The Railway Viaduct

CHAPTER TWO

After a couple of tedious hours in court, Detective Inspector Robert Colbeck was glad to return to Scotland Yard so that he could write a full report on the case, and clear up some of the paperwork cluttering his desk. He got no further than his office door. Superintendent Tallis loomed into view at the end of the corridor and beckoned him with an imperious crook of a tobacco-stained finger. When they went into the superintendent's office, Colbeck could smell the pungent smoke still hanging in the air. It was a telltale sign that a serious crime had been committed. His superior's response to any crisis was to reach for his cigar box. Tallis waved a piece of paper at him.

'This message came by electric telegraph,' he said.

'From where?'

'Liverpool. That's where the body was taken.'

'Another murder?' asked Colbeck with interest.

'Another railway murder. It's the reason I'm sending you.'

The inspector was not surprised. After his success in capturing the gang responsible for the daring robbery of a mail train, the press had dubbed him unanimously as the Railway Detective and he had lived up to the name subsequently. It gave him a kudos he enjoyed, a popularity that Tallis resented and a burden of expectation that could feel very heavy at times. Robert Colbeck was tall, lean, conventionally handsome and dressed as usual in an immaculate black frock coat, well-cut fawn trousers and an Ascot cravat. Still in his thirties, he had risen swiftly in the Detective Department, acquiring a reputation for intelligence, efficiency and single-mindedness that few could emulate. His promotion had been a source of great pride to his friends and a constant irritation to his detractors, such as the superintendent.

Edward Tallis was a stout, red-faced man in his fifties with a shock of grey hair and a neat moustache that he trimmed on a daily basis. His years in the army had left him with the habit of command, a passion for order and an unshakable belief in the virtues of the British Empire. Though invariably smart, he felt almost shabby beside the acknowledged dandy of Scotland Yard. Tallis derided what he saw as Colbeck's vanity, but he was honest enough to recognise the inspector's rare qualities as a detective. It encouraged him to suppress his instinctive dislike of the man. For his part, Colbeck, too, made allowances. Seniority meant that Tallis had to be obeyed and the inspector's natural antipathy towards him had to be hidden.

Tallis thrust the paper at him. 'Read it for yourself,' he said.

'Thank you, sir.' Colbeck needed only seconds to do so. 'This does not tell us very much, Superintendent.'

'What did you expect – a three-volume novel?'

'It claims that the victim was thrown from a moving train.'

'So?'

'That suggests great strength on the part of the killer. He would have to pitch a grown man through a window and over the parapet of the Sankey Viaduct. Unless, of course,' he added, handing the telegraph back to Tallis, 'he opened the door of the carriage first.'

'This is no time for idle speculation.'

'I agree, Superintendent.'

'Are you in a position to take charge of the case?'

'I believe so.'

'What happened in court this morning?'

'The jury finally brought in a verdict of guilty, sir. Why it should have taken them so infernally long, I can only hazard a guess. The evidence against Major Harrison-Clark was overwhelming.'

'That may be,' said Tallis with gruff regret, 'but I hate to see a military man brought down like that. The major served his country honourably for many years.'

'That does not entitle him to strangle his wife.'

'There was great provocation, I daresay.'

A confirmed bachelor, Tallis had no insight into the mysteries of married life and no taste for the company of women. If a husband killed his spouse, the superintendent tended to assume that she was in some way obscurely responsible for her own demise. Colbeck did not argue with him or even point out that, in fact, Major Rupert Harrison-Clark had a history of violent behaviour. The inspector was too anxious to be on his way.

'What about my report on the case?' he asked.

'It can wait.'

'Am I to take Victor with me, sir?'

'Sergeant Leeming has already been apprised of the details.'

'Such as they are.'

'Such – as you so rightly point out – as they are.' Tallis looked down at the telegraph. 'Have you ever seen this viaduct?'

'Yes, Superintendent. A remarkable piece of engineering.'

'I don't share your admiration of the railway system.'

