The Railway Detective

THE RAILWAY DETECTIVE

EDWARD MARSTON

EDWARD MARSTON was born and brought up in South Wales. A full-time writer for over thirty years, he has worked in radio, film, television and the theatre and is a former chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association. Prolific and highly successful, he is equally at home writing children’s books or literary criticism, plays or biographies, and the settings for his crime novels range from the world of professional golf to the compilation of the Doomsday Survey. The Railway Detective is the first book in the series featuring Inspector Robert Colbeck and Sergeant Victor Leeming, set in the 1850s.

www.edwardmarston.com

Available from ALLISON & BUSBY

The Railway Detective series

The Railway Detective

The Excursion Train

The Railway Viaduct

The Iron Horse

Murder on the Brighton Express

The Silver Locomotive Mystery

The Restoration series

The Frost Fair

The Parliament House

The Painted Lady

The Captain Rawson series

Soldier of Fortune

Drums of War

Fire and Sword

In loving memory of my father, who spent his working life as an engine driver, and who instructed me in the mystery of steam locomotion.

With thanks to Janet Cutler for her expert advice on Victorian railway companies.

The landed proprietor often refused admission to the trespasser and his theodolite. At Addington the surveyors were met and defied in such force, that after the brief fight they were secured, carried before a magistrate and fined… The engineers were in truth driven to adopt whatever methods might occur to them. While people were at church; while the villager took his rustic meal; with dark lanthorns during the dark hours; by force, by fraud, by any and every mode they could devise, they carried the object which they felt to be necessary but knew to be wrong.JOHN FRANCISA History of the English Railroads (1851)

CHAPTER ONE

London, 1851

Euston Station was one of the architectural marvels of the day. Even the most regular passengers on the London and North Western Railway could still be impressed by the massive portico with its four Doric columns built of adamantine Bramley Fall sandstone, flanked by two pairs of pavilions, and standing on the north side of a large open space. The addition of two hotels, one either side of the portico, introduced a functional element that did not lessen the stunning impact of the facade. Those who passed through the imposing entrance found themselves in the Great Hall, a combined concourse and waiting room. It was a magnificent chamber in the Roman-Ionic style with a high, deeply coffered ceiling that made newcomers gape in astonishment.

Caleb Andrews did not even notice it, nor did he spare a glance for the majestic curved double flight of steps at the northern end of the hall that led to a gallery and vestibule. Only one thing in the station interested him and that was the locomotive he and his fireman were about to drive to Birmingham. Andrews was a short, wiry character in his early fifties with a fringe beard that was peppered with grey. There was a jauntiness about him that belied his age and that concealed his deep sense of dedication to his work. Caleb Andrews was a man who thrived on responsibility.

‘It’s a fine day, Frank,’ he observed. ‘We should have a clear run.’

‘God willing,’ said Pike.

‘God doesn’t come into it, man. We are the people in charge. If we do our jobs properly, everything will go well. The important thing is to get there on time. Do that and we’ll earn ourselves another pat on the back.’

‘That would be nice, Caleb.’

‘It would indeed.’

‘Extra money would be even nicer.’

Andrews gave a hollow laugh. ‘From this company?’

Frank Pike nodded resignedly. Now in his thirties, the big, shambling man from the West Country knew that they would only get their stipulated wage. Fireman Pike had a round, flat, moon face that was marked by routine exposure to the elements and, as a rule, darkened by a somnolent expression. His large hands were badly scarred by his trade. He had the deepest respect for his companion and was delighted to work alongside him. Technically, a conductor was in charge of a train but not when Caleb Andrews was there. The driver always asserted his authority and his colleagues knew better than to arouse his combative streak.

The two men were on the footplate, checking that everything was in readiness. Pike had got up a good head of steam and his fire shovel was at hand to add more fuel from the tender when necessary. The engine was throbbing with suppressed power. Andrews studied his instruments with a mixture of pride and affection. A locomotive was much more than an inanimate piece of machinery to him. She was a trusted friend, a living creature with moods, likes and dislikes, a complex lump of metal with her own idiosyncrasies, a sublime being, blessed with awesome might, who had to be treated correctly in order to get the best out of her.

‘Mr Allan knows how to design an engine,’ he said, appreciatively.

‘She’s one of the best,’ agreed Pike.

‘Mind you, there’s still room for improvement. They ought to let me spend a week or two at Crewe. I could point out a number of things that would make her run better yet use less oil.’

‘You always were a man of opinions, Caleb.’

‘They’re not opinions – they’re plain commonsense. The people who can give the best advice about how to build a locomotive are the men who drive her.’

‘I got no complaints.’

‘That’s because you’re too easily satisfied, Frank.’

‘I do what I’m paid to do, that’s all.’

There was an air of fatalism about Pike. Though Andrews was very fond of him, he had long ago accepted that his fireman lacked any real urgency or ambition. Frank Pike was a reliable workhorse, a quiet, efficient, unassuming, conscientious man who never questioned what he was doing or looked beyond it to something better. Andrews, by contrast, had enough aspiration for the two of them. He was bubbling with energy. While most men of his years were anticipating retirement, all that he could think about was promotion.

Like his fireman, Andrews wore a uniform of light-coloured corduroy and cap. Pulling a watch from his pocket to consult it, he clicked his tongue in irritation.

‘What’s keeping them?’ he said.

‘There’s minutes to go yet, Caleb.’

‘I like to leave on time.’

‘We will,’ said Pike, turning round to look back down the train. ‘I think they’re loading the last box now.’

Andrews put his watch away and gazed back down the platform. It was a short train, comprising an empty first class carriage, a bright red mail coach, a luggage van and a guard’s van. The locomotive and tender bore the distinctive livery of the northern division of the company. The engine was painted green, with main frames a paler shade of the same hue. Smoke box and chimney were black. The dome was green, as was the base of the safety valve, though the casing of the latter was polished brass. Hand-rails were covered polished brass and splashers were brass-headed. Wheels were black. The front cylinder caps were made of iron, polished to a sheen. Before she set out, she was positively gleaming.

‘Come on, come on,’ said Andrews, tapping his foot.

Pike gave a tolerant smile. ‘You’re too impatient.’

‘I want to be on my way, Frank.’

‘So do I,’ admitted the other. ‘I always feel a bit nervous when we’ve so much money aboard. It must worry you as well.’

‘Not in the least.’

‘But we must be carrying a small fortune.’

‘I don’t care if we’ve got the Crown Jewels tucked away in the luggage van,’ boasted Andrews, sticking out his chest. ‘Makes no difference at all to me. Besides, we have plenty of guards on board to watch over the mail and the money. No,’ he went on, ‘the only thing that unsettles me is time-keeping. I’ve a reputation to maintain.’ He heard a shrill blast on a whistle. ‘At last!’ he said with relief. ‘Stand by, Frank.’

‘I’m ready.’

‘Then let’s take her to Birmingham.’

With a venomous hiss of steam and a loud clanking of wheels, the engine moved slowly forward as she pulled her carriages on the first stage of their fateful journey.

By the time they hit open country, they had built up a steady speed. Caleb Andrews was at the controls and Frank Pike shovelled more coal into the firebox at regular intervals. The train surged on, rattling noisily and leaving clouds of dark smoke in its wake. Its iron wheels clicked rhythmically on the track. Having driven over the route many times, the two men were familiar with every bridge, viaduct, tunnel, change of gradient and curve in the line. They were also known to many of the people who manned the various stations, and they collected endless waves and greetings as they steamed past. Andrews acknowledged them all with a cheerful grin. Pike lifted his shovel in response.

It was a glorious April afternoon and the men enjoyed the warm sunshine. After the harsh winter they had endured, it was a pleasant change. Their work took them out in all weathers and they had little protection against wind, rain, snow, sleet or insidious fog. Driver and fireman had often arrived at their destination, soaked to the skin or chafed by an icy blast. Even the heat from the firebox could not keep out all of the cold. Today, however, it was different. It was a perfect day. Lush, green fields surrounded them and trees were in first leaf. The train was running smoothly over the flanged rails.

Forty miles passed uneventfully. It was only when they had raced through Leighton Buzzard Junction that they had their first hint of trouble. One of the railway policemen, who acted as signalmen, stood beside the line and waved his red flag to stop the train. Andrews reacted immediately. Without shutting off steam, he put the engine into reverse so that her speed was gradually reduced. Only when she had slowed right down was the tender hand-brake applied along with the brake in the guard’s van. Since she had been moving fast, it had taken almost half a mile to bring her to a halt.

Driver Andrews opened the cylinder cocks with the regulator open, so that steam continued to flow without working on the pistons. The water level in the boiler was maintained. Andrews leant out to look at the bulky figure of another railway policeman, who was striding towards them in the official uniform of dark, high-necked frock coat, pale trousers and stovepipe hat. He, too, had been signalling with his red flag for the train to stop. Andrews was annoyed by the delay.

‘You’d better have good cause to hold us up,’ he warned.

‘We do,’ said the policeman.

‘Well?’

‘There’s a problem with the Linslade Tunnel.’

‘What sort of problem?’

‘You’re not going through it, Mr Andrews.’

Tossing his flag to the ground, the policeman suddenly pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed it at the driver. Following his example, a group of armed men emerged swiftly from behind the bushes on either side of the line and made for the mail coach and the guard’s van. The latter was easy to enter but the locked doors of the mail coach had to be smashed open with sledgehammers before they could rush in and overpower the mail guards in their scarlet uniforms. While that was happening, someone was uncoupling the mail coach from the first class carriage in front of it.

As he watched the burst of activity, Caleb Andrews was outraged.

‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.

‘The train is being robbed,’ replied the policeman, still holding the weapon on him. ‘All you have to do is to obey orders. Stand back.’

‘Why?’

‘Do as I tell you.’

‘No.’

‘Stand back!’ ordered another voice, ‘or I’ll shoot you.’

Andrews looked up to see a well-dressed man at the top of a shallow embankment, aiming a rifle at him. There was an air of certainty about him that suggested he was more than ready to carry out his threat. Pike tugged anxiously at his friend’s elbow.

‘Do as they say, Caleb,’ he advised.

Andrews was truculent. ‘Nobody tells me what to do on my engine,’ he said, as he was pulled back a little. ‘I won’t let this happen.’

‘They have guns.’

‘They’ll need more than that to frighten me, Frank.’

‘Will we?’ asked the bogus policeman.

Having hauled himself up onto the footplate, he levelled the pistol at the driver’s temple. Pike let out a cry of protest but Andrews was unmoved. He stared at the interloper with defiance.

‘Take her on, Mr Andrews,’ said the other, crisply.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Drive the train, man.’

‘Not without the mail coach, the luggage van and the guard’s van.’

‘You won’t be needing those.’

‘I’ve got my responsibilities,’ argued the driver.

‘Your only responsibility is to stay alive,’ said the policeman, letting him feel the barrel of the weapon against his skull. ‘Now – are you going to obey orders?’

Andrews put his hands on his hips. ‘Make me,’ he challenged.

For a moment, the other man hesitated, not quite knowing what to do in the face of unexpected resistance. Then he moved quickly. Grabbing the pistol by the barrel, he used the butt to club the driver to the floor, opening up a gash on the side of his head that sent blood oozing down his cheek. When the fireman tried to intervene, the gun was pointed at him and he was forced to step back. Badly dazed, Andrews was groaning at their feet.

‘Don’t hit Caleb again,’ pleaded Pike.

‘Then do as I tell you. Start her up.’

‘Let me see to that wound of his first.’

‘No,’ snapped the other, turning the pistol towards Andrews. ‘Drive the engine or your friend is a dead man.’

Pike obeyed at once. More concerned about the driver’s safety than his own, he released the brake as fast as he could. Andrews, meanwhile, had recovered enough to realise what had happened to him. With a surge of rage, he threw his arms around the ankle of the man who was trying to take over his beloved locomotive. His recklessness was short-lived. It not only earned him two more vicious blows to the head, he was dragged to the edge of the footplate and tossed to the ground.

Horrified at the treatment of his friend, Pike could do nothing to help him. With a loaded pistol at his back, he set the train in motion and prayed that Caleb Andrews had not been too badly injured in the fall. The locomotive, tender and first class carriage trundled forward, leaving the mail coach, luggage van and guard’s van behind. Had he been able to glance over his shoulder, Frank Pike would have seen a disconsolate group of guards, surprised by the speed of the ambush, relieved of their weapons and forced to dismount from the train and remove their shoes.

When the engine had gone a hundred yards and started to pick up speed, the man who had pretended to be a railway policeman gave Pike a farewell slap on the back before jumping off the footplate. He made a soft landing on a grassy verge and rolled over. The fireman soon saw why he had been abandoned. Ahead of him in the middle distance was the opening of the Linslade Tunnel, but there was no way that he could reach it. A whole section of track had been levered off its sleepers and cast aside. Those behind the ambush were bent on destruction.

Seized by panic, Pike did what he could to avert disaster but it was in vain. Though he put the engine into reverse and tried to apply the brake, all that he did was to produce a firework display of sparks as the wheels skidded crazily along the rails. Seconds before he ran out of track, Pike had the presence of mind to leap from the footplate. Hitting the ground hard, he rolled over then watched in alarm as the locomotive veered over sharply, like a giant animal shot for sport.

The noise was deafening. Ploughing after the engine, the tender and the first class carriage ended up as a tangled mass of iron, seen through a fog of billowing smoke and angry steam. Frank Pike had to hold back tears. When he jumped to the ground, he had twisted his ankle but he ignored the pain. Pulling himself up, he turned his back on the hideous sight and limped back along the line to the fallen driver, hoping that Caleb Andrews was still alive.

CHAPTER TWO

As soon as he entered the room, Robert Colbeck knew that a serious crime must have been committed. The air was thick with pungent smoke and Superintendent Edward Tallis only reached for his cigar case when he was under severe pressure. Seated behind his desk, the older man was scanning a sheet of paper as if trying to memorise important details. Colbeck waited patiently for the invitation to sit down. Tall, slim and well-favoured, he was impeccably dressed in a dark brown frock coat, with rounded edges and a high neck, well-cut fawn trousers and an Ascot cravat. Catching the light that streamed in through the window, his black leather shoes were shining brightly. In the prosaic world of law enforcement, Inspector Robert Colbeck stood out as the unrivalled dandy of Scotland Yard.

Tallis tossed him a cursory glance then waved a podgy hand.

‘Take a seat,’ he barked. ‘We have much to discuss.’

‘So I understood from the urgency of your summons,’ said Colbeck, lowering himself onto a chair. ‘I came as soon as I could, sir.’

‘And not before time. We have a robbery on our hands.’

‘What kind of robbery, Superintendent?’

‘The worst kind,’ said Tallis, putting the sheet of paper aside. ‘A mail train was ambushed on its way to Birmingham. It was carrying a large consignment of gold sovereigns for delivery to a bank in the city. The thieves got away with every penny.’

‘Was anyone hurt in the process?’ asked Colbeck with concern.

‘Only the driver, it seems. He was foolish enough to offer resistance and suffered for his bravery. The fellow is in a sorry state.’

‘Poor man!’

‘Save your sympathy for me, Inspector,’ said Tallis, ruefully. ‘All hell broke loose when word of the crime reached London. I’ve been hounded by the commissioners, harried by the railway company, hunted by the Post Office and badgered by the Royal Mint.’

Colbeck smiled. ‘I thought I caught a whiff of cigar smoke.’

‘Anybody would think that I was the culprit.’

‘Only a bold man would ever accuse you of breaking the law, sir.’

Tallis bristled. ‘Are you being facetious, Inspector?’

‘Of course not.’

‘I’ll brook no disrespect.’

‘I appreciate that, sir.’

Tallis glared at him. The Superintendent was a stout, red-faced, robust man in his fifties with a military background that had deprived him of his sense of humour and given him, in return, a habit of command, a conviction that he always made the right decisions and a small scar on his right cheek. Tallis had a shock of grey hair and a neat moustache that he was inclined to caress in quieter moments. A lifelong bachelor, he had no family commitments to deflect him from his work in the Detective Department of the Metropolitan Police Force.

‘This is no time for drollery,’ he warned.

‘I was merely making an observation, Superintendent.’

‘Keep such observations to yourself in future.’

Colbeck bit back a reply. There was an unresolved tension between the two men that came to the surface whenever they were alone together, and the Inspector had learnt to rein in his urge to provoke Tallis. The Superintendent had a violent temper when roused. Colbeck had been at the mercy of it once too often. He probed for information.

‘What exactly happened, sir?’ he asked, politely.

‘That is what I’m endeavouring to tell you.’

‘I’m all ears.’

Clasping his hands together, the Superintendent recited the salient details of the case, stressing the importance of prompt action by Scotland Yard. Colbeck listened carefully to the account. Several questions raised themselves and he put the obvious one to Tallis.

