Inspector Colbeck's Casebook

THE HAT TRICK

As they walked hand in hand beside the rippling stream, they felt the early morning sun on their backs. Alaric and Liza Bignall had been married for over nine months now but they still had the glow of newly-weds. The route was among their favourites and held a special significance because it was beside that same stream that Bignall had proposed to her. Since they’d both been overwhelmed by excitement at the time, they could not remember the exact spot where the event had taken place. All that Bignall could recall was that it was near a point where they’d been able to cross the stream by using a series of small boulders as stepping stones. The problem was that boulders were strewn everywhere in the water, creating eddies and miniature cascades at irregular intervals.

‘I think that it was here,’ he said, coming to a halt.

‘No, it wasn’t, Alaric. It was much farther on than this.’

‘It feels like the right place, Liza.’

‘Not to me, it doesn’t,’ she said.

‘Look at the way the stepping stones are set.’

‘That’s what I am doing and they’re wrong. There was a very large boulder in the middle of the stream, much bigger than the one here.’

‘Your memory’s playing tricks on you.’

‘When we find the right place,’ she said, firmly, ‘I’ll know it at once.’

Their discussion was interrupted by the sound of an approaching train. It was travelling at full speed. They turned to look up the embankment and watched the train thunder past. From an open window, a top hat suddenly shot out and rolled crazily down the embankment. The door of a compartment was then flung open and a man dived out, hitting solid earth and tumbling helplessly towards them. Gathering pace, he fell on and on until he reached the stream itself, plunging into the water and striking his head against a jagged rock.

By the time they got to him, the blood gushing from the wound was being carried away by the stream. Liza was aghast.

‘He’s dead!’ she cried.

When they eventually got to Sheffield station, they alighted from the train and hired a cab to take them to the outskirts of the town. Victor Leeming was not at all convinced that their journey was necessary.

‘All this fuss over a top hat,’ he moaned. ‘When carriages had no roofs on them, hats were being blown off all the time and there were dozens of cases of people chasing after them. That’s obviously what happened here, sir.’

‘Unlike you,’ said Colbeck, wryly, ‘I’m not gifted with second sight so I can’t make such an authoritative judgement. Neither, it seems, can the railway company that asked us to investigate. They want an answer to a simple question — did he jump out of the train or was he pushed?’

‘He jumped out after his hat, sir.’

‘When the train was going full pelt?’

‘Some people are very vain about their appearance,’ said Leeming, pointedly. ‘They’d die rather than be seen in public without a hat.’

‘I’m one of them,’ said the other with a laugh, ‘and I freely admit it. But even my vanity doesn’t extend to risking my life in order to retrieve a top hat. Headgear can be easily replaced, albeit at a cost. I’m conceited enough to believe that Detective Inspector Robert Colbeck would not be so easily substituted.’

They lapsed into silence and watched houses, civic buildings and factories slide past. Earlier in the century, Sheffield had been a pretty South Yorkshire town with the most famous cutlery industry in England. The advent of railways had increased its population markedly, pushed out its boundaries and given its burgeoning enterprises an international market. Cutlery remained its main product but steel, carpets and furniture were also produced. The invention of the silver-plating process enabled the town to manufacture Sheffield Plate, another claim to fame. Growth came at a price. Billowing smoke and industrial clamour seemed to be everywhere.

‘Do you know what a hat trick is?’ asked Colbeck, resuming the conversation.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Leeming with a grin. ‘It’s keeping the thing on your head instead of letting it blow off.’

‘I can see that you don’t follow events in the world of cricket.’

‘Tug-of-war is the only sport that I was any good at. When I was a young constable, I was part of a winning team.’

‘To some degree,’ said Colbeck, ‘you still are. We’re engaged in a non-stop tug-of-war against the criminal fraternity. We have to fight hard to retain our footing. However,’ he continued, ‘I ask about a cricketing term because it recently came into being in this very town. Sheffield has a long association with the sport. Does the name H. H. Stephenson mean anything to you?’

Leeming shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard of the man, Inspector.’

‘His remarkable feat has introduced a new phrase into the English language. A mere fortnight ago, Stephenson was playing for the All-England Eleven here in Sheffield. With three consecutive balls, he bowled out three of the opposing batsmen.’

‘Is that unusual?’

‘It’s extremely unusual, Victor. I daresay that it’s happened before but it’s never been accorded its full merit. In this instance, a hat was taken round the spectators and they tossed coins into it in appreciation of what they’d seen.’

