Inspector Colbeck's Casebook (2 page)

‘Your husband was mentioned,’ admitted Leeming.

‘Well, he didn’t do it,’ said Lizzie with a touch of belligerence. ‘I can swear to that. Tom works all hours during the day so he needs every ounce of sleep he can get. He was snoring beside me all night.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Are you married, Sergeant?’

‘Yes, I am, as a matter of fact.’

‘You’d know if your wife wasn’t beside you in bed wouldn’t you? Tom and me are two of a pair. We work till we drop then sleep like logs. Don’t take my word for it,’ she went on. ‘Tom will say the same.’

When she hauled her husband out of the milk parlour, he ambled towards the detectives. Gilkes was a tall, rangy man in his late forties with a beard.

‘What’s this about Harnett?’ he asked. ‘Is it true?’

‘I’m afraid that it is, Mr Gilkes,’ said Colbeck.

‘Then find the killer for me. I’d like to shake his hand.’

‘Don’t speak ill of the dead, sir,’ said Leeming, reproachfully.

‘You didn’t know Harnett.’

‘Did he bother your wife?’

‘No, he didn’t,’ she said, sharply.

‘But he bothered my sister-in-law, Rose,’ said Gilkes. ‘He cornered her one day and I had to rescue her. I gave the little bastard a flea in his ear. Edgar did the same – that’s Rose’s husband.’

‘We’ve met Mr Brennan,’ explained Colbeck. ‘We had the feeling that he would not be sending a wreath to the funeral.’ Gilkes gave a harsh laugh. ‘It’s not a laughing matter, sir. You are, after all, a suspect.’

‘It was nothing to do with me!’ protested Gilkes.

‘I
told
you that, Inspector,’ said Lizzie, hotly.

‘Nevertheless,’ said Colbeck, ‘we’re bound to take the threat made to Mr Harnett seriously. Your husband is like Mr Brennan. My guess is that neither of them minced their words.’

‘You’re quite right there,’ agreed Gilkes. ‘I told that slimy porter to …’

He was silenced when his wife put a hand on his arm. She took over.

‘I can see how it looks to you, Inspector,’ she said with a conciliatory nod, ‘and I don’t blame you. Tom and Edgar had to speak to Jake Harnett but that’s all they did. Edgar is no killer and I’d swear on my mother’s grave that Tom didn’t murder Harnett. Yes, it’s only fair that they’re suspects, I suppose, but you’ll have to look elsewhere for the person you want.’

‘I accept that,’ said Colbeck, graciously. ‘One last question, if I may. Why did your sister marry a much older man?’

‘Edgar’s first wife died,’ said Gilkes, sadly. ‘She was trampled to death when she tried to stop a runaway horse. She was with child at the time. It was a tragedy.’

‘That’s why my sister did it,’ said Lizzie. ‘She took pity on him.’

May Tranter was a plump, grey-haired woman in her fifties with a local accent. When she heard that her lodger had been murdered, she was so overwhelmed with horror that she collapsed into Leeming’s arms. He eased her into a chair. It was minutes before she was able to speak.

‘What was Mr Harnett like?’ prompted Colbeck.

‘Oh, he was a delight to have around the house,’ she said. ‘We treated him like the son we never had. He always had a smile on his face.’

‘Did he have any enemies, Mrs Tranter?’

‘Dear me! No, he didn’t! Who could dislike Jake?’

‘Someone obviously did,’ murmured Leeming.

‘They teased him at the station but that was only because he was so handsome. I think they were all jealous. Jake was a good, kind, hard-working man. He was always ready to help us. My husband was a platelayer till someone was careless with his pickaxe,’ she told them. ‘He’s never been able to walk proper since. Jake used to do the things that Eric just couldn’t do any more.’

‘He sounds like an ideal lodger,’ said Colbeck.

‘He was, Inspector – in every way.’

‘Was there a young lady in his life?’

‘There must have been. A man with such good looks is bound to make hearts flutter.’ She gave a girlish laugh. ‘I know that mine did. Not in an improper way,’ she added, quickly. ‘I just felt … motherly towards him.’

‘Did he go out often?’

‘Yes, he went for a walk most evenings.’

‘Are you sure that it was only a walk?’

She frowned. ‘It wasn’t my place to pry, Inspector.’