‘How did they know that the train was carrying so much money?’

‘That’s for you to find out, Inspector.’

‘They must have had help from an insider.’

‘Track him down.’

‘We will, sir,’ promised Colbeck. ‘What interests me is that the locomotive was forced off the tracks and badly damaged.’

‘It will be out of service for weeks, I’m told.’

‘Why on earth did they do such a thing? I mean, the gang had got what they wanted from the train. There was no need to derail the engine like that. What was the intention?’

‘Ask them when you catch up with them.’

‘The other thing that worries me,’ said Colbeck, reflectively, ‘is the ease with which the security arrangements were breached. The money was loaded in boxes that were locked inside Chubb safes. I read an article about those safes when they were installed. They were reckoned to be impregnable.’

‘Two keys are needed to open them.’

‘As well as a combination number, Superintendent.’

‘Only one key was carried on the train,’ noted Tallis. ‘The other was in the possession of the bank to whom the money was being sent.’

‘Yet, according to you,’ Colbeck pointed out, ‘the safes were opened and emptied within a matter of minutes. That could only be done with a duplicate key and foreknowledge of the combination number. There’s collusion at work here.’

Tallis heaved a sigh. ‘This robbery was extremely well-planned, Inspector. I deplore what was done but I have to admire the skill of the operation. We’ve never had to deal with anything on this scale before. That’s why we must solve this crime quickly and bring the malefactors to justice,’ he went on, banging a fist on the desk in exasperation. ‘If they are seen to get away with such a daring exploit, there’ll be others who will surely try to copy them.’

‘I doubt that, Inspector. Most criminals, fortunately, have no gift for organisation and that’s the essence of this robbery. Several men were involved and their timing must have been excellent.’

‘Yes,’ conceded Tallis, grudgingly. ‘They knew what they wanted and took it – including the mail bags. The Post Office is hopping mad about that.’

‘It’s the people whose correspondence has gone astray who should be really alarmed,’ said Colbeck, thinking it through. ‘Those mail bags were not taken out of spite. Some envelopes will contain money or valuable items that can be sold for gain, and – by the law of averages – there’ll be letters of a highly sensitive nature that may give the villains opportunities for blackmail.’

‘That never occurred to me.’

‘I’ll wager that it occurred to them.’

‘The scheming devils!’ said Tallis, extracting a cigar case from his pocket. ‘Robbery, blackmail, wanton destruction of railway property – these men must be rounded up, Inspector.’

Colbeck rose purposefully to his feet. ‘The investigation will begin immediately, Superintendent,’ he said, firmly. ‘What resources do I have at my disposal?’

‘Whatever you ask for – within reason.’

‘I presume that the railway company will be offering a reward?’

Tallis nodded. ‘Fifty guineas for anyone who can provide information that will lead to an arrest,’ he said, selecting a cigar from the case. ‘This is a poor advertisement for them. It’s the first time their mail train has been robbed.’

‘I take it that I’m to work with Victor Leeming on this case?’

‘Sergeant Leeming is on his way here, even as we speak.’

‘Good,’ said Colbeck. ‘When he arrives, we’ll take a cab to Euston Station and catch the next available train to the scene of the crime. I want to see exactly where and how it all happened.’

‘You’ll need this, Inspector.’ Tallis picked up the sheet of paper. ‘It has all the relevant names on it – except those of the criminals, alas.’

Colbeck took it from him. ‘Thank you, Superintendent.’ His eye ran down the list. ‘The driver is the crucial person – this Caleb Andrews. I hope to speak to him in due course.’

Tallis lit his cigar. ‘You may need to have a clairvoyant with you.’

‘Why?’

‘Mr Andrews is still in a coma, and not expected to survive.’

The table in the stationmaster’s office at Leighton Buzzard was not the most comfortable bed but the patient was quite unaware of that. Lying on the bare wood, with a blanket draped over him, Caleb Andrews seemed to have shrunk. His head was heavily bandaged, his face pallid, his breathing laboured. One arm was in a sling, one leg in a splint. He looked as if he were hanging on to life by the merest thread.

Keeping vigil beside the makeshift bed, Frank Pike was torn between fear and guilt, terrified that his friend might die and filled with remorse at his inability to protect the driver from attack. There was another dimension to his anguish. With a pistol held over him, he had been forced to drive the locomotive off the track, something that was anathema to any railwayman. It was no consolation to him that Caleb Andrews had not been able to witness the awful moment when their engine plunged into the grass verge and shed its load of coal and water. Pike winced as he recalled it. His employers were bound to blame him.

He reached out a hand to touch the patient’s shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, Caleb,’ he said. ‘I had no choice.’

The older man’s eyelids flickered for a second and a soft murmur escaped his lips. Pike needed no interpreter. Caleb Andrews was reproaching him. The driver had been in the same situation as him and he had shown that there was, in fact, a choice. It was between refusal and compliance. While one man had the courage to refuse, the other had opted for compliance. It made Pike feel as if he had betrayed a dear friend and colleague. He drew back his hand involuntarily, no longer entitled to touch Andrews.

Covered in blood, the body had been carried all the way back to the station so that a doctor could be sought. The fractured leg and the broken collarbone were not the real cause for concern. It was the head injuries that made the doctor pessimistic. All that he could do was to clean and bind the wounds. Given their severity, he could offer no hope of recovery. Whatever happened, Pike realised, he would come in for censure. If the driver lived, he would be sure to admonish his fireman for cowardice. If he died, there would be many others who would point an accusatory finger at Frank Pike. Among them was Caleb Andrews’s daughter, a young woman whom Pike would not hurt for the world. As an image of her face came into his mind, he let out a gasp of pain.

‘Forgive me, Madeleine!’ he begged. ‘It was not my fault.’

‘What about the railway policemen who should have patrolled that line?’ asked Victor Leeming. ‘Why were they not on duty?’

‘Because they were bound and gagged,’ explained Colbeck, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve. ‘Apparently, they were found behind some bushes in their underwear. The robbers had borrowed their uniforms.’

‘What about their shoes?’

‘Those, too, were missing.’

‘Along with the shoes from all the people on board the train,’ said Leeming. ‘Are we looking for criminals with a passion for footwear?’

‘No, Victor. We’re searching for people who know that the simplest way to slow someone down is to make him walk in stockinged feet. By the time one of the guards reached the station to raise the alarm, the robbers were miles away.’

‘With all that money and several pairs of shoes.’

‘Don’t forget the mail bags. They were a secondary target.’

‘Were they?’

Sergeant Victor Leeming was puzzled. His brow wrinkled in concentration. He was a stocky man in his thirties, slightly older than Colbeck but with none of the Inspector’s social graces or charm. Leeming’s face had a benign ugliness that was not helped by his broken nose and his slight squint. Though he was not the most intelligent of detectives, he was always the first choice of Robert Colbeck, who valued his tenacity, his single-mindedness and his capacity for hard work. Leeming was a loyal colleague.

The two men were sitting in a first class carriage of a train that rumbled its way through Buckinghamshire. When it passed Leighton Buzzard Junction, it slowed by prior arrangement so that it could drop the detectives near the scene of the crime. Colbeck peered through the window as the wrecked locomotive came into sight.

‘They’ve repaired the line,’ he said, pointing to the track that curved ahead of them, ‘but I suspect it will take a lot longer to mend the engine and the carriage. They’ll need a crane to lift them.’

‘There’s no shortage of railway policemen,’ said Leeming, studying the knot of people beside the line. ‘I can count a dozen or more.’

‘All with their shoes on.’

‘What sort of reception can we expect, Inspector?’

‘A hostile one. They resent our interference.’

‘But we’re here to solve the crime.’

‘They probably feel that it’s their job to do that.’

Colbeck waited until the train shuddered to a halt then opened the door of the carriage. Taking care not to snag the tails of his coat, he jumped down nimbly on to the track. Leeming descended more slowly. Having deposited two of its passengers, the train chugged slowly off towards the Linslade Tunnel.

The newcomers took stock of the situation. Several people were gathered around the stricken engine and carriage. Others were standing in forlorn groups. Colbeck sought out the man whose name has been given to him as the person in charge. Inspector Rory McTurk of the railway police was a huge individual with a black beard and shaggy eyebrows. When he was introduced to them, McTurk was patently unimpressed by Colbeck’s tailored elegance and by Leeming’s unsightly features. He put a note of disapproval into his gruff voice.

‘So you’ve come at last, have you?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ replied Colbeck, weighing him up. ‘I trust that we can count on your full cooperation, Mr McTurk.’

‘Inspector McTurk,’ corrected the other.

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘We’ll give you all the help you need – and some guidance.’

‘Do you think that we’ll need guidance, Inspector?’

‘Yes,’ said McTurk, brusquely. ‘Railway lore is a complicated thing. You’ll need someone to take you through it. As for the robbery,’ he continued with an air of complacency, ‘I’ve already made preliminary enquiries among those who were on board the train, and I’m in a position to tell you exactly what happened.’

‘I’d prefer to hear it from the lips of the witnesses,’ insisted Colbeck. ‘That way we eliminate any narrative flourishes you might feel impelled to introduce.’

McTurk was indignant. ‘I’ll tell you the plain facts. Nothing else.’

‘After we’ve spoken to those who actually travelled on the train, if you don’t mind. Second-hand evidence is always suspect, as you know.’ Colbeck looked around. ‘Where are they?’

‘The mail guards are there,’ said McTurk, sourly, indicating the men who wore scarlet uniforms. ‘The two railway policemen who were aboard are at the station along with Fireman Pike and the guard.’

‘What about the driver, Caleb Andrews?’

‘He’s at Leighton Buzzard as well, Inspector. They took him to the station and sent for a doctor. Driver Andrews was badly hurt.’

‘How badly?’

McTurk was blunt. ‘This may turn into a murder investigation.’

‘Does he have a family?’

‘Only a daughter, according to his fireman. We’ve sent word to her. She’ll have heard the worst by now.’

‘I hope that tact and consideration were shown,’ said Colbeck, glad that McTurk himself had not imparted the distressing news. Discretion did not appear to be one of the Scotsman’s virtues. ‘Victor?’

‘Yes, Inspector?’ said Leeming, stepping forward.

‘Take full statements from the mail guards.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘We’ll speak to the others later.’

Leeming went off to interview the men who were sitting on the grass without any shoes and feeling very sorry for themselves. Colbeck was left to survey the scene. After looking up and down the line, he climbed the embankment and walked slowly along the ridge. McTurk felt obliged to follow him, scrambling up the incline and cursing when he lost his footing. The detective eventually paused beside some divots that had been gouged out of the turf. He knelt down to examine them.

‘They brought the money this way,’ he decided.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘The sovereigns were in bags that were packed into wooden boxes, Inspector. They were very heavy. It would have taken two men to carry each box and that meant that they had to dig their feet in as they climbed the embankment.’ He glanced down at the line. ‘What happened to the mail coach, the luggage van and the guard’s van?’

‘They were towed back to Leighton Buzzard and put in a siding.’

‘They should have been left here,’ said Colbeck, sharply, ‘where the robbery actually took place. It would have made it easier for me to reconstruct events.’

‘Railways run on timetables, Inspector Colbeck,’ the Scotsman told him. ‘As long as that rolling stock remained on the line, no down trains could get beyond this point.’ He curled a derisive lip. ‘Do you know what a down train is?’

‘Of course, Inspector McTurk. I travel by rail frequently.’ He looked back in the direction of Leighton Buzzard. ‘We’ll need to examine them. They may yield valuable clues.’

‘We’ve already searched the mail coach and the luggage van.’

‘That’s what troubles me,’ said Colbeck, meeting his gaze. ‘If you and your men have trampled all over them, evidence may unwittingly have been destroyed. Please ensure that nobody else has access to that rolling stock until we’ve had the chance to inspect it.’ McTurk glowered at him. ‘It’s not a request,’ warned Colbeck. ‘It’s an order.’

McTurk turned away and waved an arm at the cluster of railway policemen gathered below. One of them scampered up the embankment to be given a curt order by his superior. The man then went back down the incline and trotted in the direction of the station. Having asserted his authority, Colbeck gave his companion a disarming smile.

‘Thank you, Inspector,’ he said, suavely. ‘Your willing cooperation makes my job so much easier.’

McTurk remained silent but his eyes smouldered. He was much more accustomed to giving orders rather than receiving them. Colbeck swung on his heel and followed the marks in the grass. McTurk went after him. After picking their way through the undergrowth, they came to a narrow track that twisted its way off through a stand of trees. Colbeck noticed the fresh manure.

‘This is where they left their horses,’ he said, ‘and the boxes must have been loaded onto a carriage. They chose their spot with care. It’s hidden by the trees and only a short distance from the railway.’

‘Wait till I get my hands on the rogues!’

‘They’ll face due process in a court of law, Inspector.’

‘I want a word with them first,’ growled McTurk, grinding his teeth. ‘They stripped two of my men and trussed them up like turkeys.’

‘With respect,’ said Colbeck, reprovingly, ‘there are more serious issues here than the humiliation of two railway policeman. We are dealing with an armed robbery during which the driver of the train was so badly injured that he may not survive.’

‘I’d not forgotten that – and I want revenge.’

‘Don’t take it personally, Inspector McTurk. That will only cloud your judgement. Our job is to apprehend those responsible for this crime and, if possible, to reclaim the stolen money and mail bags. Revenge has no place in that scheme of things.’

‘It does for me,’ affirmed McTurk. ‘Look what they did,’ he added, jabbing a finger at the wreckage below. ‘They destroyed railway property. That’s the worst crime of all to me.’

‘Caleb Andrews is railway property,’ Colbeck reminded him. ‘His life is in the balance. When they’re hauled off to Crewe, the locomotive and the carriage can be repaired but I don’t think that your engineering works runs to spare parts for injured drivers.’ He raised his eyes to a sky that was slowly darkening. ‘I need to make best use of the light I still have,’ he announced. ‘Excuse me, Inspector. I want to take a look at the rolling stock that was foolishly moved from the scene of the crime.’

‘We only followed instructions,’ complained McTurk.

‘Do you always do as you’re told?’

‘Yes, Inspector.’

‘Then here’s another instruction for you,’ said Colbeck, pointedly. ‘Keep out of my way. The last thing I want at this moment is some over-obedient railway policeman getting under my feet. Is that understood?’

‘You need my help.’

‘Then I’ll call upon it, as and when necessary.’

‘You won’t get far without me,’ cautioned McTurk.

‘I fancy that I will,’ said Colbeck, easing him gently aside. ‘You cast a long shadow, Inspector. And I want all the light that I can get.’

On the walk back to the station, Sergeant Leeming gave his superior an edited version of the statements he had taken from the mail guards. Not wishing to be left out, Inspector McTurk trailed in their wake. Colbeck was sceptical about what he heard.

‘Something is missing, Victor,’ he concluded.

‘Is it?’

‘Every man tells the same tale, using almost identical language. That means they’ve had time to rehearse their story in order to cover their blushes.’

‘What blushes?’

‘They were at fault. They were on duty in a locked carriage yet they were caught napping by the ambush. How? Their assailants were quick but they still had to smash their way into the mail coach.’

‘It was all over in a matter of seconds,’ said Leeming. ‘At least, that’s what they told me.’

‘Did they tell you why nobody fired a shot in anger?’

‘No, Inspector.’

‘Then that’s what we need to establish,’ said Colbeck. ‘The train was stopped over a mile from the station but a gunshot would have been heard from here. It’s the reason that the robbers took care not to fire themselves. They didn’t wish to give themselves away.’

‘I never thought of that.’

‘They did – and the mail guards should have done so as well. The very least they should have managed was a warning shot. Help would have come from the station.’

‘Now that you mention it,’ recalled Leeming, scratching his chin, ‘they did seem a little embarrassed when I questioned them. I put it down to the fact that they had no shoes on.’

‘They’re hiding something, Victor.’

‘Do you think they might be in league with the robbers?’

‘No,’ said Colbeck. ‘If that had been the case, they’d have fled when the crime was committed. My guess is that they helped the robbers in another way – by being lax in their duties.’

Light was starting to fade noticeably so the Inspector lengthened his stride. Leeming increased his own speed but Inspector McTurk was panting audibly as he tried to keep pace with them. When they reached Leighton Buzzard Station, they saw that there was a sizeable crowd on the station. Colbeck ignored them and led the way to the rolling stock that was standing in a siding. The railway policeman who had been dispatched by McTurk was standing officiously beside the guard’s van.

Handing his top hat to Leeming, Colbeck first clambered up into the luggage van to examine the huge safe in which the money had been locked. Designed and built at the factory of one of England’s most reputable locksmiths, John Chubb, the safe was made of inch thick steel plate. It was three feet high, wide and deep, with a door formed by the hinged lid that swung back on a guard-chain. On the front wall of the safe were keyholes to twin locks, whose interior mechanism was almost six inches deep.

