The Railway Detective Collection: The Railway Detective, the Excursion Train, the Railway Viaduct (The Railway Detective Series) (13 page)

‘An officer and a gentleman.’

‘Add the most telling thing about him, Victor.’

‘He’s a cold-blooded killer.’

‘Cast your mind back to the robbery itself.’

‘It’s as you say,’ conceded the other. ‘He knew when and how to strike and, as a result, got away with the money and the mail bags.’

‘What other part of his plan was put into action?’

Leeming needed a moment for consideration. ‘The locomotive was deliberately run off the track,’ he remembered.

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, snapping his fingers. ‘Severe damage
was inflicted and Caleb Andrews’s beloved engine was put out of action for a long time. What sort of person would do that, Victor?’

‘Someone who hates trains.’

Sir Humphrey Gilzean sat in an open carriage on the Berkshire Downs and watched his racehorses being put through their paces. Bunched together, they thundered past and left a flurry of dust in their wake. Gilzean’s eyes were on the black colt at the front of the group. As they galloped on, its rider used his whip to coax extra speed out of his mount and the colt surged ahead of the others to establish a lead of several lengths. Gilzean slapped his thigh in delight. He turned to his trainer, a big, sturdy man, who sat astride a chestnut mare beside him.

‘
That’s
what I want from him,’ he declared.

‘Starlight is a fine horse, Sir Humphrey,’ said the trainer.

‘Good enough to win the Derby?’

‘If he loses, it will not be for want of trying. Starlight has a turn of foot to leave most colts and fillies behind. The secret is to bring him to a peak at just the right time.’

‘I rely on you to do that, Welsby.’

‘Yes, Sir Humphrey.’

‘Starlight was certainly expensive enough to win the Derby,’ said Gilzean, as the horses ended their race and trotted back in his direction. ‘I expect a return on my investment.’

‘Naturally.’

‘Make sure that I get it.’

He was about to give some more instructions to his trainer when the distant sound of a train whistle distracted him.
Gilzean’s eyes flashed and his jaw tightened. He dispatched the trainer with a dismissive flick of his hand then spoke to the driver of the carriage.

‘Take me home.’

‘Yes, Sir Humphrey.’

‘By way of the church.’

The coachman cracked his whip and the two horses pulled the carriage in a semicircle before setting off across the Downs at a steady trot. It was a large estate, parts of which were farmed by tenants. Some of the land was arable but most was given over to herds of dairy cattle and flocks of sheep. Gilzean found the sight of so many animals grazing in the fields strangely reassuring. There was a timelessness about the scene that appealed to him, an unspoilt, unhurried, natural quality that he had known and loved since he was a small child. It was the English countryside at its best.

Sitting erect in the carriage, Sir Humphrey Gilzean was a striking figure in his late thirties, tall, slim, swarthy of complexion and with finely chiselled features. Dressed in the most fashionable attire, he had the unmistakable air of an aristocrat, allied to the physique and disposition of a soldier. Even at his most relaxed, he exuded a sense of authority. As he was driven past the labourers in the fields, he collected an endless sequence of servile nods or obsequious salutes.

The Norman church stood at the edge of the village. Built of local stone, it was a small but solid structure that had withstood the unruly elements for centuries. Its square tower was surmounted by a little steeple with a weathervane at its apex. The churchyard was enclosed by a low and irregular stone wall, pierced by a wooden lychgate. Members of the Gilzean family had been buried there for generations, and it
was their money that had kept the church in a state of good repair. When the carriage drew up outside the lychgate, Gilzean got out and tossed a curt command over his shoulder.

‘Wait here,’ he said to the coachman. ‘I may be some time.’

During an investigation, leisure did not exist for Robert Colbeck. Having worked until late, he was back at his desk early the following morning so that he could collate all the evidence that had so far been gathered and address his mind to it when there was little chance of interruption. He had been at Scotland Yard for almost two hours before he was disturbed by the arrival of a clerk.

‘Excuse me, Inspector,’ said the man, putting his head around the door. ‘There’s a young lady to see you.’

‘Miss Andrews?’ asked Colbeck, hoping that it might be her.

‘No, sir. She gave her name as Miss Woodhead.’

‘Then you had better shown her in.’

