The Railway Viaduct (14 page)

Maria Brassey was an excellent hostess. She gave the guests a cordial welcome and served a delicious meal. When he spoke French by demand, Robert Colbeck discovered that
she had an excellent grasp of the language. She was delightful company and presided over the table with her husband. After dinner, however, she knew exactly when to withdraw so that the men could talk in private.

‘Have you had any success while I was away?’ said Colbeck.

‘A little,’ replied Brassey. ‘The nightwatchmen caught two men pilfering but they had nothing to do with all the damage we’ve suffered. I paid them what I owed and ordered them off the site.’

‘That, of course, is another avenue we might explore.’

‘What do you mean, Inspector?’

‘Discontented former employees. Men with a grudge.’

‘You’ll not find many of those,’ said Aubrey Filton, the other guest. ‘Mr Brassey is renowned for his fairness. If the men step out of line, they know they’ll be sacked. They accept that.’

‘Most of them, perhaps,’ said Colbeck. ‘But I can see how it would rankle if someone was dismissed from a job that would guarantee two years’ work for them.’

‘We keep a record of every man we employ.’

‘Then I’d like to take a close look at it, Mr Filton.’

The three men were comfortably ensconced in chairs in the living room of the country house that Brassey had rented. It was close enough to the site for him to get there with ease, yet far enough away to be out of reach of the incessant noise that was created. Having grown up on a farm, the contractor always preferred a house that was surrounded by green fields. It made him feel as if he were back in his native Cheshire. He sipped his glass of port.

‘How is Sergeant Leeming?’ he said.

‘Very glad to be back home,’ returned Colbeck. ‘Victor took a beating but no permanent damage seems to have been done. He simply needs plenty of time to recover.’

‘That sort of thing would put me off police work forever,’ said Filton. ‘It’s far too dangerous.’

‘Victor is not so easily deterred.’

‘And what about this new fellow?’

‘Oh,’ said Colbeck with a smile, ‘you can rely on him. If you set off an explosion under Brendan Mulryne, you’d not scare him away. He has nerves of steel.’

‘Then why didn’t you bring him here in the first place?’ said Brassey. ‘Was he assigned to another case?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He doesn’t look like a detective at all.’

‘He isn’t one,’ said Colbeck.

‘I see. He’s an ordinary constable.’

‘There’s nothing ordinary about Brendan, I promise you. He was trained as a policeman and I had the good fortune to work with him when I was in uniform. When you have to break up a tavern brawl, there’s no better man to have beside you than him.’

‘I can imagine.’

Colbeck did not reveal that the man he had entrusted with such an important task was, in fact, a dock labourer of dubious reputation who led the kind of chaotic existence that two conventional middle class gentlemen could not begin to understand. The less they knew about Brendan Mulryne, the better. At all events, Colbeck resolved, his name must not get back to Edward Tallis. If the superintendent became aware of the Irishman’s presence on site, Colbeck would not have to write a letter of resignation. He would probably be ejected
from Scotland Yard with Tallis’s condemnation ringing in his ears.

‘What interests me is the next stretch of line,’ said Colbeck, draining his glass. ‘The one that runs from Caen to Cherbourg.’

Brassey held up a palm. ‘Give us a chance, Inspector,’ he said, jocularly. ‘We haven’t finished this one yet.’

‘And may never do so,’ said Filton, gloomily.

‘Of course we will, Aubrey.’

‘I wonder, sir.’

‘Will any French companies put in a tender for the other line?’ asked Colbeck. ‘Are any contractors here big enough to do so?’

‘Yes,’ replied Brassey. ‘The French were slow starters when it came to railways but they are catching up quickly, and contractors have seen the opportunities that are there. When the time comes, I’m sure that we’ll have a number of competitors.’

‘What about labour? Are there enough navvies in France?’

‘No, Inspector Colbeck, not really. Comparatively few railways have been built here so far. As a result, there’s no pool of experienced men on which to draw. We found that out when we built the Paris to Rouen railway some years ago.’

‘Yes, I believe that you imported 5,000 from England.’

‘It was not nearly enough,’ said Brassey. ‘I had to cast the net much wider in order to double that number. They were mainly French but they also included Germans, Belgians, Italians, Dutchmen and Spaniards. Do you remember it, Aubrey?’

‘Very well,’ said Filton. ‘You could hear eleven different languages in all. It was quite bewildering at times.’

‘As for the line from Caen to Cherbourg, that remains in the future. We’ve not really had time to think about it.’

‘Somebody else might have done so,’ said Colbeck.

‘I’m sure that other contractors are planning surveys already.’

