Authors: Edward Marston
‘But suppose it had been you who’d broken a leg, sir?’
‘I did suppose it, Aubrey, and it made me offer up a prayer of thanks. I landed on level ground but Bernard, alas, hit some rocks. It could so easily have been the other way around.’
‘How could we have managed without you, sir?’
‘You wouldn’t have had to do so.’
‘No?’
‘Once the leg had been put into a splint, I’d have used a pair of crutches to get round. Nothing would stop me from keeping an eye on a project like this,’ he went on, stoutly. ‘If I’d broken both legs and both arms, I’d have men to carry me around on a stretcher.’
‘Heaven forbid!’
‘Never give in, Aubrey – that’s my motto.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And always complete a railway ahead of time.’
Brassey put on his hat. They clambered up the embankment and strolled back towards the office. Filton was not reassured by his employer’s brave words. Clearly, they had enemies. That was what alarmed him. He felt certain that it was only a matter of time before those enemies struck again.
‘By the way,’ said Brassey, ‘have you seen Gaston Chabal?’
‘No, sir.’
‘He was due back here days ago.’
‘Well, I’ve seen no sign of him. Wherever can he be?’
‘Find out.’
‘I’ll try, sir.’
‘When I engage a man, I expect him to fulfil his duties or give me an excellent reason why he’s unable to do so. Gaston has left us in the dark,’ said Brassey. ‘We need him back here. Unless he turns up soon, he may well find that he is no longer working for me.’
Victor Leeming had been horrified to learn that he had to go to France with Robert Colbeck. Apart from the fact that he would miss his wife, Leeming knew that he would be condemned to spend long and uncomfortable hours on trains, a form of transport he had come to loathe. There was an even deeper cause for concern. Leeming was uneasy about the temper of the French nation.
‘What if they have another revolution while we’re here?’ he said.
‘Then we’ll be privileged spectators,’ replied Colbeck.
‘It wasn’t long ago that the barricades went up in Paris.’
‘France was not alone, Victor. In 1848, there were revolutions in other parts of Europe as well. Superintendent
Tallis feared that we might have riots in London if the Chartists got out of hand.’
‘We’ve had nothing to match the bloodshed over here,’ said Leeming, looking through the window of the carriage at some peasants working in the fields. ‘There’s something about the French. It’s in their nature to revolt. They make me feel uneasy.’
The two men were on their way to Mantes. Having crossed the English Channel by packet boat, they had boarded a train at Le Havre and were steaming south. Colbeck had been pleased to note that the locomotive was of English design and construction, but the news brought no comfort to the sergeant. The name of Thomas Crampton was meaningless to him. If the train had been pulled by a herd of giant reindeer, Leeming would have shown no interest. The only thing about France that would bring a smile to his craggy face was the date of their departure from the country.
‘Look upon this as an adventure,’ urged Colbeck. ‘You are seeing a foreign country for the first time and you’ll get some insight into the way that it’s policed.’
‘It seems such a long way to come, sir.’
‘Be grateful that the murder victim was not Italian or Swiss. Had that been the case, we’d have had to go much farther afield.’
‘I’d prefer to be in London.’
‘Amid all that crime and squalor? There’s far less danger out here in the countryside, Victor, and it’s so much healthier for us to get away from the city.’ A beautiful chateau appeared on the horizon. He pointed it out to his companion. ‘Isn’t it superb?’ he said. ‘Now there’s something you wouldn’t see in Whitechapel.’
Leeming was unimpressed. ‘I’d still much rather be there.’
‘You’re too insular,’ said Colbeck with a laugh.
‘I like my country, that’s all. I’m patriotic.’
‘I have no quarrel with that.’
The railway had been built in defiance of geography. There were so many hills, valleys and rivers to cross that there was a long sequence of tunnels, cuttings, bridges and viaducts. As they sped across the Barentin Viaduct with its striking symmetry and its panoramic views, Colbeck thought it better not to mention that it had once collapsed into the valley below. Teeth clenched and hands gripping the seat for safety, Leeming was already troubled enough by having to cross it. The magnificent construction had all the qualities of a death trap to him. Only when they were well clear of the viaduct did he find his voice again.
‘Why didn’t he choose that instead, Inspector?’ he asked. ‘Why didn’t the killer throw his victim over that viaduct instead of coming all the way to England to do it?’
