The Railway Detective Collection: The Railway Detective, the Excursion Train, the Railway Viaduct (The Railway Detective Series) (45 page)

‘How was the chaplain killed?’

‘Quickly.’

‘We can’t discuss the details,’ said Leeming, irritated by someone who stood between him and his dinner. ‘Inspector Colbeck was very careful what information he released to the press.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Butterkiss. ‘I understand.’

‘We know where to find you, Constable,’ said Colbeck, walking past him. ‘Thank you for your help this morning.’

‘We appreciated it,’ added Leeming.

‘Thank you!’ said Butterkiss, beaming like a waiter who has received a huge tip. ‘Thank you very much.’

‘By the way,’ advised Leeming, unable to resist a joke at his expense. ‘That uniform is too big for you, Constable. You should see a good tailor.’

He followed Colbeck into the Saracen’s Head and made for the stairs. Before they could climb them, however, they were intercepted. Mary, the plump servant, hurried out of the bar. She subjected Leeming’s face to close scrutiny.

‘Those bruises are still there, Sergeant.’

‘Thank you for telling me,’ he said.

‘Is there nothing you can put on them?’

‘We were caught in the rain,’ explained Colbeck, ‘and we
need to get out of these wet clothes. You’ll have to excuse us.’

‘But I haven’t told you my message yet, Inspector.’

‘Oh?’

‘The gentleman said that I was to catch you as soon as you came back from wherever it is you’ve been. He was very insistent.’

‘What gentleman, Mary?’

‘The one who’s taken a room for the night.’

‘Did he give you a name?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, helpfully.

Leeming was impatient. ‘Well,’ he said, as his stomach began to rumble, ‘what was it, girl?’

‘Superintendent Tallis.’

‘What!’

‘He’s going to dine with you here this evening.’

Suddenly, Victor Leeming no longer looked forward to the meal with quite the same relish.

Gregory Newman finished his shift at the railway works and washed his hands in the sink before leaving. Many of the boilermen went straight to the nearest pub to slake their thirst but Newman went home to see to his wife. During working hours, Meg Newman was looked after by a kindly old neighbour, who popped in at intervals to check on her. Since the invalid spent most of her time asleep, she could be left for long periods. When he got back to the house, Newman found that the neighbour, a white-haired woman in her sixties, was just about to leave.

‘How is she, Mrs Sheen?’ he asked.

‘She’s been asleep since lunch,’ replied the other, ‘so I didn’t disturb her.’

‘Did she eat much?’

‘The usual, Mr Newman. And she used the commode.’

‘That’s good. Thank you, Mrs Sheen.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’

‘I’ll take Meg for another ride before I go to work.’

He went into the house and opened the door of the front room where his wife lay in bed. She stirred. Newman gave her a token kiss on the forehead to let her know that he was back then he went off to change out of his working clothes. When he returned, his wife woke up long enough to eat some bread and drink some tea but she soon dozed off again. Newman left her alone. As he ate his own meal in the kitchen, he remembered his promise to Winifred Hawkshaw. After washing the plates and cutlery, he looked in on his wife again, saw that she was deeply asleep and slipped out of the house. The drizzle had stopped.

He knew exactly where he would find Adam Hawkshaw at that time of the evening. A brisk walk soon got him to the high street and he turned into the Fountain Inn, one of the most popular hostelries in the town. The place was quite full but nobody was talking to Hawkshaw, seated alone at a table and staring into his tankard with a quiet smile on his face. Walking jauntily into the bar, Newman clapped Hawkshaw on the shoulder by way of greeting. He then bought some beer for both of them and took the two glasses across to the table.

‘I was hoping to catch you, Adam,’ he said, sitting down.

‘Just in time. I’ll have to leave soon.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘That would be telling.’

Adam Hawkshaw grinned wolfishly then finished the dregs of his own drink before picking up the other tankard.
He seemed in good spirits. Raising the tankard to Newman in gratitude, he took a long sip.

‘How’s business?’ asked Newman.

‘Bad,’ said the other, ‘though it did pick up this afternoon. Best day we’ve had all week. What about you, Gregory?’

‘Boiler-making is a good trade. I was never apprenticed to it but those years in the forge stood me in good stead. The foreman is amazed how quickly I’ve picked things up.’

‘Do you miss the forge?’

