The Railway Detective Collection: The Railway Detective, the Excursion Train, the Railway Viaduct (The Railway Detective Series) (4 page)

‘But you will recover everything, won’t you?’ bleated Shipperley. ‘I need to be able to reassure the Royal Mint and the bank – not to mention my own superiors. The loss of that mail is a tragedy,’ he cried. ‘It threatens the integrity of our service. Imagine how people will feel when they discover that their correspondence has gone astray. Help me, Inspector Colbeck,’ he implored. ‘Give me your word. You do expect to catch the robbers, don’t you?’

‘We hope so.’

‘I need more than hope to revive me.’

‘It’s all that I can offer at the moment.’

‘You might try a glass of whisky,’ advised Leeming. ‘It will calm your nerves. We’re not miracle-workers, I fear. We’ll do our best but we can give you no firm promises.’

Shipperley sagged visibly. ‘Oh, I see.’

‘We’re dealing with a premeditated crime,’ said Colbeck.
‘It was conceived and planned with great care and couldn’t possibly have been committed in the way that it was without the direct assistance of insiders.’

‘You’re surely not accusing
me
?’ gasped the other, clutching at his throat. ‘I’ve worked for the Post Office all my life, Inspector. My reputation is spotless.’

‘I’m sure that it is, Mr Shipperley, and I can say now that you’re not under any suspicion.’ He signalled to Leeming, who took out his notepad and pencil. ‘We simply want a few details from you, please.’

‘About what?’

‘The procedure for carrying money on the mail train.’

‘We go to great lengths to maintain secrecy.’

‘Word obviously got out on this occasion,’ said Colbeck. ‘We need to know how. Perhaps you can tell me how often you liaise with the Royal Mint or with the Bank of England to carry money on their behalf on the mail train. We’d also like to hear how many of your employees know the exact dates of each transfer.’

‘Very few, Inspector.’

‘Let’s start with the frequency of such deliveries, shall we?’

Herbert Shipperley took a deep breath and launched into what turned out to be a prolonged lecture on how the mail trains operated, giving far more detail than was actually required. Colbeck did not interrupt him. In talking about his work, the man gradually relaxed and some of his facial corrugations began to disappear. The longer he went on, the more enthusiastic he got, as if initiating some new recruits into the mysteries of the Post Office. It was only when he had finished that his eyes regained their hunted look and the anxious furrows returned.

‘As you see, gentlemen,’ he said, stroking his pate with a sweaty palm, ‘our system is virtually foolproof.’

‘Until today,’ commented Leeming.

‘The Post Office was not in error.’

‘That remains to be seen.’

‘The information must have been leaked by the Royal Mint.’

‘Let’s consider the names that you’ve given us, Mr Shipperley,’ said Colbeck, thoughtfully. ‘Apart from yourself, only three other people here had foreknowledge of the transfer of money by means of mail train.’

‘Yes, Inspector, and I can vouch for all of them.’

‘But even they – if I understood you right – wouldn’t necessarily be able to say what was being carried on any particular day.’

‘That’s correct,’ said Shipperley. ‘It’s an extra safeguard. Only I would know for certain if the consignment were coming from the Royal Mint or the Bank of England. Coin, bank notes and gold bullion are sent to assorted destinations around the country. Some gold is periodically exported to France from one of the Channel ports.’

‘Of the three names you gave us,’ said Leeming, glancing at his notebook, ‘which employee would you trust least – Mr Dyer, Mr Ings or Mr Finlayson?’

‘I have equal faith in all of them,’ said the other, loyally.

‘Then let me put the question a different way,’ suggested Colbeck, taking over. ‘Which of the three has the lowest wage?’

‘I don’t see that that has any relevance, Inspector.’

‘It could do.’

‘Then the answer is William Ings. He’s the most junior of
the three in terms of position. However,’ Shipperley went on, ‘there’s not a blemish on his character. Mr Ings has always been strongly committed to the Post Office. He’s been with us longer than either Mr Dyer or Mr Finlayson.’

‘We’ll need to speak to all three of them.’

‘Is that necessary, Inspector?’