When his visitor came into the room, Colbeck got to his feet for the introductions. Nobody could have been less like Madeleine Andrews than the shy, hesitant creature who stood before him in a state of such obvious distress. Bella Woodhead was a short, plump and decidedly plain young woman in nondescript clothing and a faded straw hat. Offered a chair, she sat on the very edge of it. Colbeck could see that her hands were trembling.

‘You wished to see me, Miss Woodhead?’ he inquired.

‘Yes, Inspector. I have something to tell you.’

‘May I know what it concerns?’

She swallowed hard. ‘Mr Ings,’ she murmured.

‘William Ings?’

‘We read the newspaper this morning and saw the report of his death.’ She gave a shudder. ‘We could not believe it at first. When we saw that William – Mr Ings, that is – might actually be connected with this train robbery, we were shocked. It was like a blow in the face.’

‘How did you come to know Mr Ings?’ asked Colbeck.

‘I work at the Post Office.’

‘I see.’

‘Only in a minor capacity, of course,’ she said with a self-effacing smile. ‘I am merely a clerk there. He was far more senior. Mr Ings was well-respected. The Post Office held him in high regard.’

Colbeck could tell from the way that she said the man’s name that she had enjoyed a closer relationship with Ings than any of his other colleagues. Bella Woodhead was too honest and unschooled to disguise her feelings. Stunned by the news of his murder, she had come to make a confession that was clearly causing her intense pain. Colbeck tried to make it easier for her by anticipating what she was going to say.

‘I believe that you were very fond of Mr Ings,’ he suggested.

‘Oh, I was, I was.’

‘And he, in turn, was drawn to you.’

‘That’s what he told me,’ she said, proudly, ‘and it changed my life. No man had taken the slightest interest in me before. For a time, it was like living in a dream.’ Her face crumpled. ‘Now I see that he did not mean a word of it.’ She looked up at Colbeck. ‘Is it true that he was found dead in the Devil’s Acre?’

‘Yes, Miss Woodhead.’

‘In the company of a woman?’

Colbeck nodded and she promptly burst into tears. He came across to put a consoling arm around her shoulders but it was minutes before she was able to speak again.

‘Mr Ings betrayed me,’ she said, finally controlling her sobs and dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘He swore that he loved me. He told me that he would leave his wife and that we would be together. Yet all the time…’

She put both hands to her mouth to stifle another fit of crying. Colbeck could well understand how the relationship with William Ings had developed. His position at the Post Office would have impressed Bella Woodhead and made her vulnerable to any favour that was shown to her. Patently, Ings had exploited her but the detective could not understand why. Since the man’s taste ran to women like Polly Roach and Kate Piercey, why had he turned to someone as virginal and inexperienced as Bella Woodhead?

‘Did he offer to marry you?’ he wondered, softly.

‘Of course,’ she replied with a touch of indignation. ‘Do you think that I would have become involved with him on any other basis? Mr Ings was a decent man – or so I thought at the time. He told me that he would arrange a divorce somehow. All that happened between us, Inspector, was an exchange of vows. I must ask you to believe that.’

‘I accept your word without reservation, Miss Woodhead.’

‘Mr Ings wanted everything to be done properly.’

‘Properly?’

‘He wanted to make me his wife so that we could, in time, live together openly. That was why he insisted on meeting my parents.’

‘Oh?’

‘He knew how protective they were of me – especially my father. At first he was very unhappy about my friendship, but Mr Ings persuaded him in the end. Father and he got on well. In fact,’ she said, ‘when he came to the house, he spent more time talking to my father than he did to me.’ She blew her nose into the handkerchief. ‘Now I know why.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes. Mr Ings only wanted to hear about Father’s job.’

‘Why?’ asked Colbeck. ‘Where does your father work?’

‘At the Royal Mint.’

It was a warm day but there was nevertheless a fire in the grate. Sir Humphrey Gilzean tossed another bundle of envelopes on to it and, putting one hand on the marble mantelpiece to steady himself, stirred the blaze with a poker. Wisps of black paper went up the chimney.

‘That’s the last of them, Thomas,’ he observed.

‘Good,’ said the other. ‘Such a dreary business, reading through other people’s correspondence.’

‘Dreary but rewarding. How much did Lord Holcroft give us?’

‘Five hundred pounds.’

‘This mistress of his must be a remarkable lady if she is deemed to be worth five hundred pounds. Lord Holcroft would rather lose the money than surrender the charms of Miss Anna Grayle.’