‘I miss chatting to the customers,’ said Newman, ‘and I loved working with horses but the forge had to go. It was unfair on Meg to make so much noise underneath her bedroom. The new house is much quieter and she can sleep downstairs.’

‘How is she?’

‘As well as can be expected.’ Newman leant over the table. ‘But I haven’t told you the news yet,’ he said with a glint. ‘One advantage of working by the railway station is that word travels fast. Our foreman heard it from the guard on a train to Margate. He’s dead, Adam.’

‘Who is?’

‘The prison chaplain.’

‘Never!’

‘Murdered on a train last night,’ said Newman, ‘and I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t pleased to hear it. Narcissus Jones made your father suffer in that prison.’

‘Yes.’

‘And someone called him to account.’

Adam Hawkshaw seemed unsure how to react to the tidings. His face was impassive but his eyes were gleaming. He took a long drink of beer from his tankard then wiped his mouth with a sleeve.

‘That’s great news, Gregory,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

‘I thought you’d be delighted.’

‘Well, I don’t feel sorry for that Welsh bastard, I know that.’

‘Win ought to be told. It might cheer her up.’ Newman sat back. ‘I spoke to her early this morning. She said that you wouldn’t talk to Inspector Colbeck.’

‘Nor to any other policeman,’ said Hawkshaw, sourly.

‘But he might help us.’ The other snorted. ‘He might, Adam. We’ve all tried to find the man who
did
kill Joe Dykes but we’ve got nowhere so far. And we have jobs to do, people to support. This detective has the time to conduct a proper search.’

‘Keep him away from me.’

‘If we can convince him that your father was innocent, we’ll get him on our side – don’t you see?’

‘He thinks we killed that hangman.’

‘That doesn’t mean we don’t
use
him, Adam.’

‘Forget it.’

‘Win agrees,’ said Newman. ‘If we cooperate with this Inspector, he may do us all a favour and help to clear your father’s name. You want the man who really killed Joe Dykes to be caught, don’t you?’

Hawkshaw gave him a strange look then took another long sip from his tankard. Wiping his mouth again, he got to his feet.

‘Thanks for the beer, Gregory.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’ve got to see somebody.’

Without even a farewell, Adam Hawkshaw walked out of the bar.

Robert Colbeck was sporting a red silk waistcoat when he joined his superior for dinner and Edward Tallis glared at it with unconcealed distaste. Victor Leeming’s apparel was far more conservative but he was criticised by the Superintendent for being too untidy. It did not make for a pleasant meal. Tallis waited until they had ordered from the menu before he pitched into the two detectives.

‘What the deuce is going on?’ he demanded. ‘I send you off to solve one railway murder and a second one is committed.’

‘We can hardly be blamed for that, sir,’ said Colbeck.

‘But it happened right under your noses.’

‘Paddock Wood is some distance from here and the chaplain was killed somewhere beyond it. We have a rough idea of the location.’

‘How?’

‘Because we walked beside the line,’ said Leeming, able to get a word in at last. ‘The Inspector’s theory was right.’

‘It wasn’t a theory, Victor,’ said Colbeck, quickly, ‘because we know that the Superintendent frowns upon such things. It was more of an educated supposition.’

‘Don’t try to bamboozle me,’ warned Tallis.

‘It would never cross my mind, sir.’

Leeming took over. ‘Inspector Colbeck believed that the killer committed his crime soon after the train left Paddock Wood, then jumped off it before it reached the first station at Yalding.’

‘A preposterous notion!’ said Tallis.

‘We proved it.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck. ‘A shallow embankment runs alongside the line outside Yalding. We found a place where there were distinct footprints, as if someone had landed heavily and
skidded down the grass. My supposition was correct.’

‘I dispute that,’ said Tallis. ‘Those marks could have been caused by someone else – children, playing near the line, for instance.’

‘A child would not leave a murder weapon behind, sir.’

‘What?’

‘We found it in some bushes close to the footprints.’

‘A piece of wire,’ said Leeming, ‘covered in blood.’

‘Then why didn’t you bring it back with you?’ asked Tallis. ‘That’s the kind of evidence we desperately need.’

‘It’s upstairs in my room, Superintendent,’ Colbeck reassured him. ‘The stationmaster at Yalding was kind enough to give me a bag in which to carry it. So at least we know where and precisely how the prison chaplain met his death.’

