Inspector Colbeck's Casebook (19 page)

‘Why did you steal this from our room?’ she asked.

‘I liked the drawings,’ said the woman, grinning inanely.

‘But this is my property. You shouldn’t have taken it.’

‘I didn’t mean any harm.’

‘It upset me a great deal.’

The woman giggled. ‘You’ve got it back now.’

Madeleine saw that it was futile to attempt a proper conversation with the woman. Her voice was high and childish and she clearly had no idea that what she had done was to commit a crime. Madeleine felt desperately sorry for her. The woman was patently deranged in some way. The next moment, Colbeck came walking along the corridor with the hotel manager. Whitchurch was horrified when he saw what the woman was holding in her hands.

‘Oh, Mother!’ he cried in despair. ‘What have you taken
this
time?’

Madeleine was as good as her word. When they stepped into an empty compartment, she was still clasping
Puffing
Billy
to her breast. He would be held close to her heart all the way back to London.

‘I think it’s safe to say that it was an eventful visit,’ remarked Colbeck.

‘It was a little
too
eventful for my liking, Robert.’

‘You got what you came to get, my love.’

‘But I had it stolen for a while,’ she recalled. ‘That was terrifying. I’d have been far less upset if she’d taken my handbag or one of my dresses.’

‘The poor lady simply took the first thing that came to hand, Madeleine. There was no thought of stealing for gain. Kleptomania is a cruel disease of the mind,’ he said, sadly. ‘It’s an uncontrollable desire to take things from others for the simple pleasure of doing so. Nothing she stole was of any practical use or value to her.’

‘All that I could do was to offer her my sympathy.’

‘I reserved mine for the manager,’ said Colbeck. ‘Think how much Mr Whitchurch must have paid out in compensation to angry guests. He did everything in his power to conceal the fact that his mother had somehow acquired a replica of the master key so that she could let herself into any room she chose. His wife tried to keep an eye on her mother-in-law but the older Mrs Whitchurch was far too guileful. Driven by the urge to steal, she always found a means of escape.’

Madeleine shook her head. ‘She won’t be doing that any more, Robert.’

‘No, her spree is over at last. Whitchurch accepted that he and his wife can no longer cope with her antics. He’s putting his mother in the care of a cousin who lives in the country. She’ll have far less opportunity to steal anything
there and will, to some extent, be isolated from temptation. It’s not an ideal solution but it avoids the stigma of having his mother committed to a mental asylum. However,’ he went on, brightening, ‘let’s remember the more pleasant aspects of our holiday, shall we? You achieved your objective and we had the luxury of time alone together. In addition, of course, you proved that you were more than a match for me as a detective.’

She laughed. ‘I don’t know about that, Robert.’

‘Take full credit,’ he insisted. ‘I was tempted to arrest the manager. It was you who discovered the real identity of the thief. In terms of detection, I am merely a
Puffing Billy
, an ancient relic, whereas you are truly a
Lord of the Isles
– or, should I say, a
Lady of the Isles
?’

England, 1852

Matthew Proudfoot was a man who insisted on getting value for money. As one of the directors of the Great Western Railway, he had invested heavily in the company and believed that it entitled him to special privileges. When he learnt that an off-duty train was going from London to Swindon that evening, therefore, he effectively commandeered it, and, as its sole passenger, issued strict instructions to the driver. James Barrett was wiping his hands on an oily rag when the portly figure of Proudfoot strode up to the locomotive. Recognising him at once, Barrett straightened his back and gave a deferential smile.

‘Good evening, Mr Proudfoot.’

‘I need to be at Reading station by eight o’clock,’ said the other, curtly. ‘I expect the ride to be swift but comfortable.’

‘But we’re not supposed to stop, sir,’ explained Barrett, glancing at his fireman. ‘The engine is being taken out of service so that repairs can be made at Swindon.’

‘On her way there, she can oblige me.’

‘I have to follow orders, Mr Proudfoot.’

‘I’ve just given them. Take me to Reading.’