‘Only because they want to build the line.’

‘It could be a very profitable venture.’

‘Assuming that we do not have another revolution,’ said Filton with a tentative laugh. ‘You never know with these people.’

‘Oh, I think that Louis Napoleon is here to stay.’

‘For a time, Mr Brassey.’

‘He’s a man of great ambition, Aubrey.’

‘That’s the impression I’ve had of him,’ said Colbeck. ‘From all that I’ve read about Louis Napoleon, he seems to be a man of decisive action. He knows precisely what he wants and how best to achieve it. Well, you’ve met him, Mr Brassey,’ he continued. ‘Is that an unfair estimate of him?’

‘Not at all. He’s determined and single-minded.’

‘Just like his namesake.’

‘He patterns himself on Bonaparte.’

‘That could worry some people. When I said a moment ago that somebody else might have thought about the extension to Cherbourg, I was not referring to your rival contractors. They simply want to build the railway,’ said Colbeck. ‘What about those who want to stop it from ever being built?’

‘Why should anyone want to stop it, Inspector Colbeck?’

‘We’ll have to ask them when they’re finally caught.’

Brendan Mulryne might have been working on the railway for a month rather than simply a day. He related so easily to the
people around him that he gained an immediate popularity. Part of a crowd of navvies who descended on one of the inns in a nearby village, he proved to his new friends that he could drink hard, talk their language and tell hilarious anecdotes about some of the escapades in which he had been involved. Since there were others there who hailed from Dublin, he was also able to indulge in some maudlin reminiscences of the city. The night wore on.

To earn some easy money, he issued a challenge. He said that he would pay a franc to anyone who could make him double up with a single punch to his stomach. Those who failed would pay Mulryne the same amount. Liam Kilfoyle was the first to try. Slapping a franc down on the bar counter, he took off his coat and bunched his right hand. Everyone watched to cheer him on and to see how he fared. Mulryne grinned broadly and tightened his stomach muscles. When he delivered his punch, Kilfoyle felt as if he had just hit solid rock. His knuckles were sore for the rest of the night.

Several people tried to wipe the grin from Mulryne’s face but none could even make him gasp for breath. In no time at all, he had earned the equivalent of a week’s wage and he showed his benevolence by treating everyone to a drink. By the time they rolled out of the inn, Mulryne was more popular than ever. He led the others in a discordant rendition of some Irish ballads. When they neared the camp, the men dispersed to their respective dwellings. Mulryne was left alone with Kilfoyle and Pierce Shannon.

‘When you won all that money,’ said Shannon, ‘why did you throw it all away on a round of drinks?’

Mulryne shrugged. ‘I was among friends.’

‘I’d have held on to it myself.’

‘Then you don’t have my outlook on life, Pierce.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Easy come, easy go.’

‘Does it work the same for women?’ asked Kilfoyle.

‘Yes,’ said Mulryne, chortling happily. ‘Take ’em and leave ’em, that’s what I believe, Liam. Love a woman hard but always remember the queue of other lucky ladies that are waiting for you with their tongues hanging out.’

‘What about French women?’

‘What about them?’

‘Do you like them?’

‘I like anything pretty that wears a skirt.’

‘They can’t compare with an Irish colleen.’

‘Women are women to me.’

They walked on until they came to the two parallel tracks that had already been laid. Empty wagons stood ready to be filled on the following day. Kilfoyle saw a chance to win a wager.

‘How strong are you, Brendan?’ he said.

‘Why – do you want to take another swing at me?’

‘No, I was wondering if you could lift that.’ He pointed to one of the wagons. ‘Only a few inches off the rails. Could you?’

‘Depends on what you’re offering,’ said Mulryne.

‘A day’s wages.’

‘They’ll be mine to keep, if I win. There’ll be no buying you a free drink this time, Liam.’

‘If you can shift that wagon, you’ll have earned the money.’

‘I’ll match the bet,’ said Shannon, ‘if you take it on.’

Mulryne removed his coat. ‘I never refuse a challenge.’

It was the last wagon in the line. He walked around it to size it up then uncoupled it from its neighbour. Taking a firm grip of it at the other end, he gritted his teeth and pretended to put all his energy into a lift. The wagon did not budge. Kilfoyle rubbed his hands with glee.

‘We’ve got him this time, Pierce,’ he said.

‘I just need a moment to get my strength up.’ Mulryne took a few deep breaths then tried again in vain. ‘This bleeding thing is heavier than I thought. What’s inside it – a ton of lead?’

‘Do you give up, Brendan?’

‘Not me – I’ll have one last go.’

‘You owe each of us a day’s wages.’

