Authors: Edward Marston
‘Yes,’ said Leeming. ‘It means that you have responsibilities.’
‘Many responsibilities.’
‘One of which is to ensure the safety of your passengers.’
‘And that’s what I do, Sergeant.’
‘It must entail being especially vigilant.’
‘I
am
especially vigilant,’ retorted Dear, hands now juggling five additional balls. ‘I defy any man to say that I’m not. I see things that most people would never notice in a hundred years.’
‘Yet you are still quite unable to tell me who occupied the last carriage yesterday morning. Think back, sir,’ encouraged Leeming, stifling a monstrous yawn. ‘When the train was filling up, what did you observe?’
‘What I observe every day – paying passengers.’
‘Did none of them stand out?’
‘Not that I recall.’
‘This is very serious,’ said Leeming, as people surged past him to walk down the platform. ‘A man who travelled on this same train only twenty-four hours ago was murdered in cold blood then flung over the Sankey Viaduct.’
‘I know that.’
‘We simply must catch his killer.’
‘Well, don’t look at me, Sergeant,’ said Dear, as if he had just been accused of the crime. ‘I have an unblemished record of service on this line. I worked on it when it was the Liverpool and Manchester Railway, all of twenty-two years ago. Cyril Dear’s name is a byword for loyalty. Speak to anyone. They’ll tell you.’
Leeming groaned inwardly ‘I have no wish to talk to another human being in Manchester,’ he said, ruefully. ‘My throat is sore enough already. Very well, Mr Dear. You are obviously unable to help me at the moment. But if you should happen to remember anything of interest about yesterday’s journey – anything at all – please let me know when we reach Liverpool.’
‘Climb aboard, sir. We leave in two minutes.’
‘Good.’
Leeming had turned to get into the last carriage, only to find, to his dismay, that it was already full. Men and women had taken every available seat. With a sinking feeling, he realised why. Manchester newspapers had carried full details of the murder as well. Ghoulish curiosity had dictated where some of the passengers sat. They wanted to be in the very carriage where it was believed the crime had been committed. As it passed over the Sankey Viaduct, they would no doubt all rush to the appropriate window in a body to look out over the parapet. He found it a depressing insight into human nature.
Colbeck had instructed him to travel in the last carriage. Since he could not obey the order, he decided to solve another problem that had vexed them. He swung round to face Cyril Dear again and asserted his authority.
‘I’ll travel in the guard’s van with you,’ he declared.
Dear was outraged. ‘It’s against the rules.’
‘Is it?’
‘I could never allow it, sir.’
‘But you’re not allowing it, Mr Dear. I’m forcing myself upon you.’ He summoned up his most disarming smile. ‘When we reach Liverpool, you’ll have the pleasure of reporting me, won’t you?’
When he was angry, the freckles on Inspector Heyford’s face stood out more than ever. As he stared at the painting, they seemed to glow with a rich intensity. He turned to confront Ambrose Hooper.
‘Concealing evidence is a crime,’ he warned.
‘But I haven’t concealed it,’ argued the artist. ‘I’ve brought it to you. There it lies, for all to see.’
‘A day late.’
‘I can see that you are no painter, Inspector Heyford.’
‘I prefer to do an honest job sir.’
‘Art cannot be rushed. I had to finish the watercolour before I presented it to the public. I have my reputation to consider.’
‘It remains intact,’ Colbeck assured him.
‘There is still the question of delay,’ insisted Heyford. ‘You were a witness, Mr Hooper. Yet you sneaked away from the scene of the crime. Action should be taken against you.’
‘Then it should also be taken against Mrs Lewthwaite, her son and her unmarried sister, Miss Petronella Snark. They had just as good a view of the whole thing as me.’
Heyford gaped. ‘Who on earth
are
these people?’
‘I’ll explain later, Inspector,’ said Colbeck. ‘The fact of the
matter is that Mr Hooper has shown us crucial evidence that may help us to identify the dead man.’
‘How?’
‘He had an expensive tailor. I could see that from his trousers. In all likelihood, the name of that tailor will be sewn inside his jacket.’
‘But we do not have his jacket, Inspector Colbeck.’
‘We will do in due course. As for Mr Hooper, the only action that should be taken is to commend his skill as an artist and to thank him for his assistance.’ He closed the portfolio. ‘It’s been invaluable, sir.’
