A Christmas Railway Mystery

by Edward Marston

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘He goaded you to the point where you lost your temper.’

  ‘Don’t keep on about it,’ said Samway, bunching his fists.

  ‘Mr Rodman knew what would hurt you most, didn’t he? I think that he exploited your weak point,’ said Leeming, ‘and we both know what that is. He taunted you about the loss of your wife, didn’t he?’

  ‘Be quiet!’ yelled Samway, throwing a punch.

  Leeming stepped back quickly to avoid it, then he grabbed the man by the shoulders and pinned him against the wall. When Samway tried to escape, he found himself too securely held. At length, his rage began to cool. When Leeming felt it was safe to do so, he let go of him.

  ‘I could arrest you for that, Mr Samway.’

  ‘It was your fault.’

  ‘If I reported it, you could lose your job.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it,’ pleaded Samway. ‘You just kept on and on at me.’

  ‘Perhaps I did,’ said Leeming. ‘But I still want to hear the truth. Please don’t attack me again or you’ll leave this office in handcuffs. Is that clear?’

  Samway nodded sulkily. ‘Yes …’

  ‘All I want is a simple answer. He taunted you about your wife, didn’t he?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘Then what was the fight about?’

  The words dripped slowly out. ‘It was about Betty Rodman.’

  Betty Rodman sat beside the crib and looked sadly down at her sleeping daughter, wondering what sort of future the child would have now. Held back from school once more, her two bemused sons were being looked after by their neighbour, Mabel Hankin. All they’d been told was that their father had gone away. Betty’s only adult companion was Liza Alford, as kind and supportive as ever. She’d carried the crib downstairs so that Betty could have the baby beside her. Tired and listless, Betty sipped the tea that her friend had made for her.

  ‘I could never thank you enough, Liza.’

  ‘You’d do the same for me.’

  ‘You and Fred have been saintly.’

  ‘It was his idea that I should spend the night here with you. We didn’t want you to be alone.’

  ‘I had the children,’ said Betty.

  ‘You needed help and so I came. I slept quite well in that chair.’

  ‘I didn’t get a wink of sleep.’

  ‘That’s a pity. You need it.’

  ‘I keep thinking about Frank.’

  As they drank their tea, there was a long, companionable silence. No words were spoken or required. The restful interlude was soon interrupted by a knock on the door. It startled both of them.

  ‘I don’t want to see anybody,’ said Betty, shrinking back.

  ‘Let me see who it is first.’ Liza peered out of the window. ‘It’s the vicar.’

  ‘Oh … well, that’s different.’

  ‘Shall I let him in?’

  In response to a nod from Betty, she opened the front door and invited Howard Law to step in. There was a brief exchange of greetings then he handed Betty a gift. In the small basket was a clutch of eggs.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but I couldn’t eat a thing.’

  ‘You must keep your strength up,’ he argued. ‘The children depend on you.’

  ‘Is there any news?’ asked Liza.

  ‘None that I know of, Mrs Alford, but I had the pleasure of a long talk with Inspector Colbeck yesterday. He’s an extraordinary man and I have full confidence in him to find out who was responsible for this hideous crime.’

  ‘Did you speak to Mr Stinson?’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said Law, guardedly.

  ‘Did he say how long Betty could stay here?’

  ‘He couldn’t give me an exact date but I’m hoping it may be weeks.’

  ‘And then what?’ asked Betty. ‘What’s to become of us?’

  ‘You’ll move into the parsonage.’

  ‘We can’t stay there for ever.’

  ‘We’ll find somewhere for you all.’

  ‘I want to stay in the village.’

  ‘I’d have thought you’d prefer to go well away from here. It will have unfortunate associations for you.’

  ‘My friends are here,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to lose touch with people like Liza and Fred. They’re part of the family.’

  ‘And we always will be,’ affirmed Liza.