‘I’ll make it two days, if you like,’ said Mulryne.

‘Done! What about you, Pierce?’

Shannon was more wary. ‘My bet stands at one day.’

‘Then get ready to hand it over,’ said Mulryne, spreading arms further apart as he gripped the wagon once more. ‘Here we go.’

Bracing himself with his legs, he heaved with all his might and lifted the end of the wagon at least six inches from the rail. Then he dropped it down again with a resounding clang.

Kilfoyle was amazed. ‘You did it!’

‘I usually only use one hand,’ boasted Mulryne.

‘You could have lifted it off the rails altogether.’

‘Easily.’

‘Here’s my money,’ said Shannon, paying up immediately. ‘I’ll have more sense than to bet against you next time.’

‘Don’t tell the others, Pierce.’ Mulryne slapped the wagon. ‘I think that this little trick might bring in even more profit. Let’s have what you owe me, Liam.’

‘Right,’ said Kilfoyle, handing over the coins.

‘And don’t be stupid enough to challenge me again.’

‘I won’t, Brendan.’

‘To tell you the truth,’ admitted Mulryne, ‘I never thought I could do it. But the chance of winning the bet put new strength into my arms. I’m like an old whore,’ he added with a loud guffaw. ‘I’ll do absolutely anything for money.’

Robert Colbeck was interested in every aspect of the railways. While he enjoyed travelling on them, he was also very curious about those who brought them into being with the brilliance of their invention or the sweat of their brow. Bridges, aqueducts, tunnels, cuttings, and drainage systems did not burst spontaneously into life. Each and every one had to be designed and built to specification. Colossal earthworks had to be constructed. Timber had to be felled and cut to size. Marshes had to be drained. Stone had to be quarried. Untold millions of bricks had to be made on site before being used to line tunnels, create ventilation shafts, solidify bridges and aqueducts, or stabilise steep embankments. A railway was a declaration of war against a contour map of the area where it was being built. Continuous and unremitting attack was needed.

When he inspected the site with Aubrey Filton that morning, Colbeck was impressed by the amount of work that had been done since the day he had first arrived there
with Victor Leeming. Nobody was slacking. Everywhere he looked, men were putting their hearts and souls into their job. Brendan Mulryne, he noticed, was now helping to dig a new cutting, shovelling methodically and building up a vast mound of earth to be taken away to the wagons. Colbeck could hear his distinctive voice above the din.

‘You’re making headway, Mr Filton,’ he observed.

‘Not enough of it, Inspector.’

‘Where did you expect to be at this stage?’

‘At least a quarter of a mile farther on,’ said the engineer. ‘The French government are slave-drivers. We have targets to meet at the end of every month.’

‘Everything seems to be going well now. And we’ve not had any incidents for the last couple of days.’

‘It’s the calm before the storm.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Colbeck. ‘I believe it may have something to do with the fact that Mr Brassey took my advice about security. In addition to nightwatchmen, he now has a handful of guard dogs.’

‘Yes, they’re vicious-looking brutes.’

‘That’s the intention.’

‘I’m glad that they’re kept on a leash.’

‘They won’t be if there’s any trouble, Mr Filton. The dogs will be released. The simple fact that you’ve got them will make any villains think twice before committing a crime. They might be able to outrun a nightwatchman,’ said Colbeck, ‘but not if he has four legs.’

They strolled on until they reached the forward end of the strenuous activity. Ground rose steadily ahead of them and would need to be levelled before the track could be laid. There would be more digging for Mulryne and the others. Colbeck
thought about all the maps and charts he had seen in Brassey’s office.

‘How good an engineer was Gaston Chabal?’ he asked.

‘He was outstanding.’

‘I’m sure that you are as well, Mr Filton, or you’d not be employed on such a major project. Was Chabal taken on because he was French or because he had remarkable skills?’

‘For both reasons, Inspector.’

‘But you can manage without him?’

‘We have to,’ said Filton. ‘Fortunately, we have all the drawings and calculations he did for us, but it’s not the same as having the man himself here. Gaston was a delightful fellow.’

‘Everyone seems agreed on that.’

‘Except his killer.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, thoughtfully, ‘I’ve been trying to put myself in his position – the killer, that is, not Chabal. Why did he choose the Frenchman as his target? If you wanted to halt the construction of this railway, whom would you murder?’

Filton was offended. ‘I have no homicidal urges, I assure you.’

‘The obvious person would be Mr Brassey.’

‘Yes, that would be a calamity.’

‘Who would come next?’

‘One of his partners, I suppose.’

‘And then it would be the leading engineer, Gaston Chabal.’