‘I think so,’ said Colbeck. ‘What time will they arrive for work tomorrow morning?’ The other man looked uncomfortable. Colbeck took a step closer. ‘Is there a problem, Mr Shipperley?’

‘Yes,’ he confessed. ‘Mr Dyer and Mr Finlayson will definitely be here but I can’t guarantee that Mr Ings will turn up.’

‘Oh? Why is that, pray?’

‘He’s been sick all week and unable to work.’

Leeming put a tick against one of the names in his notebook.

When she heard the knock on the front door, Maud Ings rushed to open it, first drawing back the heavy bolts. Her expectation changed instantly to disappointment when she saw, by the light of her lamp, that the caller was a complete stranger. Inspector Robert Colbeck touched the brim of his hat politely then explained who he was. Mrs Ings was alarmed to hear of his occupation.

‘Has something happened to William?’ she asked.

‘Not that I know of, Mrs Ings.’

‘That’s a relief!’

‘My understanding was that your husband was at home.’

She shifted her feet uneasily. ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

‘His employer told me that he was ill.’

‘Why?’ she said in surprise. ‘Has he not been to work?’

‘I wonder if I might come in,’ said Colbeck, quietly.

The house was at the end of a terrace not far from Euston Station. It was small and neat with a presentable exterior. Once inside, however, Colbeck saw signs of sustained neglect. Wallpaper was starting to peel on some walls and the paint work was in a poor condition. There was a distinct smell of damp. The room into which he was conducted had no more than a few sticks of furniture in it and a threadbare carpet. There was an air of neglect about Maud Ings as well. She was a slim, shapeless woman in her late thirties with a haggard face and unkempt hair. He could see from the red-rimmed eyes that she had been crying. A moist handkerchief protruded from the sleeve of her dress.

Embarrassed by her appearance, she took off her apron then adjusted her hair with a hand. She gave him an apologetic smile.

‘Excuse me, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I was not expecting company.’

‘But you were expecting someone, Mrs Ings. I could tell that by the alacrity with which you opened the door. Did you think that I might be your husband?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does he not have a key to his own front door?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then why did you bolt it against him?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Perhaps you should sit down,’ he suggested, seeing her distress. ‘I’m sorry that I called at such an inopportune hour but I had no choice. It’s imperative that I speak to Mr Ings.’

‘Why?’ she asked, sitting down.

‘It’s a matter that relates to his work at the Post Office.’

‘Is he in trouble, Inspector?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘What has he done?’

‘Well,’ he replied, taking the chair opposite her, ‘Mr Ings failed to report for work this week. He sent word to say that he was sick.’

‘But there’s nothing wrong with him.’

‘So why did he lie to his employers?’

Maud Ings bit her lip. ‘William has never let them down before,’ she said with vestigial affection for her husband. ‘He works long hours at the Post Office. They don’t appreciate what he does.’ She gave a shrug. ‘It may be that he
is
unwell. That’s the only thing that would keep him away. The truth is that I haven’t seen him this week.’

‘And why is that, Mrs Ings?’

‘My husband is…staying elsewhere.’

‘Do you have an address for him?’

‘No,’ she said, bitterly, ‘and I don’t really want it.’

Colbeck took a swift inventory of the room then looked at her more closely. Maud Ings was evidently a woman who was at the end of her tether. Apparently abandoned by her husband, she was still hoping that he might come back to her even though he had caused her obvious suffering. The remains of her youthful prettiness were all but obscured now. Colbeck treated her with great sympathy.

‘I regret that I have to ask you about your private life,’ he said, ‘but it’s germane to my investigation. Mrs Ings, it’s not difficult to see that you and your husband were short of money.’

‘I did my best,’ she said, defensively. ‘I always managed on
what he gave me, however little it was.’

‘Yet Mr Ings earned a reasonable wage at the Post Office.’

‘Earned it and threw it away, Inspector.’

‘Was he a drinking man?’

‘No,’ she replied, as another flicker of affection showed, ‘William was no drunkard. I can clear him of that charge. He was a good man at heart – kind and considerate.’ Her voice darkened. ‘At least, he was for a time. That was before he caught the disease.’

‘What disease?’