‘It’s the least I could do for the victim,’ said Hooper, tying up the ribbon. ‘His loss was, after all, my gain. Like any true artist, I paint out of a compulsion but there is, alas, a commercial aspect to my work as well. As a result of the publicity surrounding this crime, my painting will fetch a much higher price.’
Heyford was scandalised. ‘It should not be allowed.’
‘It should,’ said Colbeck. ‘You deserve every penny, sir.’
Since they were in Heyford’s office, Colbeck felt an obligation to let him see the painting even though the inspector did not appreciate either its quality or its significance. When the artist had left, Colbeck tried to mollify Heyford by praising the way that he had deployed his men at the railway station. The freckles slowly lost their glint though they did flare up again when Colbeck told him how Petronella Snark and her companions had come by their names.
‘And what’s all this about the jacket?’ asked Heyford.
‘I’ll reclaim it from the person who stole it.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘A member of the Triggs family, of course,’ said Colbeck.
‘Before you got there, he also relieved the corpse of its shoes. Now that really is a case of withholding evidence.’
There was a tap on the door. In response to Heyford’s invitation, it opened to admit Victor Leeming, drooping with fatigue. He removed his hat to wipe perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand.
‘What did you find out, Victor?’ asked Colbeck.
‘That I never wish to travel by train ever again, sir,’ replied Leeming, rubbing his back. ‘The journey back to Liverpool rattled every bone in my body.’
‘Did you discover any witnesses in Manchester?’
‘Nobody saw a thing.’
‘Not even the guard?’
‘No, Inspector. When the train is in motion, he always sits on the other side of the van so he saw the wrong side of the viaduct as the train passed over it yesterday. I made the fatal mistake of sharing the guard’s van with him,’ he went on, massaging a sore elbow. ‘It’s no better than a cattle truck.’
‘Did he remember
anything
about yesterday’s journey?’ said Heyford. ‘What about the occupants of that last carriage?’
‘They could have been a tribe of man-eating pygmies, for all that he cared. The guard’s only concern was that the train was on time.’ Undoing his coat, he flopped into a chair. ‘Do you mind if I sit down for a while? I’m aching all over.’
‘I’m sorry, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘I need you to come with me.’
‘Where?’
‘To retrieve some stolen property. While you were away, we had an interesting development in the case.’ He eased the sergeant to his feet. ‘Come on – I’ll tell you about it on the way.’
Leeming blenched. ‘Not another train journey?’
‘Two of them, I’m afraid.’
The
Red Rose
was moored in the canal basin. Micah Triggs sat on the bulwark of his barge and puffed contentedly on his pipe. Well into his seventies, he had a weather-beaten face and a shrunken body but he remained unduly spry for his age. Curled up in his lap, basking in the afternoon sunshine, was a mangy black cat. When he saw three figures walking towards him along the towpath, Micah stood up suddenly and catapulted the animal on to the deck. With a squeal of protest, the cat took refuge beneath the sail.
‘Mr Triggs?’ asked Colbeck as they got near. ‘Mr Micah Triggs?’
‘The same,’ grunted the old man.
Colbeck introduced himself and his companions, Victor Leeming and Walter Praine. He explained that he was leading the investigation into the murder and thanked Micah for the witness statement that he had given.
‘If you work on a barge,’ said Micah, shifting his pipe to the other side of his mouth, ‘you fish all sorts of odd things out of the canal but this is the first time we found the dead body of a man.’
‘Your son and grandson were with you, I believe.’
‘Yes, Inspector – Enoch and Sam.’
‘How tall would your son be?’
‘That’s a strange question. Why do you ask it?’
‘Curiosity, Mr Triggs. Would he be around your height?’
‘No,’ replied Micah. ‘Enoch is a good foot taller than me and twice as broad. Sam is shorter and has more of my build.’
‘Then it’s your grandson we need to speak to, sir,’ said Colbeck, glancing around. ‘Where might we find him?’
‘What business do you have with Sam?’
‘We just want to clarify something in his statement.’
Micah was suspicious. ‘It takes
three
of you to do that?’
‘I think I know where he might be, Inspector,’ said Constable Praine, sensing that they would get little help from the old man. ‘Most of the bargees spend their spare time in the Traveller’s Rest.’ He pointed to the inn further along the towpath. ‘My guess is that he and his father will be in there.’
‘Shall I roust them out, sir?’ volunteered Leeming.