Colbeck admired the quality of construction. The positioning of the locks, and the need for a combination number, confronted any burglar with almost insurmountable problems. Cracksmen whom he had arrested in the past had always admitted how difficult it was to open a Chubb safe. Yet, in this case, the doors of the safe were gaping. Colbeck made a quick search of the van but found nothing that could be construed as a clue. He left the van, dropped to the ground and moved across to inspect the broken handles on the doors of the mail coach. One blow from a sledgehammer was all that had been required. Opening a door, Colbeck hauled himself up into the coach.

‘You’re wasting your time,’ called McTurk.

‘Am I?’ he replied.

‘I searched it thoroughly myself.’

‘I’m sure that I’ll see your footprints, Inspector.’

‘You’ll find nothing, I can tell you that.’

Colbeck beamed at him. ‘Thank you for your encouragement,’ he said. ‘It’s heartening to know we have your sage counsel to call upon.’

McTurk replied with a snort but Colbeck did not even hear it. He had already stepped into the coach to begin his search. Instead of being divided into separate compartments, the carriage consisted of one long space that had been adapted to enable mail to be sorted in transit. A table ran the length of one wall and, above that, was a series of wooden pigeonholes into which letters and parcels could be slotted. There were no signs of a struggle.

Robert Colbeck was meticulous. Beginning at one end of the coach, he made his way slowly forward and combed every inch. The search was painstaking and it produced no evidence at first but he pressed on nevertheless, bending low to peer into every corner. It was when he was almost finished that he saw something that appeared to have fallen down behind the table. It was a small white object, resting against the side of the coach. Colbeck had to get on his knees and stretch an arm to its fullest extent to retrieve the object. When he saw what it was, he gave a smile of satisfaction and went across to the door.

Inspector McTurk and Sergeant Leeming waited beside the track.

‘I told you there was nothing to see,’ said McTurk, triumphantly.

‘But there was,’ Colbeck told him. ‘You missed something.’

‘What?’

‘This, Inspector.’ He held up the card that he had found. ‘Now we know why the mail guards were taken unawares, Victor,’ he went on. ‘They were too busy playing cards to do their job properly.’

‘No wonder they kept their mouths shut,’ said Leeming.

‘My guess is that the policemen were in there with them. Instead of staying at their post in the luggage van, they preferred to pass the time with a game of cards.’ Colbeck leapt down to stand beside McTurk. ‘I fear that some of your men are unable to follow your excellent example, Inspector,’ he declared. ‘Unlike you, they do not know how to obey instructions.’

CHAPTER THREE

It took some while to persuade Frank Pike to abandon his bedside vigil. Consumed with grief, he seemed to feel that it was his bounden duty to remain beside the injured driver, as if his physical presence in the stationmaster’s office were the only hope of ensuring recovery. Having instructed his sergeant to take statements from the other people involved, Robert Colbeck turned his attention to Pike and, with a mixture of patience, sympathy and cool reason, eventually coaxed him into another room, where they could talk alone.

‘What about Caleb?’ asked Pike, nervously.

‘Mr Hayton, the stationmaster, will sit with him,’ explained Colbeck, putting his hat on the table. ‘If there’s any change in his condition, we’ll be called immediately.’

‘I should have done more to help him, sir.’

‘Let me be the judge of that, Mr Pike.’

‘When that man hit Caleb, I just went numb. I couldn’t move.’

‘It’s been a very distressing experience for you,’ said Colbeck, taking the chair behind the table. ‘I daresay that you’re still suffering from the shock of it all. Why don’t you sit down and rest?’

‘I feel that I should be in there with Caleb.’

‘Think of the man who attacked him. Do you want him caught?’

‘Yes, Inspector,’ said Pike with sudden urgency. ‘I do.’

‘Then you’ll have to help us. Every detail you can provide may be of value.’ He indicated the bench and the fireman slowly lowered himself on to it. ‘That’s better,’ he said, producing a pencil and pad from his inside pocket. ‘Now, in your own time, tell me what happened from the moment that the train was flagged down.’

Pike licked his lips with apprehension. He clearly did not wish to recount a story in which he felt his own conduct had been grievously at fault, but he accepted that it had to be done. On the other side of the wall, Caleb Andrews was fighting for his life. Even if it meant some personal discomfort for Pike, he knew that he had to be honest. It was the only way that he could help in the search for the men who had robbed the train and forced him to drive the locomotive off the track.

‘When was your suspicion first aroused?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Not until the signalman threw his flag aside and drew a pistol.’

‘Can you describe the fellow?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Pike with feeling. ‘He was as close as you are, Inspector. I looked him right in the face. He was a big man, around my own height, and with ginger whiskers. But it was his eyes I remember most clearly, sir. They was cold as death.’

Notwithstanding the fact that he was still badly shaken, Frank Pike gave a full and lucid account of the robbery, albeit punctuated with apologies for the way that he felt he had let the driver down. Noting down everything in his pad, Colbeck prodded him gently with questions until he elicited all the details. The fireman’s deep respect and affection for Caleb Andrews was obvious. Colbeck was touched. He tried to offer a modicum of reassurance.

‘From what you tell me,’ he said, ‘Mr Andrews was a plucky man.’

‘Caleb would stand up to anybody.’

‘Even when he was threatened with a loaded pistol.’

‘Yes,’ said Pike with a note of pride. ‘He was fearless.’

‘That courage will stand him in good stead now. He has a strong will to live and it should help him through. When his condition is more stable, I’ll arrange for him to be taken home. Meanwhile, I’ll make sure that’s he’s moved to a proper bed.’

‘Thank you, Inspector.’

‘I believe that he has a daughter.’

‘That’s true,’ replied the other. ‘Madeleine worships her father. This will be a terrible blow to her. It is to us all, of course, but Madeleine is the person who’ll suffer most. Caleb is everything to her.’

‘What about you, Mr Pike?’

‘Me, sir?’

‘Do you have someone who can help you through this ordeal?’

‘I’ve a wife and child, Inspector. Heaven knows what Rose will say when she hears what happened today. She worries enough about me, as it is,’ he said with a sheepish smile. ‘My wife thinks that working on the railway is dangerous.’

‘You may find it difficult to convince her otherwise, Mr Pike.’

The fireman sat upright. ‘I like my job, sir,’ he attested. ‘It’s the only thing I ever wanted to do. The robbery won’t change that.’

‘I admire your devotion to duty.’ Colbeck glanced down at his notes. ‘Let me just read through your statement, if I may, in case there’s anything you wish to change or add.’

‘There won’t be, Inspector.’

‘You never know. Please bear with me.’

Referring to his notes, Colbeck repeated the story that he had been told. Pike was astounded by the accuracy with which his words had been recorded and, in hearing them again, his memory was jogged.

‘There was one more thing,’ he said.

‘Go on.’

‘It may not be important but it struck me as odd at the time.’

‘Odd?’

‘Yes, Inspector. The man who climbed up onto the footplate called Caleb by his name. He knew who was driving that train.’

‘I wonder how,’ said Colbeck, making another entry in his notebook. He flipped it shut. ‘Thank you, Mr Pike. That information is very pertinent. I’m glad that I double-checked your story.’

There was a tap on the door and it opened to admit Hayton, the stationmaster, a stooping man in his forties. His sad expression made Pike leap to his feet in alarm. He grabbed the newcomer by the shoulder.

‘Has something happened to Caleb?’ he demanded.

‘Calm down, Mr Pike,’ soothed Colbeck, rising from his chair.

‘I want to know the truth.’

‘Leave go of me and you shall,’ said the stationmaster, detaching the fireman’s hand. ‘There’s no need to be so anxious, Mr Pike. The news is good. I came to tell you that the patient has rallied slightly. Mr Andrews even took a sip of water.’

Sergeant Victor Leeming had not been idle. He was working in a little room that was used for storage. Having first taken a statement from the guard on the ambushed train, he interviewed the two railway policemen whose task was to protect the money in the safes. Initially, they denied having left the luggage van and insisted that they had not been playing cards in the mail coach. When Leeming told them that the guard had given evidence to the contrary, they blustered, prevaricated then, under close questioning, they caved in. One of the railway policemen, a surly individual with a walrus moustache, even tried to justify their action.

‘Sitting in a luggage van is very boring,’ he said.

‘You were not there to be entertained,’ observed Leeming.

‘We often slip into the mail van on such occasions. Nothing ever happens when we carry money. The train has never been under threat before. Ask yourself this, Sergeant. Who would even think of trying to rob us? It’s impossible to open those two safes.’

‘Not if you have the keys and the combination. What would have made it more difficult for them, of course,’ said Leeming, ‘is that they’d met stout resistance from two railway policemen hired to guard that money.’

‘We didn’t believe that it could ever happen, Sergeant.’

‘That’s no excuse.’

‘It was their fault,’ said the man, searching desperately for a way to redeem himself. ‘We were led astray. The mail guards pleaded with us to join them in their coach. They should carry the blame.’

‘If you wanted to play cards,’ said Leeming, reasonably, ‘you could have done that in the luggage van with your colleague.’

‘It’s not the same with only two players.’

‘Tell that to Inspector McTurk.’

The two policemen quailed. They had already given accounts of the robbery to their superior, carefully omitting any mention of their visit to the mail coach. Thanks to the detective, they would now have to confess that they had lied to McTurk. It was a daunting prospect. In the event, it was Leeming who first informed the Scotsman that he had been misled. When he left the storeroom, he found McTurk lurking outside and told him what had transpired.

‘Hell and damnation!’ exclaimed McTurk. ‘They’ll swing for this.’

‘They pulled the wool over your eyes, Inspector.’

‘I’ll make them regret that they did that.’

‘You owe a debt to Inspector Colbeck,’ said Leeming, enjoying the other’s discomfort. ‘Had he not searched the mail van, this dereliction of duty may not have come to light. It explains why those employed to look after the mail and the money were caught off guard.’

‘I’ll see them crucified,’ vowed McTurk.

‘You need to review your safety procedures.’

‘Don’t presume to tell me my job, Sergeant.’

‘Your men were blatantly at fault.’

‘Then they’ll be punished accordingly,’ said McTurk, nettled by the criticism. ‘We have high standards to maintain. But I’ll thank you not to pass comments on our police force. Might I remind you that we’ve been in existence a lot longer than the Detective Department at Scotland Yard?’

‘Perhaps that’s why complacency has set in.’

‘We are not complacent, Sergeant Leeming!’

‘Patently, some of your men are.’

‘Isolated examples,’ argued the Scotsman, barely able to contain his fury. ‘And whatever their shortcomings, at least they look like policemen. I can’t say that about you and Inspector Colbeck.’

‘We belong to the Plain-Clothes Detail.’

McTurk sniffed. ‘There’s nothing plain about your colleague’s attire. He struts around like a peacock.’

‘The Inspector puts a high premium on smartness.’

‘Then he’d be more at home in fashionable society.’

‘I agree with you there,’ said Colbeck, coming into the room in time to hear McTurk’s comment. ‘Fashionable society is often the place where serious crimes are hatched. Were we to wear police uniform, we would disclose our identity at once and that would be fatal. Being able to move invisibly in society gives us an enormous advantage. It’s one of the principles on which we operate.’

‘It’s not one that appeals to me,’ said McTurk, tapping his chest. ‘I’m proud to wear a uniform. It shows who I am and what I stand for.’

‘But it also warns any criminals that you represent danger.’

‘And what do you represent, Inspector Colbeck?’

‘The veiled sarcasm in your voice suggests that you’ve already supplied your own answer to that question,’ said Colbeck, tolerantly, ‘so I’ll not confuse you by giving you my reply. I simply came to thank you for your help and to tell you that we’ll be leaving for London soon.’ He could not resist a smile. ‘On what, I believe, you call an up train.’

‘What about the others?’

‘They’re free to leave, Inspector – with the exception of the patient, that is. The stationmaster has very kindly offered a bed in his house to Mr Andrews, who seems to have made a slight improvement.’

‘That’s cheering news,’ said Leeming.

‘Yes,’ added McTurk. ‘The station can get back to normal.’

‘Normality will not be completely restored,’ said Colbeck, ‘until this crime has been solved and the villains are securely behind bars. Sergeant Leeming and I have done all that we can here. We move on to the next stage of the investigation.’

‘May one ask where that might be?’

‘Of course, Inspector. We’re going to pay a visit to the Post Office.’ He hovered in the doorway. ‘Now, please excuse me while I speak to Fireman Pike. He insists on staying with the driver even though there’s nothing that he can do.’ He waved to McTurk. ‘Goodbye.’

‘And good riddance!’ muttered the other as Colbeck went out. He turned on Leeming. ‘A Detective-Inspector, is he? And how did he get that title?’

‘Strictly on merit,’ said the other.

‘The merit of knowing the right people?’

‘Not at all. He achieved his promotion by dint of hard work and exceptional talent. Inspector Colbeck is highly educated.’

‘I knew that there was something wrong with him.’

‘Don’t you believe in education, Inspector McTurk?’

‘Only in small doses,’ retorted the other. ‘Otherwise, it can get in your way. Book-learning is useless in this job. All that a good policeman really needs is a sharp eye and a good nose.’

‘Is that what you have?’ asked Leeming.

‘Naturally.’

‘Then they let you down, Inspector. Your sharp eye didn’t help you to spot that playing card in the mail coach, and your good nose failed to pick up the smell of deception when you questioned the two policemen who travelled on the train.’

‘That’s immaterial.’

‘Not to me. I put my trust in Inspector Colbeck’s education.’

‘You’d never get me working for that fop,’ sneered McTurk.

‘I can see that you don’t know him very well,’ said Leeming with a short laugh. ‘He’s no fop, I can assure you of that. But you’re quite safe from him. He’d never even consider employing you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you are what you are, Inspector McTurk. Criminals can see you coming a mile away. Let’s be frank about it, shall we? Even if you were stark naked, everyone would know that you were a policeman.’

Herbert Shipperley was a short, thin, harassed man in his fifties with a bald head that was dotted with freckles and a face that was a mass of wrinkles. His responsibilities at the Post Office included supervision of the mail coaches that were run on various lines. News of the train robbery had struck him with the force of a blow and he was quick to see all the implications. Shipperley knew that he would be in the line of fire. Even though it was quite late, he was still in his office when the detectives called on him and introduced themselves. He backed away as if they had come to arrest him.

‘We just wish to ask you a few questions,’ explained Colbeck.

‘I’ve been bombarded with questions ever since people caught wind of the robbery,’ moaned Shipperley. ‘It’s only a matter of time before I have newspaper reporters banging on my door. They’ll blame me as well, whereas it’s the railway company that’s really at fault.’

‘We’re not here to apportion blame, Mr Shipperley. We merely wish to establish certain facts. Sergeant Leeming and I have just returned from the scene of the crime.’

‘What did you learn?’

‘Enough to see that we have a difficult case on our hands.’

‘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.’

CHAPTER FOUR

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.’

The clock on the desk began to strike and Leeming realised how late it was. It was time to go home. He downed the last of the whisky in one gulp then rose to his feet.

‘What will you be doing tomorrow, sir?’ he asked.

‘Going to Birmingham. I need to speak to the bank manager.’

‘Better you than me. I hate long train journeys. They unsettle my stomach. To be honest, I don’t like travelling by rail at all.’

‘Really? I love it. Believe it or not, there was a time in my youth when I toyed with the notion of being an engine driver.’

‘The life of a cab driver has more attraction for me.’

‘You prefer the horse to the steam locomotive?’

‘I do, Inspector.’

‘Then you’re behind the times, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘The railways are here to stay. In any race between them, a steam train will always beat a horse and carriage.’

‘That’s not what happened today, sir.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The mail train came a poor second,’ argued Leeming. ‘It was put out of action completely while the robbers escaped overland by horse. I think that there’s a message in that.’

Colbeck pondered. ‘Thank you, Victor,’ he said at length. ‘I do believe that you’re right. There was indeed a message.’

The fight was over almost as soon as it had begun. After exchanging loud threats and colourful expletives, the two men leapt to their feet and squared up to each other. But before either of them could land a telling blow, they were grabbed by the scruff of their necks, marched to the door and thrown out into the alleyway with such force that they tumbled into accumulated filth on the ground. Rubbing his hands together, the giant Irishman who had ejected them sauntered back to the crowded bar.

‘I see that you haven’t lost your touch,’ said a voice in the gloom.

‘Who are you?’ growled Brendan Mulryne, turning to the man.

‘I was waiting for you to remember.’

Mulryne blinked. ‘Haven’t I heard that voice before somewhere?’

‘You should have. It gave you a roasting often enough.’