‘Actually,’ said Filton with a rare flash of pride, ‘I was slightly senior to Gaston. I’ve been with Mr Brassey much longer and he always rewards loyalty.’

‘In other words, Chabal’s death was not a fatal blow to the
building of this railway.’

‘No, Inspector. It was a bitter blow but not a fatal one.’

‘Then he must have been killed for symbolic reasons.’

‘Symbolic?’

‘He was French,’ said Colbeck. ‘That was the conclusive factor. A Frenchman thrown from the Sankey Viaduct – I believe that act has a weird symbolism to it.’

‘What exactly is it?’

‘I’ve yet to establish that, Mr Filton.’

‘Do you still think his killer was an Englishman?’

‘I’m as certain as I can be.’

‘I wish I had your confidence.’

‘Everything points that way, sir.’

‘Not to my eyes. What possible connection is there between a crime near the Sankey Viaduct and the ones that have afflicted us here? The two railways involved have nothing whatsoever to do with each other.’

‘Yes, they do.’

‘What?’

‘Mr Alexander Marklew, for a start. He’s a director of the London and North-West Railway and a major investor in this one. And there are lots of other hidden links between the two, I feel, if only we could dig them out.’

‘All that troubles me is what happens on this project, Inspector. We’ve had setback after setback. Unless they are checked, they could in time bring us to a dead halt.’

‘That’s his intention.’

‘Who?’

‘The man I’m after,’ explained Colbeck. ‘The one responsible for all the crimes that have occurred. He’s very elusive. All I know about him so far is that he’s conceived a hatred of this
particular railway and a passion for symbols. Oh, yes,’ he added. ‘One more thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The fellow is utterly ruthless.’

Sir Marcus Hetherington left the shareholders’ meeting and called a cab with a snap of his fingers. He was a tall, slim, dignified man in his seventies with white hair curling from under his top hat and a red rose in the lapel of his frock coat. His short, white moustache was neatly trimmed. After telling the cab driver to take him to the Pall Mall, he clambered into the vehicle and settled back. Alone at last, he was able to let his mask of imperturbability drop. His face was contorted with fury and he released a few silent expletives.

It had been a disappointing meeting. Unlike many landowners, he had not seen the advent of railways as a gross intrusion of his privacy or a precursor of the destruction of the England he knew and loved. He was keenly aware of their practical value. Since he was paid a great deal of money by way of compensation, he was happy for a line to be built across his estates. The proximity of the railway station enabled him to reach London much more quickly from Essex than by travelling in a coach. That was a bonus.

Sir Marcus had always considered himself a forward-thinking man. Railways were set to revolutionise the whole country and he wanted to be part of that revolution. As a result, he took some of the capital he had received in compensation from one railway company and invested it in a couple of others. When the market was buoyant, dividends were high and he congratulated himself on his acumen. Once the bubble had burst so spectacularly, however, he had been one of the
many victims. At the meeting he had just left, the chairman had informed the assembled throng that no dividends at all would be payable to shareholders for the foreseeable future. It was infuriating.

When he reached the Reform Club, the first thing he did was to order a stiff whisky. Reclining in his high-backed leather chair, he sipped it gratefully and bestowed a patrician smile on all who passed. In the sedate surroundings of the club, he could not let his seething rage show. He had to simmer inwardly. One of the uniformed stewards came across to him and inclined his head with deference.

‘There’s a gentleman asking for you, Sir Marcus,’ he said.

‘Did he give a name?’

‘He sent his card.’

The steward handed it over and the old man glanced at it.

‘Send him in, Jellings,’ he said, crisply, ‘and bring him a glass of whisky. Put it on my account, there’s a good chap.’

Minutes later, Sir Marcus was sitting beside Luke Rogan, a thickset man in his forties with long, wavy black hair tinged with grey and a flat, but not unpleasant, face. Though well-dressed, Rogan looked decidedly out of place in a palatial club that was a home for Whig politicians and their like. There was a flashy quality about the newcomer that made him look rather incongruous beside such a distinguished figure as Sir Marcus Hetherington. When set against the educated drawl of the grandee, his voice sounded rough and plebeian.

‘You’ve more work for me, Sir Marcus?’ he inquired.

‘I think so, Rogan.’

‘Tell me what it is. I’ve never let you down yet.’

‘I wouldn’t employ you if you had,’ said Sir Marcus, ‘and you would certainly not be sitting here now. Tell me, do you
read the newspapers on a regular basis?’

‘Of course,’ replied the other with a complacent grin. ‘In my line of business, I have to, Sir Marcus. Newspapers is how I gets most of my work. Well, it’s how you and me got together, ain’t it? You saw my advertisement and got in touch.’

