Inspector Colbeck's Casebook

THE END OF THE LINE

England, 1852

Matthew Proudfoot was a man who insisted on getting value for money. As one of the directors of the Great Western Railway, he had invested heavily in the company and believed that it entitled him to special privileges. When he learnt that an off-duty train was going from London to Swindon that evening, therefore, he effectively commandeered it, and, as its sole passenger, issued strict instructions to the driver. James Barrett was wiping his hands on an oily rag when the portly figure of Proudfoot strode up to the locomotive. Recognising him at once, Barrett straightened his back and gave a deferential smile.

‘Good evening, Mr Proudfoot.’

‘I need to be at Reading station by eight o’clock,’ said the other, curtly. ‘I expect the ride to be swift but comfortable.’

‘But we’re not supposed to stop, sir,’ explained Barrett, glancing at his fireman. ‘The engine is being taken out of service so that repairs can be made at Swindon.’

‘On her way there, she can oblige me.’

‘I have to follow orders, Mr Proudfoot.’

‘I’ve just given them. Take me to Reading.’

‘But I need permission, sir.’

‘You’ve got permission, man,’ said Proudfoot, testily. ‘I’ve spoken to your superiors. That’s why the first-class carriage was added to the train. It’s the only way I’d deign to travel.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Remember that you have a director of the company aboard.’

‘Oh, I will,’ promised Barrett.

‘I’ll be keeping an eye on the performance of the train.’

‘You’ll have no reason for complaint, sir.’

‘I hope not,’ warned Proudfoot.

And he turned on his heel so that he could stalk off and accost the guard at the rear of the train. Barrett and Neale watched him go. The driver was a wiry man in his thirties with years of service on the Great Western Railway. He took a pride in his job. His fireman, Alfred Neale, short, thin, angular, still in his twenties, was also an experienced railway man. Unlike his workmate, he showed open resentment.

‘He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that, Jim,’ he said.

‘I take no notice.’

‘But you’re one of the best drivers we’ve got. Mr Proudfoot should have shown you some respect. Who does he think he is — God Bloody Almighty?’

‘Forget him, Alf,’ suggested Barrett. ‘We’ve got a job to do even if it don’t get the recognition it deserves. Is he on board yet?’

‘Yes,’ replied Neale, sourly, looking back down the platform. ‘His Majesty’s just climbing into his first-class carriage. Anyone would think that he owned the train. Stop at Reading, he tells us! I think we should go all the way to Swindon and to hell with him.’

Barrett gave a weary smile. ‘Orders is orders, Alf.’

‘I’ve half a mind to ignore ’em.’

‘Well, I haven’t,’ said the other, consulting a battered watch that he took from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Mr Proudfoot wants to be there by eight, does he? Fair enough.’ He put the watch away. ‘Let’s deliver him bang on time.’

Fifteen minutes later, the train steamed out of Paddington.

When he first heard the details of the crime, Robert Colbeck was baffled. As an inspector in the Detective Department at Scotland Yard, he had dealt with many strange cases but none that had made him blink in astonishment before. He rehearsed the facts.

‘When the train left London,’ he said, ‘Matthew Proudfoot was the only passenger in a first-class carriage. The guard was travelling in the brake van, the driver and fireman on the footplate.’

‘That’s correct,’ agreed Edward Tallis.

‘None of those three men left his post throughout the entire journey yet, when the train stopped at Reading station, Mr Proudfoot was dead.’

‘Stabbed through the heart.’

‘By whom?’

‘That’s for you to find out,’ said Tallis, crisply. ‘As you know, the Great Western Railway has its own police but their work is largely supervisory. They watch over the track and act as signalmen. A murder investigation is well beyond them. That’s why we’ve been called in.’

Robert Colbeck pondered. Tall, slim and well favoured, he wore a light brown frock coat, with rounded edges and a high neck, dark trousers and an ascot cravat. Though he had the appearance of a dandy, Colbeck was essentially a man of action who never shirked danger. He pressed for more detail.

‘What was the average speed of the train?’ he asked.

‘Thirty-five miles per hour.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because that’s the approximate distance between Paddington and Reading, and it took almost exactly an hour to reach the station. So you can rule out the obvious explanation,’ said Tallis, briskly. ‘Nobody jumped onto the train while it was in motion — not unless he wanted to kill himself, that is. It was going too fast.’

‘Too fast to jump onto, perhaps,’ decided Colbeck. ‘But a brave man could jump off the train at that speed — especially if he chose the right place and rolled down a grassy embankment. That might be the answer, Superintendent,’ he speculated. ‘Suppose that Mr Proudfoot was not the sole occupant of that carriage. Someone may already have concealed himself in one of the other compartments.’

‘That’s one of the avenues you’ll have to explore.’

