The Railway Viaduct (22 page)

‘I’m not leaving this building,’ protested Kane. ‘I have work to do. You obviously don’t realise who I am, Inspector.’

‘You’re a man who is wilfully concealing evidence from the police, sir, and that is a criminal offence. If you will not come with me voluntarily, I will have to arrest you.’

‘But I
have
no evidence.’

‘That’s for me to decide.’

‘This is disgraceful. I shall complain to the commissioner.’

Colbeck opened the door. ‘I’ll make sure that he visits you in your cell, sir,’ he said, levelly. ‘Shall we go?’

Gerald Kane got to his feet. After frothing impotently for a couple of minutes, he finally capitulated. Dropping back into his chair, he waved a hand in surrender.

‘Close that door,’ he suggested, ‘and take a seat.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Colbeck, doing as he was told. ‘I knew that you’d see the wisdom of cooperating with us. The situation is this. When I was in Mantes recently, I went through Chabal’s effects and found a letter written by you. Since it invited him to give a second lecture, I take it that you organised his earlier visit.’

‘I did. It’s one of my many duties.’

‘Where did the earlier lecture take place?’

‘Right here, Inspector. We have a large room for such meetings. My colleagues are sitting in it at this very moment,’ he went on with a meaningful glint, ‘awaiting my arrival for an important discussion.’

‘Engineers are patient men, sir. Forget them.’

‘They will wonder where I am.’

‘Then it will give them something to talk about,’ said Colbeck, easily. ‘Now, sir, can you tell me why you invited Chabal here?’

‘He was a coming man.’

‘Do we not have enough able engineers in England?’

‘Of course,’ replied Kane, ‘but this fellow was quite exceptional. Thomas Brassey recommended him. That was how he came to my notice. Gaston Chabal had enormous promise.’

‘His lecture was obviously well-received.’

‘We had several requests for him to come back.’

‘Could you tell me the date of his visit to you?’

‘It was in spring, Inspector – April 10th, to be exact.’

‘You have a good memory.’

‘That’s essential in my job.’

‘Then I’ll take advantage of it again, if I may,’ said Colbeck. ‘Can you recall how many people attended the lecture? Just give me an approximate number.’

‘I represent civil and mechanical engineers,’ declared the other, loftily. ‘Accuracy is all to us. We do not deal in approximates but in exact measurements. When he first spoke here, Gaston Chabal had ninety-four people in the audience – excluding myself, naturally. As the secretary of the Society, I was here as a matter of course.’

‘Were the others all exclusively engineers?’

‘No, Inspector. The audience contained various parties.’

‘Such as?’

‘People with a vested interest in railways. We had directors of certain railway companies as well as potential investors in the Mantes to Caen project. Mr Brassey, alas, was not here but Chabal was a fine ambassador for him.’

‘Ninety-four people.’

‘Ninety-five, if you add me.’

‘I would not dream of eliminating you, Mr Kane,’ said Colbeck. ‘With your permission, I’d like to plunder that famous memory of yours one last time. How many of those who attended do you recall?’

‘I could give you every single name.’

Colbeck was impressed. ‘You can remember
all
of them?’

‘No, Inspector,’ said Kane, opening a drawer to take something out. ‘I kept a record. If I’d secured Chabal’s services again, I intended to write to everyone on this list to advise them of his return.’ He held out a sheet of paper. ‘Would you care to see it?’

Colbeck decided he might grow to like Gerald Kane, after all.

Victor Leeming was so pleased to be taking part in the investigation again that he forgot the nagging twinge in his ribs as he walked along. It took him some time to reach his destination. He had been sent to the police station that was responsible for Limehouse and adjoining districts. Close to the river, it was a bustling community that was favoured by sailors and fishermen. Limehouse had taken its name centuries earlier from the lime kilns that stood there when plentiful supplies of chalk could be brought in from Kent. It was the docks that now gave the area its characteristic flavour and its central feature.

When his nostrils first picked up the potent smell of fresh fish, Leeming inhaled deeply and thankfully. The bracing aroma helped to mask the compound of unpleasant odours that had been attacking his nose and making him retch. Streets were coated with grime and soiled with animal excrement and other refuse. Soap works and a leather tannery gave off the most revolting stench. Unrelenting noise seemed to come from every direction. Leeming saw signs of hideous poverty. He could almost taste the misery in some places. Limehouse was an assault on his sensibilities. He was grateful when he reached the police station and let himself in.

