Authors: Edward Marston
When the summons came, Inspector Robert Colbeck was at Scotland Yard, studying the report he had just written about his last case. He abandoned it at once and hurried along the corridor. Superintendent Tallis was not a man who liked to be kept waiting. He demanded an instant response from his detectives. Colbeck found him in his office, seated behind his desk, smoking a cigar and poring over a sheet of paper. Tallis spoke to his visitor without even looking up.
‘Don’t sit down, Inspector. You’re not staying long.’
‘Oh?’
‘You’ll be catching a train to Twyford.’
‘In Berkshire?’
‘I know of no other,’ said Tallis, raising his eyes. ‘Do you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then do me the courtesy of listening to what I have to say instead of distracting me with questions about geography. This,’ he went on, holding up the sheet of paper, ‘is an example of the value of the electric telegraph, a priceless tool in the fight against crime. Details of the murder have been sent to us while the body is still warm.’
Colbeck’s ears pricked up. ‘There’s been a murder at Twyford?’
‘In a railway carriage, Inspector.’
‘Ah.’
‘It was an excursion train on the Great Western Railway.’
‘Then I suspect I know where it was going, sir,’ said Colbeck.
He also knew why the assignment was being handed to him. Ever since his success in solving a train robbery and its associated crimes in the previous year, Robert Colbeck had become known as the Railway Detective. It was a name bestowed upon him by newspapers that had, in the past, mocked the Detective Department of the Metropolitan Police for its apparent slowness in securing convictions. Thanks largely to Colbeck, the reporters at last had reason to praise the activities of Scotland Yard. He had masterminded the capture of a ruthless gang, responsible for armed robbery, blackmail, abduction, criminal damage and murder. Colbeck’s reputation had been firmly established by the case. It meant that whenever a serious crime was committed on a railway, the respective company tended to seek his assistance.
Colbeck was, as usual, immaculately dressed in a black frock coat with rounded edges and high neck, a pair of well-cut fawn trousers and an Ascot cravat. His black shoes sparkled. Tall, lean and conventionally handsome, he cut a fine figure and always looked slightly out of place among his more workaday colleagues. None of them could challenge his position as the resident dandy. Edward Tallis would not even have cared to try. As a military man, he believed implicitly in smartness and he was always neatly, if soberly, dressed. But he deplored what he saw as Colbeck’s vanity. It was one of the reasons that there was so much latent tension between the two of them. The Superintendent was a stocky, red-faced man in his fifties
with a shock of grey hair and a small moustache. A chevron of concern was cut deep into his brow.
‘You say that you knew where the train was going, Inspector?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Colbeck. ‘It was taking interested parties to the scene of a prizefight.’
‘Prizefights are illegal. They should be stopped.’
‘This one, it seems, was allowed to go ahead.’
‘
Allowed
?’ repeated Tallis, bristling. ‘A flagrant breach of the law was consciously allowed? That’s intolerable. The magistracy is there to enforce the statute book not to flout it.’ His eyelids narrowed. ‘How did you come to hear about this?’
‘It’s common knowledge, Superintendent.’
‘Did you not think to report it?’
‘The fight is outside our jurisdiction,’ said Colbeck, reasonably, ‘so there was no point in bringing it to your attention. All that I picked up was tavern gossip about the contest. But,’ he continued, ‘that’s quite irrelevant now. If a murder investigation is to be launched, I must be on the next train to Twyford.’
‘You’ll need this,’ Tallis told him, rising from his seat and handing him the sheet of paper. ‘It contains the few details that I possess.’
‘Thank you, sir. I take it that Victor Leeming will come with me?’
‘The Sergeant will meet you at Paddington Station. I sent him on an errand to C Division so I’ve dispatched a constable to overtake him with fresh orders.’
‘Because of the speed of this message,’ said Colbeck, indicating the piece of paper, ‘we might even get there before
the fight finishes. It can’t be much more than thirty miles to Twyford.’
‘Report back to me as soon as you can.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘And find me the name of the man who sanctioned the running of this excursion train. If he knowingly conveyed people to an illegal prizefight, then he was committing an offence and should be called to account. We must come down hard on malefactors.’