Superintendent Edward Tallis was a stout, steely man in his fifties with a military background that had left him with a scar on his cheek. He had a shock of grey hair and a well-trimmed moustache that he was fond of caressing. With a lifetime shaped by the habit of command, he expected obedience from his subordinates and, because Colbeck did not always obey in the way that was required of him, there was a lot of tension between them. Whatever his reservations about the elegant inspector, however, Tallis recognised his abilities and invariably assigned the most difficult cases to him. Colbeck had a habit of getting results.

The two of them were in the superintendent’s office in Scotland Yard. It was early in the morning after the murder and the scant information available was on the sheet of paper that Tallis handed to Colbeck. When he studied the paper, the inspector’s handsome face puckered with disappointment.

‘There’s not much to go on, I’m afraid,’ said Tallis with a sigh. ‘Beyond the fact that Matthew Proudfoot got into a train alive and was dead on arrival at his destination, that is. You have to feel sorry for the company. It’s not exactly a good advertisement for passenger travel.’

‘Did the train go on to Swindon?’

‘No, it’s been held at Reading, pending our investigation.’

‘Good.’

‘The driver, fireman and guard were also detained there overnight. You’ll find their names on that sheet of paper.’ Rising from his desk, he walked around it to confront Colbeck. ‘There’s no need for me to tell you how crucial it is that this murder is solved as quickly as possible.’

‘No, Superintendent.’

‘Mr Proudfoot was a director of the Great Western Railway. That means they are putting immense pressure on me for action.’

‘I’ll catch the next through-train to Reading.’

‘Take Sergeant Leeming with you.’

‘No,’ said Colbeck, thoughtfully. ‘Victor can travel independently. I need the fastest train that I can get, but I want him to stop at every station along the way to make enquiries. This is high summer. There was good light between seven and eight yesterday evening. Someone may have seen something when Mr Proudfoot’s train went past.’

‘A phantom killer stabbing him to death?’

‘I doubt if we’ll be that fortunate.’

‘Keep me informed.’

‘I always do, Superintendent.’

‘Only when you are under orders to do so,’ Tallis reminded him. ‘I want none of your usual eccentric methods, Inspector. I expect you to conduct this investigation properly. Bear one thing in mind at all times. Our reputation is at stake.’

Colbeck smiled. ‘Then I’ll do nothing to tarnish it, sir.’

There were eight stations between Paddington and Reading and, thanks to his copy of Churton’s Rail Road Book of England, Robert Colbeck knew the exact distance between each of them. Travelling in the compartment of a first-class carriage with two uniformed Metropolitan policemen, he tried to reconstruct the final journey by Matthew Proudfoot. When, how and why was the man killed? Was it conceivable that the murder victim had, in fact, had a travelling companion who had turned upon him for some reason? If that were the case, was the other person male or female? And at what point did the killer depart from the train? Colbeck had much to occupy his mind.

The first thing he did on arrival at Reading was to visit the undertaker who had taken charge of the body of the deceased. Sylvester Quorn was a small, wizened, unctuous man, dressed entirely in black and given to measuring each word carefully before he released it through his thin lips. Conducting the inspector to the room where the corpse was laid out on a cold slab, he watched over Colbeck’s shoulder as the latter drew back the shroud. The naked body of Matthew Proudfoot was large, white and flabby. Colbeck studied the livid red gash over the man’s heart. Quorn pointed a skeletal finger.

‘We cleaned him up, sir, as you see.’

‘Just the single wound?’ said Colbeck.

‘One fatal thrust, that was all.’

‘There must have been a struggle of some sort. What state was his clothing in when he was brought in here?’

‘The lapel of his coat was torn,’ said the undertaker, indicating some items in a large wooden box, ‘and his waistcoat was ripped where the knife went through. It was soaked with blood. So was his shirt.’

‘What about his effects?’

‘Everything is in here, Inspector.’

Colbeck sifted through the garments in the box and felt in all the pockets. ‘I don’t find any wallet here,’ he said. ‘Nor a watch. A man like Mr Proudfoot would certainly have owned a watch.’

‘It must have been taken, sir — along with the wallet.’

‘Murder for gain,’ murmured Colbeck. ‘At least we have one possible motive.’

‘I have a request to pass on,’ said the other with an ingratiating smile. ‘You can imagine how shocked his family were by the news. His wife is inconsolable. Mr Proudfoot’s brother has asked if the body can be released as soon as possible.’

‘He’ll have to wait until it’s been examined by a doctor.’

‘But I’ve done that, Inspector. I’ve been examining cadavers for almost forty years. There’s nothing a doctor can tell you that I can’t.’

‘The coroner will want a qualified medical opinion at the inquest.’

‘Of course.’

