Inspector Colbeck's Casebook (8 page)

‘Oh, he was as proper a gentleman as you could wish to meet,’ answered Fox. ‘His hair was white and he was on the stout side. I had the feeling that Mr Welling looked older than he really was. He was well educated and well spoken. He used a walking stick and seemed to be in some pain when he moved. I just wish that all our witnesses could give such clear statements.’

‘May I see exactly what he said, please?’

Fox opened the desk and took out some sheets of paper before passing them over. Colbeck read the statement with interest. Before the inspector had finished it, Leeming came into the police station. After introducing himself to the duty sergeant, he waited until Colbeck had finished.

‘Have you learnt anything new, sir?’ he asked.

‘I have indeed – what about you?’

‘Mr and Mrs Bignall were well worth the visit.’

‘I suspect that what they told you may be contradicted by what I’ve just read,’ said Colbeck, returning the statement to Fox. ‘It seems as if all roads lead to York. Let’s be on our way, shall we?’

On the train journey north, the first thing that the detectives did was to look for the spot where Moyle had lost his hat. Using the Ordnance Survey map to locate the area, they gazed through the window and noticed how steep the embankment was. The stream below was still gurgling merrily on. As he recounted what the Bignalls had told him, Leeming referred to his notebook. He described them as reliable witnesses and accepted their word without question. When he heard what the police statement had contained, however, the sergeant hoped that it was an accurate one.

‘If what Mr Welling says is true,’ he pointed out, ‘we can declare that it was a tragic accident and go back home to London.’

‘Not so fast, Victor – we need to dig under the surface first.’

‘What do you expect to find?’

‘I have no idea. That’s what makes this case so intriguing.’

‘Mr Moyle’s family is going to have the most dreadful shock.’

‘We can’t even be sure if we’re telling them the truth,’ said Colbeck, sadly. ‘When they hear that he’s been badly injured, he may, in fact, already be dead.’

‘And all because of a top hat,’ sighed Leeming.

‘Never underestimate the importance people attach to certain possessions. Since you never go to the theatre, you’ll be unfamiliar with Shakespeare’s
Othello
.’

‘Is that the play with the three witches, sir?’

‘No, Victor, it features a man who’s driven to murder his wife because she appears to have given away the handkerchief he pressed upon her as a gift. What if the top hat was a gift from Mrs Moyle?’ continued Colbeck, thoughtfully. ‘That
would lend substance to the theory that he felt impelled to go after it.’ He smiled at Leeming. ‘What’s your opinion of Sheffield?’

‘It’s the most awkward place to get to, Inspector.’

‘Yet it’s served by two rival companies – the Midland Railway and the Manchester Sheffield and Lincoln. When they were built, neither of them saw fit to give Sheffield the prominence it patently deserves. It was neglected by the North Midland Railway, as it then was, and had to endure the humiliation of being bypassed. The only way to get there was by a branch line.’

‘What do you think, Inspector?’

‘Oh, I’m certain that Sheffield is going to be a major city one day.’

‘I was asking about this case. Was it an accident or a crime?’

Colbeck pondered. ‘It could be either.’

Rufus Moyle owned a large house in the most desirable part of the city. When the detectives arrived from the station in a cab, they realised that it was possible to see York Minster from the steps leading up to the front door. Leeming rang the bell and the door was opened by a servant. A woman came rushing into the hallway. Her face was a study in anxiety. As soon as Colbeck explained who they were, she gave a visible shudder.

‘Is it about my husband?’ she asked. ‘I expected Rufus home hours ago.’

‘May we come in, please, Mrs Moyle?’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

Beatrice Moyle beckoned them in and took them to the
drawing room. She was a tall, slender woman ten years or so younger than her husband. Had she not been so distraught, she would have been strikingly beautiful. Colbeck invited her to sit down before he broke the news to her. He and Leeming also took a seat.

‘I’m afraid that your husband was involved in an accident,’ said Colbeck.

‘I knew it,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘I had a premonition.’

‘What sort of premonition, Mrs Moyle?’

‘I just felt that something terrible was going to happen today. I begged Rufus not to go to work but he brushed aside my fears. What happened, Inspector?’

‘Suffice it to say that he was badly injured in a fall. He’s being cared for by a doctor in Sheffield. The accident has left him in a coma.’