'I appreciate quality in all walks of life,' said Colbeck, easily, 'and my fondness for railways is by no means uncritical. Engineers and contractors alike have made hideous mistakes in the past, some of which have cost lives as well as money. The Sankey Viaduct, on the other hand, was an undoubted triumph. It is also our first clue.'

Tallis blinked. 'Is it?'

'Of course, sir. It was no accident that the victim was hurled from that particular place. My belief is that the killer chose it with care.' He opened the door then paused to give the other man a farewell smile. 'We shall have to find out why.'

Sidney Heyford was a tall, stringy, ginger-haired individual in his forties who seemed to have grown in height since his promotion to the rank of inspector. When he had first joined the local constabulary, he had been fearless and conscientious, liked by his colleagues and respected by the criminal fraternity. He still worked as hard as ever but his eminence had made him arrogant, unyielding and officious. It had also made him very proprietorial. When he first heard the news, he let out a snort of disgust and flung the telegraph aside.

'Detectives from Scotland Yard!'

'Yes, sir,' said Constable Praine. 'Two of them.'

'I don't care if it's two or twenty. We don't want them here.'

'No, Inspector.'

'We can solve this crime on our own.'

'If you say so.'

'I do say so, Constable. It was committed on our doorstep.'

'That's not strictly true,' said Praine, pedantically. 'The Sankey Viaduct is halfway between here and Manchester. Some would claim that they have a right to take over the case.'

'Manchester?'

'Yes, Inspector.'

'Poppycock! Arrant poppycock!'

'If you say so.'

'I do say so, Constable.'

'The train in question did depart from Manchester.'

'But it was coming here, man – to Liverpool!'

In the eyes of Inspector Sidney Heyford, it was an unanswerable argument and the constable would not, in any case, have dared to quarrel with him. It was not only because of the other man's position that Walter Praine held his tongue. Big, brawny and with a walrus moustache hiding much of his podgy young face, Praine nursed secret ambitions to become Heyford's son-in-law one day, a fact that he had yet to communicate to the inspector's comely daughter. The situation made Praine eager to impress his superior. To that end, he was ready to endure the brusque formality with which he was treated.

'I'm sure that you are right, Inspector,' he said, obsequiously.

'There is no substitute for local knowledge.'

'I agree, sir.'

'We have done all that any detectives from the Metropolitan Police would have done – much more, probably.' Heyford turned an accusatory glare on Praine. 'How did they get to know of the crime in the first place?' he demanded. 'I hope that nobody from here dared to inform them?'

'It was the railway company who sent the telegraph.'

'They should have shown more faith in us.'

The two men were in the central police station in Liverpool. Both wore spotless uniforms. Inspector Heyford had spent most of the day leading the investigation into the murder. When he finally returned to his office late that afternoon, the waiting telegraph was passed to him. It had immediately aroused his possessive streak.

'This is our murder. I mean to keep it that way.'

'We were the first to receive reports of it.'

'I'll brook no interference.'

'If you say so, sir.'

'And, for heaven's sake, stop repeating that inane phrase,' said Heyford with vehemence. 'You're a police constable, not a parrot.' Praine gave a contrite nod. 'What time should we expect them?'

'Not for another hour or so at least.'

'How did you decide that?'

'I checked the timetables in Bradshaw,' said Praine, hoping that his initiative might be rewarded with at least a nod of approval. Instead, it was met with a blank stare. 'They could not have set out much before the time when that telegraph was sent. If they arrive at Lime Street by six-thirty, they will be here not long afterwards.'

'They shouldn't be here at all,' grumbled Heyford, consulting his pocket watch. 'I need to master all the details before they come. Get out of here, Constable, and give me plenty of warning before they actually cross our threshold.'

'Yes, Inspector.'

'Make yourself scarce, then.'