‘A man in your profession should know that,’ said Colbeck, putting him in his place. ‘Who informed the family of the tragedy?’

‘I did,’ said Quorn, mournfully. ‘Being acquainted with the Proudfoots, I felt that it was my duty to pass on the bad tidings. The railway police agreed that I should do so, though one of them did accompany me to the house. He was so grateful that I did all the talking. It was no effort for me, of course. I deal with the bereaved on a daily basis. It requires tact.’

Colbeck gazed down at the corpse for a few moments before drawing the shroud back over it again. He looked up at the undertaker.

‘How can you be tactful about a murder?’ he said.

When he returned to the railway station, the inspector found the three men waiting to be interviewed in the stationmaster’s office. They were side by side on a wooden bench. None of them looked as if he had slept much during the night. James Barrett seemed deeply upset by what had happened but Alfred Neale had a degree of truculence about him, as if resenting the fact that he was being questioned. The person who interested Colbeck most was George Hawley, the guard, a plump man in his fifties with a florid complexion and darting eyes.

‘What did you do in the course of the journey?’ asked Colbeck.

‘I did my job, Inspector,’ replied Hawley. ‘I kept guard.’

‘Yet you saw and heard nothing untoward?’

‘Nothing at all, sir.’

‘There was a definite struggle. Someone must have called out.’

‘I didn’t hear him.’

‘Are you sure, Mr Hawley?’

‘As God’s my witness,’ said the guard, hand to his heart. ‘The engine was making too much noise and the wheels were clanking over the rails. Couldn’t hear nothing above that.’

‘So you remained in the brake van throughout?’

Hawley shrugged. ‘Where else could I go?’

‘What about you two?’ said Colbeck, turning to the others. ‘You spent the entire journey on the footplate?’

‘Of course,’ retorted Neale.

‘We’re not allowed to leave it, sir,’ added Barrett, quietly. ‘Or, for that matter, to have any unauthorised persons travelling beside us.’

‘Did the train slow down at any point?’ said Colbeck.

‘No, Inspector. We kept up a steady speed. The truth is,’ he went on, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand, ‘we didn’t wish to upset our passenger. Mr Proudfoot wanted a smooth journey.’

‘You look tired, Mr Barrett. Where did you sleep last night?’

‘Here, sir. On this very bench.’

‘I was on the floor,’ complained Neale.

‘So was I,’ moaned Hawley. ‘At my age, I need a proper bed.’

‘Perhaps you should think of the murder victim rather than of yourself, Mr Hawley,’ scolded Colbeck. ‘I don’t believe that Mr Proudfoot deliberately got himself killed so that he could upset your sleeping arrangements.’

‘George meant no harm, sir,’ said Barrett, defensively. ‘He spoke out of turn. This has really upset him — and us, of course. It’s a terrible thing to happen. We feel so sorry for Mr Proudfoot.’

‘That’s right,’ said Hawley. ‘God rest his soul!’

‘I ain’t sorry,’ affirmed Neale, folding his arms.

‘Alf!’ exclaimed Barrett.

‘I ain’t, Jim. No sense in being dishonest about it. I’m like most people who work for this company. I got reason to hate Mr Matthew Proudfoot and you knows why.’

‘Oh?’ said Colbeck, curiosity aroused. ‘Tell me more, Mr Neale.’

‘Don’t listen to him, Inspector,’ advised Barrett, shooting the fireman an admonitory glance. ‘Alfred lets his tongue run away with him sometimes. We may not have admired Mr Proudfoot, but we all respected him for the position he held.’

‘He gave himself airs and graces,’ sneered Neale.

‘Only because he was a director.’

‘Yes, Jim. He never let us forget that, did he?’

‘What do you mean?’ said Colbeck.

‘Mr Proudfoot was not a nice man,’ confided Hawley. ‘Before we set off from Paddington, he said some very nasty things to me.’

‘You’re lucky that’s all he did, George,’ said Neale, before swinging round to face Colbeck. ‘Every time he travelled by rail, Mr Proudfoot had a complaint. He’s had two drivers fined and one dismissed. He had the stationmaster at Slough reprimanded and reported any number of people he felt weren’t bowing down before Mr High and Mighty.’

‘In other words,’ concluded Colbeck, ‘there are those employed by the GWR who might have a grudge against him.’

‘We’ve all got a grudge against him, Inspector.’

‘That’s not true, Alf,’ said Barrett, reproachfully.

‘All except you, then. You’re too soft, Jim.’

‘I never speak ill of the dead.’

Colbeck was interested in the relationship between the three men. As well as being workmates, they were clearly friends. James Barrett was the senior figure, liked and respected by his two colleagues, treating Neale in an almost paternal way. The driver’s main concern was to get his engine to Swindon. All that worried Alfred Neale was the fact that he had spent a night apart from his young wife. The railway police had informed her that his return would be delayed but given her no details. It made the fireman restive. George Hawley was a weak man who sided with anyone who seemed to be in the ascendancy during an argument.