‘Holy Mary!’ exclaimed the other, moving him closer to one of the oil lamps so that he could see the stranger more clearly. ‘It’s never Mr Colbeck, is it?’

‘The very same.’

Mulryne stared at him in the amazement. The Black Dog was one of the largest and most insalubrious public houses in Devil’s Acre and the last place where the Irishman would have expected to find someone as refined as Robert Colbeck. The detective had taken trouble to blend in. Forsaking his usual attire, he looked like a costermonger down on his luck. His clothes were torn and shabby, his cap pulled down over his forehead. Colbeck had even grimed his face by way of disguise and adopted a slouch. He had been standing next to Mulryne for minutes and evaded recognition. The Irishman was baffled.

‘What, in God’s sacred name, are you doing here?’ he said.

‘Looking for you, Brendan.’

‘I’ve done nothing illegal. Well,’ he added with a chuckle, ‘nothing that I’d own up to in a court of law. The Devil’s Acre is a world apart. We have our own rules here.’

‘I’ve just seen one of them being enforced.’

Colbeck bought his friend a pint of beer then the two of them adjourned to a table in the corner. It was some time since the detective had seen Mulryne but the man had not changed. Standing well over six feet tall, he had the physique of a wrestler and massive hands. His gnarled face looked as if it had been inexpertly carved out of rock but it was shining with a mixture of pleasure and surprise now. During his years in the Metropolitan Police, Mulryne had been the ideal person to break up a tavern brawl or to arrest a violent offender. The problem was that he had been too eager in the exercise of his duties and was eventually dismissed from the service. The Irishman never forgot that it was Robert Colbeck who had spoken up on his behalf and tried to save his job for him.

A pall of tobacco smoke combined with the dim lighting to make it difficult for them to see each other properly. The place was full and the hubbub loud. They had to raise their voices to be heard.

‘How is life treating you, Brendan?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Very well, sir.’

‘You don’t have to show any deference to me now.’

‘No,’ said Mulryne with a grin that revealed several missing teeth. ‘I suppose not. Especially when you’re dressed like that. But, yes, I’m happy here at The Black Dog. I keep the customers in order and help behind the bar now and then.’

‘What do you get in return?’

‘Bed, board and all the beer I can drink. Then, of course, there’s the privileges.’

‘Privileges?’

‘We’ve new barmaids coming here all the time,’ said Mulryne with a twinkle in his eye. ‘I help them to settle in.’

‘Would you be interested in doing some work for me?’

Mulryne was hesitant. ‘That depends.’

‘I’d pay you well,’ said Colbeck.

‘It’s not a question of money. The Devil’s Acre is my home now. I’ve lots of friends here. If you’re wanting help to put any of them in jail, then you’ve come to the wrong shop.’

‘The man I’m after is no friend of yours, Brendan.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because he doesn’t really belong in this seventh circle of hell,’ said Colbeck. ‘He’s an outsider, who’s taken refuge here. A gambler who drifted in here to play cards and to lose his money.’

‘We’ve lots of idiots like that,’ said Mulryne. ‘They always lose. There’s not an honest game of cards in the whole of the Devil’s Acre.’

‘He still hasn’t realised that.’

‘Why do you want him?’

‘It’s in connection with a serious crime that was committed earlier today – a train robbery.’

‘Train robbery!’ echoed the other with disgust. ‘Jesus, what will they think of next? There was never anything like that in my time. The only people I ever arrested were beggars, footpads, cracksmen, flimps, doxies, screevers and murderers – all good, decent, straightforward villains. But now they’re robbing trains, are they? That’s shameful!’

‘It was a mail train,’ said Colbeck. ‘A substantial amount of money was also being carried. They got away with everything.’

‘How does this gambler fit into it?’

‘That’s what I need to ask him, Brendan – with your help.’

‘Ah, no. My days as a bobby are over.’

‘I accept that. What I’m asking you is a personal favour.’

‘Is it that important, Mr Colbeck?’

‘It is,’ said the other. ‘I’d not be here otherwise. It’s been a long day and walking through the Devil’s Acre in the dark is not how I’d choose to spend my nights. No offence, Brendan,’ he added, glancing around at some of the sinister faces nearby, ‘but the company in The Black Dog is a little too primitive for my taste.’

Mulryne laughed. ‘That’s why I like it here,’ he said. ‘The place is alive. The sweepings of London come in through that door, looking for a drink, a woman and a fight in that order. I keep very busy.’

‘Could you not spare some time to assist me?’

‘I’m not sure that I can, Mr Colbeck. I’ve no idea what this man looks like and not a clue where to start looking.’

‘I can help you on both counts,’ said the detective. ‘When I finally persuaded his wife that I needed to track him down, she gave me a good description of William Ings. He’s living with a woman somewhere. But the place to start is among the moneylenders.’

‘Why – did he borrow from them?’

‘He must have Brendan. He lost so much at the card table that he had to sell or pawn most of the furniture in his house. The only way he could have carried on gambling was to borrow money – probably at an exorbitant rate of interest.’

‘There are no philanthropists in the Devil’s Acre.’

Colbeck leant in closer. ‘I need to locate this man.’

‘So I see. But tell me this – does that black-hearted devil, Superintendent Tallis, know that you’re here?’

‘Of course not.’

‘What about Sergeant Leeming?’

‘There’s no need for Victor to be told,’ said Colbeck. ‘That way, he can’t get into trouble with Mr Tallis. This is my project, Brendan. You’ll only be answerable to me.’

‘And there’s money in it?’

‘If you can root out William Ings.’

Mulryne pondered. Before he could reach a decision, however, he saw a drunk trying to molest one of the prostitutes who lounged against the bar. When she pushed the man away, he slapped her hard across the face and produced a squeal of outrage. Mulryne was out of his seat in a flash. He stunned the troublemaker with a solid punch on the side of his head before catching him as he fell. The man was lifted bodily and hurled out of the door into the alleyway, where he lay in a pool of his own vomit. The Irishman returned to his table.

‘I’m sorry about the interruption,’ he said, sitting down.

‘You have a living to earn, Brendan.’

‘I do, Mr Colbeck. Mind you, I can always do with extra money. Since I became forty, my charm is no longer enough for some of the girls. They expect me to buy them things as well – as a mark of my affection, you understand.’

‘I don’t care how you spend what I give you.’

‘That’s just as well,’ said Mulryne. ‘Before I agree, promise me there’ll be no questions about any friends of mine here who might accidentally have strayed from the straight and narrow.’ His eyes glinted. ‘I’m not an informer, Mr Colbeck.’

‘The only man I’m interested in is William Ings. Will you help me?’

‘As long as my name never reaches Mr Tallis.’

‘It won’t,’ said Colbeck, ‘I can assure you of that.’

‘Then I’m your man.’

‘Thank you, Brendan. I appreciate it. Though I’m afraid it won’t be easy to find Ings in this rabbit warren.’

Mulryne was confident. ‘If he’s here – I’ll find the bastard!’

Polly Roach was much older than she looked. By dyeing her hair and using cosmetics artfully, she lost over a decade but her body was more difficult to disguise. She had therefore placed the oil lamp where the spill of its light did not give too much away. As she lay naked in his flabby arms, she made sure that the bed sheet covered her sagging breasts, her spindly legs and the mottled skin on her protruding belly. She nestled against his shoulder.

‘When are you going to take me away from here?’ she asked.

‘All in good time.’

‘You said that we’d have a home together.’

‘We will, Polly. One day.’

‘And when will that be?’

‘When it’s safe for me to leave here,’ he said, unwilling to commit himself to a date. ‘Until then, I’ll stay with you.’

‘But you told me that I didn’t belong in the Devil’s Acre.’

‘You don’t, Poll.’

‘You promised that we’d live together properly.’

‘That’s what we are doing,’ he said, fondling a breast and kissing her on the lips. ‘I left a wife and children for you, remember.’

‘I know, Bill.’

‘I changed my whole life just to be with you.’

‘I simply want you to get me out of the Devil’s Acre.’

‘Be patient.’

William Ings was a plump man in his forties with large, round eyes that made him look as if he was in a state of constant surprise, and a tiny mouth that was out of proportion with the rest of his facial features. It was lust rather than love that had drawn him to Polly Roach. She offered him the kind of sexual excitement that was unimaginable with his prudish and conventional wife and, once she had a hold on him, she slowly tightened her grasp. During the first few days when he moved in with her, he was in a state of euphoria, enjoying a freedom he had never known before and luxuriating in sheer decadence. It was worlds away from the humdrum routine of the Post Office.

The shortcomings of his situation then became more apparent. Instead of having his own house, he was now sharing two small rooms in a fetid tenement whose thin walls concealed no sounds from the rest of the building. Ings soon learnt that his immediate neighbours, an elderly man and his wife, had ear-splitting arguments several times a day and he had been shocked when he heard the prostitute in the room above them being beaten into silence by one of her more brutal customers. In the room below, a couple had made love to the accompaniment of such vile language that it made his ears burn. In the past, paying an occasional brief visit to Polly Roach had been exhilarating. Living with her in a place of menace was beginning to have distinct drawbacks.

‘What are you thinking, Bill?’ she asked, gently rubbing his chest.

He sat up. ‘I’ve decided to go out again.’

‘Now? It must be almost midnight.’

‘There are places that never close.’

‘You don’t want to play cards again, surely?’

‘Yes, Poll,’ he said, easing her away from him. ‘I feel lucky.’

‘You always say that,’ she complained, jabbing him with a finger, ‘yet you always manage to lose somehow.’

‘I won this week, didn’t I?’ he said, peevishly.

‘That’s what you told me, anyway.’

‘Don’t you believe me?’

‘I’m not sure that I do.’

Anger stirred. ‘Where else would I have got so much money from?’ he said. ‘You should be grateful, Polly. It enabled me to leave my job and move in here with you. Isn’t that what you wanted?’

‘Yes, Bill. Of course.’

‘Then why are you pestering me like this?’

‘I just wanted to know where the money came from,’ she said, putting a conciliatory hand on his arm. ‘Please don’t go out again. I know that you feel lucky, but I’d hate you to throw away what you’ve already earned at the card table. That would be terrible.’

‘I only play to win more,’ he insisted, getting up and reaching for his clothes. ‘This is my chance, don’t you see? I can play for higher stakes.’

‘Not tonight.’

‘I must. I have this feeling inside me.’

Her voice hardened. ‘How much have you given to her?’ she asked, coldly. ‘I don’t want you wasting any of our money on your wife.’

‘That’s a matter between me and Maud.’

‘No, it isn’t, Bill.’

‘I have responsibilities.’

‘I’m your only responsibility now,’ she said, climbing out of bed to confront him in the half-dark. ‘Have you forgotten what you promised? You swore that I was the only person who mattered in your life.’

‘You are, Poll.’

‘Then prove it.’

‘Leave me be,’ he said, fumbling for his trousers.

‘Prove it.’

‘I’ve already done that.’

‘Not to my satisfaction.’

‘What more do you want of me?’ he demanded, rounding on her. ‘Because of you, I walked out on my wife and children, I gave up my job and I started a whole new life. I tried my best to make you happy.’

‘Then take me away from here.’

‘I will – in due course.’

‘Why the delay?’ she challenged. ‘What are you hiding from?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Then why this talk about it not being safe to leave here?’

He pulled on his trousers. ‘We’ll talk about this in the morning,’ he said, evasively. ‘I have other things on my mind now.’

She glared at him. ‘Are you lying to me, Bill?’

‘No!’

‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

‘You’ve been told everything you need to know, Poll.’

‘I’m your woman. There should be no secrets between us.’

‘There are none,’ he said, irritably. ‘Now stand out of my way and let me get dressed. I have to go out.’

Polly Roach had played the submissive lover for too long now. She decided that it was time to assert herself. When she got involved with William Ings, she had seen him as her passport out of the squalor and degradation that she had endured for so many years. He represented a last chance for her to escape from the Devil’s Acre and its attendant miseries. The thought that he might be deceiving her in some way made her simmer with fury. As he tried to do up the buttons on his shirt, she took him by the shoulders.

‘Stay here with me,’ she ordered.

‘No, Polly. I’m going out.’

‘I won’t let you. Your place is beside me.’

‘Don’t you want me to make more money, you silly woman?’

‘Not that way, Bill. It’s too dangerous.’

‘Take your hands off me,’ he warned.

‘Only if you promise to stay here tonight.’

‘Don’t make me lose my temper.’

‘I have a temper as well,’ she snarled, digging her nails into his flesh. ‘I fight for what’s mine. I’m not going to let you sit at a card table and lose money that could be spent on me. I’ve been in this jungle far too long, Bill. I want to live somewhere respectable.’

‘Get off me!’ he yelled.

‘No!’

‘Get off!’

Stung by the pain and annoyed by her resistance, he pushed her away and lashed out wildly with a fist, catching her on the chin and sending her sprawling on to the floor. Her head hit the bare wood with a dull thud and she lost consciousness. Ings felt a pang of guilt as he realised what he had done but it soon passed. When he looked down at her, he was repelled by her sudden ugliness. Her mouth was wide open, her snaggly teeth were revealed and he could see the deep wrinkles around her scrawny neck for the first time. Her powdered cheeks were hollow. Ings turned away.

He had never hit a woman before and expected to be horrified at his own behaviour. Yet he felt no remorse. If anything, he felt strangely empowered. He finished dressing as quickly as he could. Polly Roach could do nothing to stop him when he retrieved his belongings from a corner and stuffed them into a leather bag. After taking a farewell look around the tawdry bedroom, he stepped over her body as if it were not there and went out with a swagger.

CHAPTER FIVE

Madeleine Andrews had refused the kind offer of accommodation in the neighbouring house, preferring instead to spend the night beside her father’s bed. With a blanket around her shoulders and a velvet cushion beneath her, she sat on an upright wooden chair that was not designed to encourage slumber. Every time she fell asleep, she was awake again within minutes, fearful that she might fall off the chair or miss any sign of recovery by the patient. In fact, Caleb Andrews did not stir throughout the night, lying motionless on his back in the single bed, lost to the world and looking in a pitiful condition. It was only his mild but persistent snore that convinced Madeleine that he was still alive.

She loved her father dearly. In the five years since her mother’s death, she had been running their home, taking on full responsibility and treating her father with the kind of affectionate cajolery that was needed. Madeleine was an attractive, alert, self-possessed young woman in her early twenties with an oval face framed by wavy auburn hair and set off by dimpled cheeks. She was calm and strong-willed. Instead of showing panic when told of the attack on her father, she had simply abandoned what she was doing and made her way to Leighton Buzzard as soon as she could.

By the time that she arrived, her father had been moved to the spare bedroom in the stationmaster’s house and a penitent Frank Pike was seated beside him. It took her over an hour to convince the fireman that he needed to go home to his wife in order to reassure her that he had not been injured during the robbery. Still troubled in his mind, Pike had finally departed, given some hope by the brief moment when his friend and work mate seemed to rally. He accepted that it was Madeleine’s place to keep watch over her father. Both she and the fireman prayed earnestly that she was not sitting beside a deathbed.

It was well after dawn when Caleb Andrews started to wake from his long sleep. Eyes still shut, he rocked from side to side as if trying to shake himself free of something, and a stream of unintelligible words began to tumble from his mouth. Madeleine bent solicitously over him.

‘Can you hear me?’ she asked.

He puckered his face as he fought to concentrate. When he tried to move the arm that was in a sling, he let out a cry of pain then became silent again. Madeleine thought he had fallen asleep and made no effort to rouse him. She simply sat there and gazed at him by the light that was slanting in through a gap in the curtains. The room was small and featureless but the bed was a marked improvement on the table in the stationmaster’s office. Greater comfort had allowed the patient to rest properly and regain some strength. When his daughter least expected it, Caleb Andrews forced his eyes open and squinted at the ceiling.

‘Where am I?’ he whispered.

‘You’re somewhere safe, Father,’ she replied.

He recognised her voice. ‘Maddy? Is that you?’

He turned his head towards her and let out another yelp of pain.

‘Keep still, Father.’

‘What’s wrong with me?’

‘You were badly injured,’ she explained, putting a delicate hand on his chest. ‘The train was robbed and you were attacked.’

‘Where’s Frank? Why isn’t my fireman here?’

‘I sent him home.’

Andrews was bewildered. ‘Home? Why?’ His eyes darted wildly. ‘Where are we, Maddy?’

‘In the stationmaster’s house at Leighton Buzzard.’

‘What am I doing here? I should be at work.’

‘You need rest,’ she told him, putting her face close to his. ‘You took some blows to the head and you fractured a leg when you fell from the footplate. Your arm is in a sling because you have a broken collarbone. Be very careful how you move.’

His face was puce with rage. ‘Who did this to me?’