Walter Praine left the room, acutely aware of the fact that he had failed to ingratiate himself with his putative father-in-law. Until he managed to do that, he could not possibly muster the confidence that was needed to make a proposal of marriage. Glad to be rid of him, Heyford began to read carefully through the statements that had been taken from the witnesses. It was only minutes before there was a timid knock on the door.

'Yes?' he barked.

The door opened and Praine put a tentative head around it.

'The gentlemen from Scotland Yard are already here, sir,' he said, sheepishly. 'Shall I show them in?'

Heyford leapt to his feet. 'Here?' he cried. 'How can that be? You told me that we had at least an hour.'

'I was mistaken.'

'Not for the first time, Constable Praine.'

Quelling him with a glare, Sidney Heyford opened the door wide and went into the outer office, manufacturing a smile as he did so. Robert Colbeck and Victor Leeming were studying the Wanted posters on the walls. Both men had bags with them. After a flurry of introductions, the detectives were taken into the little office and invited to sit down. Heyford was not impressed by Colbeck's elegance. With his stocky frame and gnarled face, Leeming did at least look like a policeman. That was not the case with his companion. To the man in uniform, Colbeck's debonair appearance and cultured voice were completely out of place in the rough and tumble world of law enforcement.

'I'm sorry that it's so cramped in here,' Heyford began.

'We've seen worse,' said Leeming, looking around.

'Much worse,' agreed Colbeck.

'Ashford in Kent, for instance. Six thousand people and only two constables to look after them from a tiny police house.'

'Some towns still refuse to take policing seriously enough. They take the Utopian view that crime will somehow solve itself without the intercession of detective work.' He appraised Heyford shrewdly. 'I'm sure that Liverpool displays more common sense.'

'It has to, Inspector,' said Heyford, sententiously, 'though we are woefully short of men to police a population of well over three hundred thousand. This is a thriving port. When the ships dock here, we've foreigners of all kind roaming our streets. If my men did not keep close watch over them, we'd have riot and destruction.'

'I'm sure that you do an excellent job.'

'That's how I earned my promotion.' He looked from one to the other. 'May I ask how you got here so soon?'

'That was the inspector's doing,' said Leeming, indicating his companion. 'He knows everything about train timetables. I prefer to travel by coach but Inspector Colbeck insisted that we came by rail.'

'How else could we have seen the Sankey Viaduct?' asked Colbeck. 'A coach would hardly have taken us across it. And think of the time we saved, Victor. Travel between Manchester and Liverpool by coach and it will take you up to four and a half hours. The train got us here in far less than half that time.' He turned to Heyford. 'I've always been fascinated by the railway system. That's why I know how to get from London to Liverpool at the fastest possible speed.'

'Inspector Colbeck!' said Heyford as realisation dawned. 'I thought I'd heard that name before.'

'He's the Railway Detective,' explained Leeming.

The information did not endear them to Heyford. If anything, it only soured him even more. Newspaper accounts of Colbeck's exploits had reached Liverpool in the past and they were invariably full of praise. Sidney Heyford felt that he deserved the same kind of public veneration. He took a deep breath.

'We are quite able to handle this case ourselves,' he asserted.

'That may be so,' said Colbeck, briskly, 'but your authority has been overridden. The London and North-West Railway Company has asked specifically that the Detective Department of the Metropolitan Police Force intercede. Last year, Sergeant Leeming and I were fortunate enough to solve an earlier crime for the same company so we were requested by name.'

Leeming nodded. 'They were very grateful.'

'So, instead of haggling over who should be in charge, I suggest that you give us all the information that you have so far gathered. We shall, of course, be glad of your assistance, Inspector Heyford, but we have not come all this way to have our credentials questioned.'

Colbeck had spoken with such firm politeness that Heyford was slightly stunned. He retreated into a muted surliness. Snatching up the papers from his desk, he told them about the progress of the investigation, reciting the details as if he had learned them by heart.