Looking from one to the other, Colbeck put a question to them.

‘Would any of you object to being searched?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied Barrett, calmly. ‘I wouldn’t, Inspector, though I don’t really see the purpose of it.’

‘Certain items were taken from Mr Proudfoot by the killer.’

The driver stiffened with indignation. ‘You surely don’t think that we had anything to do with it?’

‘No,’ said Colbeck, ‘I don’t. But I want to be absolutely sure.’

‘You’ve no right to search me,’ declared Neale, angrily.

‘That’s why I’m asking you to turn out your pockets yourself.’ He pointed to the burly Metropolitan policeman who stood in the doorway. ‘If you find that too much of an imposition, Mr Neale, I could ask Constable Reynolds to help you.’

Neale was on his feet. ‘Keep him away from me!’

‘Then do as I request. Put your belongings on that table.’

‘Come on, Alf,’ counselled Barrett, resignedly. ‘Do as the inspector says. That goes for you, too, George.’

‘I’m no thief,’ protested Hawley.

Nevertheless, he emptied his pockets and put his few possessions on the table. Barrett followed suit and, after some cajoling, so did Neale. They even submitted to being patted down by Constable Reynolds as he searched for items concealed about their persons. None were found.

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ said Colbeck. ‘I think that it’s safe to say that you’ve been eliminated as possible suspects.’

‘Does that mean we’re released, sir?’ said Barrett.

‘Not exactly.’

‘But we have to deliver the train to Swindon.’

‘I need to inspect it first, Mr Barrett. After all, it’s the scene of the crime. I want all three of you there with me, please.’

‘Why?’ asked Hawley, collecting his meagre possessions.

‘Because I want you to show me exactly where you were at the time when — in all probability — Mr Proudfoot was murdered.’

When the crime had been discovered the previous evening, the train had been backed into a siding. It comprised a locomotive, a six-wheeled tender, second-class carriage, first-class carriage and brake van. The train was guarded by two uniformed railway policemen, who stood to attention when they saw the inspector coming. As they approached, Robert Colbeck ran an admiring eye over the steam engine, glinting in the morning sunshine. It had a tall chimney, a sleek, compact boiler and a large domed firebox. Its two driving wheels were 84 inches in diameter and its name — Castor — was etched in large brass letters.

‘What’s wrong with her, Mr Barrett?’ he enquired.

‘Old age,’ said Barrett, sadly. ‘Castor’s over ten years old now and she’s starting to look it. There’s a problem with her valve gear that needs to be put right and her boiler piping has to be overhauled. She’s part of the Firefly class, designed by Mr Gooch.’

‘Yes,’ added Neale, proudly. ‘Castor hauled the first train between London and Bristol when the line was opened in 1841. The fireman that day was a certain Jim Barrett.’

Barrett smiled fondly. ‘It was an honour.’

‘Why did you have a second-class carriage in tow?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Due for repair at Swindon, sir,’ said Barrett. ‘It was damaged in a collision. It was Mr Proudfoot who had the first-class carriage attached and, of course, we needed a brake van.’

‘Let’s start there.’

Reaching the van, Colbeck took hold of the iron handrail and pulled himself up. The driver and fireman remained on the ground but the guard followed him. The brake van was little more than a wooden hut on wheels. Colbeck noted that few concessions had been made to comfort. On a stormy day, wind and rain could blow in through the open windows. He glanced at Hawley.

‘Where were you when the train was in transit?’

‘Sitting in that corner,’ said the guard, pointing to the bench that ran along the rear of the van. ‘Never moved from there, Inspector.’

‘I think I can see why.’ Colbeck bent down to retrieve a large stone jar from under the bench. He sniffed it. ‘Beer,’ he announced. ‘Do you always drink on duty, Mr Hawley?’

‘No, no, sir. I hardly ever touch it.’

‘Then why have you got a gallon jar of the stuff on board?’

‘It must have been left there by someone else,’ said Hawley.

But they both knew that he was lying.

After fixing him with a sceptical glare, Colbeck jumped down to the track and moved along to the first-class carriage that was coupled to the brake van. He hauled himself up to examine the scene of the crime. The carriage comprised three compartments, each capable of accommodating eight passengers. The seats were upholstered and great care had been taken with the interior decoration, but all that Colbeck was interested in was the blood on the floor of the central compartment. It told him the exact place where Matthew Proudfoot had been murdered.

Colbeck stayed in there a long time, trying to envisage how the killer had struck the fatal blow, and how he had got in and out of the carriage. When he eventually dropped down to the ground again, his curiosity shifted to the second-class carriage.