‘But I need permission, sir.’

‘You’ve
got
permission, man,’ said Proudfoot, testily. ‘I’ve spoken to your superiors. That’s why the first-class carriage was added to the train. It’s the only way I’d deign to travel.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Remember that you have a director of the company aboard.’

‘Oh, I will,’ promised Barrett.

‘I’ll be keeping an eye on the performance of the train.’

‘You’ll have no reason for complaint, sir.’

‘I hope not,’ warned Proudfoot.

And he turned on his heel so that he could stalk off and accost the guard at the rear of the train. Barrett and Neale watched him go. The driver was a wiry man in his thirties with years of service on the Great Western Railway. He took a pride in his job. His fireman, Alfred Neale, short, thin, angular, still in his twenties, was also an experienced railway man. Unlike his workmate, he showed open resentment.

‘He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that, Jim,’ he said.

‘I take no notice.’

‘But you’re one of the best drivers we’ve got. Mr Proudfoot should have shown you some respect. Who does he think he is – God Bloody Almighty?’

‘Forget him, Alf,’ suggested Barrett. ‘We’ve got a job to do even if it don’t get the recognition it deserves. Is he on board yet?’

‘Yes,’ replied Neale, sourly, looking back down the
platform. ‘His Majesty’s just climbing into his first-class carriage. Anyone would think that he
owned
the train. Stop at Reading, he tells us! I think we should go all the way to Swindon and to hell with him.’

Barrett gave a weary smile. ‘Orders is orders, Alf.’

‘I’ve half a mind to ignore ’em.’

‘Well, I haven’t,’ said the other, consulting a battered watch that he took from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Mr Proudfoot wants to be there by eight, does he? Fair enough.’ He put the watch away. ‘Let’s deliver him bang on time.’

Fifteen minutes later, the train steamed out of Paddington.

When he first heard the details of the crime, Robert Colbeck was baffled. As an inspector in the Detective Department at Scotland Yard, he had dealt with many strange cases but none that had made him blink in astonishment before. He rehearsed the facts.

‘When the train left London,’ he said, ‘Matthew Proudfoot was the only passenger in a first-class carriage. The guard was travelling in the brake van, the driver and fireman on the footplate.’

‘That’s correct,’ agreed Edward Tallis.

‘None of those three men left his post throughout the entire journey yet, when the train stopped at Reading station, Mr Proudfoot was dead.’

‘Stabbed through the heart.’

‘By whom?’

‘That’s for you to find out,’ said Tallis, crisply. ‘As you know, the Great Western Railway has its own police but their work is largely supervisory. They watch over the track
and act as signalmen. A murder investigation is well beyond them. That’s why we’ve been called in.’

Robert Colbeck pondered. Tall, slim and well favoured, he wore a light brown frock coat, with rounded edges and a high neck, dark trousers and an ascot cravat. Though he had the appearance of a dandy, Colbeck was essentially a man of action who never shirked danger. He pressed for more detail.

‘What was the average speed of the train?’ he asked.

‘Thirty-five miles per hour.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because that’s the approximate distance between Paddington and Reading, and it took almost exactly an hour to reach the station. So you can rule out the obvious explanation,’ said Tallis, briskly. ‘Nobody jumped onto the train while it was in motion – not unless he wanted to kill himself, that is. It was going too fast.’

‘Too fast to jump
onto
, perhaps,’ decided Colbeck. ‘But a brave man could jump
off
the train at that speed – especially if he chose the right place and rolled down a grassy embankment. That might be the answer, Superintendent,’ he speculated. ‘Suppose that Mr Proudfoot was
not
the sole occupant of that carriage. Someone may already have concealed himself in one of the other compartments.’

‘That’s one of the avenues you’ll have to explore.’

Superintendent Edward Tallis was a stout, steely man in his fifties with a military background that had left him with a scar on his cheek. He had a shock of grey hair and a well-trimmed moustache that he was fond of caressing. With a lifetime shaped by the habit of command, he expected obedience from his subordinates and, because
Colbeck did not always obey in the way that was required of him, there was a lot of tension between them. Whatever his reservations about the elegant inspector, however, Tallis recognised his abilities and invariably assigned the most difficult cases to him. Colbeck had a habit of getting results.