‘Dear God!’ she exclaimed, leaping to her feet. ‘I must go to him.’

‘Sergeant Leeming will accompany you.’

‘I’ll pack some things in case I have to stay there.’

‘Do the rest of the family need to be informed?’

‘We have no children, Inspector, and our parents are all dead.’

‘You might find it comforting to have a close friend with you, Mrs Moyle.’

‘I’ll be all right,’ she said, bravely. ‘Please excuse me.’

When she’d left, they had a chance to appraise their surroundings. They were in a large, well-proportioned room with a high ceiling. It was filled with costly and tasteful furniture from a century earlier. Over the mantelpiece was a full-length portrait of Rufus Moyle, a handsome man with long, wavy dark hair. Colbeck felt a pang of envy when
he saw the exquisite apparel he was wearing. Leeming was quick to see a faint resemblance.

‘He looks a bit like you, Inspector,’ he remarked.

‘I always think there’s an element of narcissism in having one’s portrait painted,’ said Colbeck, ‘and, happily, that’s something I lack. I’d be much more likely to commission a portrait of Madeleine. She would adorn our home whereas I would feel embarrassed to see myself glaring down from a portrait.’

‘Like you, Mr Moyle has a lovely wife. I wonder why
she
isn’t hanging over the mantelpiece – or a portrait of both of them, maybe.’

‘We may never know, Victor.’

‘I noticed that you didn’t tell her what had actually happened to him.’

‘Mrs Moyle was clearly worried before we even got here,’ said Colbeck. ‘I didn’t want to distress her even more by telling her that her husband had jumped out of a train. If she presses you for information, don’t give too much away.’

‘Where will you be, sir?’

‘I intend to call on Mr Welling. When I’ve spoken to him, I’ll catch the next train to Sheffield and join you at Doctor Scanlan’s house. One last thing,’ he added. ‘If you can get her to volunteer the information, see what you can learn about Mrs Moyle and her husband. This room is telling me an interesting story. I’d like to know if my instincts about it are sound.’

Humphrey Welling was an affable man in his early fifties with prematurely white hair and a paunch. When he called at the house, Colbeck was given a cordial welcome
and ushered into the library. Welling was surprised that a senior detective from Scotland Yard had been summoned to investigate what was simply an unfortunate accident.

‘They happen all the time on the railways,’ he said. ‘I would have thought that it was too starved a subject for your sword, Inspector.’

‘It may well be,’ said Colbeck, noting the quotation from Shakespeare.

‘Have you been in touch with the man’s family?’

‘We called on his wife earlier, sir. Mrs Moyle is now on her way to Sheffield.’

‘Moyle, is it? The fellow didn’t give me his name. To be honest, he was not the most communicative travelling companion. He spent most of the journey with his head buried in a newspaper.’

Welling described what had happened, telling a story that tallied to the last detail with the statement he’d given at the police station. He expressed sympathy at what he assumed was the death of Rufus Moyle.

‘The gentleman is still alive,’ said Colbeck, ‘though he’s in a coma and his life is hanging by a thread. I didn’t want to alarm his wife by telling her that. Mrs Moyle will learn the full truth when she gets to Sheffield.’ He looked at the well-stocked shelves. ‘You’re a reading man, I see.’

‘I’ve only become one since my wife died,’ explained Welling. ‘That’s when I had this room converted into a library. It helps to stave off loneliness.’ He picked up the book on the table beside him. ‘This is what’s engrossing me at the moment. It’s a history of cricket. Do you take an interest in the game, Inspector?’

‘I try to, sir. In fact, I was telling my colleague about the
report I read in
The Times
about Stephenson’s hat trick. It was achieved at Hyde Park in Sheffield.’

‘Yes and I kicked myself that I wasn’t there to witness the feat. I’ve seen Stephenson bat and bowl many times. He’s a born cricketer.’

Having got him on a subject in which they were both interested, Colbeck let him roll on, feeling that he’d discover far more about the man if he learnt about his passions. When there was a lull in the conversation, he shifted its direction.

‘I gather that you’re a director of the Midland Railway.’

‘That’s right, Inspector.’

‘When it first came into existence, why didn’t the NMR, as it was called then, build a direct line to Sheffield?’

‘Ah,’ said Welling, settling back into his chair, ‘that’s a long story.’