‘No point in going in there,’ said Barrett. ‘Doors are locked.’

‘Were they locked throughout the journey?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Yes, Inspector.’

‘Who has the key?’

‘I do,’ said Hawley.

‘I’d like to borrow it.’

Taking the key from the guard, Colbeck clambered up and unlocked the doors of the second-class carriage. Going into each compartment in turn, he searched them for signs of recent occupation but found nothing beyond a newspaper that was two days old. Colbeck put his head through the window to look back at the first-class carriage. Those below beside the track were amazed when Colbeck, having taken off his top hat, suddenly emerged through the window and made his way around the back of the carriage before flinging himself across the gap to grab the handles on the adjacent first-class carriage.

Hawley snorted. ‘You’d never do that when the train was going fast,’ he observed, grimly. ‘Not unless you was feeling suicidal.’

‘That reminds me, George,’ said Barrett, ‘you did check that second class was empty before we left Paddington, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, Jim.’ A long pause. ‘I think so, anyway.’

‘Someone could have been hiding in there.’

‘I’d have seen him.’

‘That depends on how much drink you’d had beforehand,’ said Colbeck, swinging back athletically to the second-class carriage to retrieve his hat. ‘No wonder you heard no sounds of a struggle when the train was in motion, Mr Hawley. I suspect that you may have been fast asleep.’

‘I never sleeps on duty,’ denied the guard, hotly. ‘It ain’t allowed.’

‘Nor is drinking a gallon of beer.’

Hawley bit back a reply and turned away, shamefaced.

It only remained for Colbeck to look at the locomotive and tender. James Barrett was an informative guide, standing on the footplate with the inspector and explaining how everything worked. His deep love of Castor was obvious. She had been one of the finest steam locomotives that he had ever driven. Alfred Neale waited until the two men descended from the footplate before he turned detective.

‘That’s how it must have happened,’ he said, brow furrowed in thought. ‘The villain was hiding in second class when we set off. Some time during the journey, he climbed into Mr Proudfoot’s carriage and stabbed him. It’s the only explanation, Inspector.’

‘You may well be right, Mr Neale,’ said Colbeck, pretending to agree with him, ‘though it does raise the question of how the killer knew that Matthew Proudfoot would be travelling on what is, after all, an unscheduled train.’

‘He must have followed his victim to Paddington.’

‘Possibly.’

‘Then slipped into the carriage when nobody was looking.’

‘He weren’t there when I checked,’ said Hawley, officiously. ‘And I’m sure that I did. When there’s no conductor on board, it’s my job.’

‘There is another way he might have got into that carriage,’ said Barrett, stroking his chin reflectively. ‘We moved quite slow out of Paddington. He could have jumped on the train then.’

‘That would mean he was a railwayman,’ noted Colbeck. ‘Someone who knew his way around the station and the goods yard. Someone agile enough to leap onto a moving train.’ He distributed a polite smile among the three of them. ‘Thank you,’ he went on. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

‘Can we can take her on to Swindon now, Inspector?’ asked Barrett, hopefully. ‘We’re already half a day behind on delivery.’

Colbeck shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Barrett,’ he said, ‘but I’d like you and the train to stay here a little longer. Sergeant Leeming will be here soon. I want him to take a look at the scene of the crime. A second pair of eyes is always valuable.’

‘I need to get back to my wife,’ said Neale, irritably.

Hawley tapped his chest. ‘So do I. Liza will miss me.’

‘I got no wife myself,’ said Barrett, ‘but I’d still like to be on my way. There’s mechanics waiting for us at Swindon.’

‘You can’t hold us here against our will,’ insisted Neale.

‘This is a murder investigation,’ Colbeck told them, ‘and that takes precedence over everything else. Now, why don’t you all join me for luncheon? I’ve a lot more questions to put to you yet.’

Sergeant Victor Leeming arrived early that afternoon. He was a stocky man in his thirties with the sort of unfortunate features that even his greatest admirers could only describe as pleasantly ugly. Though he was relatively smart, he looked almost unkempt beside the immaculate inspector. Leeming was carrying a well-thumbed copy of Bradshaw’s Guide, the comprehensive volume of public railway timetables that was issued monthly. Colbeck took him aside to hear his report.

‘What did you discover, Victor?’ he asked.

‘That Matthew Proudfoot is well known on this stretch of line,’ replied Leeming. ‘He lived in Reading and travelled up and down to London all the time. He wasn’t a popular man — always trying to find fault with the way that trains were run and stations manned. I wouldn’t like to repeat what a porter at Slough called him.’

‘Did anyone see him as the train passed by yesterday evening?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Who?’