A burly sergeant sat behind a high desk, polishing the brass buttons on his uniform with a handkerchief. A half-eaten sandwich lay before him. He looked at his visitor with disdain until the latter introduced himself.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, putting the sandwich quickly into the desk and brushing crumbs from his thighs. ‘I didn’t
realise that you were from the Detective Department.’

‘Who am I speaking to?’ asked Leeming.

‘Sergeant Ryall, sir. Sergeant Peter Ryall.’

‘How long have you been at this station?’

‘Nigh on seven years, sir.’

‘Then you should be able to help us.’

‘We’re always ready to help Scotland Yard.’

Ryall gave him a token smile. His face had been pitted by years of police service and his red cheeks and nose revealed where he had sought solace from the cares of his occupation. But his manner was amiable and his deference unfeigned. Leeming did not criticise him for eating food while on duty. Having worked in a police station himself, he knew how such places induced an almost permanent hunger.

‘I want to ask about a man you kept in custody here,’ he said.

‘What was his name?’

‘Pierce Shannon.’

Ryall racked his brains. ‘Don’t remember him,’ he said at length. ‘Irish, I take it?’

‘Very Irish.’

‘Hundreds of them pass through our cells.’ He lifted the lid of the desk and took out a thick ledger. ‘When was he here?’

‘A couple of months ago, at a guess,’ said Leeming. ‘When he left here, he went to France to help build a railway.’ Ryall began to flick through the pages of his ledger. ‘The person I’m really hoping to find is a man who visited Shannon in his cell while he was here.’

‘A lawyer?’

‘No – a friend.’

‘We don’t keep a record of visitors, Sergeant Leeming.’

‘I was hoping that someone here might recall him. If he was a stranger, he’d have no authority to interview the prisoner in his cell. You’d not have let him past you.’

‘That, I wouldn’t,’ said Ryall, stoutly.

‘So how was he able to get so close to Shannon?’

‘One thing at a time, sir. Let me locate the prisoner first.’ He ran his finger down a list of names. ‘I’ve a Mike Shannon here. He was arrested for forgery in June.’

‘That’s not him. This man was involved in a brawl.’

‘Pat Shannon?’ offered the other, spotting another name. ‘We locked him up for starting a fight in the market. What age would your fellow be?’

‘In this thirties.’

‘Then it’s not Pat Shannon. He was much older.’ He continued his search. ‘It would help if you could be more exact about the date.’

‘June at the earliest, I’d say.’

‘Let’s try the end of May, to be on the safe side.’ Ryall found the relevant page and went down the list. ‘It was warm weather last May. That always keeps us busy. When it’s hot and sweaty, people drink more. We attended plenty of affrays that month.’ His finger jabbed a name. ‘Ah, here we are!’

‘Have you got him?’

‘I’ve got a Pierce Shannon. Gave his age as thirty-five.’

‘That could be him. Was he involved in a brawl?’

‘Yes, sir – at the Jolly Sailor. It’s a tavern by the river. We have a lot of trouble there. Shannon was one of five men arrested that night but we kept him longer than the others, it seems.’

‘Why?’

‘He refused to pay the fine, so we hung on to him until he
could be transferred to prison. Shannon was released when someone else paid up on his behalf. He was released on June 4th.’

‘Do you know who paid his fine?’

‘No,’ said Ryall. ‘None of our business. We are just glad to get rid of them. His benefactor’s name would be in the court records.’

Leeming was pleased. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very helpful. While he was under lock and key here, Shannon had a visit from a man whose first name was Luke. Does that ring a bell?’

‘Afraid not – but, then, it wouldn’t. I wasn’t on duty during the time that Pierce Shannon was held here. I spent most of May at home, recovering from injuries received during the arrest of some villains.’

‘You have my warmest sympathy.’

‘Horace Eames would have been in charge of custody here.’

‘Then he’s the man I need to speak to,’ decided Leeming. ‘If he let Luke Whatever-His-Name-Is into one of your cells, he would have been doing so as a favour to a friend. Inspector Colbeck thinks that friend might have been a policeman himself at one time.’

