendent Tallis to let him look into the case. After collecting Victor Leeming, he left Scotland Yard and took a cab to the scene of the crime.

  Policemen were already on duty, guarding the room where the victims lay and questioning other occupants of the building. There was no sign of Polly Roach. Additional lamps had been brought in so that the attic room was ablaze with light. When the detectives entered, the grisly scene was all too visible. In spite of the number of times he had seen murder victims, Leeming was inclined to be squeamish but Colbeck had no qualms about examining the dead bodies at close range. Both were partly clothed, their garments spattered with blood. The sheets and pillows were also speckled.