Peril on the Royal Train (29 page)

‘Driving a train is a dirty job – exciting, maybe, but dirty as well.’

‘Her Majesty must have enjoyed that first outing,’ said Madeleine, ‘or she wouldn’t have travelled by train so often since then.’

‘She described the event as charming,’ said Colbeck. ‘Her husband, by all accounts, was less enamoured. “Not so fast next time, Mr Conductor.” That’s what he’s reported to have said.’

‘Her Majesty is more gracious,’ recalled Andrews. ‘On the occasion when I was chosen to drive the royal train, she showed concern for me. Every time we stopped at a station, she’d dispatch an attendant to ask me and my fireman if we were tired. She knew that driving a train was hard work.’

Madeleine was still puzzled by something that Colbeck had said earlier.

‘How could you identify the name of the burglar?’ she asked.

‘Only a highly skilled housebreaker could get in and out of the Renwick abode without arousing those inside,’ he replied. ‘He then had to open an expensive Chubb safe that would have been a challenge to most cracksmen. Instead of using the tools they’d have employed, he simply picked the lock. That told me that the most likely suspect was Patrick Scanlan.’

‘You said that the police have been hunting him for a long while.’

‘That’s true, Madeleine.’

‘How can you be sure of catching him this time?’

‘I advised Victor Leeming to take a novel approach,’ said Colbeck, ‘and I have every hope of success. Instead of looking for a burglar, Victor has gone in search of a missing voice.’

The White Lion was a very different establishment to the one Leeming had been to before. Situated in a lane that branched off Gower Street, it was larger, cleaner and better furnished and it catered for a more discerning clientele. The sergeant aroused no undue interest when he arrived there. It was a promising start after earlier setbacks. Having pursued the wrong man in Deptford, he’d met up by prior arrangement with the two detectives assisting him in the hunt for the burglar. Over a meal together, they admitted that they, too, had been out of luck. They’d called on all the haunts favoured by Scanlan in the past and received the same answer in each case. Scanlan had not been seen for several months. Some claimed that he’d left London altogether but the detectives were not led astray by the information. It came from those with a good reason to protect Scanlan. He was known for his generosity. Whenever he visited a brothel or a gambling den, he paid well for the services offered. That bought him friendship. If the police were after him, people closed ranks.

There was another improvement. The beer tasted better at The White Lion. While he quaffed his pint, Leeming asked after Balthasar Goodfellow and was told that the man was at that very moment upstairs with a student of his. Indeed, when Leeming strained his ears, he could hear stirring speeches being declaimed above him. He reasoned that, if Goodfellow could afford to rent a room in such a place, then his elocution lessons were more profitable than those given by Orlando Foxe. Choosing a table in a corner, Leeming waited until the session was over. Two figures came down the stairs. One was a sleek man in his fifties with a well-trimmed beard. The younger man who followed him was shorter, slimmer and altogether more handsome but he walked with a pronounced limp. Assuming that the older of the two was Balthasar Goodfellow, Leeming got up and approached him, only to learn that he had, in fact, been the client. The teacher was the man with the limp.

Inviting Goodfellow to join him, Leeming bought him a drink. As they sat at the table, he noticed that his guest sipped the beer slowly. Goodfellow was no guzzler like Orlando Foxe. Personable and well dressed, he had an open face and a ready smile. Instead of booming, he talked quietly. There was no sense of the desperation that Leeming had found in his Deptford companion. Nor was he troubled when told that he was talking to a detective from Scotland Yard.

‘How may I help you?’ asked Goodfellow, pleasantly.

‘Someone recommended you to me.’

‘May I know the name of my benefactor?’

‘It was Nigel Buckmaster.’

‘That was uncommonly kind of him.’

‘To be honest,’ said Leeming, ‘he gave me two names and assured me that they belonged to the two best teachers of elocution in London.’

‘Who was the other?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘My first guess would be Orlando Foxe but I know that to be impossible.’

‘Then you are wrong because that’s the very man he named. I met the gentleman earlier in Deptford. I have to say,’ Leeming continued, ‘that he shied like a horse when I told him who’d sent me there.’