‘All that money for two pieces of stationery.’

‘And not a blow given or a risk taken,’ noted Gilzean. ‘Blackmail is a much easier way to make a living than by robbing trains. Secrecy is a valuable commodity, Thomas. I
wish that we had more of it to sell.’

‘So do I, Humphrey.’

They were in the library at Gilzean’s house, an extensive property that overlooked a formal garden of almost three acres. Thomas Sholto was the bearded individual who had accosted Lord Holcroft in Hyde Park with a copy of the compromising letter. Like his friend, he was a man of impressive demeanour and military bearing. Sholto was pleased at their record of success.

‘Mr Blower was a more difficult target,’ he recalled.

‘Remind me who he was.’

‘The financier who was fishing in murky waters.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Gilzean. ‘Mr Jeremiah Blower. His letter disclosed confidential information about a forthcoming merger. Had his company known how treacherous he was being, they would have dismissed him on the spot. What value did we set on his ill-judged letter?’

‘Three hundred pounds.’

‘Yet he refused to pay up.’

‘Initially,’ said Sholto. ‘He made all kinds of wild threats and was even foolish enough to strike out at me. He soon regretted that. I knocked him flat. And because he had the gall to haggle with me, I put up the price. He ended up paying twice as much as we asked.’

‘What with Lord Holcroft and the others, we’ve made a tidy profit out of this little venture. I told you that we should steal the mail bags as well. Admittedly,’ said Gilzean, watching the flames die down, ‘we had to pick our way through a deal of worthless trivia, but the result more than justified the effort involved. And we learnt a valuable lesson in the process.’

‘Be careful what you commit to paper.’

‘Precisely, Thomas.’

Sholto rubbed his hands together. ‘When do we strike again?’

‘Soon,’ said Gilzean. ‘The important thing was to ensure that there were no loose ends hanging. Thanks to you, the only two people who could have led this Inspector Colbeck to us are now in no position to speak to anyone.’

‘Daniel Slender’s head cracked open at one blow,’ recalled Sholto with a grin. ‘It was all over in less than thirty seconds. Mr Ings had a much harder skull.’

‘Of more use to us was the fact that both of them had soft brains. They foolishly believed that we’d let them live when they knew too much about us. How could they be so naïve?’

‘It served our purpose, Humphrey.’

‘Supremely well.’

‘Killing the pair of them was child’s play,’ boasted Sholto.

‘It should be for a trained soldier like you, Thomas. The beauty of the two murders is,’ said Gilzean, smugly, ‘that they help to confuse this gifted detective who is supposed to be on our trail. Inspector Robert Colbeck will never be able to connect the victims with us. We are free to make our next move.’

Superintendent Edward Tallis was in an even more irascible mood than usual. Apart from the criticism he was receiving in the press, he was troubled by toothache and smarting from the reproaches of the Police Commissioners. Two cigars did nothing to dispel his feeling that he was the victim of unjust persecution. Summoned to his office, Colbeck decided to take Victor Leeming with him, not because he thought there would
be safety in numbers but because he wanted his colleague to be given some credit for his intuition.

When Tallis had stopped fulminating, Colbeck said his piece.

‘Valuable information has come into our hands, sir,’ he explained. ‘We have learnt that William Ings befriended a female colleague at the Post Office in order to win the confidence of her father, Albert Woodhead. It transpires that Mr Woodhead is employed at the Royal Mint.’

‘So?’

‘We now know where the other breach of security occurred. An unguarded remark by Mr Woodhead about the transfer of money was seized on by Mr Ings and passed on to the robbers. Victor’s instinct told him that a leak had occurred at the Mint,’ continued Colbeck, turning to his colleague. ‘I believe that he deserves some praise.’

‘Yes,’ said Tallis, grudgingly. ‘I suppose that he does.’

Leeming took his cue. ‘I’ve just returned from my third visit to the Mint, sir,’ he said, ‘where I spoke to the manager, Charles Omber. He confirmed that Albert Woodhead had owned up to his folly. Even though it was not deliberate, he has been suspended from his job.’

‘And is full of contrition,’ said Colbeck. ‘After his daughter came to see me this morning, I called on Mr Woodhead and found him in a sorry state. It is not only his humiliating suspension that is upsetting him. The murder of William Ings has brought to the light the cruel way in which he used Miss Woodhead. Her father feels that, to some extent, he may have condoned it.’