The two of them were in the superintendent’s office in Scotland Yard. It was early in the morning after the murder and the scant information available was on the sheet of paper that Tallis handed to Colbeck. When he studied the paper, the inspector’s handsome face puckered with disappointment.

‘There’s not much to go on, I’m afraid,’ said Tallis with a sigh. ‘Beyond the fact that Matthew Proudfoot got into a train alive and was dead on arrival at his destination, that is. You have to feel sorry for the company. It’s not exactly a good advertisement for passenger travel.’

‘Did the train go on to Swindon?’

‘No, it’s been held at Reading, pending our investigation.’

‘Good.’

‘The driver, fireman and guard were also detained there overnight. You’ll find their names on that sheet of paper.’ Rising from his desk, he walked around it to confront Colbeck. ‘There’s no need for me to tell you how crucial it is that this murder is solved as quickly as possible.’

‘No, Superintendent.’

‘Mr Proudfoot was a director of the Great Western Railway. That means they are putting immense pressure on me for action.’

‘I’ll catch the next through-train to Reading.’

‘Take Sergeant Leeming with you.’

‘No,’ said Colbeck, thoughtfully. ‘Victor can travel independently. I need the fastest train that I can get, but I want him to stop at every station along the way to make enquiries. This is high summer. There was good light between seven and eight yesterday evening. Someone may have seen something when Mr Proudfoot’s train went past.’

‘A phantom killer stabbing him to death?’

‘I doubt if we’ll be that fortunate.’

‘Keep me informed.’

‘I always do, Superintendent.’

‘Only when you are under orders to do so,’ Tallis reminded him. ‘I want none of your usual eccentric methods, Inspector. I expect you to conduct this investigation properly. Bear one thing in mind at all times. Our reputation is at stake.’

Colbeck smiled. ‘Then I’ll do nothing to tarnish it, sir.’

There were eight stations between Paddington and Reading and, thanks to his copy of Churton’s
Rail Road Book of England,
Robert Colbeck knew the exact distance between each of them. Travelling in the compartment of a first-class carriage with two uniformed Metropolitan policemen, he tried to reconstruct the final journey by Matthew Proudfoot. When, how and why was the man killed? Was it conceivable that the murder victim had, in fact, had a travelling companion who had turned upon him for some reason? If that were the case, was the other person male or female? And at what point did the killer depart from the train? Colbeck had much to occupy his mind.

The first thing he did on arrival at Reading was to visit the undertaker who had taken charge of the body of the deceased. Sylvester Quorn was a small, wizened, unctuous man, dressed entirely in black and given to measuring each word carefully before he released it through his thin lips. Conducting the inspector to the room where the corpse was laid out on a cold slab, he watched over Colbeck’s shoulder as the latter drew back the shroud. The naked body of Matthew Proudfoot was large, white and flabby. Colbeck studied the livid red gash over the man’s heart. Quorn pointed a skeletal finger.

‘We cleaned him up, sir, as you see.’

‘Just the single wound?’ said Colbeck.

‘One fatal thrust, that was all.’

‘There must have been a struggle of some sort. What state was his clothing in when he was brought in here?’

‘The lapel of his coat was torn,’ said the undertaker, indicating some items in a large wooden box, ‘and his waistcoat was ripped where the knife went through. It was soaked with blood. So was his shirt.’

‘What about his effects?’

‘Everything is in here, Inspector.’

Colbeck sifted through the garments in the box and felt in all the pockets. ‘I don’t find any wallet here,’ he said. ‘Nor a watch. A man like Mr Proudfoot would certainly have owned a watch.’

‘It must have been taken, sir – along with the wallet.’

‘Murder for gain,’ murmured Colbeck. ‘At least we have one possible motive.’