‘That, alas, is not surprising. There’s bad blood between Orlando and Nigel. At first they were friends in the same company. Orlando was in his pomp then, taking leading roles and winning plaudits from the critics. He took Nigel under his wing and taught him all he knew.’

‘Then why didn’t Mr Buckmaster repay him when he formed his own company?’

‘You touch on a sore point, Sergeant.’

‘He shunned his old friend, then?’

‘No,’ said Goodfellow with a sigh, ‘he did worse than that. He employed Orlando but offered him only supporting roles. It was an insult. When you’ve eaten a banquet of words onstage every night, you’ll not subsist on a diet of scraps. An actor who has played Hamlet feels humiliated if he’s condemned to play one of the watch. It was cruel of Nigel. He has many fine qualities but compassion is not foremost among them. In the end, Orlando stormed out. His heart was broken. I doubt if he’s worked as an actor since.’

‘Yet
you
seem to harbour no grudge against Mr Buckmaster.’

‘I owe him thanks for many favours. He not only took me into his company and nurtured my talent, he stood by me after the accident.’ He patted his thigh. ‘I broke my leg in a bad fall and it was never set properly. This limp is with me for the rest of my days. It might fit me to play murderers and spies and comic characters but who will pay to see a warrior like Henry the Fifth hobbling across a stage, or watch Troilus leaning on Cressida’s shoulder for support? Oh, I’m sorry,’ he went on. ‘You’re probably not familiar with the Shakespearean canon.’

‘I know what an iambic pentameter is now,’ said Leeming, proudly.

‘That’s all to the good.’ Goodfellow shrugged. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘We’re looking for a man who is trying to shed his accent.’

‘Then you saw him when he left. That gentleman hails from Newcastle and has a voice that makes Londoners wince. It affects his business adversely so he came to me. I’m slowly driving the north-east out of his speech.’

‘What about the Black Country?’

‘That, too, produces an accent that lacks any music.’

‘Has anyone ever come to you from that part of the country?’

‘Two or three people, as it happens.’

‘You’d remember this man if you had any dealings with him.’

‘What was his name?’

‘His real name is Patrick Scanlan and that’s on a wanted poster in every police station. He therefore uses other names.’

‘Paint a portrait of him, Sergeant.’

Leeming gave him a detailed description of Scanlan, warning him that certain features were liable to change. In order to blend in more effectively in the capital, it was believed, Scanlan would try to remove all trace of Willenhall from his voice. After pondering for a while, Goodfellow gave a decisive nod.

‘I fancy that I know the man.’

‘Is he still a student of yours?’

‘No – he left when he felt my work was done.’

‘What name did he give you?’

‘Alfred Penn.’

Leeming curled a lip. ‘That’s an alias.’

‘Don’t look down on those who use an alias,’ warned Goodfellow. ‘I did so myself. The name with which I was born was Silas Wragg. Imagine how that would look on a playbill. It was Nigel Buckmaster who christened me anew and gave me my stage name. Balthasar Goodfellow has a ring to it.’

‘Let’s go back to Alfred Penn. How long did you teach him?’

‘It must have been for a few months or more.’

Leeming pointed upwards. ‘He came here for the lessons?’

‘Twice a week and he was always punctual.’

‘Did he give you an address?’

‘He didn’t, Sergeant, but then I didn’t ask him for one. All that I require of my students is diligence and a good fee. I got both from Mr Penn.’

‘So you have no idea where he lived?’

‘Judging by his appearance,’ said Goodfellow, ‘it must have been somewhere respectable. There was a suggestion of wealth about him carefully kept in check.’

‘Suppose that you wished to get in touch with him again.’

‘I’ve no reason to do so.’

‘You may not have,’ said Leeming, ‘but
we
do. We have a very pressing reason. Can you think of any way in which we might find out where he is?’

Goodfellow scratched his head and took another sip of beer.

‘You could always ask Mary, I daresay,’ he suggested.

‘Is she another of your students?’

‘She is indeed and here – another favour he granted me – at the behest of Nigel Buckmaster. Mary Burnell is a promising young actress with an ambition to have a career on the stage. When she came to me,’ said Goodfellow, ‘she was rather too gauche but she’s now starting to blossom.’

