Inspector Colbeck's Casebook (20 page)

‘He gave himself airs and graces,’ sneered Neale.

‘Only because he was a director.’

‘Yes, Jim. He never let us forget that, did he?’

‘What do you mean?’ said Colbeck.

‘Mr Proudfoot was not a nice man,’ confided Hawley.
‘Before we set off from Paddington, he said some very nasty things to me.’

‘You’re lucky that’s all he did, George,’ said Neale, before swinging round to face Colbeck. ‘Every time he travelled by rail, Mr Proudfoot had a complaint. He’s had two drivers fined and one dismissed. He had the stationmaster at Slough reprimanded and reported any number of people he felt weren’t bowing down before Mr High and Mighty.’

‘In other words,’ concluded Colbeck, ‘there are those employed by the GWR who might have a grudge against him.’

‘We’ve
all
got a grudge against him, Inspector.’

‘That’s not true, Alf,’ said Barrett, reproachfully.

‘All except you, then. You’re too soft, Jim.’

‘I never speak ill of the dead.’

Colbeck was interested in the relationship between the three men. As well as being workmates, they were clearly friends. James Barrett was the senior figure, liked and respected by his two colleagues, treating Neale in an almost paternal way. The driver’s main concern was to get his engine to Swindon. All that worried Alfred Neale was the fact that he had spent a night apart from his young wife. The railway police had informed her that his return would be delayed but given her no details. It made the fireman restive. George Hawley was a weak man who sided with anyone who seemed to be in the ascendancy during an argument.

Looking from one to the other, Colbeck put a question to them.

‘Would any of you object to being searched?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied Barrett, calmly. ‘I wouldn’t, Inspector, though I don’t really see the purpose of it.’

‘Certain items were taken from Mr Proudfoot by the killer.’

The driver stiffened with indignation. ‘You surely don’t think that
we
had anything to do with it?’

‘No,’ said Colbeck, ‘I don’t. But I want to be absolutely sure.’

‘You’ve no right to search me,’ declared Neale, angrily.

‘That’s why I’m asking you to turn out your pockets yourself.’ He pointed to the burly Metropolitan policeman who stood in the doorway. ‘If you find that too much of an imposition, Mr Neale, I could ask Constable Reynolds to help you.’

Neale was on his feet. ‘Keep him away from me!’

‘Then do as I request. Put your belongings on that table.’

‘Come on, Alf,’ counselled Barrett, resignedly. ‘Do as the inspector says. That goes for you, too, George.’

‘I’m no thief,’ protested Hawley.

Nevertheless, he emptied his pockets and put his few possessions on the table. Barrett followed suit and, after some cajoling, so did Neale. They even submitted to being patted down by Constable Reynolds as he searched for items concealed about their persons. None were found.

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ said Colbeck. ‘I think that it’s safe to say that you’ve been eliminated as possible suspects.’

‘Does that mean we’re released, sir?’ said Barrett.

‘Not exactly.’

‘But we have to deliver the train to Swindon.’

‘I need to inspect it first, Mr Barrett. After all, it’s the scene
of the crime. I want all three of you there with me, please.’

‘Why?’ asked Hawley, collecting his meagre possessions.

‘Because I want you to show me exactly where you were at the time when – in all probability – Mr Proudfoot was murdered.’

When the crime had been discovered the previous evening, the train had been backed into a siding. It comprised a locomotive, a six-wheeled tender, second-class carriage, first-class carriage and brake van. The train was guarded by two uniformed railway policemen, who stood to attention when they saw the inspector coming. As they approached, Robert Colbeck ran an admiring eye over the steam engine, glinting in the morning sunshine. It had a tall chimney, a sleek, compact boiler and a large domed firebox. Its two driving wheels were 84 inches in diameter and its name –
Castor
– was etched in large brass letters.

‘What’s wrong with her, Mr Barrett?’ he enquired.

‘Old age,’ said Barrett, sadly. ‘
Castor
’s over ten years old now and she’s starting to look it. There’s a problem with her valve gear that needs to be put right and her boiler piping has to be overhauled. She’s part of the
Firefly
class, designed by Mr Gooch.’

‘Yes,’ added Neale, proudly. ‘
Castor
hauled the first train between London and Bristol when the line was opened in 1841. The fireman that day was a certain Jim Barrett.’