Leeming took out his notebook. ‘Here we are,’ he said, flipping to the right page. ‘He was seen going through Hanwell station, West Drayton, Langley and Maidenhead.’

‘By whom?’

‘Railway policemen, in the first three cases.’

‘And at Maidenhead?’

‘The stationmaster, Mr Elrich.’

‘Are they sure that it was Matthew Proudfoot?’

‘Completely sure, Inspector. By all accounts, he was a very distinctive man. All four witnesses swear that he was sitting in the window of the first-class carriage as Castor went past.’ He tapped his notebook. ‘I even have the approximate times written down. Do you want them?’

‘No thank you, Victor,’ said Colbeck, holding up a hand. ‘You’ve told me the one thing I needed to know. Mr Proudfoot was alive when the train left Maidenhead. I had a feeling that he would be.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because the longest stretch between stations on that line is the one that runs from Maidenhead to Twyford. It’s just over eight miles. Given the speed at which they were travelling, that would allow the killer the maximum time — well over a quarter of an hour — in which to strike.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed Leeming. ‘It’s only two miles between Hanwell and Ealing — even less between there and Southall station. He must have waited for open country before he attacked.’

‘Biding his time.’

Leeming put his notebook away. ‘Have you made any progress at this end, Inspector?’

‘A great deal.’

‘Do we have any clues?’

‘Several, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘When a little more evidence has been gathered, we’ll be in a position to make an arrest. Meanwhile, I want the stretch of line between Maidenhead and Twyford to be searched.’

Leeming gaped. ‘All of it?’

‘They can start at Twyford station and work their way back. My guess is that it will be nearer that end of the track.’

‘What will?’

‘The murder weapon. It was thrown from the train.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Would you hang on to a bloodstained knife?’ asked Colbeck. ‘But that isn’t the only item I want to locate. Close by, they should also find the wallet and watch that were stolen from Matthew Proudfoot.’

‘You sound as if you already have the name of the murderer.’

‘Let’s say that I’ve narrowed it down to two people.’

‘Accomplices?’

‘No, I don’t think so somehow.’

‘Who are these men?’

‘I’ll introduce them to you in a moment,’ said Colbeck. ‘First of all, let me tell you what I’ve been up to while you were busy elsewhere.’

Driver Barrett was relieved when he was told that he had permission to take the train on to Swindon. What neither he nor Fireman Neale could understand, however, was why Robert Colbeck insisted on travelling on the footplate with them. They were also mystified to hear that Victor Leeming would be sitting in the first-class carriage. George Hawley was even less pleased with the arrangement. Deprived of a supply of beer, he sat alone in the brake van and moped.

Swindon was over forty miles down the line and they had to time their departure so that they did not interfere with any of the down-trains from London. An able fireman, Neale had gotten up a good head of steam as Castor finally pulled out of Reading station. Colbeck had never been on a moving locomotive before and he was glad that he had given his top hat to Leeming for safekeeping. There was no real protection from the elements on the footplate and, the faster they went, the greater the strength of the wind. Colbeck’s hat would have been blown off his head.

There were other problems he had not anticipated. Dust got into his eyes, noisome fumes troubled his nostrils and he had to brush the occasional hot cinder from his sleeve. The ear-splitting noise meant that speech had to be conducted in raised voices. Nevertheless, Colbeck was impressed by the remarkable running quality of Castor, given greater stability on the broad gauge track.

‘What speed are we doing now?’ he asked.

‘Almost thirty miles an hour,’ said Barrett, who had an instinctive feel for the pace of the train. ‘She can go much faster, Inspector.’

‘Take her up to thirty-five — the speed you were doing yesterday.’

‘Very well, sir.’

Colbeck stood back so that the two men could do their work. He felt a sudden rush of heat as the door of the firebox was opened so that Neale could shovel in more coke. The door was slammed shut again. Smoke was billowing out of the chimney and forming clouds in their wake. Steam was hissing and the locomotive rattled and swayed. Colbeck found it an exhilarating experience but he was not there to enjoy it. As soon as he had got used to the rocking motion of the train, he checked his watch before slipping it back into his waistcoat pocket. Then he stepped back onto the tender and worked his way slowly along its side.

‘What, in God’s name, is he doing?’ cried Neale.

‘Leave him be,’ said Barrett.

‘Where does he think he’s going?’

Colbeck heard him but gave no reply. He needed every ounce of concentration for the task in hand. The second-class carriage was coupled to the tender but it was shaking crazily from side to side. Not daring to look down, Colbeck reached across the void, got a grip on the roof of the carriage and, with a supreme effort, heaved himself up onto it. He needed time to grow accustomed to the roll of the carriage. Getting up off his hands and knees, he remained in a crouching position in the middle of the roof until he felt sufficiently confident to stand up properly. He then made his way gingerly towards the first-class carriage.