‘Is she a friend of Patrick Scanlan – or whatever he called himself?’

‘It’s possible that she might have been more than a friend, Sergeant. I don’t know that for a fact, mark you,’ he added, discreetly. ‘What I can tell you is that he first met Mary when he was leaving my room and she was arriving. According to the landlord, Alfred Penn used to wait down here until she’d finished her lesson. They became acquainted.’ His smile was non-committal. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’

The pleasing odour of progress drifted into Leeming’s nostrils.

‘Do you, by any chance, have an address for this young lady?’ he asked.

‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ said Goodfellow. ‘Mary volunteered her address but Patrick did not.’

‘May I have it?’

‘Yes, Sergeant, you may. It’s in my notebook. Bear with me for a moment and I’ll go upstairs to fetch it.’

Leeming beamed. He felt that the burglar was at last within reach.

It was the gifts that finally won her over. At first, their cost was modest but they always had appeal. Gradually, they became more expensive. What really made her warm to Alfred Penn was the fact that he paid for her lessons with Goodfellow. He not only encouraged her theatrical ambitions, he insisted that she visited The White Lion more often so that she would be ready to fulfil them sooner. Mary Burnell had had many suitors. She was a shapely young woman with an elfin loveliness. Men pursued her in droves but they all had the same base motives. Penn was different. To begin with, he was ten years older than her and infinitely more mature. Even when they were alone together, he never pressed himself upon her. He admired and respected her too much. Mary came to trust him implicitly. She dined out with him and even visited his house. Kind, attentive and charming, Penn had eventually broken down all the barriers between them. Mary loved him.

Today would be very special. He’d promised her the most wonderful gift. A business venture of his had come to fruition and a large amount of money was due to be paid to him. Mary was to share in his good fortune. Trembling in anticipation, she hired a cab and drove to his house. There was no hint of danger in his invitation. On the occasions when she’d been to his home before, a servant had been there. They were never completely alone together. Reassured by that fact at first, she now wished that they
could
be on their own at last. Mary wanted to thank him for all that he’d done for her. She wanted to be free to express her feelings. She wanted him.

Alighting from the cab, she paid the driver then approached the front door. It was a small, neat, terraced house in a good state of repair. A lot of money had been lavished on its interior. When she rang the bell, she expected the servant to admit her but nobody came. A second ring echoed around the empty hallway. Still nobody responded. Mary was perplexed. She had the right day, time and place. Reaching out to ring the bell a third time, her shoulder brushed against the door and it opened slightly. She couldn’t understand why it was not locked. Pushing it right open, she stepped into the hallway and looked around.

‘I’m here!’ she called. ‘It’s me – Mary. Where are you?’

No answer came and the silence began to feel oppressive. It troubled her. To stiffen her spirits, she told herself that her friend had left the door open for her on purpose. He’d dismissed his servant for the evening and wanted her to come in. They’d be alone at last. Gathering up her skirt, she flitted across the hallway and went into the drawing room, fully expecting to see him with a welcoming smile and a gift for her. It was the moment she’d been looking forward to all day but it was not quite as Mary had envisaged. She came to an abrupt halt and gaped in horror. Alfred Penn, the man she loved, was indeed there but he was not smiling and he had no gift. Lying on his back in a pool of blood, he had the most grotesque expression on his face. It spoke of agony, betrayal and thwarted ambition.

Mary Burnell’s scream could be heard in the next street.

As soon as he got to the house, Colbeck took charge. He was pleased to see that a uniformed policeman stood outside the front door to keep inquisitive neighbours at bay. A second policeman was in the drawing room, standing beside the corpse while taking care not to look at it. A third was in the adjoining room, trying to comfort the near-hysterical Mary Burnell. Colbeck bent down to inspect the body. The throat had been slit open from side to side and there were stab wounds in the chest. The crumpled carpet, the overturned side table and the broken vase suggested that there’d been a violent struggle. The victim’s contorted features made it impossible for Colbeck to recognise him. Rising to his feet, he turned to the policeman who was clearly still shocked by the discovery.

‘Who was the first on the scene?’ he asked.