'At 10.15 a.m.,' he said, flatly, 'a train passed over the Sankey Viaduct on its way to Liverpool. The body of a man was thrown over the parapet and landed in the canal. When some people on a barge hauled it out of the water – their names were Enoch and Samuel Triggs, a father and son – it was found that the victim had been killed before he was flung from the train. He had been stabbed in the back though there was no sign of any weapon.'

'What state was the body in?' asked Colbeck.

'A bad one, Inspector. When he hit the water, the man's head collided with a piece of driftwood. It smashed his face in. His own mother wouldn't recognise him now.'

'Was there anything on his body to identify him?'

'Nothing. His wallet and watch were missing. So was his jacket.'

'Where is the body now?'

'In the mortuary.'

'I'd like to examine it.'

'It will tell you nothing beyond the fact that he was a young man and a very healthy one, by the look of it.'

'Nevertheless, I want to see the body this evening.'

'Very well.'

'If you don't mind, sir,' said Leeming, squeamishly, 'it's a treat that I'll forego. I hate morgues. They unsettle my stomach.'

Colbeck smiled. 'Then I'll spare you the ordeal, Victor.' He looked at Heyford again. 'There were two men on the barge, you say?'

'Actually,' replied the other, 'there were three, the third being Micah Triggs. He owns the barge but is very old. His son and grandson do most of the work.'

'But he was another witness.'

'Yes, Inspector. He confirmed what the others told me. When they had pulled the man out of the canal, they moored the barge. Samuel Triggs clambered all the way up to the station and caught the next train here to report the crime.' He puffed out his chest. 'He knew that Liverpool had a better police force than Manchester.'

Leeming was puzzled. 'Why didn't the train from which the body was thrown stop at the viaduct? We did. Inspector Colbeck wanted to take a look at the scene of the crime.'

'This morning's train was an express that does not stop at all the intermediate stations.'

'The killer would have chosen it for that reason,' said Colbeck.

'Once he had jettisoned his victim, he wanted to get away from there as swiftly as possible.' He pondered. 'So far, it would appear, we have three witnesses, all of whom were in a similar position. Was anyone else there at the time?'

'According to Enoch Triggs, there were two ladies and a boy on the bank but they fled in fear. We have no idea who they were. Oh, yes,' he went on, studying one of the statements, 'and there seems to have been a man there as well but he, too, vanished. The truth is that Enoch Triggs and his son were too busy trying to rescue the body from the water to notice much else.'

'That takes care of those at the scene of the crime. I presume that you have details of where this barge can be reached?'

'Yes, Inspector.'

'Good. What about the other witnesses?'

'There were none,' asserted Heyford.

'A train full of passengers and nobody sees a man being tossed over the side of a viaduct? That's not an everyday event. It's something that people would remember.'

'I'd remember it,' agreed Leeming.

'Well?' said Colbeck. 'Did you make any effort to contact the passengers on that train, Inspector Heyford?'

'How could I?' asked the other, defensively. 'By the time we were made aware of the crime, the passengers had all dispersed throughout the city.'

'Many of them may have intended to return to Manchester. It may well be that some people live there and work here. Did it never occur to you to have someone at the railway station this afternoon to question anyone leaving Liverpool who might have travelled on that train this morning?'

'No, sir.'

'Then we'll need to meet the same train tomorrow. With luck, we should find at least a few people who make the journey daily.'

'Wait,' said Heyford, leafing through the papers. 'There was something else. Oddly enough, it was the old man who told me this.'

'Micah Triggs?'

'He thought the man was thrown from the last carriage.'

'So?'

'That might explain why nobody saw it happen.'

'What about the guard?' said Leeming. 'His van would be behind the last carriage. Why did he see nothing?'

'Because he could have been looking the other way,' said Colbeck, thinking it through, 'or been distracted by something else. It would only have taken seconds to dispose of that body and the last carriage would be the ideal place.' His eyes flicked back to Heyford. 'I take it that you've spoken to the guard, Inspector.'

'No,' said the other. 'When I got to the station, that train had long since left for Manchester with the guard aboard.'