Ryall closed the ledger. ‘Possible, sir. I couldn’t say.’

‘I need to speak to Mr Eames. Is he here, by any chance?’

‘No, he left the police force in July. Horace said that he wanted a change of scene. But he’s not far away from here.’

‘Can you give me the address, please?’

‘Gladly,’ said Ryall. ‘You probably walked past the place to get here. It’s a boatyard. Horace was apprenticed to a
carpenter before he joined the police force. He was always good with his hands. That’s where you’ll find him – at Forrestt’s boatyard.’

The shop was in a dingy street not far from Paddington Station. It sold dresses to women of limited means and haberdashery to anyone in need of it. In a large room at the back of the premises, four women worked long hours as they made new dresses or repaired old ones. The shop was owned and run by Madame Hennebeau, a descendant of one of the many French Huguenot families that had settled in the area in the previous century. Louise Hennebeau was a tall, full-bodied widow in her fifties, with a handsome face and well-groomed hair from which every trace of grey had been hounded by a ruthless black dye. Though she had been born and brought up in England, she affected a strong French accent to remind people of her heritage.

She was very surprised when Robert Colbeck entered her shop. Men seldom came to her establishment and the few who did never achieved the striking elegance of her visitor. Madame Hennebeau gave him a smile of welcome that broadened when he doffed his top hat and allowed her to see his face. Colbeck then introduced himself and she was nonplussed. She could not understand why a detective inspector should visit her shop.

‘Would you prefer to talk in English or French, Madame?’

‘English will be fine, sir,’ she replied.

‘French might be more appropriate,’ he said, ‘because I am investigating the murder of a gentleman called Gaston Chabal. Indeed, I have spent some time in France itself recently.’

‘I still do not see why you have come to me, Inspector.’

‘While I was abroad, crimes were committed on a railway line that was being built near Mantes. The men responsible have now been arrested but, had they done what they were supposed to do, they would have been richly rewarded. To get the reward,’ Colbeck explained, ‘the leader of the gang was told to come here.’

‘Why?’ she asked, gesticulating. ‘This is a dress shop.’

‘It’s also a place where a message could be left, apparently.’

‘Really?’

‘For whom was that message intended?’

‘I have no idea. I think there’s been some mistake.’

‘I doubt it. The man I questioned was very specific about this address. He even knew your name, Madam Hennebeau.’

‘How
?’

‘That’s what I’d like you to tell me.’

Waving her arms excitedly, she went off into a long, breathy defence of herself and her business, assuring him that she had always been very law-abiding and that she had no connection whatsoever with any crimes committed in France. Her righteous indignation was genuine enough but Colbeck still sensed that she was holding something back from him. He stopped her with a raised hand.

‘Madame Hennebeau,’ he said, politely, ‘you obviously did not hear what I said at the start of the conversation. My visit here concerns a murder investigation. Nothing will be allowed to obstruct me in pursuit of the killer. Anyone who harbours information that may be useful to me – and who deliberately conceals it – will find that they are on the wrong side of the law. Retribution will follow.’

‘But I have done nothing wrong,’ she said, quivering all
over.

‘You are protecting someone I need to find.’

‘No, Inspector.’

‘He may even be hiding here at the moment.’

‘That’s not true,’ she cried in alarm. ‘There’s nobody here except my women and me.’

‘I may need to verify that by searching the premises. If you refuse to help me, Madame Hennebeau, I will have to return with some constables to go through every room. It may be necessary to disturb your seamstresses while we do so but that cannot be helped. As I told you,’ he stressed, ‘I’ll let nobody obstruct me.’

‘That is not what I’m doing, Inspector Colbeck.’

‘I know when I’m being lied to, Madame.’

‘I’m an honest woman. I’d never lie.’

‘Do you want me to organise that search?’

‘If I could help you, I would.’

‘Then tell me the truth.’

‘I do not know it myself.’ She took a tiny handkerchief from the sleeve of her blouse and dabbed at her watering eyes. ‘A gentleman came in here some weeks ago. He asked me if I would receive a message for him in return for some money. That’s all I had to do,’ she said, earnestly. ‘Receive a message and hold it here for him. When it came, I was to put something in the window – a display of green ribbons – so that he could see it as he passed.’