‘What time did he go out yesterday evening?’ asked Leeming.

‘It was quite late, Sergeant. Eric and I were just about to go to bed.’

‘Did he tell you where he was going?’

‘He was off on one of his walks. Jake looked so smart, especially when he was wearing his uniform at work.
He always took pains with his appearance.’ She grabbed Colbeck’s shoulder to plead with him. ‘You will catch the man who did this to him, won’t you?’

‘The killer will soon be arrested, Mrs Tranter,’ said Colbeck, confidently. ‘I can guarantee it.’

‘Where are we going?’ asked Leeming as they headed for the railway station.

‘We’re going to retrace Harnett’s footsteps.’

‘Are we off to the coal stage, then?’

‘No,’ said Colbeck, ‘because that isn’t where he went.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Put yourself in his position, Victor. You’re a young man on his way to an assignation. When you’re wearing your best clothes, you’d never go anywhere near dirt and dust. I’ve been to the coal stage,’ Colbeck reminded him, ‘and it is markedly deficient in romance. It would cool any man’s ardour.’

‘So where did Harnett go?’

‘It was somewhere not too far away, I suspect.’

‘Ah,’ said Leeming, reading his mind. ‘I realise what you mean now, sir. Harnett arranged a rendezvous with a young lady but her husband found out about it and came in her stead – or he simply followed her. Whichever way it happened, he killed Harnett and carried his body to that truck.’

‘That’s why it can’t have been too far away.’

‘Why not leave the body where it fell?’

‘I think that someone resented that handsome face and that smart suit. They wanted to besmirch the immaculate porter. Squeezing him into a small tub was a final humiliation for him.’

When they reached the coal stage, Colbeck looked in all directions. His gaze settled on a stand of trees nearby. They’d offer protection from the wind and a degree of privacy. Leeming, meanwhile, was studying the bunker.

‘Does the fireman have to shovel all that coal into the tubs?’

‘Yes, Victor, it’s dirty work. Would it interest you?’

‘No job on the railways interests me, sir.’

Colbeck laughed. ‘Not even being a detective?’

He walked towards the trees with Leeming at his heels. They split up to look for clues that might indicate a struggle had taken place. Colbeck searched for the place most suitable for an assignation. He found it at the very heart of the copse. It was a clearing overhung with branches that made it feel enclosed and secretive. Colbeck was certain that he’d found Jake Harnett’s lair. Working systematically, he went from tree to tree, examining the ground beside each of them with care. It was slow, painstaking work but he was rewarded with the thrill of discovery.

‘Victor!’ he called out.

‘I’m coming,’ said the other, blundering through the undergrowth and into the clearing. Seeing what Colbeck held up, he was disappointed. ‘It’s only a piece of cloth.’

‘Oh, I think it may turn out to be a useful clue.’

Leeming was baffled. ‘Why are you grinning like that?’

They were not the only visitors to Greenacres Farm. Edgar and Rose Brennan had got there before them. They were in the parlour with Tom Gilkes. At the sight of the two detectives, the farmers became combative. Brennan took a step towards them.

‘How many times must I tell you?’ he demanded. ‘I did not kill Harnett.’

‘Neither did I,’ said Gilkes, arms akimbo.

‘Stop pestering us, Inspector.’

‘Jake Harnett was a menace to women. He deserved what he got.’

Leeming wagged a finger. ‘That’s a very cruel thing to say.’

‘Don’t ask for an apology,’ warned Brennan.

‘What about you, Mrs Brennan?’ asked Colbeck, turning to her. ‘Do you take the same view as your husband and your brother-in-law?’

‘No, I don’t,’ she whispered, lowering her head.

‘Yes, you do, Rose,’ scolded her husband.

‘You were the one he pestered most,’ said Gilkes.

Rose looked up. ‘What happened to him was … very wrong.’

She burst into tears. Revealingly, it was Tom Gilkes who put a consoling arm around her. Edgar Brennan looked distantly embarrassed. Colbeck felt that he would take his wife to task when they were alone together. Leeming was eyeing the two men, trying to work out which of them had put an end to the porter’s life. Colbeck’s interest, however, had shifted to an entirely new suspect.

‘Where’s Mrs Gilkes?’ he asked.