‘Gambling. It ruined our marriage, Inspector.’

‘I take it that he was not a successful gambler.’

‘Only now and then,’ she said, wistfully. ‘That was the trouble, sir. William had a run of luck at the start and he thought that it would last. He bought me a new coat with his winnings and some lovely furniture.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Then his luck changed. We had to sell the furniture last month.’

‘Yet he still went on gambling?’

‘Yes, Inspector.’

‘Do you know where he went to play cards?’

‘I do now,’ she said, vengefully. ‘I got it out of him in the end. I mean, I had a right to know. I’m his wife, Inspector. Sometimes, he’d be away all night at this place. I had a right to be told where it was.’

‘And where was it, Mrs Ings?’

‘Devil’s Acre.’

‘I see.’

Colbeck knew the area only too well. It was a favoured haunt of the criminal fraternity and notorious for its brothels and gambling dens. If her husband were a regular visitor
to Devil’s Acre, then Maud Ings had been right to describe his addiction as a disease. No decent or sensible man would even dare to venture into such a hazardous district. Colbeck was seeing an aspect of William Ings that had been carefully hidden from his employer. Herbert Shipperley might believe that Ings had an unblemished character but the man consorted regularly with criminals around a card table.

Colbeck was certain that he had picked up a scent at last.

‘Is that where your husband is now?’ he asked. ‘Playing cards?’

‘Probably.’

‘Can you be a little more precise, Mrs Ings?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘He wouldn’t tell me exactly where he went in case I tried to follow him there. And I would have, Inspector,’ she went on with an edge of desperation. ‘William left us with no money.’

‘He left you with a roof over your head.’

‘That’s true, Inspector. I’ve still got a home for myself and the children. It’s one consolation. And he did promise that he’d send me something when the money came through.’

‘From his wages, you mean?’

‘Well, I don’t think it would be from his winnings at a card table,’ she said, ‘because he always seemed to lose.’ She peered at Colbeck. ‘Why are you so interested in my husband? I still don’t understand why you came here looking for him.’

‘Earlier today,’ he explained, ‘there was a train robbery.’

‘He’d never get involved in anything like that,’ she protested.

‘Not directly, perhaps, but the mail train that was ambushed was carrying a consignment of money. Mr Ings was one of the few men who knew that the money would be
in transit today.’

‘That doesn’t mean he betrayed the secret.’

‘No,’ he conceded, ‘and it may well be that your husband is completely innocent. What I need to do is to establish that innocence as soon as is possible so that we can eliminate him from our inquiries. Now,’ he said, softly, ‘I realise that this is a difficult time for you but I must press you on the matter of his whereabouts.’

‘I told you, Inspector. I don’t know where he is.’

‘You must have some idea, Mrs Ings.’

‘None at all.’

‘When did he leave?’

‘Last weekend.’

‘Did he offer you no explanation?’

‘William simply packed a bag and walked out of the house.’

‘He must have had somewhere to go to,’ insisted Colbeck, watching her carefully. ‘Somewhere – or someone.’

Her cheeks reddened. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Inspector.’

‘I think that you do.’

‘William is not that sort of man.’

‘Your husband is a trusted employee at the Post Office,’ he told her, calmly, ‘a man with access to important information. On the eve of a serious crime that may be linked to his place of work, Mr Ings not only pleads illness and stays away, he leaves his wife and children to fend for themselves while he goes elsewhere.’ He fixed her with a piercing stare. ‘I think that we have rather more than a curious coincidence here, Mrs Ings. Don’t you?’

Maud Ings was in a quandary. Wanting to protect her
husband, she was deeply hurt by his treatment of her. Refusing to accept that he could be involved in a crime, she came to see that the evidence was pointing against him. She wrestled with her conscience for a long time but Colbeck did not rush her, recognising that her situation was already exerting almost unbearable pressure upon the woman. She was the discarded wife of a man who might turn out to be involved in a major crime. It took time for her to adjust to the full horror of her predicament.

Eventually, she capitulated and gabbled the information.

‘I don’t know the woman’s name,’ she said with rancour, ‘but I think that she lives in the Devil’s Acre.’