‘Nobody did that when we won a tug-of-war. The most we got was a free pint of beer and — if we were lucky — a stale pork pie.’

‘Anyway,’ concluded Colbeck, ‘that’s how the notion of a hat trick emerged into the light of day. I fancy that the expression will stick. The fact that it was coined in the very place we’re visiting is a pleasing coincidence.’

‘It doesn’t please me,’ murmured Leeming.

Alaric and Liza Bignall were practical. When they’d got over the initial shock, they established that the man was still alive though knocked unconscious. From the unnatural angle at which he lay, they realised that one of his legs had been broken. They pulled him carefully out of the water. Since the head wound was the major concern, Liza tore a strip off her petticoat to use as a bandage. Leaving his wife to look after the man, Bignall had run off to summon help. He later returned in a horse and cart driven by a farmer. While the two men lifted the patient gently onto the cart, Liza retrieved his top hat and set it down beside him. The farmer had driven them to the home of a doctor who lived on the very edge of Sheffield and it was there that the detectives made the acquaintance of James Scanlan, a portly man in his late fifties with heavy jowls and watery eyes.

‘He’s still in a coma,’ Scanlan explained, ‘and is very unlikely ever to come out of it. To be quite frank, he already has one foot in the grave. I’ve put splints on a broken leg but it’s the internal injuries that are the real threat.’

‘Shouldn’t he be moved to an infirmary?’ said Leeming.

‘There’s no point. He’d probably die on the way there. The journey here all but killed him. I can make his last few hours alive as dignified as possible.’

‘What do we know about him?’ asked Colbeck.

‘This may help you, Inspector.’

Scanlan handed over the injured man’s wallet and Colbeck examined the contents. There were several five-pound notes inside and a first-class return ticket to Sheffield but the most useful item was a business card, identifying him as Rufus Moyle, a solicitor from York.

‘He was brought here by a farmer who’s one of my patients,’ said Scanlan, ‘but he was actually found by a young man and his wife. Their prompt action probably saved his life — for a time at least.’

‘Do you have their names and address?’

‘I do, Inspector. I imagined that you’d wish to speak to them.’

‘Thank you,’ said Colbeck, taking the sheet of paper that was offered to him. After a glance at the address, he handed the paper to Leeming. ‘There you are, Sergeant. Take the cab and see what Mr and Mrs Bignall have to say.’

‘Yes, sir — where shall we meet?’

‘I’ll see you at the police station.’

When Leeming had gone, Colbeck was conducted into a room at the rear of the house. Stripped of most of his clothing, Rufus Moyle lay on a bed with a sheet over his body. Heavy bandaging encircled his head and his face was bruised. He was a tall, slim man in his fifties. His elegant frock coat had been ripped apart, his trousers were covered in dirt and his shoes were badly scuffed. At a glance, Colbeck could see that the top hat, though soiled, was of the finest quality. Clearly, Rufus Moyle was something of a dandy.

Eyes closed tight, the patient hardly seemed to be breathing.

‘He was obviously a successful man,’ decided Colbeck. ‘He can afford an excellent tailor. In the course of my work, I’ve dealt with many solicitors. They are usually sharp-witted gentlemen. They’re highly unlikely to plunge out of a moving train in pursuit of a hat.’

‘Could it have been a suicide attempt, Inspector?’

‘I doubt that very much. Had that been his intention, Mr Moyle would have left nothing to chance and — as you can see — he survived. There are much quicker and more foolproof ways of killing oneself. Also, of course, he’d bought a return ticket. Nobody would spend money on a journey they never intended to make.’

He searched the pockets of the coat, waistcoat and trousers but found nothing apart from a handkerchief and an enamelled snuffbox.

‘His family needs to be informed as soon as possible,’ he said, considerately. ‘Sergeant Leeming has taken our cab. Could I prevail upon you to get me to the police station somehow?’

‘One of my servants will drive you there in the trap.’

‘Thank you.’ Colbeck glanced down at the patient. ‘I hope to find him still alive when we get back here.’

Doctor Scanlan shrugged. ‘That’s in God’s hands, Inspector.’

Alaric and Liza Bignall were both at home when Leeming arrived. The cobbler’s shop where Bignall worked was closed for renovation so he’d brought some of the boots and shoes in need of repair back to the house. He was hammering away in the garden shed when the visitor called. Liza called him into the house and introduced him to the sergeant. Bignall was impressed.