  ‘Let’s cross those bridges when we come to them,’ advised Law. ‘There are some practical problems to solve first. The inspector told me that there’d be a post-mortem and that the body wouldn’t be released until after the inquest. However sensitive a subject it may be, we do have to discuss the funeral.’

  Betty took a deep breath. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘If you find it too upsetting, you can always break off.’

  The vicar had been in charge of a large number of funerals at St Mark’s and he’d learnt that it was impossible to predict the behaviour of surviving spouses. He’d seen strong men reduced to tears by the loss of their wives and apparently frail women showing unexpected courage in coping with the death of a husband. In one sense, Betty Rodman was under greater pressure than the others. The beloved spouses of others had all died of natural causes. Her husband had been murdered.

  ‘We have to decide on the order of service,’ he explained.

  ‘I’ll leave that to you, Vicar.’

  ‘Don’t you want to choose the hymns?’

  ‘I’d like to have Frank’s favourites.’

  ‘Are they entirely suitable for a funeral?’

  ‘Does that matter?’ asked Liza. ‘You just asked Betty to choose the hymns. She can have what she wants, can’t she?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ replied Law, making an attempt to sound obliging while keen to exert some control. ‘Frank’s favourite was that lovely hymn written by Cecil Francis Alexander – “There is a Green Hill Far Away”. It’s an essentially Easter hymn and might seem rather incongruous so close to Christmas.’

  ‘We’re having no Christmas this year,’ said Betty, faintly.

  ‘Yes, you are,’ said Liza. ‘You’re all coming to us.’

  ‘It won’t be the same without Frank.’

  ‘Think of the children. They must have something good to remember.’

  ‘That’s an excellent piece of advice,’ said Law, seizing on his cue. ‘They’re too young to understand the implications of what’s happened to their father but they’re old enough to experience at least a little of the joy of Christmas. Thank you, Mrs Alford,’ he added, turning to her. ‘I fully endorse what you said.’

  The manager’s warning had been accurate. Leaving the Works, Colbeck got back to the Queen’s Tap to find William Morris waiting for him. Though the pub was closed that early in the morning, the landlord had invited the editor in out of the swirling wind. Morris was a well-dressed man in his thirties with a full beard, an open face and wide, enquiring eyes. After introductions had taken place, he shook hands with the zeal of a true believer, squeezing hard and saying how – on the strength of what he’d been told about him by Oswald Stinson – he admired Colbeck for his astonishing run of success as a detective. It was a full minute before the inspector was able to detach his hand.

  They moved to a table and sat down. Morris produced a notebook at once.

  ‘I didn’t hear about the murder until late last night,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Stinson told me that he was about to go to bed when you called. I don’t really have much to add to what he must have said.’

  ‘There must be something.’

  ‘How often is your newspaper printed?’

  ‘The Swindon Advertiser is a weekly publication,’ said Morris, proudly. ‘It was first printed six years ago as a broadsheet and sold for one penny. I was the writer, editor, printer and – believe it or not – delivery boy. The second edition was twice the size because I included advertisements of local businesses.’

  ‘That was very enterprising of you, sir.’<
br />
  ‘I used a hand press in my father’s shop in Wood Street. After a year or so, I’d made enough money to move to bigger premises in Victoria Road and, in time, was able to add a printing shop at the rear.’

  ‘You’ve worked hard, obviously.’

  ‘My mission is to keep Swindon well informed, especially when something as important as this falls into my lap.’

  ‘You won’t have been misled by Mr Stinson.’

  ‘He took the liberty of quoting you, Inspector.’

  Opening his valise, he took out the latest edition of the newspaper and handed it over. Colbeck studied it with interest, pleased that the manager had given only the outline details of the crime and offered no speculation about possible suspects. He was praised by Morris for having the wisdom to summon the Railway Detective. The article was well written, though there were a few typographical errors.

  ‘I stayed up half the night reprinting the paper,’ said Morris. ‘Such are the perils of being an editor. I was just about to release a new edition to the public when a major story suddenly popped up.’