Superintendent Edward Tallis was just finishing another cigar when there was a knock on the door of his office. It was late but he rarely left his desk before ten o’clock at night, believing that long hours and continual vigilance were required to police a city as large and volatile as London. He cleared his throat noisily.

‘Come in,’ he called, stubbing out his cigar in an ashtray.

Robert Colbeck entered. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said.

‘I was wondering when you’d deign to put in an appearance.’

‘Sergeant Leeming and I have been very busy.’

‘To what effect?’

‘I believe that we’ve made slight headway, Superintendent.’

‘Is that all?’

‘There’s still a lot of intelligence to gather,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I wanted to keep you abreast of developments. Is this a convenient time?’

‘No,’ said Tallis, grumpily, ‘it most definitely is not. My head is pounding, my bad tooth is aching and I’m extremely tired. This is a highly inconvenient time, Inspector, but I’ll endure it with good grace. Take a seat and tell me what you
have to report.’

Colbeck chose a leather armchair and settled back into it. Relying solely on his memory, he gave a concise account of the progress of the investigation and drew a periodic grunt of approval from the other man. He took it as a good sign that Tallis did not even try to interrupt him. Colbeck just wished that the cigar smoke were not quite so acrid, mingling, as it did, with the stink from the gas lighting to produce a foul compound.

‘Where is Sergeant Leeming now?’ asked Tallis.

‘Questioning senior figures at the railway company,’ said Colbeck. ‘I left him to do that while I called at the home of William Ings.’

‘But the cupboard was bare.’

‘The man himself may not have been there, Superintendent, but I feel that I gathered some valuable clues. I strongly advise that we keep the house under surveillance in case Mr Ings should chance to return.’

‘Why should he do that?’

‘To give his wife money and to see his children.’

‘The complications of marriage!’ sighed Tallis, sitting back in his chair. ‘The more I see of holy matrimony, the more grateful I am that I never got embroiled in it myself. I daresay that you feel the same.’

‘Not exactly, sir.’

‘Then why have you remained single?’

‘It was not a conscious decision,’ explained Colbeck, unwilling to go into any detail about his private life. ‘I suppose the truth is that I have yet to meet the lady with whom I feel impelled to share my life, but I have every hope of doing so one day.’

‘Even if it might impede your career as a detective?’

‘Unlike you, sir, I don’t see marriage as an impediment.’

‘Anything that prevents a man from devoting himself to his work is a handicap,’ announced Tallis. ‘That’s why I limit my social life so strictly. We have an enormous amount to do, Inspector. London is a veritable sewer of crime. Our job is to sluice it regularly.’

‘I have a feeling that this case will take us much further afield than the capital, Superintendent,’ said Colbeck. ‘The robbery occurred in a rural location in Buckinghamshire and that county is hardly a hive of criminal activity. On the other hand, the crucial information about the mail train was doubtless supplied by someone in London.’

‘William Ings?’

‘I reserve judgement until we get conclusive proof.’

‘It sounds to me as if we already have it.’

‘The evidence is only circumstantial,’ Colbeck pointed out. ‘Do I have your permission to arrange for the house to be watched?’

‘No, Inspector.’

‘Why not, sir?’

‘Only a fool would dare to go back there again.’

‘Only a fool would run up gambling debts.’

‘I can’t spare the men.’

‘You said that I could have unlimited resources.’

‘Within reason,’ Tallis reminded him, ‘and I don’t happen to think that keeping this house under observation is a reasonable use of police time. Ings has obviously gone to ground somewhere else. I doubt if his wife will ever see the rogue again.’

Colbeck was far too used to having his suggestions
blocked by his superior to be irritated. It was something he had learnt to accept. Edward Tallis seemed to take pleasure from frustrating any initiatives that the other man put forward. It was one of the reasons why the antipathy between them had deepened over the years.

‘It’s your decision, sir,’ said Colbeck with exaggerated civility.

‘Abide by it.’

‘What else can I do?’

‘Invent some hare-brained scheme of your own to subvert me,’ said Tallis with vehemence, ‘and I’ll not stand for that. It’s happened before, as I know to my cost.’