‘You’re assuming that the murderer was French.’
‘Isn’t that why we’re here?’
‘No, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘We are hunting a motive. I’m fairly certain that the man who killed Gaston Chabal was English and that only the Sankey Viaduct would suffice.’
‘In that case, the lady’s husband must be involved.’
‘I think not.’
‘His wife was unfaithful to him – there’s the motive.’
‘On the face of it, perhaps,’ said Colbeck, ‘but there are two very good reasons why we can eliminate Alexander Marklew from our enquiries. To begin with, he was quite unaware of the friendship that existed between his wife and M. Chabal.’
‘It was more than a friendship, sir. Let’s not beat about the
bush. It was adultery, pure and simple – except that it was far from pure. I don’t hold with it,’ declared Leeming, thinking of his wife. ‘Marriage vows should be kept.’
‘We are not here to sit in judgement on Mrs Marklew. The fact is that, but for the information that she volunteered, we would still be scratching our heads back in Scotland Yard. But there’s an even stronger reason why the husband must be discounted,’ he went on. ‘Mr Marklew is a director of the London and North-West Railway. He would never do anything to create bad publicity for it. Murder is the worst possible advertisement, Victor.’
Colbeck had given him an abbreviated version of what he had learned from Hannah Marklew, making no reference to the fact that it was Madeleine Andrews who had obtained most of the salient facts. While he did not share the superintendent’s dismissive attitude towards women, Leeming would certainly have questioned the use of one in a murder investigation. That was why Colbeck told him only what the sergeant needed to know. Victor Leeming was an able detective but he was shackled to correct police procedure. When it served his purpose, the inspector was ready to ignore it.
‘Are you hungry, Victor?’ he asked.
‘No, sir,’ replied Leeming, feeling his stomach. ‘Crossing the Channel took away my appetite completely. Besides, I don’t think that I’d take to French food.’
‘Why not?’
‘They eat horses and frogs and snails.’
‘Not on the same plate,’ said Colbeck with amusement. ‘Wait until you taste their wine. If we stay here long enough, you’ll acquire a real taste for it. You may even learn some of the language.’
‘There’s only one thing I want to hear, sir.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The French for “We’re going home”. Very soon, please.’
Having removed his coat and hat, Thomas Brassey was at his desk, poring over surveyors’ maps as he planned the next stage of the Mantes-Caen railway. Each project threw up its own individual challenges and this one was no exception. There were a number of potential hazards to be negotiated. He was grappling with one of them when there was a firm tap on the door. In response to Brassey’s call, it opened to admit Inspector Robert Colbeck and Sergeant Victor Leeming. When introductions had been made, Brassey was amazed to hear that they had come all the way from England in order to see him.
‘Have I committed a crime of some kind?’ he asked.
‘Not at all, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘We’re here on other business. I believe that you employ an engineer called Gaston Chabal?’
‘I did employ him, Inspector, but the fellow seems to have vanished into thin air. He’s an extremely competent man. If he keeps me waiting any longer, however, he’ll find that he no longer has a job here. Nobody is indispensable.’
‘M. Chabal will not be returning here, I fear. He’s dead.’
Brassey was shocked. ‘Dead – poor Gaston!’
When he was told about the murder, he was aghast and felt guilty for harbouring so many unkind thoughts about the engineer’s absence. It was no wonder that Chabal had been unable to return.
‘Did you know that he went to England?’ said Colbeck.
‘No, Inspector. He told me that he was going to be in Paris for a few days to see his parents. I’d no idea that he crossed
the Channel. Whatever could have taken him there?’
‘We believe he went to see a friend, Mr Brassey, but that’s not our major concern. What we are looking for is the reason why he was singled out in this way. That reason can only be found in France.’
‘Nothing else would have brought us here,’ said Leeming, sourly. ‘We hope that the effort will have been worthwhile.’
‘You must forgive Victor. Rail travel is a torment to him.’
‘That boat was even worse, sir. Fair upset me, it did.’
‘He misses London,’ explained Colbeck. ‘He hates to be away from his wife and children.’
‘I always bring my family with me,’ said Brassey.
Leeming scowled. ‘I could hardly do that in my job, sir.’
‘No,’ agreed Colbeck. ‘It might hamper you somewhat. But let’s turn our attention to Chabal. He’s the important person here. What sort of man was he, Mr Brassey?’