'He would have been back at Lime Street in due course. Guards work long hours. I know their shift patterns. All you had to do was to look at a copy of Bradshaw's Guide and you could have worked out when that particular train would return here. We need every pair of eyes we can call on, Inspector. The guard must be questioned.'

'If he'd had anything to report, he'd have come forward.'

'He does have something to report,' said Colbeck. 'He may not have witnessed the crime being committed but he would have seen the passengers boarding the train, perhaps even noticed who got into the carriage next to his van. His evidence could be vital. I find it strange that you did not realise that.'

'I had other things to do, Inspector Colbeck,' bleated the other, caught on the raw. 'I had to take statements from the witnesses then arrange for the transfer of the body. Do not worry,' he said, huffily, 'I'll meet that very train tomorrow and interview the guard in person.'

'Sergeant Leeming will already have done so.'

'Will I?' gulped Leeming.

'Yes, Victor. You'll catch an early train to Manchester so that you can speak to the staff at the station in case any of them remember who got into that last carriage. Then you must talk to the guard who was on that train today.'

'What then?'

'Travel back here on the same train, of course,' said Colbeck, 'making sure that you sit in the last carriage. You'll get some idea of how fast you go over the Sankey Viaduct and how difficult it would have been to hurl a dead body into the canal.'

Leeming goggled. 'I hope you're not expecting me to throw someone out of the carriage, sir.'

'Simply use your imagination.'

'What about me?' asked Heyford. 'Is there anything I can do?'

'Several things.'

'Such as?'

'First of all, you can recommend a hotel nearby so that Sergeant Leeming can book some rooms there. Second, you can conduct me to the mortuary and, after that, you can point me in the direction of the local newspapers.'

'Newspapers?'

'Yes,' said Colbeck, tiring of his pedestrian slowness. 'Papers that contain news. People have a habit of reading them. We need to reach as many of them as we can with a description of the victim.'

Heyford was scornful. 'How can you describe a faceless man?'

'By concentrating on his other features – age, height, build, hair colour and so on. His clothing will give us some idea of his social class. In short, we can provide enough details for anyone who knows him to be able to identify the man. Don't you agree?'

'Yes, Inspector.' There was a grudging respect. 'I suppose I do.'

'Have you reached any conclusion yourself?' asked Leeming.

'Only the obvious one, Sergeant – it was murder for gain. The victim was killed so that he could be robbed.'

'Oh, I suspect that there was much more to it than that,' said Colbeck. 'A lot of calculation went into this murder. Nobody would take so much trouble simply to get his hands on the contents of another man's wallet. Always reject the obvious, Inspector Heyford. It has a nasty tendency to mislead.'

'Yes, sir,' grunted the other.

Colbeck stood up. 'Let's get started, shall we? Suggest a hotel then lead me to the mortuary. The sooner we get that description in the newspapers, the better. With luck, he may read it.'

'Who?'

'The other witness. I discount the two ladies and the boy. They'll have been too shocked to give a coherent account. But there was a man on that bank as well. He's the person who interests me.'

Ambrose Hooper put the finishing touches to his work then stood back to admire it. He was in his studio, a place of amiable chaos that contained several paintings that had been started then abandoned, and dozens of pencil drawings that had never progressed beyond the stage of a rough sketch. Artist's materials lay everywhere. Light was fading so it was impossible for him to work on but he did not, in any case, need to do so. What he had achieved already had a sense of completeness to it. The sketch he had made of the Sankey Viaduct was now a vivid watercolour that would serve as model for the much bigger work he intended to paint.

It was all there – viaduct, canal, train, sailing barge, lush green fields, cows and, in the foreground, two women and a small boy. What brought the whole scene together, giving it life and definition, was the central figure of the man who was tumbling helplessly through the air towards the water, a bizarre link between viaduct and canal. Hooper was thrilled. Instead of producing yet another landscape, he had created a unique historical document. It would be his masterpiece.