Barrett smiled fondly. ‘It was an honour.’

‘Why did you have a second-class carriage in tow?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Due for repair at Swindon, sir,’ said Barrett. ‘It was
damaged in a collision. It was Mr Proudfoot who had the first-class carriage attached and, of course, we needed a brake van.’

‘Let’s start there.’

Reaching the van, Colbeck took hold of the iron handrail and pulled himself up. The driver and fireman remained on the ground but the guard followed him. The brake van was little more than a wooden hut on wheels. Colbeck noted that few concessions had been made to comfort. On a stormy day, wind and rain could blow in through the open windows. He glanced at Hawley.

‘Where were you when the train was in transit?’

‘Sitting in that corner,’ said the guard, pointing to the bench that ran along the rear of the van. ‘Never moved from there, Inspector.’

‘I think I can see why.’ Colbeck bent down to retrieve a large stone jar from under the bench. He sniffed it. ‘Beer,’ he announced. ‘Do you always drink on duty, Mr Hawley?’

‘No, no, sir. I hardly ever touch it.’

‘Then why have you got a gallon jar of the stuff on board?’

‘It must have been left there by someone else,’ said Hawley.

But they both knew that he was lying.

After fixing him with a sceptical glare, Colbeck jumped down to the track and moved along to the first-class carriage that was coupled to the brake van. He hauled himself up to examine the scene of the crime. The carriage comprised three compartments, each capable of accommodating eight passengers. The seats were upholstered and great care had been taken with the interior decoration, but all
that Colbeck was interested in was the blood on the floor of the central compartment. It told him the exact place where Matthew Proudfoot had been murdered.

Colbeck stayed in there a long time, trying to envisage how the killer had struck the fatal blow, and how he had got in and out of the carriage. When he eventually dropped down to the ground again, his curiosity shifted to the second-class carriage.

‘No point in going in there,’ said Barrett. ‘Doors are locked.’

‘Were they locked throughout the journey?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Yes, Inspector.’

‘Who has the key?’

‘I do,’ said Hawley.

‘I’d like to borrow it.’

Taking the key from the guard, Colbeck clambered up and unlocked the doors of the second-class carriage. Going into each compartment in turn, he searched them for signs of recent occupation but found nothing beyond a newspaper that was two days old. Colbeck put his head through the window to look back at the first-class carriage. Those below beside the track were amazed when Colbeck, having taken off his top hat, suddenly emerged through the window and made his way around the back of the carriage before flinging himself across the gap to grab the handles on the adjacent first-class carriage.

Hawley snorted. ‘You’d never do that when the train was going fast,’ he observed, grimly. ‘Not unless you was feeling suicidal.’

‘That reminds me, George,’ said Barrett, ‘you did check
that second class was empty before we left Paddington, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, Jim.’ A long pause. ‘I think so, anyway.’

‘Someone could have been hiding in there.’

‘I’d have seen him.’

‘That depends on how much drink you’d had beforehand,’ said Colbeck, swinging back athletically to the second-class carriage to retrieve his hat. ‘No wonder you heard no sounds of a struggle when the train was in motion, Mr Hawley. I suspect that you may have been fast asleep.’

‘I never sleeps on duty,’ denied the guard, hotly. ‘It ain’t allowed.’

‘Nor is drinking a gallon of beer.’

Hawley bit back a reply and turned away, shamefaced.

It only remained for Colbeck to look at the locomotive and tender. James Barrett was an informative guide, standing on the footplate with the inspector and explaining how everything worked. His deep love of
Castor
was obvious. She had been one of the finest steam locomotives that he had ever driven. Alfred Neale waited until the two men descended from the footplate before he turned detective.

‘That’s how it must have happened,’ he said, brow furrowed in thought. ‘The villain was hiding in second class when we set off. Some time during the journey, he climbed into Mr Proudfoot’s carriage and stabbed him. It’s the only explanation, Inspector.’

‘You may well be right, Mr Neale,’ said Colbeck, pretending to agree with him, ‘though it does raise the question of how the killer knew that Matthew Proudfoot would be travelling on what is, after all, an unscheduled train.’

‘He must have followed his victim to Paddington.’

‘Possibly.’