‘An extremely able one,’ said the contractor. ‘Gaston had the sense to learn from good masters. Most of the engineers I employ are English, but Gaston Chabal could match any of them.’
‘Did he have any enemies?’
‘None that I know of, Inspector. He was very popular. Some of the men used to tease him because he was French, but it was all in good fun. I can’t think of any reason why anyone should conceive such a hatred of him that he wanted him dead.’
‘And yet someone clearly did.’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you had any trouble in your camp, sir?’ said Leeming.
‘We’ve had the usual fights and drunkenness, but you
expect that from navvies. They’re a law unto themselves. If you employ them, you have to allow for a certain amount of boisterous behaviour.’ Brassey grew pensive. ‘On the other hand…’
‘Well?’ prompted Colbeck.
‘No, no. It’s probably just a coincidence.’
‘Let us be the judge of that, sir.’
‘The truth is,’ confessed Brassey, running a hand across his broad forehead, ‘that we’ve been having a spot of bother here. I’ve tried to ignore it but Aubrey takes it very seriously.’
‘Aubrey?’
‘Aubrey Filton, one of the senior engineers. He worked alongside Gaston and he’ll be very distressed to hear what’s happened to him. Anyway,’ he continued, ‘there have been three or four incidents here that look as if they’re part of a worrying pattern.’
‘What sort of incidents, Mr Brassey?’
‘Aubrey would be the best person to tell you that.’
‘Is he here at the moment?’
‘Yes, Inspector. He has an office in the hut at the end.’
‘Then I think you should pay him a visit,’ said Colbeck, raising an eyebrow at Leeming. ‘Break the sad news to him, Victor, and see what memories he may have of Chabal. And make a list of these incidents. They could be significant.’
Leeming nodded and went straight out. Colbeck was glad to be alone with the contractor. He had long been an admirer of Thomas Brassey and had always felt it rather unjust that those who designed locomotives or ran railway companies enjoyed public acclaim while those who actually built the endless miles of track remained in the shadows. The two men appraised each other.
‘Do sit down, Inspector,’ said Brassey, resuming his own seat.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Colbeck lowered himself on to a chair. ‘This is a treat for me. I’ve always wanted to see a new stretch of line being laid. We hired a trap in Mantes to bring us out here so I was able to see what you’ve done so far.’
‘Then you’ve also seen the problems created by the Seine.’
‘We followed it for most of the journey.’
‘Rivers are the bane of my life, Inspector Colbeck. Bridges and viaducts slow us down so much. If only we had a flat plain across which to construct a railway – flat and arid.’
‘Then there would be no triumphs of civil engineering.’
‘No triumphs, maybe, but far less sweat and toil.’ He shook his head. ‘I still can’t accept that Gaston is dead. I always found him such an honest fellow. Why tell me that he was going to Paris when he intended to sail to England?’
‘He was being discreet, I expect.’
‘In what way?’
‘There was a lady involved.’
‘Ah, of course. Do you know who she was?’
‘No,’ said Colbeck, determined to honour his promise to keep Hannah Marklew’s name out of it. ‘But I’m convinced that Chabal was on his way to visit her when he was killed.’
Aubrey Filton was very upset to hear of his colleague’s murder. It made him twitch slightly and glance over his shoulder. His office was in a much smaller hut, but it was perfectly serviceable. Victor Leeming glanced at the array of drawings that had been pinned to the wall.
‘What are these, Mr Filton?’ he said.
‘Part of the original survey.’
‘Is this your work, sir?’
‘I wish it was, Sergeant,’ replied Filton, looking enviously across at the wall, ‘but my drawings are not quite as neat and accurate as these. Gaston was very gifted.’
‘Do you mean that Chabal did these?’
‘Most of them. It’s all we have to remember him by.’
Leeming was pleased to have the responsibility of questioning Aubrey Filton. It gave him something to do and took his mind off the queasiness that he still felt. Having heard so many French voices since their arrival, he was relieved to be talking to an Englishman.
‘Mr Brassey mentioned some incidents,’ he said, taking out a notebook and pencil. ‘Could you tell me what they were, sir?’
‘The most recent happened only yesterday. When I inspected a tunnel, I discovered that someone had levered the rails off their sleepers and scattered the ballast everywhere. A week earlier, we had a more serious setback.’