‘She’s feeding the chickens,’ said Gilkes. ‘Why do you need to bother her?’

‘I just want to confirm something she said earlier, sir.’

‘Haven’t you asked her enough questions?’

‘I won’t keep her long.’ As Gilkes moved towards the door, Colbeck raised a hand. ‘Don’t bother, sir. I’ll find her.’

He went out, leaving Victor Leeming to face the hostile glares of the men.

Lizzie Gilkes had just finished feeding the chickens when Colbeck strode towards her. There was truculence in her tone.

‘What are you doing here, Inspector?’

‘I came to discuss your husband’s sleeping habits.’

‘I’m busy. I can’t talk now.’

‘And there’s another reason I came,’ said Colbeck, holding up the piece of cloth. ‘I came to return this. It came off the dress you were wearing last night.’

She bridled. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I’m talking about the rendezvous you had with Jake Harnett in that stand of trees near the coal stage. It’s where I found the piece of cloth that he must have torn off your dress as you stabbed him in the chest.’ Her face blanched. ‘You were far too cool when we spoke earlier, Mrs Gilkes. You’d rehearsed what to say. But I saw you wielding that stick when you rounded up the cows. You’re a strong and determined woman. You could easily drag the body of a slight man like Harnett to the coal stage from that clearing.’

‘I was asleep all night behind my husband,’ she said, voice rising.

‘
He
was asleep but you were awake. When you were certain that he’d slumber for hours, you slipped out and made for the station. It’s only ten minutes away. The sergeant and I timed the walk. You met Harnett, killed him, put the body in that truck, covered it with coal then came back here – all in well under half an hour.’

Lizzie backed slowly away towards the barn. Colbeck followed her.

‘You and Mr Harnett were close friends, weren’t you?’

‘No,’ she snarled. ‘I despised him.’

‘Then why did you agree to an assignation?’

‘I didn’t, Inspector. Jake wasn’t expecting me. He never looked twice at me when Rose was around.’ She was rancorous. ‘I’ve had to put up with years of seeing my sister get all the praise and attention. I’m the plain one, she’s the beauty. Jake took it too far.’

‘Mrs Brennan was fond of him, wasn’t she?’

‘She liked him a lot more than she liked that oaf of a husband. Rose let him write to her. When she replied, she begged me to deliver the letter. Can you imagine how painful that was for me?’ she wailed. ‘I was just a go-between. It was all I was good for and Jake rubbed it in. So I lied to him.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, recreating the scene, ‘you told him that your sister would meet him last night but you went there instead. In the dark, he couldn’t tell the difference between you – until it was too late.’

‘I was doing it to save Rose,’ she said with passion. ‘Edgar would have beaten her black and blue if he’d realised what she was up to.’

‘That’s arrant nonsense. Don’t pretend that you thought of anyone else but yourself. You were jealous, Mrs Gilkes, jealous of your sister to the point where you couldn’t bear to see her enjoying a romance with a man nearer her age.’ He moved towards her. ‘Because
you
wanted Jake Harnett, you made sure that your sister would never have him.’ He beckoned her. ‘I shall have to place you under arrest.’

Lizzie was like a hunted animal, looking for a means of escape. Snatching up a hayfork leaning against the barn, she jabbed it at him. He stepped out of reach.

‘You’re ready to fight for your life,’ said Colbeck with feigned admiration. ‘I take my hat off to you, Mrs Gilkes.’

As he whisked the top hat from his head, he flung it in her face and distracted her long enough to duck under the fork and grapple with her. Colbeck twisted her wrist until she dropped her weapon then he tried to overpower her. But years of manual work had toughened her and she fought back hard, yelling obscenities and trying to bite him. It was no time for gentlemanly politeness. Lifting her bodily in one swift move, Colbeck carried her to the horse trough and dropped her into the water with a splash. Before she could begin to get out, he had the handcuffs on her.

When they caught the train back to Paddington, Lizzie Gilkes had been left in custody and her family had been left in a state of utter confusion. Victor Leeming was amazed that a woman had committed the murder and equally astounded at the way Colbeck had dropped her in the horse trough.

‘It’s not the sort of thing I’d expect you to do, sir,’ he said.

‘It worked, Victor. That’s all that matters.’

‘You should have called for me to help you.’