‘What have you noticed in the course of your reading?’

‘That the police still have no idea how a certain person was thrown out of a moving railway carriage – and they never will.’

‘Their failure is gratifying,’ said Sir Marcus, ‘I grant you that. But we must never underestimate this fellow, Colbeck. He seems to have an uncanny knack of picking up a trail where none exists.’

‘Not this time. Inspector Colbeck is like the rest of them over at Scotland Yard – he’s floundering, Sir Marcus.’

‘I begin to wonder.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve just come from a shareholders’ meeting of a railway company,’ replied the other. ‘The one thing of interest that the chairman told me was that Colbeck helped to prevent a serious crime from taking place on one of their trains earlier this year. The chairman could not speak too highly of him.’

‘Colbeck had some luck, that’s all.’

‘His success can’t be dismissed as lightly as that, Rogan. When I pointed out that the Railway Detective was faltering badly with his latest case, the chairman said that he’d heard a rumour to the effect that the inspector had gone to France.’

Rogan was jolted. ‘To France?’

‘It was not the kind of information I wanted to hear.’

‘Nor me, Sir Marcus.’

‘What I want to read about is the damage done to a
particular railway line on the other side of the Channel, yet the newspapers have been uniformly silent on the subject.’

‘You can’t expect them to carry foreign items.’

‘That’s exactly what I do expect, man. Any periodical worthy of the name should have its own foreign correspondents.
The
Times
will always report matters of interest from abroad.’

‘This would hardly catch their attention, Sir Marcus.’

‘Yes, it would. An Englishman is involved – Thomas Brassey.’

‘I’m sure that everything is going to plan.’

‘Then why is there no whisper of it in the press? Why is there no report from France about the damage caused to a railway in which they have invested both money and national pride?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ admitted Rogan.

‘Then find out.’

‘Eh?’

‘Go to France, man. Discover the truth.’

‘But I’m handling other cases at the moment, Sir Marcus. I can’t just drop them to go sailing off across the Channel. Anyway, I’ve no reason to suspect that the men I engaged will let me down.’

‘How much did you pay them?’

‘Half the money in advance,’ said Rogan, ‘just like you told me, the rest to be handed over when the job was done.’

‘And
has
the job been done?’ pressed Sir Marcus.

‘Not yet.’

‘Not at all, I suspect. What was to stop these rogues from pocketing the money you gave them and taking to their heels? If that’s the case, Rogan – and I hope, for your sake, that it’s not – then I am out of pocket as a consequence of your bad
judgement of character.’

‘Sir Marcus—’

‘Don’t interrupt me,’ snapped the other, subduing him with a frosty glare. ‘There’s unfinished business here, sir. If you accept a commission, you should see it through as a matter of honour. What you did for me in this country, I applaud. You obeyed your orders to the letter and were handsomely rewarded. But I begin to fear that you have let me down woefully in France itself.’

‘That’s not true, Sir Marcus.’

‘Prove it.’

‘I will, if you’ll bear with me for a while.’

‘My patience is exhausted.’ Taking something from his pocket, he slapped it down on the little table that stood between them. ‘Take that and study it carefully.’

‘What is it?’

‘A list of sailings to France. Choose a boat and be on it today.’

‘Today?’ spluttered Rogan. ‘That’s impossible.’

‘Not if you put your mind to it, man. Now stop arguing with me and be on your way. And whatever else you do,’ he added, spitting the words out like so many bullets, ‘don’t you dare return from that confounded country with bad news for me. Is that understood?’

Rogan gulped down his whisky then grabbed the piece of paper from the table. After pulling out his watch to check the time, he got to his feet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Yes, Sir Marcus,’ he said, obsequiously. ‘It’s understood.’

‘I don’t think we’ve met before, have we?’ said Father Slattery,
offering his hand. ‘Welcome to France, my friend.’

‘The name is Mulryne,’ said the other, extending his vast palm for the handshake. ‘Brendan Mulryne.’

‘I thought it might be. I’ve heard the stories.’

‘Don’t believe a word of them, Father. You know what terrible liars the Irish are. I’m just an ordinary lad who likes to keep his head down and get on with his work.’

‘Is that why you weren’t at church on Sunday?’

Mulryne feigned ignorance. ‘I didn’t know there
was
a church.’

‘Then it’s blind you must be, Brendan Mulryne, for everyone in the camp knows where we hold our services. We’ve no building as such and the altar is an old table with a piece of white cloth over it, but we can still worship the Almighty with the respect He deserves.’