‘You’ve come all the way from Scotland Yard because someone jumped out of a train?’ he said in amazement.

‘There may be more to it than that, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘What I need you and your wife to do is to tell me what exactly happened and where you were at the time. I’ve brought this so that you can give me a precise location.’

Producing an Ordnance Survey map from his pocket, he opened it out and set it on the table. Husband and wife pored over it. After a while, Bignall jabbed his finger at a spot on the map but Liza felt that it was slightly further to the left. When they’d reached a compromise, Leeming marked the place with a pencil that he then used to make notes. Bignall recalled the events of the morning and his wife either confirmed or amended the details.

‘You are to be congratulated,’ said Leeming when the joint recitation ended. ‘You did the right thing in a difficult situation. Let me come back to something you said, sir,’ he went on, referring to his notebook. ‘According to you, the man dived from the train? Is that correct?’

‘Yes, it is,’ replied Bignall.

‘Are you certain that he didn’t jump?’

‘I am, Sergeant. My wife will confirm it.’

‘The man dived out headfirst,’ she said. ‘We both saw him.’

Leeming’s interest in the case quickened. Ready to dismiss what occurred as an act of folly on the part of Rufus Moyle, he was now forced to confront the possibility that a crime had taken place. Someone in pursuit of a hat would surely jump from a train and land on his feet before tumbling down the embankment. A man who dived might well have been pushed from behind.

‘I hope that we’ve been helpful,’ said Bignall.

‘You’ve been very helpful indeed, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘This case is not as trivial as I first thought. I’m grateful to both of you.’

As soon as he saw the return ticket in the injured man’s wallet, Colbeck felt certain that Moyle had somehow been ejected from the train. Other passengers might have seen him careering down the embankment but they couldn’t be sure from which compartment he’d been shoved out and the person responsible would hardly admit what he had done. The accident had been reported at Sheffield station and a telegraph was sent to the headquarters of the railway company. They, in turn, fearing foul play, had contacted Scotland Yard. Colbeck knew that the anonymous attacker could be hundreds of miles away. The case might never be solved.

Dropped off at the police station, he thanked the driver of the trap and went into the building. His assumptions were immediately challenged.

‘We know who was in the same compartment with him, Inspector,’ said the duty sergeant, Will Fox, ‘because he was kind enough to come here and report the accident.’

Colbeck was surprised. ‘Did he claim it was an accident?’

‘Oh, yes. There were only two of them in the compartment, apparently, and they were strangers to each other. A few miles outside Sheffield, one of them peeped out of the open window and his hat blew off. On impulse,’ said Fox, ‘he opened the door and went after it. He was well dressed, I’m told, and he obviously cherished the top hat.’

‘Then why didn’t he take more care of it? I always remove my hat before I look out of a window on a train. It saves me a lot of money and inconvenience. Mr Moyle must have known there was a risk of losing the hat.’

‘We all do odd things in some situations, sir.’

‘What was the name of the gentleman who came forward?’

‘He left his business card,’ replied Fox, picking it up from the desk and handing it to Colbeck. ‘He’s a Mr Humphrey Welling, a company director.’

‘He’s rather more than that,’ observed Colbeck when he saw the card. ‘He’s a director of the Midland Railway. Did he have business in the town?’

‘So I would imagine.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He was planning to return home to York this afternoon.’

‘Then that’s where we’ll seek him out,’ said Colbeck. ‘We have to go to there to break the sad news to Mr Moyle’s family. We can call on Mr Welling afterwards.’ He glanced at the card. ‘What manner of man was he?’

‘Oh, he was as proper a gentleman as you could wish to meet,’ answered Fox. ‘His hair was white and he was on the stout side. I had the feeling that Mr Welling looked older than he really was. He was well educated and well spoken. He used a walking stick and seemed to be in some pain when he moved. I just wish that all our witnesses could give such clear statements.’

‘May I see exactly what he said, please?’

Fox opened the desk and took out some sheets of paper before passing them over. Colbeck read the statement with interest. Before the inspector had finished it, Leeming came into the police station. After introducing himself to the duty sergeant, he waited until Colbeck had finished.

‘Have you learnt anything new, sir?’ he asked.

‘I have indeed — what about you?’

‘Mr and Mrs Bignall were well worth the visit.’