‘I managed on my own,’ said Colbeck. ‘Lizzie Gilkes was a desperate woman with a fire blazing inside her. I put it out by wetting the coal.’

Light rain was falling as the train clanked into Berkhamsted station and came to a halt in a cloud of smoke and steam. Anxious to set off again, the locomotive seemed to be throbbing with irritation. No passengers alighted from any of the carriages but two sturdy figures stepped out of the brake van and waited until the guard passed them an object that was only inches in depth but a yard in height and some four feet wide. It was wrapped up well. Although it was quite heavy, one man carried it without much difficulty. His companion walked beside him.

When they left the station, they saw the carriage waiting for them as arranged. A short, stout, middle-aged man with his hat pulled down over his face was standing beside the vehicle, beckoning them over. The couriers went across to him and eased their precious cargo into the carriage. The short man climbed in after it and shut the door behind him.

One of the couriers banged hard on the door.

‘Our orders are to see it delivered,’ he protested.

‘You’ve just done that,’ said the passenger, brusquely.

‘We must hand it over to Lord Stennard in person.’

‘Your work is finished.’

To emphasise the point, he produced a revolver and aimed it at each man in turn. They backed away in alarm. The driver cracked the whip and the two horses surged into action. Before the couriers could even move, the carriage gathered speed and disappeared around a bend. Somewhere behind them, the train was also on the move, belching smoke and spitting steam as it left the station in its wake. The couriers looked at each other in dismay. There would be awkward questions to answer.

Just when Colbeck thought that he knew everything there was to know about Edward Tallis, the superintendent surprised him by revealing himself as an unlikely art lover. Seated behind his desk, Tallis told the inspector about the daring theft.

‘We must get that painting back,’ he insisted.

‘I didn’t realise that you were one of Turner’s admirers, sir.’

‘What I admire is British genius and Turner certainly had his share of that. I’ve no time for the fanciful daubing of foreign painters – especially those purveyors of French decadence – but I do enjoy looking at the work of our home-grown artists.’

‘I appreciate good art from whatever country it comes,’ said Colbeck.

‘Then you need to be both more discriminating and more patriotic. However,’ Tallis went on, ‘we are wasting valuable time. Lord Stennard wants that stolen painting
retrieved as soon as possible. Question the couriers.’

‘Do you have an address for them, sir?’

‘They’re right here at Scotland Yard.’

‘Good.’

‘When you and the sergeant have interviewed them, make your way to Berkhamsted and try to pacify Lord Stennard.’

‘We’ll do our best.’

‘A word of warning,’ said Tallis.

‘What is it, sir?’

‘I’ve met the august gentleman. He’s a peppery individual at the best of times, impatient, demanding and unpredictable. Handle him with great care or he’s likely to explode in your face.’

Without realising it, Tallis had just described himself with great accuracy, so Colbeck had to suppress a smile. After long years of coping with the superintendent’s hot temper, he felt that he was qualified to handle anybody. About to leave, he remembered something.

‘It’s rather ironic, isn’t it, sir?’

‘What is?’

‘Rain, Steam and Speed
was stolen outside one of the stations on the London and North Western Railway. Yet the painting depicts a train crossing the Thames by means of the bridge at Maidenhead and that’s on the Great Western Railway. It would have been more appropriate if the crime had taken place on the GWR.’

‘Enough of your drollery!’ said Tallis, clicking his tongue. ‘And, for heaven’s sake, don’t make that observation to Lord Stennard. He hates railways. That’s why no tracks have ever been laid across his land.’

‘If he hates railways,’ said Colbeck, perplexed, ‘why does he want a painting that features a train?’

‘I wouldn’t dare to ask him.’

Lord Stennard was a tall, slim, red-faced man in his sixties with a mane of white hair. He walked slowly down one side of his gallery, inspecting each painting in turn through the monocle held to his right eye. When he reached the end of the room, he crossed to the opposite wall to examine the exquisite portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds before moving on to one of John Constable’s landscapes. There were thirty paintings on display in the gallery. Some were owned by him but the majority were on loan for a limited period. It was less than a week before the great and the good of the county converged on Stennard Court to enjoy the private exhibition. Ostensibly, the collection was there for the benefit of his friends but, in reality, it was to satisfy his obsession with the work of great artists.