‘There’s no need to worry about that now.’

‘Tell me. I want to know.’

‘Calm down. You must not get excited.’

‘Frank Pike shouldn’t have deserted his post. He’ll be reported.’

‘Forget him, Father,’ she advised. ‘All we have to think about is how to get you better. It’s a miracle that you’re alive and able to talk again. I thought I might have lost you.’

She brushed his lips with a tender kiss. Though his face was contorted with pain, he managed a faint smile of thanks and reached up with his free hand to touch her arm. Still hazy, torn between fatigue and anger, puzzled and comforted by his daughter’s presence, he struggled to piece together what had happened to him but his memory was hopelessly clouded. All that he could remember was who he was and what he did for a living. When he heard a train steaming through the nearby station, a sense of duty swelled up in him.

‘I must get out of here,’ he decided, attempting to move.

‘No, Father,’ she said, using both hands to restrain him gently.

‘Frank and I have to take the mail train to Birmingham.’

‘It was robbed yesterday. You were assaulted.’

‘Help me up, Maddy. We have to get there on time.’

‘There is no mail train,’ she said, trying to break the news to him as softly as she could. ‘The men who robbed you removed a section of the track. When you were knocked unconscious, Frank Pike was forced to drive the engine off the rails. He told me that it’s lying on its side until they can get a crane to it.’

Andrews was appalled. ‘My engine came off the track?’ Madeleine nodded sadly. ‘Oh, no! That’s a terrible thing to hear. She was such a lovely piece of engineering. Mr Allan designed her and I looked after her as if she was my own daughter – as if she was you, Maddy.’ His eyes moistened. ‘I don’t care what happened to me. It’s her that I worry about. I loved her like a father. She was mine.’

Caleb Andrews sobbed as if he had just lost the dearest thing in his life. All that Madeleine could do was to use her handkerchief to wipe away the tears that rolled down his cheeks.

The train that had sped through Leighton Buzzard Station continued on its journey to Birmingham, passing the spot where the robbery had occurred and allowing its passengers a fleeting view of the scene of the crime before taking them on into the Linslade Tunnel. Among those in one of the first class compartments was Inspector Robert Colbeck, who took a keen interest in the sight of the wrecked locomotive that still lay beside the line. He spared a thought for its unfortunate driver.

Though it had given him a very late night, he felt that his visit to the Devil’s Acre had been worthwhile and he had been struck once again by the fact that one of the most hideous rookeries in London was cheek by jowl with the uplifting beauty of Westminster Abbey. Rising early the next day, he had travelled by cab to Euston Station where he bought two different newspapers to compare their treatment of the story.

Edward Tallis had been right in his prediction. For anyone involved in law enforcement, reports of the robbery did not make happy reading. The stunning novelty of the crime and the sheer size of the amount stolen – over £3000 in gold sovereigns – encouraged the newspapers to inject a note of hysteria into their accounts, stressing the ease with which the robbery had been carried out and the apparent inability of either the mail guards or the railway policemen to offer anything but token resistance. The Detective Department at Scotland Yard, they told their readers, had never mounted an investigation of this kind before and were therefore operating in the dark.

Robert Colbeck was mentioned as being in charge of the case and he was surprised to read a quotation from Superintendent Tallis, who referred to him as ‘an experienced, reliable and gifted detective’. When he remembered some of the less flattering things that his superior had called him in private, he gave a wry smile. One point made by both newspapers was incontrovertible. No crime of this nature had ever before confronted a Detective Department that, formed only nine years earlier, was still very much in its infancy. They were in uncharted waters.

While the newspapers used this fact as a stick with which to beat the men at Scotland Yard, the Inspector in charge of the investigation saw it as a welcome challenge. He was thrilled by the notion of pitting himself against a man who had organised a crime of such magnitude and audacity. Most of the offenders he had arrested were poor, downtrodden, uneducated men who had turned to crime because there was no honest way for them to make a living. London had its share of seasoned villains, desperate characters who would stop at nothing to achieve their ends, but the majority who trooped through the courts were pathetic figures for whom Colbeck felt a sneaking sympathy.

This time, however, it was different. They were up against a man of clear intelligence, a natural leader who could train and control a gang of almost a dozen accomplices. Instead of fearing him, as the reporters were inclined to do, Colbeck saw him as a worthy adversary, someone who would test his skills of detection and who would stretch the resources of Scotland Yard in a way that had never occurred before. Solving the crime would be an adventure for the mind. However long it might take, Colbeck looked forward to meeting the man behind the train robbery.

Meanwhile, he decided to catch up on some lost sleep. The train was moving along at a comfortable speed but there were stops to make and it would be hours before it reached Birmingham. He settled back in his upholstered seat and closed his eyes. It was a noisy journey. The chugging of the locomotive combined with the rattling of the carriages and the clicking of the wheels on the rails to produce a cacophony that tried to defy slumber. There was also a lurching motion to contend with as the train powered its way along the standard gauge track.

Because it offered more stability, Colbeck preferred the wider gauge of the Great Western Railway and the greater space in its carriages but he had no choice in the matter on this occasion. The company whose mail train had been robbed was the one taking him to Birmingham, and he was interested to see how it treated its passengers. His compartment was almost full and sleep would offer him a refuge from conversation with any of his companions. Two of them, both elderly men, were scandalised by what they had read in their newspapers.

‘A train robbery!’ protested one of them. ‘It’s unthinkable.’

‘I agree,’ said the other. ‘If this kind of thing is allowed to go on, we’ll all be in danger. Any passenger train would run the risk of being ambushed and we would be forced to hand over everything we are carrying of value.’

‘What a ghastly prospect!’

‘It might come to that.’

‘Not if this gang is caught, convicted and sent to prison.’

‘What chance is there of that?’ said the other, sceptically.

‘Detectives have already begun an investigation.’

‘I find it hard to put much faith in them, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they have almost no clues to help them. According to the Times, these devils came out of nowhere, stole what they wanted, then vanished into thin air. The detectives are chasing phantoms.’

‘Yet they claim that this Inspector Colbeck is a gifted policeman.’

‘It will need more than a gifted policeman to solve this crime.’

‘I agree with you there, my friend.’

‘My guess is that this Inspector will not even know where to start.’

On that vote of confidence in his ability, Colbeck fell asleep.

The Devil’s Acre was almost as menacing by day as by night. Danger lurked everywhere in its narrow streets, its twisting lanes and its dark alleyways. There was a pervading stink that never seemed to go away and an unrelenting clamour. Bawling adults and screaming children joined in a mass choir whose repertory consisted solely of a sustained and discordant din that assaulted the eardrums. Scavenging dogs and fighting tomcats added their own descant. Smoke-blackened tenements were built around small, shadowed courtyards, thick with assorted refuse and animal excrement. In every sense, it was a most unhealthy place to live.

Brendan Mulryne, however, loved the district. Indeed, he was sad that parts of it had recently been pulled down during the building of Victoria Street, thereby limiting its size and increasing the population of the area that was left, as those who had been evicted moved into houses that were already crowded with occupants. What the Irishman enjoyed about the Devil’s Acre was its raucous life and its sense of freedom. It was a private place, set apart from the rest of London, a swirling underworld that offered sanctuary to criminals of every kind in its brothels, its tenements, its opium dens, its gambling haunts and its seedy public houses.

Mulryne felt at home. People he had once hounded as a policeman were now his neighbours and he tolerated their misdemeanours with ease. It was only when a defenceless woman was being beaten, or when a child was in distress, that he felt obliged to intervene. Otherwise, he let the mayhem continue unabated. It was his natural milieu. Unlike strangers who came into the Acre, he could walk its streets without fear of assault or of attracting any of the pickpockets who cruised up and down in search of targets. Mulryne’s size and strength bought him respect from almost everyone.

Isadore Vout was the exception to the rule. When the Irishman found him that morning, the moneylender was at his lodging, enjoying a breakfast of stale bread and dripping that he first dipped into a mug of black, brackish tea. Rich by comparison with most people in the area, Vout led a miserly existence, wearing tattered clothes and eating poor food. He was a short, skinny weasel of a man in his fifties, with long grey hair that reached his shoulders and a mean face that was forever set in an expression of distaste. He was not pleased when the landlady showed in his visitor. His voice betrayed no hint of respect.

‘Wor d’yer want, Mulryne?’ he said through a mouthful of food.

‘First of all,’ replied the other, standing over him, ‘I’d like a little politeness from that arsehole you call a mouth. Unless, that is, you’d like me to pour the rest of that tea over your head.’

‘Yer got no right to threaten me.’

‘I’m giving you friendly advice.’ Pulling up a stool, Mulryne sat beside him at the table and saw what he was eating. ‘Bread and dripping, is it?’ he noted with disgust. ‘And you, able to dine off the finest plate and eat like a lord.’

‘It’s been a bad month, ain’t it?’

‘You never have a bad month, you leech. There’s always plenty of blood for you to suck out of people who can’t afford to lose it. That’s why I’m here, Isadore. I want to talk about debts.’

Vout was surprised. ‘Yer want to borrow money?’

‘I wouldn’t borrow a penny from a creeping Shylock like you.’

‘Yer’d get a good rate of interest, Mulryne.’ He nudged his visitor. ‘Friends of mine have special terms, see?’

‘I’m no friend of yours, you old skinflint. Special terms?’ repeated Mulryne with derision. ‘I don’t give a fiddler’s fart for your special terms.’

‘Then why are yer botherin’ me?’

‘Because I need information from you. There’s a man who probably turned to you for a loan – God help him! I want to know where he is.’

‘I can’t tell yer,’ said Vout, guzzling his tea.

‘You haven’t heard his name yet.’

‘Meks no diff’rence, Mulryne. I never discusses business matters. Them’s confeedential.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Shut the door when yer leaves – and don’t come back.’

‘I’m going nowhere until I get an answer,’ warned Mulryne.

‘Sling yer ’ook, you big, Irish numbskull. Yer wasting yer time.’

‘Now you’re insulting my nation as well as trying my patience.’

‘I wants to finish my grub, that’s all.’

‘Then let a big, Irish numbskull offer you some assistance,’ said Mulryne, grabbing the remainder of the food to stuff into his mouth. ‘Like more tea to wash it down, would you?’

Holding the moneylender’s hair, he pulled his head back and poured the remaining tea all over his face until Vout was squealing in pain and spluttering with indignation. Mulryne felt that more persuasion was still needed. He got up, pushed the other man to the floor, took him by the heels and lifted him up so that he could shake him vigorously. A waterfall of coins came pouring out of his pockets. Isadore Vout shrieked in alarm and tried to gather up his scattered money. Without any effort, Mulryne held him a foot higher so that he could not reach the floor.

‘Put me down, yer madman!’ wailed Vout.

‘Only when you tell me what I want to know.’

‘I’ll ’ave yer locked away fer this!’

‘Shut up and listen,’ Mulryne ordered, ‘or I’ll bounce your head on the floor until all your hair falls out.’

By way of demonstration, he lowered his captive hard until Vout’s head met the carpet with such a bang that it sent up a cloud of dust. The moneylender yelled in agony.

‘Stop it!’ he pleaded. ‘Yer’ll crack my skull open.’

‘Will you do as you’re told, then?’

‘No, Mulryne. I never talks about my clients.’ His head hit the floor once again. ‘No, no!’ he cried. ‘Yer’ll kill me if you do that again.’

‘Then I’d be doing the Devil’s Acre a favour,’ said Mulryne, hoisting him high once more. ‘We can do without vultures like you. Now, then, you snivelling rogue, what’s it to be? Shall I ask my question or would you rather I beat your brains out on the floor?’

It was no idle threat. Seeing that he had no alternative, Vout agreed to help and he was promptly dropped in a heap on the carpet. He immediately began to collect up all the coins he had lost. Mulryne brought a large foot down to imprison one of his hands.

‘Yer’ll break my fingers!’ howled Vout.

‘Then leave your money until you’ve dealt with me.’

Removing his foot, the Irishman took him by the lapels of his coat and lifted him back into his chair. He put his face intimidatingly close. Vout cowered before him.

‘Who’s this man yer knows?’ he asked in a quavering voice.

‘His name is William Ings.’

‘Never ’eard of ’im.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Isadore.’

‘It’s the truth. I never met anyone called that.’

‘There’s an easy way to prove that, isn’t there?’ said Mulryne, looking around the dingy room. ‘I can check your account book.’

‘No!’

‘You keep the names of all your victims in there, don’t you? If I find that William Ings is among them, I’ll know that you’re lying to me. Now, where do you keep that book?’

‘It’s private. Yer can’t touch it.’

‘I can do anything I like, Isadore,’ said Mulryne, walking across to a chest of drawers. ‘Who’s to stop me?’

As if to prove his point, he pulled out the top drawer and emptied its contents all over the floor. Vout leapt up from his seat and rushed across to grab his arm.

‘No, no,’ he shouted. ‘Leave my things alone.’

‘Then tell me about William Ings.’

The moneylender backed away. ‘Maybe I can help yer,’ he said.

‘Ah, I’ve jogged your memory, have I?’

‘It was the name that confused me, see? I did business with a Bill Ings, but I can’t say for certain that ’e’s the same man. Wor does this William Ings look like?’

‘I’ve never seen him myself,’ admitted Mulryne, ‘but I’m told he’s a fat man in his forties who can’t resist a game of cards. Since he lost so much, he’d turn to someone like you to borrow. Did he?’

‘Yes,’ confessed Vout.

‘How much does he owe you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘He paid off his debt,’ said the other. ‘In full. Ings told me that ’e ’ad a big win at cards and wanted to settle up. Shame, really. I likes clients of ’is type. They’re easy to squeeze.’

‘Where can I find him?’

‘Who knows?’

‘You do, Isadore,’ insisted Mulryne. ‘You’d never lend a farthing unless you had an address so that you could chase the borrower for repayment. Find your account book. Tell me where this man lives.’

‘I can’t, Mulryne. I took ’im on trust, see? Someone I knew was ready to vouch for ’im and that was good enough for me.’ He gave a sly grin. ‘Polly has done a favour or two for me in the past. If ’e’s with ’er, Bill Ings is a lucky man, I can tell yer. I knew I could always get to my client through Polly.’

‘Polly who? Does she live in the Devil’s Acre?’

‘Born and bred ’ere. Apprenticed to the trade at thirteen. ’Er name is Polly Roach,’ he said, grateful to be getting rid of Mulryne at last. ‘Ask for ’er in Hangman’s Lane. You may well find Mr Ings there.’

Robert Colbeck woke up as the train was approaching Birmingham and he was able to look through the window at the mass of brick factories and tall chimneys that comprised the outskirts. It was a depressing sight but, having been there before, he knew that the drab industrial town also boasted some fine architecture and some spacious parks. What made it famous, however, were its manufacturing skills and Colbeck read the names of engineers, toolmakers, potters, metalworkers, builders and arms manufacturers emblazoned across the rear walls of their respective premises. Through the open window, he could smell the breweries.

Arriving at the terminus, he climbed into a cab and issued directions to the driver. During the short ride from Curzon Street to the bank, he was reminded that Joseph Hansom, inventor and architect, had not only built the arresting Town Hall with its Classical colonnade, he had also registered the Patent Safety Cab, creating a model for horse-drawn transport that had been copied down the years. Birmingham was therefore an appropriate place in which to travel in such a vehicle.

Spurling’s Bank, one of the biggest in the Midlands, was in the main street between a hotel and an office building of daunting solidity. When he heard that a detective had come to see him, the manager, Ernest Kitson, invited Colbeck into his office at once and plied him with refreshments. A tall, round-faced, fleshy man in his fifties, Kitson was wearing a black frock coat and trousers with a light green waistcoat. He could not have been more willing to help.

‘The stolen money must be recovered, Inspector,’ he said.

‘That’s why I’m here, sir. Before we can find it, however, I must first know how it went astray in the first place. Inside help was utilised.’

‘Not from Spurling’s Bank, of that you can rest assured.’

‘Have you questioned the relevant staff?’

‘It was the first thing I did when I heard of the robbery,’ said Kitson, straightening his cravat. ‘Apart from myself, only two other people here have access to the key that would open the safe containing the money. I spoke to them both at length and am satisfied that neither would even consider betraying a trust. Do not take my word for it. You may talk to them yourself, if you wish.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ decided Colbeck, impressed by his manner and bearing. ‘I simply need to examine the key in question.’

‘It is locked in the safe, Inspector.’

‘Before you take it out, perhaps you could explain to me why the mail train was carrying such a large amount of money in gold coin.’

‘Of course,’ replied Kitson. ‘We abide by the spirit of the Bank Charter Act of 1844. Does that mean anything to you, Inspector?’

‘No, Mr Kitson.’