Victor Leeming was leafing through his copy of Bradshaw’s when his colleague swung unexpectedly in through the window. The sergeant’s jaw dropped in wonder.

‘What are you doing, Inspector?’ he gasped.

‘I’m coming to kill you, Victor.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re Matthew Proudfoot. Now — resist me!’

Drawing an imaginary knife, he mimed an attack on his companion. Leeming caught his wrist but Colbeck was too quick and too strong for him. Tripping up his victim, he pulled his wrist clear then straddled him on the floor before stabbing him in the heart. Colbeck let out a laugh of triumph. When he had pulled Leeming to his feet again, he looked at his watch.

‘Less than four minutes,’ he said, contentedly, ‘and that was my first attempt. A man who is used to walking along the roofs of the train would do it in half the time.’

‘Why would anyone be stupid enough to do that, Inspector?’

‘To get to the brake van to drink beer with the guard. Mr Hawley obviously has a thirst, but even he would need some help to shift a whole gallon. Yesterday,’ Colbeck went on, ‘the person who came along the roofs of the carriages stopped off here to commit murder.’

‘That young fireman,’ decided Leeming, snapping his fingers. ‘It must have been Alfred Neale. I thought he had a wild look about him.’

‘That was caused by deprivation, Victor.’

‘Deprivation?’

‘Mr Neale was only married a couple of months ago,’ said Colbeck with wry amusement. ‘I daresay that he was feeling deprived of the joys of wedlock. With a loving wife to care for, I don’t believe that he’d take chances on the roof of a moving train. As for Mr Hawley, our guard,’ he pointed out, ‘he’s too old and fat to climb up there — particularly when he’s been drinking.’

‘That only leaves the driver.’

‘James Barrett has to be our man.’

‘What was his motive?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Colbeck. ‘I’ll go and ask him.’

Without another word, he climbed back out through the window.

The speed of the train had increased perceptibly, making for more noise and a greater roll. When Colbeck hauled himself back up onto the roof, he had some difficulty steadying himself. He was not helped when a passenger train raced past in the opposite direction, deafening him with the sound of its whistle and momentarily doubling the amount of thick black smoke with which he had to contend. As he rose to his feet, the smoke began to clear, only to reveal a new hazard. Walking towards him along the roof of the second-class carriage was James Barrett with a fire shovel in his hand. The driver was moving with practised ease.

‘You’re too clever for your own safety, Inspector,’ he said.

‘Put that shovel down, Mr Barrett.’

‘Not until it’s sent you to kingdom come.’

‘There’s no escape, man.’

‘Yes, there is,’ argued Barrett. ‘You signed your own death warrant by travelling on my train. When I’ve got rid of you, I’ll see to that Sergeant Leeming as well. By the time the alarm is raised, I’ll be a long way away from here.’

‘With the money you stole from Matthew Proudfoot no doubt.’

‘Yes, I know exactly where to find it.’

‘That’s why you were so ready to let me search you,’ recalled Colbeck, taking a step backwards. ‘Because there was no chance I’d find anything incriminating, was there?’ Barrett leapt onto the first-class carriage. ‘Just tell me this — what drove you to kill him?’

‘Revenge.’

‘For what?’

‘All the things he did to the people employed by this railway,’ said Barrett, curling his lip. ‘Mr Proudfoot was ruthless. He went looking for reasons to have drivers fined or reprimanded. Dan Armitage, my closest friend, was dismissed because of him — Dan hasn’t worked since. And I could name you dozens more who fell foul of Matthew Proudfoot. We give blood for this railway, Inspector. We work long hours in all weathers yet we never got a word of thanks or a touch of respect from Mr Proudfoot. You should have heard the way he talked to me at Paddington. He treated me like dirt. That’s why he deserved to die.’

‘Not that way,’ said Colbeck, keeping one eye on the shovel as his adversary inched his way towards him. ‘You must’ve known that you’d never get away with it.’

‘But I have, Inspector. Nobody will ever arrest me.’

‘Do you want two more deaths on your conscience?’

‘What conscience?’

‘You’ll be hounded for the rest of your life, Mr Barrett.’

‘I’ll take that chance.’

Lunging forward, he swung the shovel hard in an attempt to dislodge Colbeck but the inspector managed to duck under the blow. Barrett was about to strike again when a voice rang out behind him.

‘Stop it, Jim!’ yelled Neale, standing on the tender.

‘Mind the engine!’ called Barrett over his shoulder.

‘Are you going to kill him as well?’ taunted Colbeck. ‘He knows the truth about you now. I’ll wager that you told him you were going to have a drink in the brake van yesterday evening, didn’t you? Mr Neale trusted you. When you swore that you didn’t commit the murder, he believed you. So did Mr Hawley.’