To have so many fine paintings under his roof at the same time was a source of inestimable pleasure to him and he walked up and down the gallery every day to savour the collection. This latest perambulation, however, did not yield the same excitement. When he pulled himself away from Constable, he was confronted by the yawning space reserved for one of Turner’s masterpieces,
Rain, Steam and Speed.
Instead of arriving to complete the exhibition, it had been snatched away. The gap on the wall made him quiver with rage.

‘Damn you, Inspector Colbeck!’ he growled. ‘Where the devil are you?’

When Colbeck and Leeming went into the room, the two couriers were seated. The younger of them, Stagg, stood to his feet but his companion, Richmore, remained in his chair. After performing the introductions, Colbeck told Stagg to sit down. The latter was dark-haired, bearded and in his thirties. But it was the surly Richmore who caught the inspector’s attention. Running to fat, he was a broad-shouldered man in his forties with, impossibly, a face even uglier than that of Victor Leeming. When the questions began, it was Richmore who supplied most of the answers. It turned out that he’d once been a policeman.

‘Why did you give the job up?’ asked Leeming.

‘Too much hard work and too little pay,’ replied Richmore.

‘There are other rewards than money.’

‘I never noticed any.’

‘Tell us exactly what happened from the moment you picked up the painting at the National Gallery,’ said Colbeck. ‘You start first, Mr Stagg.’

Stagg was quiet and hesitant but he had a good memory, even recalling the times of the departure from Euston and arrival at Berkhamsted. Richmore took over and gave a more embellished account, doing his best to shift the blame for the loss of the painting onto his colleague. He stressed that he’d had far more experience than Stagg and had an unblemished record since working at the National Gallery.

‘Why did you take the painting by train?’ asked Colbeck.

‘I thought it would be quicker and safer,’ said Richmore. ‘We sat in the brake van and guarded it like two hens sitting on a clutch of eggs.’

‘You say that the man in the carriage had a Colt revolver.’

‘That’s right, Inspector.’

‘Had you ever seen one like it before?’

‘Yes,’ said Richmore. ‘When the Great Exhibition was on, Samuel Colt was displaying his wares. I went along to see them. I wish I could have afforded to buy one. It would have been a lot more use than this.’

He pulled a weapon from inside his coat and Leeming instinctively drew back.

‘That’s an old five-shot pepperbox pistol,’ said Colbeck. ‘It’s no match for a Colt. What about you, Mr Stagg? Were you armed?’

Stagg shook his head. ‘We didn’t expect trouble.’

‘I did,’ claimed Richmore. ‘I’m always on guard.’

‘Then why did you get robbed so easily?’ asked Leeming.

‘It wasn’t my fault, Sergeant. I was distracted by Stagg.’

‘That’s not true,’ said Stagg.

‘You kept jabbering at me.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Right,’ said Colbeck, taking charge, ‘this crime only took place because someone knew that you’d be catching a particular train. How many people at the National Gallery were aware of your travel arrangements?’

‘Very few,’ said Stagg, ‘and they’re all above suspicion.’

‘Did you tell anyone else where you were going today and at what time?’

‘Not a soul, Inspector – I didn’t even tell my wife or my son.’

‘
Somebody
must have known,’ insisted Leeming, turning to Richmore. ‘What about you, sir? Did you mention it to
your friends, perhaps, when you had a drink with them? It’s very easy to let things slip out unintentionally.’

Richmore was adamant. ‘I never speak to anyone about my work.’

It was not until they were on the train to Berkhamsted that the detectives had a moment to review at leisure what they’d been told. On one point, they were in complete agreement.

‘Richmore was lying, sir,’ said Leeming.

‘I got the feeling that he’s had plenty of practice at it.’

‘He was full of himself. When a man like that has a few beers inside him, he can’t resist boasting to his friends.’

‘I fancy they’d be more likely to be acquaintances, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘Who’d want to have a braggart like Richmore as a friend? Would you?’

Leeming grimaced. ‘I’d run a mile.’

‘What did you make of Stagg?’

‘I felt sorry for him. He got blamed for everything.’

‘He’s got a wife and child to support.’

‘Yes – losing his job would be a big blow.’

‘Stagg looked so unhappy.’