‘Then let me enlighten you. Currency crises are the bane of banking and we have suffered them on a recurring basis. When he was Prime Minister, the late Mr Peel sought to end the cycle by imposing certain restrictions. Strict limits were placed on the issue of notes by individual banks and the fiduciary note issue of the Bank of England was set at £14,000,000. Any notes issued above this sum were to be covered by coin or gold bullion.’

‘That sounds like a sensible precaution.’

‘It is one that Spurling’s Bank took to heart,’ explained Kitson. ‘We stick to that same principle and ensure that notes in all our banks are balanced by a supply of gold coin or bullion. A bank note, after all, is only a piece of paper that bears promise of payment. In the event of a sudden demand for real money, we are in a position to cope. Other banks have collapsed in such situations because they over-extended themselves with loans and had inadequate reserves.’

‘How much of the money stolen was destined for this branch?’

‘Over a half of it. The rest was to be shared between some of our smaller branches. None of us,’ he emphasized, ‘can afford to lose that money.’ Taking a key from his waistcoat pocket, he crossed to the safe in the corner. ‘Let me show you what you came to see.’

‘What about the combination number of the safe on the train?’

‘That, too, is kept in here.’

‘Have you not memorised it, Mr Kitson?’

‘I’m a banker, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I keep a record of everything.’

He opened the safe and took out a metal box that had a separate lock on it. After using a second key to open it, he handed the box to Colbeck. Inside was a slip of paper and a large key on a ring. Colbeck took them out and studied them carefully. Kitson watched in surprise when the detective produced a magnifying glass from his inside pocket to scrutinise the key more carefully. He even held it to his nose and sniffed it.

‘May I ask what you are doing?’ said Kitson, intrigued.

‘Looking for traces of wax, sir. That’s the way that duplicates are made. A mould is taken so that it can be used to produce an identical key. Not all locksmiths are as law-abiding as they should be, alas.’

‘And this key?’

‘It has not been tampered with,’ said Colbeck.

‘That is what I told you.’

‘I needed to check for myself.’

‘The only other set of keys is at the Royal Mint.’

‘My colleague, Sergeant Leeming, will be visiting the Mint this very day, but I doubt if he will find a lapse in security there. Their procedures are usually faultless. That leaves only a third option.’

‘And what is that, Inspector?’

‘A visit to the factory where the safe was made,’ said Colbeck, handing the key back to him. ‘Please excuse me, Mr Kitson. I have to catch a train to Wolverhampton.’

Victor Leeming’s day had had an abrasive start to it. When he reported to Tallis, he had found the Superintendent at his most irascible as he read the accounts of the train robbery in the morning newspapers. Seeing himself mocked, and misquoted, Tallis had taken out his anger on the Sergeant and left him feeling as if he had just been mauled by a Bengal tiger. Leeming was glad to escape to the Royal Mint where he could lick his wounds. His guide was a far less truculent companion.

‘As you see, Sergeant Leeming,’ he said, ‘security has absolute priority here. Nobody has sole access to the keys to that safe. There are always two of us present, so it would be impossible for anybody to take a wax impression of the key.’

‘I accept that, Mr Omber.’

‘There has been a mint here on Tower Hill since Roman times. Methods of guarding the supply of coin thus have a long and honourable history. Having learnt from our predecessors, we feel that we have turned the Royal Mint into an impregnable stronghold.’

‘There is no question of that,’ conceded Leeming.

He was fascinated by all he had seen, particularly by the thick steel doors that seemed to be fitted everywhere. Once locked, they were almost airtight, and would not buckle before a barrel of gunpowder. Charles Omber took a justifiable pride in their security arrangements. He was a short, stout, middle-aged man whose paunch erupted out of his body and tested the buttons on his trousers to their limit. Having been subjected to Tallis’s bellow, Leeming was grateful for Omber’s quiet, friendly, helpful voice.

‘What else can I show you, Sergeant?’ he asked.

‘While I’m here, I’d be interested to see the whole process.’

‘It will be a pleasure to show you.’

‘Thank you.’

Omber waddled off and Leeming fell in beside him. After passing the weighing room, where the amounts of bullion were carefully recorded, they went through some steel doors into the hot metallic atmosphere of the refining shop. Leeming brought up a hand to shield his eyes from the startling brilliance of the furnaces where molten gold was simmering in crucibles like over-heated soup. With long-handled dipping cups, refiners stood in their shirtsleeves before the furnaces to scoop out the liquid gold and pour it into zinc vats of water. Even those who were used to the heat and the noise had to use their bare forearms to wipe the sweat from their faces. Leeming was loosening his collar with a finger within seconds.

Charles Omber took him on to the corroding shop, where they were met with billowing steam from the porcelain vats in which the golden granules sizzled in hot nitric acid. It was like walking into a golden fog. When his eyes grew accustomed to the haze, Leeming watched the muscular men in their leather aprons and noticed that they all wore hats to protect them from the fumes. Interested to see every stage of the process, he was nevertheless relieved when they moved out of the room, enabling him to breathe more easily.

In the casting shop, with its arched furnace bricked into a wall, he saw the gold being melted again before being poured with utmost care into the moulds of the ingots. Standing at his shoulder, Omber explained what was happening then took his visitor on into the rolling room, the largest and most deafening part of the establishment. The massive steam-driven mill, powered by iron wheels on each side, thundered ceaselessly on, enabling the brick-like ingots to be pressed into long strips from which coins could be punched.

It was when they moved into the coining shop that Leeming suddenly realised something. He had to shout above the metallic chatter of the machines.

‘I think I know why the robbers stole coin from that train,’ he yelled. ‘What is the melting point of gold?’

‘That depends on its source and composition,’ replied Omber, ‘but it is usually between 1,200 and 1,420 degrees centigrade. Why do you ask, Sergeant Leeming?’

‘They would need a furnace to handle gold bullion so the robbers let the Royal Mint do their work for them and waited until a shipment of coin was being made. They chose carefully,’ he said, watching the blank discs being cut out of the metal. ‘Had the train been carrying an issue of notes from the Bank of England, they would have ignored them because they might be traced by their serial numbers. Gold sovereigns are more easily disposed of, Mr Omber.’

‘That is certainly true.’

‘Then how did they know that you were only sending gold coin yesterday?’ wondered Leeming. ‘I have an uncomfortable feeling that someone found a way to get past all these steel doors of yours.’

The journey to Wolverhampton obliged Colbeck to travel second class on the Birmingham, Lancaster and Carlisle Railway. It took him through the heart of the Black Country and he looked out with dismay at the forges, mills, foundries, nail factories, coal mines and ironstone pits that stretched for miles beneath the curling dark smoke that spewed from a thousand brick chimneys. Cutting through the smoke, filling the sky with a fierce glare, were lurid flames from countless burning heaps of rubbish. Those who laboured for long hours in heavy industry were unacquainted with the light of day and vulnerable to hideous accidents or cruel diseases. Above the thunder of his train, Colbeck could hear the pounding of hammers and the booming explosion of a blast furnace.

Wolverhampton was a large, dirty, sprawling industrial town that was celebrated for the manufacture of locks, brass, tin, japanned wares, tools and nails. The immaculate detective looked rather incongruous in its workaday atmosphere. Given directions by the stationmaster, he elected to walk to his destination so that he could take a closer look at the people and place. By the time that he arrived at the Chubb Factory, he felt that he had the measure of Wolverhampton.

Silas Harcutt, the manager at the factory, could not understand why someone had come all the way from London to question him. He was a slim individual of middle height with the look of a man who had worked his way up to his position with a slowness that had left a residual resentment. Harcutt was abrupt.

‘Your visit is pointless, Inspector,’ he declared.

‘Not at all,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’ve always been curious to see the inside of the Chubb factory. I once had the privilege of a visit to the Bramah Works and it was a revelation.’

‘Bramah locks are nothing compared to ours.’

‘Your competitors would disagree. At the forthcoming Great Exhibition, they are to display a lock that is impossible to pick.’

‘We, too, will have our best lock on show,’ boasted Harcutt, ‘and we will challenge anyone to open it. I can tell you now that nobody will.’

‘You obviously have faith in your product.’

‘The Chubb name is a guarantee of quality.’

‘Nobody disputes that, Mr Harcutt,’ said Colbeck, ignoring the man’s brusque manner. ‘For professional reasons, I try to keep abreast of developments in the locksmith’s trade and I’m always interested to read about your progress. The railway safe that you devised was a marvel of its kind. Even so,’ he went on, ‘I fear that it was not able to prevent a consignment of money from being stolen.’

‘The locks were not picked,’ insisted the manager, huffily. ‘The safe is specifically designed so that a burglar has nothing to work upon but the keyholes with their protective internal barrels and the steel curtain at their mouths. Do not dare to blame us, Inspector. We were not at fault.’

‘I hope that turns out to be the case, sir.’

‘It is the case, Inspector. Let me show you why.’

Opening the door of his office, he led Colbeck down a corridor to a room that housed dozens of safes and locks. Harcutt walked across to a replica of the safe that the detective had seen on board the train.

‘You see?’ said the manager, patting the safe. ‘Far too heavy to lift without the aid of a crane and resistant to any amount of gunpowder. It is solid and commodious, able to carry a quarter of a ton of gold, coin, or a mixture of both.’

‘The robbers showed due respect for the Chubb name,’ said Colbeck. ‘Instead of trying to pick the locks, they opened them with the keys and the combination number. I am certain that they got neither from Spurling’s Bank and security at the Royal Mint is very tight.’

Harcutt was offended. ‘Are you suggesting that the keys came from here?’ he said, drawing himself up to his full height. ‘I regard that as an insult, Inspector.’

‘It was not meant to be. If I may examine the keys to this safe, I can tell you at once whether there has been subterfuge in your factory.’

‘That is inconceivable.’

‘I must press you on this point,’ said Colbeck, meaningfully.

Lips pursed, Harcutt turned away and strode back to his office with the detective at his heels. He had to use two keys and a combination number to open the wall safe, making sure that he kept his back to his visitor so that Colbeck could see nothing of the operation. Extracting a metal box, the manager unlocked it with a third key and handed it over.

Colbeck took out the keys. Unable to detect anything suspicious with the naked eye, he brought his magnifying glass out again. He saw exactly what he had expected to find.

‘Minute traces of wax,’ he noted, offering the glass to the other man. ‘Would you care to confirm that, Mr Harcutt?’

The manager took the magnifying glass and peered through it with disbelief. Both keys had discernible specks of wax still attached to them.

‘Who else was authorised to open your safe?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Only two people. Mr Dunworth, my deputy, is one of them.’

‘And the other?’

‘Daniel Slender.’

‘I need to speak to both of them at once, Mr Harcutt.’

‘Of course,’ said the manager, grudgingly. ‘Mr Dunworth is in the next office. But you’ll have to wait until you get back to London before you question Mr Slender.’

‘Oh?’

‘He left some weeks ago to take up a new post there.’ He saw the suspicion in Colbeck’s eyes. ‘You are quite wrong, Inspector,’ he continued, shaking his head. ‘Daniel Slender could not possibly be the culprit. He has been with us for decades. For the last few years, he has been looking after his sick mother in Willenhall. When she died, he felt that it was time to move out of the Midlands.’ He thrust the magnifying glass at Colbeck. ‘I have complete trust in Daniel Slender.’

The frock coat fitted perfectly. He preened himself in front of the mirror for minutes. Daniel Slender had finally fulfilled his ambition to wear clothing that had been tailored for him in Bond Street. Tall and well-proportioned, he looked as if he belonged in such fine apparel. When he had changed back into his other suit, he took a wad of five pounds notes from his wallet and began to peel them off. Years of self-denial were behind him now. He had enough money to change his appearance, his place in society and his whole life. He was content.

CHAPTER SIX

It was early evening before Robert Colbeck finally got back to his office in Scotland Yard. Victor Leeming was waiting to tell him about his visit to the Royal Mint and to voice his suspicion that someone there might have warned the train robbers when gold coin was actually being dispatched to Birmingham. He took a positive delight in describing the processes by which gold bullion was transformed into coinage.

‘I have never seen such a large amount of money,’ he said.

‘No, Victor,’ remarked Colbeck. ‘The irony is that the men who sweat and strain to make the money probably get little of it in their wages. It is a cruel paradox. Workers who are surrounded by gold every day remain relatively poor. It must be a vexing occupation.’

‘A dangerous one as well, sir. Had I stayed in the refining shop any longer, the heat from those furnaces would have given me blisters. As it is, I can still smell those terrible fumes.’

‘I had my own share of fumes in the Midlands.’

‘Was the visit a useful one?’ asked Leeming.

‘Extremely useful. While you were learning about the mysteries of the Royal Mint, I was being taught sensible banking practices and given an insight into the art of the locksmith.’

Colbeck related the events of his day and explained why he had enjoyed travelling by rail so much. Leeming was not convinced that train rides of well over a hundred miles each way were anything but purgatory. He was happy to have missed the ordeal.

‘We now know where the keys were obtained,’ he said.

‘And the combination number, Victor. That, too, was essential.’

‘This man, Daniel Slender, must be responsible.’

‘Not according to the manager,’ said Colbeck, remembering the protestations of Silas Harcutt. ‘He claims that the fellow is innocent even though he is the only possible suspect. He set great store by the fact that Slender was a dutiful son who looked after an ailing mother.’

‘That certainly shows kindness on his part.’

‘It might well have led to frustration. Caring for a sick parent meant that he had no real life of his own. When he was not at the Chubb factory, he was fetching and carrying for his mother. I find it significant that, the moment she died, Daniel Slender sold the house.’

‘If he was moving to another post, he would have to do that.’

‘I doubt very much if that post exists, Victor.’

‘Do you know what it was?’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck. ‘I even have the address of the factory to which he is supposed to have gone. But I’ll wager that we won’t find anyone of his name employed there.’

‘So why did he come to London?’

Colbeck raised an eyebrow. ‘I can see that you’ve never visited the Black Country. On the journey to Wolverhampton, I saw what the poet meant when he talked about ‘dark, satanic mills’.’

‘Poet?’

‘William Blake.’

‘The name means nothing to me, sir,’ admitted Leeming, scratching a pimple on his chin. ‘I never had much interest in poetry and such things. I know a few nursery rhymes to sing to the children but that’s all.’

‘It’s a start, Victor,’ said Colbeck without irony, ‘it’s a start. Suffice it to say that – with all its faults – London is a much more attractive place to live than Willenhall. Also, of course, Daniel Slender had to get well away from the town where he committed the crime.’ He nodded in the direction of the next office. ‘What sort of a mood is Mr Tallis in today?’

‘A vicious one.’

‘I told him not to read the newspapers.’

‘They obviously touched him on a raw spot. When I saw the Superintendent this morning, he was breathing fire.’

‘I need to report to him myself,’ said Colbeck, moving to the door. ‘Hopefully, I can dampen down the flames a little. At least we now have the name of the man who made it possible for the robbers to open that safe with such ease.’

‘That means we have two suspects.’

‘Daniel Slender and William Ings.’

‘I did as you told me, Inspector,’ said Leeming. ‘I asked the men on that beat to keep watch on Mr Ings’s house, though I still think that he’s unlikely to go back there. It would be too risky.’

‘Then we’ll have to smoke him out of the Devil’s Acre.’

‘How on earth could you do that?’

Colbeck suppressed a smile. ‘I’ll think of a way,’ he said.

Work had kept Brendan Mulryne too busy throughout most of the day to continue his search. That evening, however, he took a break from The Black Dog and strode along to Hangman’s Lane. The name was apposite. Most of the people he saw loitering there looked if they had just been cut down from the gallows. The man who told him where Polly Roach lived was a typical denizen of the area. Eyes staring, cheeks hollow and face drawn, he spoke in a hoarse whisper as if a noose were tightening around his neck.

Entering the tenement, Mulryne went up the stairs and along a narrow passageway. It was difficult to read the numbers in the gloom so he banged on every door he passed. At the fourth attempt, he came face to face with the woman he was after.

‘Polly Roach?’ he inquired.

‘Who’s asking?’

‘My name is Brendan Mulryne. I wanted a word with you, darling.’

‘You’ve come to the wrong place,’ she said, curtly. ‘I don’t entertain guests any more.’

‘It’s not entertainment I want, Polly – it’s information.’ He looked past her into the room. ‘Do you have company, by any chance?’

‘No, Mr Mulryne.’

‘Would you mind if I came in to look?’

‘Yes,’ she cautioned, lifting her skirt to remove the knife from the sheath strapped to her thigh. ‘I mind very much.’

Mulryne grinned benignly. ‘In that case, we’ll talk here.’

‘Who sent you?’

‘Isadore Vout.’

‘That mangy cur! If you’re a friend of his, away with you!’