Having taken Beatrice Moyle to the house in a cab, Leeming bided his time. Doctor Scanlan gave his prognosis as gently as he could but it nevertheless had a stunning effect on Beatrice. She staggered backwards and would have fallen to the floor if Leeming had not caught her. He lowered her into a chair. It was several minutes before she recovered. When she did so, she insisted on seeing her husband. The doctor took her off into the room where the patient lay and Leeming heard her cry of horror. He waited for a long time before she emerged. The doctor was more or less supporting her. He helped her into a chair where she sobbed into a handkerchief. Scanlan took Leeming aside.

‘The situation is this,’ he whispered. ‘Mr Moyle is very near his end. His wife wanted to stay with him but feels she’d be unequal to the ordeal. She’s already overwrought.
There’s a hotel where she’s stayed before. I suggest that you take her there, Sergeant. If there’s any change in his condition, I’ve promised that word will be sent at once – whatever time it might be.’

‘That’s very good of you.’

‘I’m surprised that he’s held out this long.’

‘I’ll take Mrs Moyle away for a while.’

Overcome with grief, Beatrice took a last look at her husband before leaving. Their cab had been waiting outside so they were able to go straight to a hotel at the heart of the town. When Leeming tried to reserve a room for her, Beatrice insisted that she could manage that. After thanking him for his help, she went slowly upstairs. Leeming walked across to the reception desk and spoke to the duty manager.

‘Take good care of the lady,’ he said. ‘She’s had to bear some terrible news.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘This is not her first visit here, I believe.’

‘No, sir,’ said the man. ‘They’ve stayed here a few times in the last year.’

‘When did you last have Mr and Mrs Moyle as your guests?’

The duty manager raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

When Colbeck left the train at Sheffield, he went quickly into the waiting room and stayed there until all the passengers had got off. Only when everyone had gone past did he take a cab to Scanlan’s house. Leeming had returned but there was no sign of the doctor. He came into the room with a gesture of helplessness.

‘Mr Moyle has passed away,’ he declared. ‘There was nothing I could do.’

‘You did all that was humanly possible,’ said Colbeck.

‘The astonishing thing is that he survived that fall from the train.’

‘I don’t believe that he was meant to, Doctor.’

‘Well,’ said Leeming, ‘I suppose I’d better go to the hotel where Mrs Moyle is staying and … pass on the sad news.’

‘Please do that.’

‘I discovered a strange thing, sir. She and her husband have stayed there before but she reserved the room under a very different name.’

‘That’s only natural,’ said Colbeck, ‘because the man with whom she stayed there was not her husband. I don’t know what alias he used but I’d wager anything that his real name is Humphrey Welling.’

Leeming was astounded. ‘How did you find that out?’

‘I listened and then I looked. Mr Welling is altogether too plausible. He gave me an account of Mr Moyle’s leap from the train as if he’d been rehearsing it from a prepared text. He pretended to be hearing Moyle’s name for the first time when I mentioned it,’ recalled Colbeck, ‘but I saw a light in his eye when I told him that Mrs Moyle was on her way to Sheffield. As a result, he came here as well. My guess is that he will already have joined Mrs Moyle.’

‘Are you
sure
he’s here, Inspector?’

‘He caught the same train that I did, making certain that I didn’t see him board it. When we got to the station here, however, I lingered in the waiting room so that I could watch them both go by.’

‘Them?’ echoed Scanlan.

‘It was Mr Welling and a servant of his, a broad-shouldered fellow who admitted me to the house. Welling wouldn’t have the strength to overpower another man. Besides, he has a game leg. His servant, however, has the look of someone who’d do anything for which he was paid. In short,’ said Colbeck, ‘there were
three
of them in that compartment.’

‘Do you have any proof of that, sir?’ asked Leeming. ‘If you confront them, they’ll simply deny it and Mr Moyle is no longer alive to challenge them.’

‘Yes, he is, Victor.’

‘But I’ve just pronounced him dead,’ said Scanlan, confused.

‘
We
know that,’ said Colbeck, ‘but they don’t. I think we should bring him back to life like a latter-day Lazarus. The message that the sergeant will take to the hotel is that Mr Moyle has rallied a little and should recover consciousness.’ His smile broadened into a grin. ‘That should produce a result, I fancy.’