‘No, Victor,’ replied Colbeck. ‘This is a job for Constable Praine, I think. And no rousting out is required. The only person we need is Samuel Triggs. He sounds as if he’d be the right size. Constable.’
‘Yes, Inspector?’ said Praine.
‘Invite him, very politely, to come and talk to me.’
‘I will, sir.’
Pleased with his assignment, Praine went off willingly towards the inn. On the journey there, Colbeck had questioned him closely about the Liverpool Constabulary and, in the course of describing activities at the central police station, the constable had let slip the information that he had conceived a romantic interest in Heyford’s daughter. Since Praine was too frightened of the inspector to pursue it any further, Colbeck hoped that he could put in a good word for the young lover by praising his conduct as a policeman. It was the reason he had dispatched Walter Praine to the Traveller’s Rest.
‘What’s going on?’ said Micah, warily.
‘You tell us, sir,’ suggested Colbeck.
‘We’ve done nothing wrong. We helped you.’
‘That’s true, Mr Triggs, and we were grateful. But another witness has come forward and his statement contradicts all three that were made on the
Red Rose
.’
Micah became aggressive. ‘Is someone calling me a liar?’
‘Not at all.’
‘I told those policemen exactly what I saw.’
‘I’m sure, sir.’
Colbeck looked around the barge. Sailing along the canal, the
Red Rose
had a certain grace about it. Close to, however, its defects were glaringly obvious. It was old, dirty and neglected. The sail had been repaired in several places and some of the planks in its deck were badly splintered. Also, it stank. Micah could read his mind.
‘It’s not my fault,’ he said, bitterly. ‘I can’t afford a new barge. There’s not the same money in the canal any more. That bleeding railway is to blame. It’s took lots of our trade away from us. And what has it given us in return – a bleeding corpse!’
‘I’d much prefer to travel by water,’ said Leeming.
‘It’s in our blood.’
‘By water, horse or on my own two feet. Anything but a train.’
Leeming was about to explain his dislike of the railway when he saw two people emerge from the Traveller’s Rest. Constable Praine was strolling towards them with Samuel Triggs by his side. Triggs was wearing the same rough clothing as his grandfather and a similar hat, but the sun picked out something that set him apart from the other bargees. On his feet was a pair of expensive, shiny, black leather shoes. He was a slim young man in his twenties with a defiant smile and an arrogant strut. Triggs saw the detectives looking at his
shoes.
‘Finders, keepers,’ he said.
‘They belong to someone else,’ Colbeck told him.
‘Yes, but ’e’s got no bleedin’ use for ’em, poor devil.’
‘That doesn’t give you the right to steal from him, Mr Triggs.’
‘It was my reward for pullin’ ’im out of the canal.’
‘Where’s the jacket?’
‘What jacket?’ returned Triggs with a blank expression on his face. ‘There
was
no jacket. Grandpa?’
‘No,’ said Micah, firmly. ‘He had no jacket on, Inspector.’
‘Father will tell you the same. Ask ’im.’
‘Constable Praine,’ said Colbeck, smoothly, ‘we are confronted here with what amounts to a collective loss of memory. Three people have somehow forgotten that the corpse was wearing a suit when it fell into the canal. How do you deal with this sort of problem when you come across it?’
‘Like this, sir.’
Seeing an opportunity to impress, the policeman grabbed Triggs by the collar and lifted him bodily before dangling him over the edge of the canal. Triggs squawked in protest but he could not get free.
‘If I hold him under the water long enough, we might eventually get an honest answer out of him.’
‘Leave him alone,’ yelled Micah, snatching up a wooden pole to brandish at Praine, ‘or I’ll split your skull open.’
‘That wouldn’t be very wise, Mr Triggs,’ said Leeming as he squared up to the old man. ‘We’re already in a position to arrest your grandson for the theft of a pair of shoes. Do you want to share the same cell on a charge of assaulting a police officer?’ Micah spat into the water with disgust then flung the
pole aside. ‘That’s better, sir.’
‘Now, then,’ said Praine, dipping Triggs in the water before pulling him out again, ‘have I jogged your memory?’
‘Yes!’ cried Triggs, capitulating. The constable set him down again. ‘It’s under the tarpaulin. I was goin’ to wear it on special days.’
‘But it must have a hole in the back,’ observed Colbeck.
‘It’s only a slit – and you can ’ardly notice the bloodstains.’