‘What we really need is a suspect.’

‘Two of them, sir.’

Tallis was sceptical. ‘Not this phantom woman again, surely?’

‘She was no phantom, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘There were two clear sets of footprints beside the railway line. The Inspector guessed it the moment we heard the news. The woman was there to distract the victim.’

‘Both of them will hang when they’re caught.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘for the two murders.’

‘You’re certain we’re dealing with the same killer here?’

‘Without a shadow of doubt, sir.’

‘Convince me,’ said Tallis, thrusting out his chin.

Colbeck had rehearsed his report in advance. It was clear and concise, containing a description of what the Inspector had found at the scene of the crime and the supporting evidence that had been gathered. Leeming felt impelled to add his own
coda.

‘We even called at St Peter’s Church in Paddock Wood,’ he said. ‘They still had the board that advertised the talk by the Reverend Jones. A large congregation turned up with lots of strangers among them.’

‘Including, I should imagine, the killer,’ said Tallis.

‘He and this woman must have followed the chaplain to the station and seized their opportunity.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck. ‘They realised that there wouldn’t be many people on that train so there was a good chance that their victim would get into an empty carriage. The rest we know.’

‘It means that I now have
two
railway companies demanding action from me,’ complained Tallis. ‘If anything, the management of the South Eastern Railway is even more strident. They say that disasters come in threes. Which is the next railway company to harry me?’

The waiter arrived with the first course and the discussion was suspended for a little while. Colbeck nibbled his bread roll and Leeming overcame his discomfort in the presence of the Superintendent to tuck into his soup. Only when Tallis had tasted his own first mouthful of soup was he ready to resume.

‘This all began with an illegal prizefight,’ he noted.

‘With respect, sir,’ said Colbeck, ‘it goes back before that. It really started with the murder of Joseph Dykes.’

‘That case is closed.’

‘Not to the people who believe Hawkshaw was wrongly hanged.’

‘Courts of law do not make errors on that scale.’

‘It’s conceivable that they did so in this instance,’ said Colbeck. ‘But, in one sense, it doesn’t really matter. It’s a
question of perception, sir. The people who supported Nathan Hawkshaw saw what they honestly believed was an innocent man going to the gallows. They went to exhaustive lengths on his behalf.’

‘So?’

‘One of those people is the man we’re after, Superintendent, and there are dozens to choose from. What happened at Twyford, and on that train last night to Maidstone, is rooted here in Ashford. The killer is probably less than a couple of hundred yards from where we sit.’

‘Then find him, Inspector.’

‘We will. Meanwhile, precautions have to be taken.’

‘Of what kind?’

‘We have to ensure that Jacob Guttridge and Narcissus Jones are not joined by a third victim,’ said Colbeck. ‘We’re dealing with a ruthless man here. He may not be content with killing the hangman and the prison chaplain. Other people may be in danger as well.’

‘What other people?’

‘For a start,’ said Leeming, chewing a bread roll, ‘the policeman who came here to arrest Hawkshaw. His name is Sergeant Lugg.’

‘Empty your mouth before you speak,’ snapped Tallis.

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Sergeant Lugg has been warned,’ said Colbeck, ‘but the person we need to contact is the barrister who led the prosecution team. He tore the case for the defence apart and made the guilty verdict inevitable.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Patrick Perivale, sir. I’m wondering if he received one of those death threats as well.’

‘Where are his chambers?’

‘In Canterbury. I’m sending Victor over there tomorrow.’

Leeming was uneasy. ‘Not by train, I hope.’

‘By any means you choose. Mr Perivale must be alerted.’

‘Very sensible,’ said Tallis. ‘We don’t want another murder on our hands. You, I presume, will be remaining here, Inspector?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Colbeck, ‘but I require your assistance. The petition for the release of Nathan Hawkshaw was sent to the Home Secretary, who refused to grant a reprieve. I’d be grateful if you could get a copy of the names on that petition from the Home Office.’

‘Can’t you ask for the names from that fellow who organised the campaign? What did you call him – Gregory Newland?’

‘Newman, and the answer is no. He knows why we’re in the town and he’s not going to betray one of his friends by volunteering his name. We’ll have to dig it out for ourselves. The only place we can get the full list is from the Home Office.’