  ‘By the next edition, you’ll have a lot more to report.’

  ‘Does that mean you anticipate an early arrest?’

  ‘I can’t be that specific about that.’

  ‘But you remain hopeful.’

  ‘I’m cautiously hopeful.’

  Morris lowered his voice. ‘Is it true that the body was naked?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I bumped into Inspector Piercey earlier today.’

  ‘He’s not deeply involved in the case.’

  ‘He gave me the impression that he was.’

  ‘I’ll need to speak to him,’ said Colbeck, face impassive. ‘As it happens, I was thinking of going to the Old Town today. When I visit a different part of the country, I like to get my bearings as soon as possible.’

  ‘I can offer you a lift in my trap,’ volunteered Morris, ‘and we can have a longer conversation on the way.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Morris. I accept your offer.’

  ‘We can go as soon as you wish.’

  ‘As for what Inspector Piercey told you, I’d treat it with some scepticism. I’ll make a point of speaking to him when I’m in the Old Town.’

  Colbeck was careful to conceal his reason for visiting the older part of Swindon because he didn’t want to disclose that the butcher’s assistant was a suspect in the case. Unable to make use of it himself, Morris might be tempted to pass on the information to a national newspaper. In that event, reporters would start to converge on the Locomotive Works and would inevitably hamper the investigation. Much as he liked Morris, he vowed to keep him at arm’s length. After a second glance at the latest edition, he handed it back.

  ‘You have a gift for journalism, Mr Morris.’

  The newspaperman laughed. ‘My gifts pale beside yours, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Only a genius could do what you do. What made you join the police?’

  ‘The work appealed to me.’

  ‘Do you really find ruthless, cold-hearted killers appealing?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘they always fascinate me. The urge to kill is something that many people feel at some stage in life but, fortunately, only a tiny proportion of them actually commit murder. Each case is different, each killer is highly individual. Their appeal to me is quite irresistible.’

  ‘What interests you about this particular man?’

  ‘He’s unpredictable. I’d like to see what he does next.’

  Making sure that nobody was about, he slipped furtively into the woods carrying a bloodstained sack. When he came to a tree stump, he took a head out of the sack and set it down. The face was comprehensively smashed in and the distorted cranium was covered in dried blood. Lowering his trousers, the man goaded him.

  ‘Come on, Frank,’ he said, smirking. ‘Let’s hear you sing.’

  Then he urinated all over the head.

  CHAPTER TEN

  William Morris was a pleasant companion. As he drove Colbeck away from the village, he provided him with a brief history of the Old Town and recalled how radically the community had been changed by the arrival of the GWR Locomotive Works. Early hostility from the inhabitants of Swindon had slowly given way to resigned acceptance. In the early years, the market had benefited from the presence of a large number of new customers a mile away but shops had slowly started to open in the New Town, saving people a long trudge across the fields to buy food.

  ‘Are you related to the other William Morris?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘I didn’t know there was another one.’

  ‘He’s written on architecture and is also a poet. I remember enjoying one of his poems printed in a magazine – “The Haystack in the Floods”.’

  ‘I’m no poet, Inspector. I’m unashamedly prosaic.’

  ‘You do a valuable job, Mr Morris, and you should be proud of that. From what you’ve told me, you do it more or less on your own.’

  ‘I do have one or two people to help me, as it happens, but I make sure I’m involved in every stage of the process. The Advertiser is my baby and I love to cradle it in my arms. Do you think that’s evidence of megalomania?’

  ‘Far from it,’ said Colbeck, smiling. ‘It shows that you still care very much about your newspaper and rightly so. I’m grateful that you spoke to Mr Stinson and to me. There are some editors in London who’d send reporters to interview a grieving family in a murder case. That’s an unacceptable intrusion, in my view.’

  ‘I’d never dream of doing anything like that.’

  ‘National newspapers are not quite so considerate.’

  ‘You sound as if you’ve had difficulties with some of them.’