‘I only took what I felt were the appropriate steps.’

‘You resorted to untried, unauthorised methods. And, yes,’ he admitted, raising a hand, ‘they did achieve a measure of success, I grant you. But they also left me to face a reprimand from the Commissioners. Never again, Inspector – do you hear me?’

‘Loud and clear, sir.’

‘Good. You must follow procedure to the letter.’

‘Yes, Superintendent.’

‘So what’s your next step?’

‘To meet up with Victor Leeming and hear what he found out at the railway company. He acquitted himself well when he talked to the people who were on board the train. He asked all the right questions.’

‘I’ll want to know what he gleaned from the railway company.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘What are your plans for tomorrow?’

‘I intend to catch the earliest possible train to
Birmingham.’

‘Why?’ demanded Tallis.

‘Because I need to speak to the manager of the bank to which that money was being sent. He has a key to open that safe. I’d like to know how it came into the possession of the robbers.’

‘So you suspect treachery at that end as well?’

‘I’m certain of it, Superintendent,’ said Colbeck. ‘I believe that we’re looking at a much wider conspiracy than might at first appear. There was inside help at the Post Office, the bank and, possibly, at the Mint. The robbers might also have had a confederate inside the London and North Western Railway Company,’ he argued. ‘I don’t believe that William Ings is the only man implicated.’

Tallis grimaced. ‘In other words,’ he said, tartly, ‘this case will take a long time to solve.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Then I’ll have to endure even more harassment from all sides.’

‘Your back is broad, sir.’

‘That’s the trouble,’ complained Tallis. ‘It presents a big target for anybody with a whip in his hand. If we fail to make swift progress in this investigation, I’ll be flayed alive. I’ve already had to fight off the so-called gentlemen of the press. Tomorrow’s headlines will not make pleasant reading, Inspector. My bad tooth is throbbing at the prospect.’

‘There’s a way to solve that problem, Superintendent.’

‘Is there?’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, cheerfully. ‘Don’t buy a newspaper.’

Caleb Andrews had never known such fierce and unremitting
pain. He felt as if his skull were about to split apart. The only escape from the agony was to lapse back into unconsciousness. Every so often, however, he recovered enough, if only fleetingly, to remember something of what had happened and he felt the savage blows being administered by the butt of the pistol again and again. When that torment eased slightly with the passage of time, he became more acutely aware of the pain in his body and limbs. He ached all over and one of his legs seemed to be on fire. What frightened him was that he was unable to move it.

As his mind slowly cleared, he hovered for an age between sleep and waking, conscious of the presence of others but unable to open his eyes to see whom they might be. There was movement at his bedside and he heard whispers but, before he could identify the voices, he always drifted off again. It was infuriating. He was desperate to reach out, to make contact, to beg for help, to share his suffering with others. Yet somehow he could not break through the invisible barrier between his private anguish and the public world. And then, just as he despaired of ever waking up again, he had a momentary surge of energy, strong enough for him to be able to separate his eyelids at last.

Faces swam in front of him then one of them swooped in close. He felt a kiss on his cheek and his hand was squeezed very gently. A soft female voice caressed his ear.

‘Hello, Father,’ said Madeleine Andrews. ‘I’m here with you.’

Victor Leeming was weary. After conducting a long and taxing series of interviews at the offices of the London and North Western Railway Company, he was grateful that his
duties were almost over for the day. All that he had to do was to repair to Colbeck’s house in order to compare notes with the Inspector. He hoped that the latter had had a more productive evening than he had managed.

As a cab took him to the house in John Islip Street, he listened to the clacking of the horse’s hooves on the hard surface and mused on the seductive simplicity of a cab driver’s life. Ferrying passengers to and fro across London was an interesting, practical and undemanding way of life, free from the dangers of police work or from the tedium that often accompanied it. One could even count on generous tips, something that was unheard of among those who toiled at Scotland Yard. By the time he reached his destination, Leeming had come to envy the virtues of a less onerous occupation.