‘So would I if I’d had to work alongside a bully like Richmore.’

Colbeck smiled. ‘We both work alongside a bully named Tallis,’ he pointed out. ‘Did you know he was a devotee of British art?’ He saw Leeming’s eyes widen in astonishment. ‘Yes, it was a shock to me as well. Despite evidence to the contrary, the superintendent has finer feelings, after all. Going back to the theft,’ he said. ‘If Richmore really
was
involved, he’d need an accomplice in Hertfordshire who could hire a carriage to make off with that painting.’

‘What will the thief do with it, sir?’

‘Well, he won’t hang it up on his wall, I can assure you of that.’

‘Then why bother to steal it?’

‘I can see that you’re not familiar with Turner’s paintings. This particular one is famous and it’s inspired many artists – my wife among them. Madeleine went to see
Rain, Steam and Speed
at least ten times at the National Gallery. Unfortunately,’ said Colbeck, ‘her own paintings of locomotives have nothing like the same value. As for the thief, I daresay that he might try to sell it back to Lord Stennard.’

‘But Lord Stennard doesn’t actually own it.’

‘He’ll feel responsible for its loss. After all, it was because of his request that it left the security of London and travelled to Berkhamsted.’

‘What sort of man is he?’

‘According to the superintendent,’ warned Colbeck, ‘he’s inclined to rant and rave. Can you imagine how Mr Tallis would behave if unsolved crimes soared in the capital, newspapers pilloried him mercilessly and the commissioner threatened him with dismissal?’

Leeming was rueful. ‘I can imagine it all too well, sir.’

‘Then you’ve got a clear idea of what to expect from Lord Stennard.’

The blistering harangue went on for the best part of five minutes. Stennard upbraided the detectives for not getting to his house sooner, for making no apparent progress in the investigation and for not understanding the significant part that Turner would have played in the exhibition. It was only
when he ran out of breath that the tirade finally abated. Leeming felt so uncomfortable that he ran a finger around the inside of his collar but Colbeck was unperturbed. He conjured up an emollient smile.

‘When it comes to art, my lord,’ he said, ‘you are a man of impeccable taste.’

Stennard was taken aback. ‘Oh … thank you, Inspector.’

‘This gallery is a tribute to your skill in selecting the very best paintings.’

‘Art is the nearest we mortals can get to the quintessence of beauty.’

‘I don’t see anything beautiful about a train crossing a bridge,’ grumbled Leeming, ‘for that’s all that Mr Turner gave us, I’m told.’

‘You must forgive the sergeant,’ said Colbeck. ‘He has yet to accept the railways as a vital part of our lives. In Turner’s gifted hands, a locomotive became a thing of pure magic.’

‘I might agree, Inspector,’ observed Stennard, waspishly, ‘if only the painting were actually here for me to enjoy it.’ He indicated the stretch of blank wall. ‘What will my guests think when they see that?’

‘Hang a mirror there,’ suggested Leeming before quailing under Stennard’s basilisk stare. ‘It’s better than a bare space.’

‘We have days to spare yet,’ said Colbeck, ‘so there’s still a possibility that Turner will take his rightful place in the collection. As for our delay, my lord, do not ascribe it to idleness. It was occasioned by the fact that we had to talk to the station staff to see if any of them had witnessed the theft of the painting. Also, of course, we needed to speak to your coachman.’

Stennard blinked. ‘Why on earth did you bother
him
?’

‘It was because I couldn’t understand why he was not at the station to meet the train as arranged and bring the painting here with the two couriers. His explanation was that he’d been held up because a cart had lost a wheel and overturned on the road, blocking his way. As a result of the accident,’ Colbeck continued, ‘it was over twenty minutes before he could continue on his way – except that it wasn’t an accident, of course. It was a deliberate means of stopping him so that another vehicle could get to the station in his stead.’

‘This is a conspiracy!’ yelled Stennard.

‘It was a well-devised plan.’

‘The National Gallery will never forgive me.’

‘I’m sure that they’ll be mollified when you return the painting.’

‘But I don’t have it in order to send it back, man.’

‘Oh, I suspect that it will be on that wall before too long,’ said Colbeck, confidently. ‘My guess is that the thieves stole it in order to sell it back to you – or back to the National Gallery.’