‘Railway companies are there to serve the needs of their customers, Superintendent,’ Colbeck pointed out. ‘They simply carry passengers from one place to another. It’s unfair to blame them for any activities that those passengers may get up to at their destination.’
Tallis stuck out his jaw. ‘Are you arguing with me, Inspector?’
‘Heaven forbid!’
‘That makes a change.’
‘I would never question your judgement, sir.’
‘You do it out of sheer force of habit.’
‘That’s a gross exaggeration. I was merely trying to represent the position of the Great Western Railway.’
‘Then permit me to represent
my
position,’ said the other, tapping his chest with a stubby forefinger. ‘I want prompt action. A murder has been committed and we have received an urgent call for assistance. Instead of debating the issue, be kind enough to vacate the premises with all due speed and do the job for which you’re paid.’
‘I’ll take a cab to Paddington immediately,’ said Colbeck, moving to the door. ‘By the way,’ he added with a teasing smile, ‘do you wish to be informed of the result of the fight?’
‘No!’ roared Tallis.
‘I thought not, sir.’
And he was gone.
There was a fairground atmosphere at the scene of the prizefight. Descending on it after their trudge across the fields, the high-spirited crowd from London saw that the ring had been set up and that it was encircled by a number of booths and stalls. Pies, sandwiches, fruit and other foodstuffs were on sale and there was a ready supply of beer. A pig was being roasted on a spit. One tent was occupied by a gypsy fortune-teller, who, having first discovered which man each of her clients was supporting, was able to predict the outcome of the contest to his complete satisfaction. A painted sign over another booth –
THE GARDEN OF EDEN
– left nobody in any doubt what they would find inside, especially as the artist had added a naked lady, with a large red apple and an inviting smile. A group of Negro serenaders was touting for custom under an awning. There was even a Punch and Judy show to entertain the visitors with some make-believe violence before they were offered the real thing.
The Londoners were the last to arrive. Excursion trains from other parts of the country had already brought in a massive audience. Members of the gentry chose to watch the festivities from the comfort of their coaches, carriages and gigs. Farmers had come in carts or on horseback. But the overwhelming number of people would either clamber on to the makeshift stands or search for a good vantage point on the grass. Meanwhile, they could place their bets with bookmakers, play cards, watch the jugglers and tumblers, visit some of the freaks on show or enjoy an improvised dog fight. With beer
flowing freely, it all served to whip them up into a frenzy of anticipation.
The inner ring, where the fight would take place, was protected by an outer ring so that spectators could not get close enough to interfere in the contest. The space between the two sets of ropes was patrolled by a number of brawny figures, waddling around like so many bulldogs, ageing pugs with scarred faces, swollen ears and missing teeth, muscular sentries with fists like hams, there to ensure the safety of Mad Isaac and the Bargeman. Veterans of the sport themselves, their advice was eagerly sought by punters who were still unsure on whom to place their money.
By way of introduction, an exhibition bout was staged between two young fighters, still in their teens, talented novices who wore padded gloves to lessen the injuries they could inflict on each other’s faces. Later, when they graduated to the bareknuckle breed, they would pickle their hands to harden them and do their utmost to open deep cuts, close an opponent’s eye, break his ribs or cover his body with dark bruising. The preliminary contest lacked any real sense of danger but it was lively enough to thrill the onlookers and to give them an opportunity both to jostle for a position around the ring and to test the power of their lungs. After six rounds, the fight came to an end amid ear-splitting cheers. Between the two fighters, honours were even.
With the spectators suitably warmed up, it was time for the main contest of the afternoon. Everyone pushed in closer for a first glimpse of the two men. The Bargeman led the way, a veritable mountain of muscle, striding purposefully towards the ring with a face of doom. His fans were quick to offer their sage counsel.
‘Knock ’im from ’ere to kingdom come, Bargeman!’
‘Split the lousy Jew in ’alf!’
‘Circumcise ’im!’
‘Flay the bugger alive!’
The Negro raised both arms in acknowledgement, cheered and booed with equal volume by rival supporters. Isaac Rosen was the next to appear, strolling nonchalantly along as he chewed on an apple and tossed the core to a woman in the throng. He was every bit as tall as Hignett but had nothing like his sheer bulk. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, Rosen grinned happily as if he were on his way to a picnic rather than to an extended ordeal in the ring. It was the turn of the Bradford crowd to offer a few suggestions.