  ‘They bark at my heels like a pack of hounds sometimes. That can be very distracting when I’m trying to focus on a crime.’

  They’d left the village behind now and were into open country. Colbeck could see what a beautiful part of Wiltshire it was but he could also understand why the GWR had chosen the site. It was ideally placed to link London to the West Country and the presence of the Wilts and Berks Canal meant that coal, iron and timber could be easily brought in during the early stages of construction.

  ‘Would you like me to show you around the Old Town?’ asked Morris.

  ‘No, no,’ said Colbeck, ‘I’d prefer to be on my own.’

  ‘But I could introduce you to people.’

  ‘I’d rather wander around incognito, Mr Morris.’

  ‘I understand,’ said the other. ‘The murder will dominate conversation. If people knew that you’d been sent to solve it, they’d pester you unmercifully. By the way,’ he said, ‘what was the name of that poem you mentioned? I’d like to read it.’

  ‘It’s “The Haystack in the Floods” and you’ll find an odd coincidence in it.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It features a cruel murder.’

  Inspector Grosvenor was too impatient to wait until noon. So keen was he to take on the superintendent’s mantle that he arrived at Tallis’s office almost an hour in advance. He was wearing his new frock coat for the occasion.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said Grosvenor. ‘How are you?’

  ‘The honest answer is that I can’t wait to get away.’

  ‘Don’t let me hold you up.’

  ‘Everything has to go in this record book,’ said Tallis, placing a palm on the ledger in front of him, ‘as I showed you. I expect accuracy of information and neat calligraphy.’

  ‘You’ll get both, sir.’

  ‘This time tomorrow I’ll be back with my old regiment.’

  ‘When is the reunion dinner?’

  ‘That will be on Saturday evening. Wine and spirits are always served in the most generous quantities. That’s why I’m allowing myself Sunday to recover. As for your work here,’ added Tallis, ‘don’t forget to crack the whip. You have to remind those under you that you are in charge.’

  Grosvenor’s sly smile c
ame into view. ‘I’ll enjoy doing that,’ he said. ‘How do I get in touch with Colbeck?’

  ‘There’s a telegraph station at Swindon Junction. Send a message there and it will be passed on to him. Why do you wish to contact Colbeck?’

  ‘I think he needs a rap on the knuckles, sir. He’s been there for the best part of twenty-four hours and we haven’t heard a peep from him.’

  ‘Yes, we have.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A report came by courier first thing this morning,’ explained Tallis, opening a drawer to take out two sheets of paper. ‘It’s a perfect example of how a report should be written – clear, concise yet covering every aspect of the case. Read it, Inspector.’

  ‘I’ll be a superintendent soon, sir.’

  ‘Even at the higher rank, you should still be ready to learn from a master of the art. As you’ll see, it’s a highly complex case but Colbeck has it well in hand.’

  ‘I’ll need more evidence of that,’ said the other, grumpily.

  ‘Then here it is.’ Tallis gave him the report with an ambiguous smile. ‘I regret to say that I was quite unable to find a single fault in it.’

  Simeon Cudlip was one of the many clerks working in the building where the detectives had their office. When he was summoned by Leeming, therefore, the man only had to walk up a flight of stairs and along a corridor. He was mystified as to why he’d been called to speak to the sergeant.

  ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right person?’ he asked, guardedly.

  ‘Yes, Mr Cudlip.’

  ‘I’m just one of the clerks here.’

  ‘This is nothing to do with your status.’

  ‘Why have you asked for me?’

  ‘I wanted to have a good look at you, sir.’

  Cudlip was very much like the other clerks he’d seen flitting about the building – smart, subdued and uniformly nondescript. What set Cudlip apart from his colleagues was that he didn’t have the same rounded shoulders and deferential manner. He was a handsome man in his thirties with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. He clearly had the physique to take on someone like Rodman. Unlike most of the employees, he looked Leeming in the eye.