‘Be quiet!’ snarled Barrett.

‘Come back here,’ pleaded Neale.

‘And you can shut up as well.’

‘What’s got into you, Jim?’ asked the fireman in dismay.

Barrett turned round. ‘Just drive the train!’

Colbeck did not hesitate. Alfred Neale had provided a timely distraction. Taking advantage of it, the inspector stepped forward to grab the shovel and tried to wrest it from the driver’s grasp. There was a fierce battle as both men pushed and pulled, barely maintaining their balance on the roof. Alfred Neale was yelling from the tender and Victor Leeming, hearing the pounding noise on the roof above his head, put his head out of the window even though he could not see what was happening. Castor steamed on as if in some kind of race.

Holding on to the shovel, each man struggled desperately to shake off the other and gain control of the weapon. Barrett was a powerful man with a murderous impulse but Colbeck was more guileful. As the driver heaved on the shovel with all his might, the inspector simply let go and Barrett was suddenly at the mercy of his own momentum. Staggering backwards along the roof, he lost his footing and slipped to the edge before being thrown violently from the train. He hit the ground with such force that his neck was snapped like a twig. Yet, at the moment of death, he did not relinquish his hold on the shovel.

Frock coat flapping in the wind, Colbeck knelt down to get his breath back. Alfred Neale was horrified by what he had seen. Since he was now in charge of the train, he applied the brakes and put the engine into reverse, bringing the locomotive to a screeching halt a long distance down the line. When Colbeck got to him, the fireman was in tears.

‘Jim Barrett, a killer?’ he whimpered. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘He told me that he wanted revenge.’

‘We all did, Inspector, but none of us would have gone that far.’

‘Mr Barrett did,’ said Colbeck. ‘There was too much anger penned up inside him, and too much injured pride. It was like steam building up inside an engine — when it was released, it had frightening power.’

A full report of the investigation was submitted to Superintendent Edward Tallis. After studying it with interest, he summoned Robert Colbeck and Victor Leeming to his office in Scotland Yard.

‘Congratulations are in order,’ said Tallis, stroking his moustache.

‘Thank you, Superintendent,’ said Leeming, modestly, ‘but I can’t take much credit. It was the inspector who identified the killer.’

‘Unfortunately, he was unable to take the man alive. It’s a great pity. Had the fellow been caught and convicted, we would have enjoyed some good publicity in the newspapers for a change.’ His eyes flicked to Colbeck. ‘Try to remember that next time.’

‘Arrest was not an option, sir,’ explained Colbeck. ‘I couldn’t put handcuffs on a man who was armed with a fire shovel on the roof of a moving train.’

‘You shouldn’t have got involved in such heroics.’

‘With respect, Superintendent,’ said Leeming, loyally, ‘I think that the inspector deserves profound gratitude. He risked his life in the course of doing his duty. I wouldn’t have dared to climb up there.’

‘The risk was unnecessary.’

‘It didn’t seem so at the time,’ argued Colbeck.

‘Perhaps not.’

‘I had to find out how it was done before I could accuse James Barrett of the murder. When he realised that I’d found him out, he chose to resist arrest.’

‘Resist arrest?’ echoed Leeming with a hollow laugh. ‘He tried to knock you off the top of that train with a fire shovel. He tried to murder you. That’s rather more than resisting arrest, Inspector.’

‘It was, Victor. I can vouch for that.’

‘The main thing,’ said Tallis, waving the report in the air, ‘is that the murder was solved swiftly by my officers. The Great Western Railway is delighted with the speedy resolution — though shocked to learn that one of its own drivers was responsible for the crime.’ He put the report back on his desk. ‘The search that you instituted has also borne fruit. The wallet and watch stolen from Matthew Proudfoot were found on an embankment about a mile away from Twyford station. They were wrapped in a silk handkerchief taken from the victim. The watch, I am told, is still in working order.’

‘What about the murder weapon?’ asked Colbeck.

‘That, too, was recovered nearby.’

‘As I anticipated.’

‘Well,’ said Tallis, complacently, ‘I think we’re entitled to feel rather pleased with ourselves. This case is well and truly closed. It gives me great satisfaction to know that I assigned the right detectives to the investigation.’ He gave one of his rare smiles. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. The Great Western Railway is in your debt.’

‘I can’t say that I enjoyed the work,’ confessed Leeming, loosening his collar with a stubby finger. ‘The simple truth is that I hate trains. I never feel entirely safe in them.’

‘You should try travelling on the roof of a carriage,’ said Colbeck with a grin. ‘You get the most wonderful view of the countryside up there and there’s always the possibility that — like James Barrett — you’ll reach the end of the line far sooner than you imagined was possible.’