‘Come on, Mad Isaac! Teach ’im a lesson.’
‘Smash ’im to the ground!’
‘Crack ’is ’ead open!’
‘Kill the black bastard!’
Both sides were in good voice. As the fighters stripped off their shirts, the cheers and the taunts reached a pitch of hysteria. Wearing cotton drawers and woollen stockings, the boxers confronted each other and exchanged a few ripe insults. Each was in prime condition, having trained for months for this confrontation. Hignett had the clear weight advantage but Rosen had the more eye-catching torso with rippling muscles built up by hard years in the slaughterhouse. A coin was tossed to see who would have choice of corners, a crucial advantage on a day when the sun was blazing down. Fortune favoured the Jew and he elected to have his back to the sun so that it dazzled his opponent’s eyes as he came out of his corner.
With two seconds apiece – a bottleman and a kneeman – they took up their positions. The bottleman was there to
revive his charge with a wet sponge or a cold drink while the kneeman provided a rickety stool on which the boxer could sit between rounds. All four seconds were retired fighters, seasoned warriors who knew all the tricks of the trade and who could, in the event of trouble, act as additional bodyguards. On a signal from the referee, the Bargeman moved swiftly up to the scratch in the middle of the ring, but Mad Isaac kept him waiting for a moment before he deigned to leave his corner. As they shook hands, there was another barrage of insults between them before the first punches were thrown with vicious intent. Pandemonium broke out among the spectators. They were watching the two finest boxers in the world, both unbeaten, slugging it out until one of them was pounded into oblivion. In an ecstasy of bloodlust, they urged the boxers on with full-throated glee.
‘Who discovered the body?’ asked Colbeck, coming out of the carriage.
‘I did, Inspector,’ replied Ernest Radd, stepping forward.
‘When was this?’
‘Immediately after the passengers had left the train.’
‘Could you give me some idea of the time?’
‘Not long after noon, Inspector.’
‘I knew that it was a mistake to run this train,’ said Tod Galway, wringing his hands. ‘Something like this was bound to happen.’
‘I disagree,’ said Colbeck, turning to him. ‘This is a very singular occurrence. It’s the first murder that I’ve encountered on a train. One might expect a little over-excitement from the Fancy but not this.’
The detectives had reached the scene of the crime while the
fight was still in progress. To clear the line for use by other traffic, the excursion train had been driven into a siding. Inspector Robert Colbeck was accompanied by Sergeant Victor Leeming, a heavyset man in his late thirties with an unprepossessing appearance. One eye squinted at a bulbous nose that had been battered during an arrest and his chin was unduly prominent. Beside his elegant companion, he looked scruffy and faintly villainous. After examining the dead body with Colbeck, the Sergeant remained in the doorway of the carriage, blocking the view of the group of railway policemen who had come to stare.
‘I knew he was gone as soon as I saw him,’ explained Radd, a chubby young man whose cheeks were still whitened by the shock of what he had found. ‘But it was Sam here who went into the carriage.’
‘That’s right,’ Horlock chimed in, relishing the opportunity to get some attention at last. ‘Horlock’s the name, Inspector. Samuel Horlock. Ernie called us to the carriage and, as the more experienced policeman,’ he boasted, ‘I took over. The man was stuck in the corner. I shook him by the shoulder and he keeled over, losing his hat. That’s when we saw them marks around his neck, Inspector. Someone must have used a rope to strangle him.’
‘A piece of wire, I think,’ said Colbeck. ‘Rope would never have bitten into the flesh like that. It would simply have left a red weal where the neck had been chafed. This man was garrotted with something much thinner and sharper.’
‘Then we know one thing about the killer,’ volunteered Leeming. ‘He must have been a strong man. The victim would not have been easy to overpower. Judging by the size of him, there would have been resistance.’
‘I found these in his pockets, Inspector,’ said Horlock, handing over a wallet and a slip of paper, ‘so at least we know his name.’
‘You should have left it to us to search him, Mr Horlock.’