‘I have a request to pass on,’ said the other with an
ingratiating smile. ‘You can imagine how shocked his family were by the news. His wife is inconsolable. Mr Proudfoot’s brother has asked if the body can be released as soon as possible.’

‘He’ll have to wait until it’s been examined by a doctor.’

‘But
I’ve
done that, Inspector. I’ve been examining cadavers for almost forty years. There’s nothing a doctor can tell you that I can’t.’

‘The coroner will want a qualified medical opinion at the inquest.’

‘Of course.’

‘A man in your profession should know that,’ said Colbeck, putting him in his place. ‘Who informed the family of the tragedy?’

‘I did,’ said Quorn, mournfully. ‘Being acquainted with the Proudfoots, I felt that it was my duty to pass on the bad tidings. The railway police agreed that I should do so, though one of them did accompany me to the house. He was so grateful that I did all the talking. It was no effort for me, of course. I deal with the bereaved on a daily basis. It requires tact.’

Colbeck gazed down at the corpse for a few moments before drawing the shroud back over it again. He looked up at the undertaker.

‘How can you be tactful about a murder?’ he said.

When he returned to the railway station, the inspector found the three men waiting to be interviewed in the stationmaster’s office. They were side by side on a wooden bench. None of them looked as if he had slept much during the night. James Barrett seemed deeply upset by what had
happened but Alfred Neale had a degree of truculence about him, as if resenting the fact that he was being questioned. The person who interested Colbeck most was George Hawley, the guard, a plump man in his fifties with a florid complexion and darting eyes.

‘What did you do in the course of the journey?’ asked Colbeck.

‘I did my job, Inspector,’ replied Hawley. ‘I kept guard.’

‘Yet you saw and heard nothing untoward?’

‘Nothing at all, sir.’

‘There was a definite struggle. Someone must have called out.’

‘I didn’t hear him.’

‘Are you sure, Mr Hawley?’

‘As God’s my witness,’ said the guard, hand to his heart. ‘The engine was making too much noise and the wheels were clanking over the rails. Couldn’t hear nothing above that.’

‘So you remained in the brake van throughout?’

Hawley shrugged. ‘Where else could I go?’

‘What about you two?’ said Colbeck, turning to the others. ‘You spent the entire journey on the footplate?’

‘Of course,’ retorted Neale.

‘We’re not allowed to leave it, sir,’ added Barrett, quietly. ‘Or, for that matter, to have any unauthorised persons travelling beside us.’

‘Did the train slow down at any point?’ said Colbeck.

‘No, Inspector. We kept up a steady speed. The truth is,’ he went on, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand, ‘we didn’t wish to upset our passenger. Mr Proudfoot wanted a smooth journey.’

‘You look tired, Mr Barrett. Where did you sleep last night?’

‘Here, sir. On this very bench.’

‘I was on the floor,’ complained Neale.

‘So was I,’ moaned Hawley. ‘At my age, I need a proper bed.’

‘Perhaps you should think of the murder victim rather than of yourself, Mr Hawley,’ scolded Colbeck. ‘I don’t believe that Mr Proudfoot deliberately got himself killed so that he could upset your sleeping arrangements.’

‘George meant no harm, sir,’ said Barrett, defensively. ‘He spoke out of turn. This has really upset him – and us, of course. It’s a terrible thing to happen. We feel so sorry for Mr Proudfoot.’

‘That’s right,’ said Hawley. ‘God rest his soul!’

‘I ain’t sorry,’ affirmed Neale, folding his arms.

‘Alf!’ exclaimed Barrett.

‘I ain’t, Jim. No sense in being dishonest about it. I’m like most people who work for this company. I got reason to hate Mr Matthew Proudfoot and you knows why.’

‘Oh?’ said Colbeck, curiosity aroused. ‘Tell me more, Mr Neale.’

‘Don’t listen to him, Inspector,’ advised Barrett, shooting the fireman an admonitory glance. ‘Alfred lets his tongue run away with him sometimes. We may not have admired Mr Proudfoot, but we all respected him for the position he held.’