‘Oh, I’m no friend of Isadore’s,’ promised Mulryne, ‘especially since I lifted him up by the feet and made him dance a jig on his head. He’d probably describe me as his worst enemy.’

‘So why have you come to me?’

‘I’m looking for someone called William Ings – Billy Ings to you.’

‘He’s not here,’ she snapped.

‘So you do know him?’

‘I did. I thought I knew him well.’

‘So where is he now?’

Polly was bitter. ‘You tell me, Mr Mulryne.’

‘Is he not coming to see you?’

‘Not any more.’

There was enough light from the oil lamp just inside the door for him to see her face clearly. Polly Roach looked hurt and jaded. The thick powder failed to conceal the dark bruise on her chin. Mulryne sensed that she had been crying.

‘Did you and Mr Ings fall out, by any chance?’ he asked.

‘That’s my business.’

‘It happens to be mine as well.’

‘Why – what’s Bill to you?’

‘A week’s wages. That’s what I get when I find him.’

‘His wife!’ she cried, brandishing the knife. ‘That bitch sent you after him, didn’t she?’

‘No, Polly,’ replied Mulryne, holding up both hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I swear it. Sure, I’ve never met the lady and that’s the honest truth. Now, why don’t you put that knife away before someone gets hurt?’ She lowered the weapon to her side. ‘That’s better. If you were hospitable, you’d invite me in.’

She held her ground. ‘Say what you have to say here.’

‘A friend of mine is anxious to meet this Billy Ings,’ he explained, ‘and he’s paying me to find him. I’m not a man who turns away the chance of an honest penny and, in any case, I owe this man a favour.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘There’s no need for you to know that, darling.’

‘Then why is he after Billy?’

‘There was a train robbery yesterday and it looks as if Mr Ings may have been involved. His job at the Post Office meant that he had valuable information to sell.’

‘So that’s where he got the money from,’ she said. ‘He told me that he won it at the card table.’

‘Isadore Vout heard the same tale from him.’

‘He lied to me!’

‘Then you have no reason to protect him.’

Polly Roach became suspicious. She eyed him with disgust.

‘Are you a policeman?’ she said.

Mulryne laughed. ‘Do I look like a policeman, my sweetheart?’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘I work at The Black Dog, making sure that our customers don’t get out of hand. Policeman, eh? What policeman would dare to live in the Devil’s Acre?’ He summoned up his most endearing smile. ‘Come on now, Polly. Why not lend me a little assistance here?’

‘How can I?’ she said with a shrug. ‘I’ve no idea where he is.’

‘But you could guess where he’s likely to be.’

‘Sitting at a card table, throwing his money away.’

‘And where did he usually go to find a game?’

‘Two or three different places.’

‘I’ll need their names,’ he said. ‘There’s no chance that he’ll have sneaked back to his wife then?’

‘No, Mr Mulryne. He said that it wouldn’t be safe to leave the Acre and I can see why now. He’s here somewhere,’ she decided, grimly. ‘Billy liked his pleasures. That’s how we met each other. If he’s not gambling, then he’s probably lying between the legs of some doxy while he tells her what his troubles are.’

The long day had done nothing to curb Superintendent Tallis’s temper or to weaken his conviction that the newspapers were trying to make a scapegoat of him. Even though he brought news of progress, Colbeck still found himself on the receiving end of a torrent of vituperation. He left his superior’s office with his ears ringing. Victor Leeming was in the corridor.

‘How did you get on, Inspector?’ he asked.

‘Superintendent Tallis and I have had quieter conversations,’ said Colbeck with a weary smile. ‘He seemed to believe that he was back on the parade ground and had to bark orders at me.’

‘That problem will not arise with your visitor.’

‘Visitor?’

‘Yes, sir. I just showed her into your office. The young lady was desperate to see you and would speak to nobody else.’

‘Did she give a name?’

‘Madeleine Andrews, sir. Her father was the driver of the train.’

‘Then I’ll see her at once.’

Colbeck opened the door of his office and went in. Madeleine Andrews leapt up from the chair on which she had perched. She was wearing a pretty, burgundy-coloured dress with a full skirt, and a poke bonnet whose pink ribbons were tied under her chin. She had a shawl over her arm. Introductions were made then Colbeck indicated the chair.

‘Do sit down again, Miss Andrews,’ he said, courteously.

‘Thank you, Inspector.’

Colbeck sat opposite her. ‘How is your father?’

‘He’s still in great pain,’ she said, ‘but he felt well enough to be brought home this afternoon. My father hates to impose on anyone else. He did not wish to spend another night at the stationmaster’s house in Leighton Buzzard. It will be more comfortable for both of us at home.’

‘You went to Leighton Buzzard, then?’

‘I sat beside his bed all night, Inspector.’

‘Indeed?’ He was amazed. ‘You look remarkably well for someone who must have had very little sleep.’

She acknowledged the compliment with a smile and her dimples came into prominence. Given her concern for her father, only something of importance could have made her leave him to come to Scotland Yard. Colbeck wondered what it was and why it made her seem so uneasy and tentative. But he did not press her. He waited until she was ready to confide in him.

‘Inspector Colbeck,’ she began at length, ‘I have a confession to make on behalf of my father. He told me something earlier that I felt duty bound to report to you.’

‘And what is that, Miss Andrews?’

‘My father loves his work. There’s not a more dedicated or respected driver in the whole company. However…’ She lowered her head as if trying to gather strength. He saw her bite her lip. ‘However,’ she went on, looking at him again, ‘he is inclined to be boastful when he has had a drink or two.’

‘There’s no harm in that,’ said Colbeck. ‘Most people become a little more expansive when alcohol is consumed.’

‘Father was very careless.’

‘Oh?’

‘At the end of the working day,’ she said, squirming slightly with embarrassment, ‘he sometimes enjoys a pint of beer with his fireman, Frank Pike, at a public house near Euston. It’s a place that is frequented by railwaymen.’

‘In my opinion, they’re fully entitled to a drink for what they do. I travelled to the Midlands by train today, Miss Andrews, and am deeply grateful for the engine drivers who got me there and back. I’d have been happy to buy any of them a glass of beer.’

‘Not if it made them talkative.’

‘Talkative?’

‘Let me frank with you,’ she said, blurting it out. ‘My father blames himself for the robbery yesterday. He thinks that he may have been drinking with his friends one evening and let slip the information that money was being carried on the mail trains.’ She held out her hands in supplication. ‘It was an accident, Inspector,’ she said, defensively. ‘He would never willingly betray the company. You may ask Frank Pike. My father stood up to the robbers.’

‘I know, Miss Andrews,’ said Colbeck, ‘and I admire him for it. I also admire you for coming here like this.’

‘I felt that you should know the truth.’

‘Most people in your situation would have concealed it.’

‘Father made me promise that I would tell you the terrible thing that he did,’ she said, bravely. ‘He feels so ashamed. Even though it will mean his dismissal from the company, he insisted.’ She sat forward on her chair. ‘Will you have to arrest him, Inspector?’

‘Of course not.’

‘But he gave away confidential information.’

‘Not deliberately,’ said Colbeck. ‘It popped out when he was in his cups. I doubt very much if that was how the robbers first learnt how money was being carried. They had only to keep watch at the station for a length of time and they would have seen boxes being loaded under armed guard on to the mail train. Such precautions would not be taken for a cargo of fruit or vegetables.’

Her face brightened. ‘Then he is not to blame for the robbery?’

‘No, Miss Andrews. What the villains needed to know was what a particular train was carrying and the exact time it was leaving Euston. That information was obtained elsewhere – along with the means to open the safe that was in the luggage van.’

Madeleine caught her breath. ‘I’m so relieved, Inspector!’

‘Tell your father that he’s escaped arrest on this occasion.’

‘It will be a huge load off his mind – and off mine.’

‘I’m delighted that I’ve been able to give you some reassurance.’

Relaxed and happy, Madeleine Andrews looked like a completely different woman. A smile lit up her eyes and her dimples were expressive. She had come to Scotland Yard in trepidation and had feared the worst. Madeleine had not expected to meet such a considerate and well-spoken detective as Robert Colbeck. He did not fit her image of a policeman at all and she was profoundly grateful.

For his part, Colbeck warmed to her. It had taken courage to admit that her father had been at fault, especially when she feared dire consequences from the revelation. There was a quiet integrity about Madeleine Andrews that appealed to him and he was by no means immune to her physical charms. Now that she was no longer so tense, he could appreciate them to the full. Pleased that she had come, he was glad to be able to put her mind at rest.

‘Thank you, Inspector,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘I must get back home to tell Father. He felt so dreadfully guilty about this.’

Colbeck rose at well. ‘I think that some censure is in order,’ he pointed out. ‘Mr Andrews did speak out of turn about the mail train, that much is clear. On reflection, he will come to see how foolish that was and be more careful in future.’

‘Oh, he will, he will.’

‘I leave it to you to issue a stern warning.’

‘Father needs to be kept in line at times. He can be wayward.’

‘What he requires now,’ suggested Colbeck, ‘is a long rest. Far from dismissing him, the London and North Western Railway Company should be applauding him for trying to protect their train.’ He smiled at her. ‘When would it be possible for me to call on your father?’

‘At home, you mean?’

‘I hardly expect Mr Andrews to come hopping around here.’

‘No, no,’ she said with a laugh.

‘Mr Pike has given me his version of events, of course, but I would like to hear what your father has to say. Is there any chance that I might question him tomorrow?’

‘Yes, Inspector – if he continues to improve.’

‘I’ll delay my arrival until late morning.’

‘We will expect you,’ said Madeleine, glad that she would be seeing him again. Their eyes locked for a moment. Both of them felt a mild frisson. It was she who eventually turned away. ‘I’ve taken up too much of your time, Inspector. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.’

‘One moment,’ he said, putting a hand on her arm to stop her. ‘I may be a detective but I find it much easier to visit a house when I know exactly where it is.’ He took out his notebook. ‘Could I trouble you for an address, Miss Andrews?’

She gave another laugh. ‘Yes – how silly of me!’

He wrote down the address that she dictated then closed the notebook. When he looked up, she met his gaze once more and there was a blend of interest and regret in her eyes. Colbeck was intrigued.

‘I hope that you catch these men soon, Inspector,’ she said.

‘We will make every effort to do so.’

‘What they did to my father was unforgivable.’

‘They will be justly punished, Miss Andrews.’

‘He was heart-broken when he heard what happened to his locomotive. Father dotes on it. Why did they force it off the track? It seems so unnecessary.’

‘It was. Unnecessary and gratuitous.’

‘Do you have any idea who the train robbers might be?’

‘We have identified two of their accomplices,’ he told her, ‘and we are searching for both men. One of them – a former employee of the Post Office – should be in custody before too long.’

William Ings was astounded by his good fortune. He never thought that he would meet any woman whose company he preferred to a game of cards but that is what had happened in the case of Kate Piercey. He had shared a night of madness with her and spent most of the next day in her arms. Kate was younger, livelier and more sensual than Polly Roach. Her breath was far sweeter, her body firmer. More to the point, she was not as calculating as the woman he had discarded on the previous night. Ings had bumped into her in the street as he fled from the clutches of Polly Roach. He knew that the collision was no accident – she had deliberately stepped out of the shadows into his path – but that did not matter. He felt that the encounter was fateful.

There was something about Kate that excited him from the start, an amalgam of boldness and vulnerability that he found irresistible. She was half-woman and half-child, mature yet nubile, experienced yet seemingly innocent. William Ings was a realist. He knew that he was not the first man to enjoy her favours and he had no qualms about paying for them, but he was soon overcome by the desire to be the last of her clients, to covet her, to protect her, to rescue her from the hazards of her profession and shape her into something better. Impossible as the dream might appear, he wanted to be both father and lover to Kate Piercey.

As he watched her dress that evening by the light of the lamp, he was enchanted. Polly Roach might have brought him to the Devil’s Acre but she had been displaced from his mind completely.

‘Where shall we go, Billy?’ she asked.

‘Wherever you wish,’ he replied.

‘We can eat well but cheaply at Flanagan’s.’

‘Then we’ll go elsewhere. That place is not good enough for you.’

She giggled. ‘You say the nicest things.’

‘You deserve the best, Kate. Let me take you somewhere special.’

‘You’re so kind to me.’

‘No, my love,’ he said, slipping his arms around her, ‘it’s you who are kind to me.’ He kissed her once more. ‘I adore you.’

‘But you’ve known me less than twenty-four hours, Billy.’

‘That’s long enough. Now, where can we dine together?’

‘There’s a new place in Victoria Street,’ she told him, ‘but they say that it’s very expensive.’

He thrust his hand deep into his leather bag and brought out a fistful of bank notes. Ings held them proudly beneath her nose, as if offering them in tribute.

‘Do you think that this would buy us a good meal?’

‘Billy!’ she cried with delight. ‘Where did you get all that money?’

‘I’ve been saving it up until I met you,’ he said.

Madeleine Andrews was touched when Colbeck insisted on escorting her to the front door of the building. Light was beginning to fade and there was a gentle breeze. She turned to look up at him.

‘Thank you, Inspector. You are very kind.’

‘It must have taken an effort for you to come here.’

‘It did,’ she said. ‘The worst of it was that I felt like a criminal.’

‘You’ve done nothing wrong, Miss Andrews.’

‘I shared my father’s guilt.’

‘All that he was guilty of was thoughtless indiscretion,’ he said, ‘and I’m sure that nobody could ever accuse you of that.’ Her gaze was quizzical. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I did not mean to stare like that.’

‘You seem to be puzzled by something.’

‘I suppose that I am.’

‘Let me see if I can guess what it is, Miss Andrews,’ he said with a warm smile. ‘The question in your eyes is the one that I’ve asked myself from time to time. What is a man like me doing in this job?’

‘You are so different to any policemen that I have ever met.’

‘In what way?’

‘They are much more like the man who showed me to your office.’

‘That was Sergeant Leeming,’ he explained. ‘I’m afraid that Victor is not blessed with the most handsome face in London, though his wife loves him dearly nevertheless.’

‘It was his manner, Inspector.’

‘Polite but rough-edged. I know what you mean. Victor spent years, pounding his beat in uniform. It leaves its mark on a man. My time in uniform was considerably shorter. However,’ he went on, looking up Whitehall, ‘you did not come here to be bored by my life story. Let me help you find a cab.’

‘I had planned to walk some of the way, Inspector.’

‘I’d advise against it, Miss Andrews. It is not always safe for an attractive woman to stroll unaccompanied at this time of day.’

‘I am well able to look after myself.’

‘It will be dark before long.’

‘I am not afraid of the dark.’

‘Why take any risks?’

Seeing a cab approach in the distance, he raised a hand.

‘There is no risk involved,’ she said with a show of spirit. ‘Please do not stop the cab on my account. If I wished to take it, I am quite capable of hailing it myself.’

He lowered his hand. ‘I beg your pardon.’

‘You must not worry about me. I am much stronger than I may appear. After all, I did come here on foot.’

He was taken aback. ‘You walked from Camden Town?’

‘It was good exercise,’ she replied. ‘Goodbye, Inspector Colbeck.’

‘Goodbye, Miss Andrews. It was a pleasure to meet you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I will see you again tomorrow,’ he said, relishing the thought. ‘I hope that you’ll forgive me if I arrive by Hansom cab.’

She gave him a faint smile before walking off up Whitehall. Colbeck stood for a moment to watch her then he went back into the building. As soon as the detective had disappeared, a figure stepped out from the doorway in which he had been hiding. He was a dark-eyed young man of medium height in an ill-fitting brown suit. Pulling his cap down, he set off in pursuit of Madeleine Andrews.

By the time he got back to The Black Dog, the fight had already started. Several people were involved and they had reached the stage of hurling chairs at each other or defending themselves with a broken bottle. Brendan Mulryne did not hesitate. Hurling himself into the middle of the fray, he banged heads together, kicked one man in the groin and felled a second with an uppercut. But even he could not stop the brawl. When it spilt out into the street, he was carried along with it, flailing away with both fists and inflicting indiscriminate punishment.

Mulryne did not go unscathed. He took some heavy blows himself and the brick that was thrown at him opened a gash above his eye. Blood streamed down his face. It only served to enrage him and to make him more determined to flatten every man within reach. Roaring with anger, he punched, kicked, grappled, gouged and even sank his teeth into a forearm that was wrapped unwisely across his face. Well over a dozen people had been involved in the fracas but, apart from the Irishman, only three were left standing.

As he bore down on them, they took to their heels and Mulryne went after the trio, resolved to teach them to stay away from The Black Dog in future. One of them tripped and fell headlong. Mulryne was on him at once, heaving him to his feet and slamming him against a wall until he heard bones crack. The next moment, a length of iron pipe struck the back of Mulryne’s head and sent him to his knees. The two friends of the man who had fallen had come back to rescue him. Hurt by the blow, the Irishman had the presence of mind to roll over quickly so that he dodged a second murderous swipe.