Once inside the house, however, he dismissed such thoughts from his mind. Robert Colbeck had a warm welcome and a bottle of Scotch whisky waiting for him. The two men sat down in a study that was lined with books on all manner of subjects. Neat piles of newspapers and magazines stood on a beautiful mahogany cabinet. Framed silhouettes occupied most of the mantelpiece. Above them, on the wall, in a large, rectangular gilt frame, was a portrait of a handsome middle-aged woman.

‘How did you fare?’ asked Colbeck, sipping his drink.

‘Not very well, Inspector.’

‘Did the railway company close ranks on you?’

‘That’s what it amounted to,’ said Leeming, taking a first, much-needed taste of whisky. ‘They denied that any of their employees could have leaked information to the robbers and boasted about their record of carrying money safely by rail. I
spoke to four different people and each one told me the same thing. We must search elsewhere.’

‘We’ll certainly do that, Victor, but I still think that we should take a closer look at the way the company operates its mail trains. We’ve already exposed the shortcomings of railway policemen.’

‘They were rather upset when I told them about that.’

‘Understandably.’

‘Though not as irate as Inspector McTurk,’ recalled Leeming with a broad grin. ‘He was in a frenzy. McTurk was such a bad advertisement for Scotland.’ He raised his glass. ‘Unlike this excellent malt whisky.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck with amusement. ‘The good Inspector was not the most prepossessing individual, was he? But I’m sorry that you found the railway company itself in an uncooperative mood. I had a much more profitable time at the home of William Ings.’

‘What sort of man is he?’

‘An absent one.’

Colbeck told him in detail about the visit to Maud Ings and how his request for the house to be watched had been summarily turned down. Leeming rolled his eyes.

‘If only Superintendent Tallis was on
our
side for once.’

‘Now, now, Victor,’ said Colbeck with mock reproof. ‘Do I hear a murmur of insubordination?’

‘He’s supposed to put handcuffs on the villains, not on us.’

‘He does hamper us now and then, I agree, but we must contrive to work around him. One of the things I want you to do in the morning is to find out who patrols the beat that includes the house. Ask the officers in question to keep an eye out for Mr Ings.’

‘Yes, Inspector. What else am I to do tomorrow?’

‘Report to Superintendent Tallis first thing,’ said Colbeck. ‘He wishes to know exactly what you found out at the offices of the London and North Western Railway Company.’

‘Precious little.’

‘That’s rather perplexing, I must say. People with nothing to hide are usually more open and helpful.’

‘They were neither.’

‘Then we must find out why. When you’ve delivered your report, I want you to go to the Royal Mint to see if there was any breach of security there. I fancy there are more names to unearth than that of William Ings.’

‘What if he doesn’t make the mistake of returning to his house?’

‘We’ll have to go looking for him.’

‘In the Devil’s Acre?’ asked Leeming with disbelief. ‘You’d be searching for a needle in a haystack. Besides, we couldn’t venture in there without a dozen or more uniformed constables at our back.’

‘Oh,’ said Colbeck, casually, ‘that won’t be necessary.’

He finished his drink and put his glass on the mahogany desk. He looked at ease in the elegant surroundings. Leeming was making a rare visit to the house and he felt privileged to be there. Colbeck was a private man who invited few colleagues to his home. It was so much larger and more comfortable than the one in which Leeming and his family lived. He gazed at the well-stocked shelves.

‘Have you read all these books, Inspector?’ he asked.

‘Most of them,’ replied the other. ‘And the ones I haven’t read, I’ve probably referred to. A good library is an asset for a detective. If you’re interested, I have a few books here on
the development of the steam locomotive.’

‘No, thank you. I barely have time to read a newspaper.’

‘That’s a pity.’

‘There’s no such thing as leisure when you have a family.’

‘I’ll take your word for it, Victor.’

Leeming admired the mahogany cabinet beside him. ‘My wife would covet some of this lovely furniture,’ he said, stroking the wood.

‘It’s not for sale, I fear,’ warned Colbeck with a fond smile. ‘I inherited it with the house. My father was a cabinetmaker. Most of the things in here are examples of his handiwork.’

‘He must have been a fine craftsman.’

‘He was, Victor, but he never wanted his son to follow in his footsteps. My father had boundless faith in the powers of education. That’s why I was packed off to school at such an early age.’