‘Then slipped into the carriage when nobody was looking.’

‘He weren’t there when I checked,’ said Hawley, officiously. ‘And I’m sure that I did. When there’s no conductor on board, it’s my job.’

‘There is another way he might have got into that carriage,’ said Barrett, stroking his chin reflectively. ‘We moved quite slow out of Paddington. He could have jumped on the train then.’

‘That would mean he was a railwayman,’ noted Colbeck. ‘Someone who knew his way around the station and the goods yard. Someone agile enough to leap onto a moving train.’ He distributed a polite smile among the three of them. ‘Thank you,’ he went on. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

‘Can we can take her on to Swindon now, Inspector?’ asked Barrett, hopefully. ‘We’re already half a day behind on delivery.’

Colbeck shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Barrett,’ he said, ‘but I’d like you and the train to stay here a little longer. Sergeant Leeming will be here soon. I want him to take a look at the scene of the crime. A second pair of eyes is always valuable.’

‘I need to get back to my wife,’ said Neale, irritably.

Hawley tapped his chest. ‘So do I. Liza will miss me.’

‘I got no wife myself,’ said Barrett, ‘but I’d still like to be on my way. There’s mechanics waiting for us at Swindon.’

‘You can’t hold us here against our will,’ insisted Neale.

‘This is a murder investigation,’ Colbeck told them, ‘and that takes precedence over everything else. Now, why don’t you all join me for luncheon? I’ve a lot more questions to put to you yet.’

Sergeant Victor Leeming arrived early that afternoon. He was a stocky man in his thirties with the sort of unfortunate features that even his greatest admirers could only describe as pleasantly ugly. Though he was relatively smart, he looked almost unkempt beside the immaculate inspector. Leeming was carrying a well-thumbed copy of
Bradshaw’s Guide
, the comprehensive volume of public railway timetables that was issued monthly. Colbeck took him aside to hear his report.

‘What did you discover, Victor?’ he asked.

‘That Matthew Proudfoot is well known on this stretch of line,’ replied Leeming. ‘He lived in Reading and travelled up and down to London all the time. He wasn’t a popular man – always trying to find fault with the way that trains were run and stations manned. I wouldn’t like to repeat what a porter at Slough called him.’

‘Did anyone see him as the train passed by yesterday evening?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Who?’

Leeming took out his notebook. ‘Here we are,’ he said, flipping to the right page. ‘He was seen going through Hanwell station, West Drayton, Langley and Maidenhead.’

‘By whom?’

‘Railway policemen, in the first three cases.’

‘And at Maidenhead?’

‘The stationmaster, Mr Elrich.’

‘Are they sure that it was Matthew Proudfoot?’

‘Completely sure, Inspector. By all accounts, he was a very distinctive man. All four witnesses swear that he was sitting in the window of the first-class carriage as
Castor
went past.’ He tapped his notebook. ‘I even have the approximate times written down. Do you want them?’

‘No thank you, Victor,’ said Colbeck, holding up a hand. ‘You’ve told me the one thing I needed to know. Mr Proudfoot was alive when the train left Maidenhead. I had a feeling that he would be.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because the longest stretch between stations on that line is the one that runs from Maidenhead to Twyford. It’s just over eight miles. Given the speed at which they were travelling, that would allow the killer the maximum time – well over a quarter of an hour – in which to strike.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed Leeming. ‘It’s only two miles between Hanwell and Ealing – even less between there and Southall station. He must have waited for open country before he attacked.’

‘Biding his time.’

Leeming put his notebook away. ‘Have you made any progress at this end, Inspector?’

‘A great deal.’

‘Do we have any clues?’

‘Several, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘When a little more evidence has been gathered, we’ll be in a position to make an arrest. Meanwhile, I want the stretch of line between Maidenhead and Twyford to be searched.’

Leeming gaped. ‘All of it?’

‘They can start at Twyford station and work their way back. My guess is that it will be nearer that end of the track.’

‘What will?’

‘The murder weapon. It was thrown from the train.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Would you hang on to a bloodstained knife?’ asked Colbeck. ‘But that isn’t the only item I want to locate. Close by, they should also find the wallet and watch that were stolen from Matthew Proudfoot.’

‘You sound as if you already have the name of the murderer.’