He was on his feet in an instant, grabbing the pipe and wresting it from the man holding it. Mulryne used it to club him to the ground. When the second man started to belabour him, he tossed the pipe away, lifted his assailant up and hurled him through a window. Yells of protest came from the occupants of the house. Dazed by the blow to his head and exhausted by the fight, Mulryne swayed unsteadily on his feet, both hands to his wounds to stem the bleeding. He did not even hear the sound of the police whistles.

Robert Colbeck sat in his office and reviewed the evidence with Victor Leeming. While no arrests had yet been made, they felt that they had a clear picture of how the robbery had taken place, and what help had been given to the gang responsible by employees in the Post Office and the lock industry. The Sergeant still believed that someone from the Royal Mint was implicated as well. Colbeck told him about the interview with Madeleine Andrews and how he had been able to still her fears.

‘The young lady was well-dressed for a railwayman’s daughter.’

‘Did you think that she’d be wearing rags and walking barefoot?’

‘She looked so neat and tidy, sir.’

‘Engine drivers are the best-paid men on the railway,’ said Colbeck, ‘and quite rightly. They have to be able to read, write and understand the mechanism of the locomotive. That’s why so many of them begin as fitters before becoming firemen. Caleb Andrews earns enough to bring up his daughter properly.’

‘I could tell from her voice that she’d had schooling.’

‘I think that she’s an intelligent woman.’

‘And a very fetching one,’ said Leeming with a grin.

‘She thought that you were a typical policeman, Victor.’

‘Is that good or bad, sir?’

Colbeck was tactful. ‘You’ll have to ask the young lady herself.’ There was a tap on the door. ‘Come in!’ he said.

The door opened and a policeman entered in uniform.

‘I was asked to give this to you, Inspector Colbeck,’ he said, handing over the envelope that he was carrying.

‘I’m told that it’s quite urgent. I’m to wait for a reply.’

‘Very well.’ Colbeck opened the envelope and read the note inside. He scrunched up the paper in his hand. ‘There’s no reply,’ he said. ‘I’ll come with you myself.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘Bad news, Inspector?’ wondered Leeming.

‘No, Victor,’ said Colbeck, smoothly. ‘A slight problem has arisen, that’s all. It will not take me long to sort it out. Excuse me.’

The only time that Brendan Mulryne had seen the inside of a police cell was when he had thrown the people he had arrested into one. It was different being on the other side of the law. When the door had slammed shut upon him, he was locked in a small, bare, cheerless room that was no more than a brick rectangle. The tiny window, high in the back wall, was simply a ventilation slit with thick iron bars in it. The place reeked of stale vomit and urine.

The bed was a hard wooden bench with no mattress or blankets. Sitting on the edge of it, Mulryne wished that his head would stop aching. His wounds had been tended, and the blood wiped from his face, but it was obvious that he had been in a fight. His craggy face was covered with cuts and abrasions, his knuckles were raw. His black eye and split lip would both take time to heal. It had been a savage brawl yet he was not sorry to have been in it. His only regret was that he had been arrested as a result. It meant that he would lose money and leave The Black Dog unguarded for some time.

When a key scraped in the lock, he hoped that someone was bringing him a cup of tea to revive him. But it was not the custody sergeant who stepped into the cell. Instead, Inspector Robert Colbeck came in and looked down at the offender with more disappointment than sympathy. His voice was uncharacteristically harsh.

‘Why ever did you get yourself locked up in here, Brendan?’

‘It was a mistake,’ argued Mulryne.

‘Police records do not lie,’ said Colbeck. ‘According to the book, you have been charged with taking part in an affray, causing criminal damage, inflicting grievous bodily harm and – shocking for someone who used to wear a police uniform – resisting arrest.’

‘Do you think that I wanted to be shut away here?’

‘Why make things worse for yourself?’

‘Because I was goaded,’ said Mulryne. ‘Two of the bobbies that tried to put cuffs on me recognised who I was and had a laugh at my expense. They thought it was great fun to arrest an old colleague of theirs. I’ll not stand for mockery, Mr Colbeck.’

‘Look at the state of you, man. Your shirt is stained with blood.’

Mulryne grinned. ‘Don’t worry. Most of it is not mine.’

‘I do worry,’ said Colbeck, sharply. ‘I asked for help and you promised to give it. How can you do that when you’re stuck in here?’

‘The man to blame is the one who started the fight.’

‘You should have kept out of it.’

‘Sure, isn’t keeping the peace what I’m paid to do?’ asked Mulryne, earnestly. ‘I’m a sort of policeman at The Black Dog, excepting that I don’t wear a uniform. All I did was to try to calm things down.’

‘With your fists.’

‘They were not in the mood to listen to a sermon.’

Colbeck heaved a sigh. ‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Is there anything you can do for me?’ said Mulryne, hopefully. ‘Ask at The Black Dog. They’ll tell that I didn’t start the affray. I just got caught up in it. As for criminal damage, the person at fault is the one who dived head first through that window. On my word of honour, I did my best to stop him.’

‘I know you too well, Brendan. I’ve seen you fight.’

‘Well, at least get them to drop the charge of grievous bodily harm. Jesus! You should feel the lump on the back of my head. It’s the size of an egg, so it is. I was the victim of grievous bodily harm.’ He got up from the bed. ‘Please, Mr Colbeck. I’m a wronged man.’

‘Are you?’

‘I’m such a peaceable fellow by nature.’

‘Tell that to the policeman whose teeth you knocked out.’

‘I did apologise to him afterwards.’

‘What use is that?’ demanded Colbeck. ‘And what use are you to me while you’re cooling your heels in here?’

‘None at all, I admit. That’s why you must get me out.’

‘So that you can create more havoc?’

‘No, Mr Colbeck,’ said Mulryne, ‘so that I can find out where Billy Ings is hiding. He’s within my grasp, I know it. I did as you told me. I spoke to Isadore Vout, the bloodsucker who loaned him money when he lost at the card table.’

‘Did he know where Ings could be found?’

‘With a doxy named Polly Roach who lives in Hangman’s Lane.’

‘And?’

‘I paid her a call. When I asked her about Billy Ings, she spat out his name like it was a dog turd. They had a disagreement, you see, and he walked out on her. I fancy that he knocked her about before he went. He told Polly that he’d won a lot of money playing cards but she knows better now. It made her livid.’

‘I’m the one who is livid,’ asserted Colbeck. ‘You let me down.’

‘I could never walk away from a fight.’ He took his visitor by the arms. ‘Help me, please. If you don’t get me released, it will be too late.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Polly Roach has gone looking for Ings as well,’ said Mulryne, ‘and it’s not to give him her best wishes. There’s only one thing on her mind.’

‘Is there?’

‘Revenge.’

The Devil’s Acre was a comparatively small district but it was teeming with inhabitants, packed into its houses and tenements until their walls were about to burst. Tracking someone down in its labyrinthine interior was not a simple task, even for someone like Polly Roach who had lived there since birth. It had such a shifting population. She first tried the various gambling dens where William Ings was known but he had not been seen at any of them that day. Polly reasoned that he must have found himself a bed for the night and that meant he paid someone to share it with him.

There was no shortage of prostitutes in the Acre. Clients could pick anyone from young girls to old women. Polly Roach knew from personal experience the sordid acts that they were called upon to perform. It was what set William Ings apart from all the other men who had paid for her services. He had made no demands on her. He came in search of a friend rather than a nameless whore who would simply satisfy his urges and send him on his way. Ings wanted a confidante, a source of sympathy, someone who would listen patiently to his bitter complaints about his private life and offer him succour.

Polly Roach felt that she had done just that. Over a period of several months, she had soothed his wounded pride. She had lost count of the number of times he talked about his unhappy marriage, his problems at work and his disputes with his neighbours. Until he met her, his life had had no joy or purpose. Polly had given him direction. Seeing how she could benefit herself, she had flattered him, advised him, supported him, even pretended that she loved him. If he had come into some money, she had earned her share of it and was determined to get it. William Ings was going to pay for all the time she had devoted to him.

Hours of searching for him eventually paid off. After questioning almost anybody she encountered, Polly met an old acquaintance who recognised the description of William Ings and said that he had seen him in the company of Kate Piercey. He was even able to give her an address. Incensed that she had been replaced by a younger woman, Polly fingered the knife under her skirt and went off to confront the man who had cast her aside so unfairly.

When she reached the tenement, she hastened up the stairs to the attic room and saw the light under the door. It was no time for social niceties. She kicked the timber hard.

‘Come out of there, Billy!’ she shouted.

To her surprise, the door swung back on its hinges to reveal the hazy outline of a small, dirty, cluttered room with bare rafters. What hit her nostrils was a smell of damp mixed with the aroma of cheap perfume, a kind that she herself had used in the past. There was an oil lamp in the corner but it had been turned down so that it gave only the faintest glow. Polly turned up the flame in order to see more clearly. A hideous sight was suddenly conjured out of the dark. When she realised that she was not alone in the room, she let out a cry of horror. On a bed in the corner, lying side by side as if they were asleep, were William Ings and Kate Piercey. Their throats had been cut.

Polly began to retch and her first instinct was to run from the scene. Self-interest then slowly got the better of fear. Though Ings was dead, she might still get what she wanted. She breathed in deeply as she tried to compose herself. Averting her gaze from the bed, she used the lamp to illumine the corners of the room as she looked for Ings’s leather bag so that she could take the money that she felt was hers. But she was too late. His belongings were scattered all over the floor and the bag was empty. In desperation, she grabbed his jacket and felt in the inside pocket but his wallet was no longer there. Not a penny of his money was left. Whoever had murdered them, had known exactly where to look. She gazed ruefully at William Ings. Her hopes of escape had bled to death. Polly Roach was condemned to stay in the Devil’s Acre forever.

CHAPTER SEVEN

When word of the crime reached him, Inspector Robert Colbeck took an immediate interest. Murder was not a rare phenomenon in the Devil’s Acre and, ordinarily, he would have been content to let someone else lead the investigation. But the fact that one of the victims was a middle-aged man alerted him and he persuaded Superintendent Tallis to let him look into the case. After collecting Victor Leeming, he left Scotland Yard and took a cab to the scene of the crime.

Policemen were already on duty, guarding the room where the victims lay and questioning other occupants of the building. There was no sign of Polly Roach. Additional lamps had been brought in so that the attic room was ablaze with light. When the detectives entered, the grisly scene was all too visible. In spite of the number of times he had seen murder victims, Leeming was inclined to be squeamish but Colbeck had no qualms about examining the dead bodies at close range. Both were partly clothed, their garments spattered with blood. The sheets and pillows were also speckled.

After inspecting the corpses for some time, Colbeck stood up.

‘At least, they did not suffer too much,’ he observed.

‘How do you know that?’ asked Leeming.

‘Both of them have wounds on the back of their heads, Victor. I think that they were knocked unconscious before their throats were cut. One neat incision was all that it took. The killer knew his trade.’

‘So I see, Inspector.’ He looked at the face of the dead man and quailed slightly. ‘Do you think it’s William Ings?’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, sifting through the items on the floor. ‘He matches the description that Mrs Ings gave me and nobody who lives in the Acre dresses quite as smartly as he did. This man is an outsider.’ Picking up a jacket, he searched the pockets and found a small brown envelope. ‘This confirms it,’ he said.

‘What is it?’

‘An empty pay packet from the Post Office. His very last wages.’

‘Does he have a wallet on him?’

‘That appears to have been taken,’ said Colbeck, putting the jacket aside. ‘It must have contained money. Judging by the way that it was emptied all over the floor, so did that bag.’

Leeming was annoyed. ‘We’ve lost one of our suspects to a thief.’

‘This was not the work of a thief, Victor.’

‘It must have been. They were obviously killed for the money.’

‘Not at all,’ contradicted the other. ‘The young lady died because she had the misfortune to be with Mr Ings at the time. He was the target. In my opinion, the murder was directly connected to the train robbery. He was silenced because he knew too much. Since Ings no longer had any need of it, his paymaster took the opportunity to repossess the hefty bribe that must have been paid to him.’

‘These men are more dangerous than I thought,’ said Leeming.

‘They’ll go to any lengths to cover their tracks.’

‘Does that mean the other accomplice is at risk?’

‘Yes, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘Unless we can find him first.’

‘And how do we do that?’

‘To be honest, I’m not sure.’ He glanced at the policeman by the door. ‘Who discovered the body?’

‘A woman named Polly Roach, sir,’ replied the man.

‘I’ll need to speak to her,’ said Colbeck, recalling that Mulryne had mentioned her name. ‘I’ve reason to believe that she knew at least one of the victims. Where is she?’

‘Being held at the station, Inspector. I must warn you that she’s very jittery. Walking in on this has upset her badly.’

‘I daresay that it has. A lot of people are going to be upset when they learn what happened here tonight. The person I feel sorry for is the man’s wife,’ said Colbeck with a sigh. ‘I’m not looking forward to breaking the news to Mrs Ings.’

Maud Ings was about to retire to bed when she heard the click of her letterbox. Taking the lamp, she went to the front door to investigate and saw a small package lying on the doormat. Puzzled as to what it might contain, she picked it up and read the bold capitals that ran across the front of it – FROM YOUR HUSBAND. She was even more mystified. She put her lamp on the hall table so that she could use both hands to open the package. As she peeled back the brown paper, she found, to her utter astonishment, that it was covering a sizeable wad of five pound notes. The arrival of such unexpected bounty was too much for her. Overcome with emotion, she burst into tears.

‘I want results, Inspector,’ shouted Tallis, rising angrily to his feet. ‘I want progress, not this incessant litany of excuses.’

‘We could not foresee that William Ings would be murdered.’

‘Perhaps not, but you could have prevented the crime by reaching him before anyone else did.’

‘That’s what I attempted to do, sir,’ said Colbeck.

‘Yes,’ snarled Tallis, ‘by employing that Irish maniac, Mulryne. Whatever possessed you to do that? The fellow is a confounded menace. When he was in the police force, his notion of making an arrest was to beat the offender to a pulp.’

‘Brendan was simply too zealous in the execution of his duties.’

‘Zealous! He was uncontrollable. I’m told that it took four officers to subdue him this evening. Was that another example of his zeal?’ asked Tallis with heavy sarcasm. ‘Why ever did you turn to him?’

‘Because he knows the Devil’s Acre from the inside.’

‘He’ll know a prison cell from the inside before I’m done with him.’

‘There were extenuating circumstances about the brawl,’ said Colbeck, ‘and, when the time is ripe, I’d like to speak up on Mulryne’s behalf. The reason that I engaged him is that he’s a good bloodhound. He did, after all, find the woman with whom William Ings had been living. Her name was Polly Roach. She was the person who raised the alarm tonight.’

‘What did she have to say for herself?’

‘She was very bitter when I questioned her earlier. Mr Ings had promised to take her away from the Acre to start a new life with him. Polly Roach offered him something that he could not find at home.’

‘I was in the army, Inspector,’ said Tallis, darkly. ‘You don’t need to tell me why married men visit whores. Our doctor was the busiest man in the regiment, trying to cure them of their folly.’ He sat down again behind his desk. ‘Now, tell me in detail what this Polly Roach said.’

Standing in front of him, Robert Colbeck gave him a terse account of his interview with the woman who had found the dead bodies and who had provided confirmation that one of the victims was William Ings. Wreathed in cigar smoke, Tallis listened in stony silence. His eye occasionally drifted to the newspapers that lay on his desk. When Colbeck finished, the Superintendent fired questions at him.

‘Do you believe this woman?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did you find any witnesses?’

‘None, sir.’

‘How many people live in that tenement?’

‘Dozens.’

‘Yet not one of them saw or heard a stranger entering or leaving the premises? Is the place a home for the blind and deaf?’

‘People in the Devil’s Acre do not like assisting the police.’

‘So why did you rely on someone like Mulryne?’

‘Brendan is the exception to the rule.’

‘He’s a liability,’ said Tallis, acidly. ‘Whatever you do, make sure that the newspapers don’t get hold of the fact that you sought his help. I’ll have enough trouble keeping those reporters at bay when they ask me about the murder.’

‘Would you rather I spoke to them, sir?’

‘No, it’s my duty.’

‘Of course.’

‘Yours is to find these villains before they commit any more crimes. What’s your plan of campaign?’

‘Courtesy must come before anything else, Superintendent.’

‘In what way?’

‘Mrs Ings has a right to be informed of the death of her husband,’ said Colbeck. ‘It was far too late to call on her tonight. It would only have given her additional distress if she’d been hauled out of bed to be told that her husband had been murdered.’

‘While lying between foul sheets beside some pox-ridden whore.’