‘I suspect that what they told you may be contradicted by what I’ve just read,’ said Colbeck, returning the statement to Fox. ‘It seems as if all roads lead to York. Let’s be on our way, shall we?’

On the train journey north, the first thing that the detectives did was to look for the spot where Moyle had lost his hat. Using the Ordnance Survey map to locate the area, they gazed through the window and noticed how steep the embankment was. The stream below was still gurgling merrily on. As he recounted what the Bignalls had told him, Leeming referred to his notebook. He described them as reliable witnesses and accepted their word without question. When he heard what the police statement had contained, however, the sergeant hoped that it was an accurate one.

‘If what Mr Welling says is true,’ he pointed out, ‘we can declare that it was a tragic accident and go back home to London.’

‘Not so fast, Victor — we need to dig under the surface first.’

‘What do you expect to find?’

‘I have no idea. That’s what makes this case so intriguing.’

‘Mr Moyle’s family is going to have the most dreadful shock.’

‘We can’t even be sure if we’re telling them the truth,’ said Colbeck, sadly. ‘When they hear that he’s been badly injured, he may, in fact, already be dead.’

‘And all because of a top hat,’ sighed Leeming.

‘Never underestimate the importance people attach to certain possessions. Since you never go to the theatre, you’ll be unfamiliar with Shakespeare’s Othello.’

‘Is that the play with the three witches, sir?’

‘No, Victor, it features a man who’s driven to murder his wife because she appears to have given away the handkerchief he pressed upon her as a gift. What if the top hat was a gift from Mrs Moyle?’ continued Colbeck, thoughtfully. ‘That would lend substance to the theory that he felt impelled to go after it.’ He smiled at Leeming. ‘What’s your opinion of Sheffield?’

‘It’s the most awkward place to get to, Inspector.’

‘Yet it’s served by two rival companies — the Midland Railway and the Manchester Sheffield and Lincoln. When they were built, neither of them saw fit to give Sheffield the prominence it patently deserves. It was neglected by the North Midland Railway, as it then was, and had to endure the humiliation of being bypassed. The only way to get there was by a branch line.’

‘What do you think, Inspector?’

‘Oh, I’m certain that Sheffield is going to be a major city one day.’

‘I was asking about this case. Was it an accident or a crime?’

Colbeck pondered. ‘It could be either.’

Rufus Moyle owned a large house in the most desirable part of the city. When the detectives arrived from the station in a cab, they realised that it was possible to see York Minster from the steps leading up to the front door. Leeming rang the bell and the door was opened by a servant. A woman came rushing into the hallway. Her face was a study in anxiety. As soon as Colbeck explained who they were, she gave a visible shudder.

‘Is it about my husband?’ she asked. ‘I expected Rufus home hours ago.’

‘May we come in, please, Mrs Moyle?’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

Beatrice Moyle beckoned them in and took them to the drawing room. She was a tall, slender woman ten years or so younger than her husband. Had she not been so distraught, she would have been strikingly beautiful. Colbeck invited her to sit down before he broke the news to her. He and Leeming also took a seat.

‘I’m afraid that your husband was involved in an accident,’ said Colbeck.

‘I knew it,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘I had a premonition.’

‘What sort of premonition, Mrs Moyle?’

‘I just felt that something terrible was going to happen today. I begged Rufus not to go to work but he brushed aside my fears. What happened, Inspector?’

‘Suffice it to say that he was badly injured in a fall. He’s being cared for by a doctor in Sheffield. The accident has left him in a coma.’

‘Dear God!’ she exclaimed, leaping to her feet. ‘I must go to him.’

‘Sergeant Leeming will accompany you.’

‘I’ll pack some things in case I have to stay there.’

‘Do the rest of the family need to be informed?’

‘We have no children, Inspector, and our parents are all dead.’

‘You might find it comforting to have a close friend with you, Mrs Moyle.’

‘I’ll be all right,’ she said, bravely. ‘Please excuse me.’

When she’d left, they had a chance to appraise their surroundings. They were in a large, well-proportioned room with a high ceiling. It was filled with costly and tasteful furniture from a century earlier. Over the mantelpiece was a full-length portrait of Rufus Moyle, a handsome man with long, wavy dark hair. Colbeck felt a pang of envy when he saw the exquisite apparel he was wearing. Leeming was quick to see a faint resemblance.

‘He looks a bit like you, Inspector,’ he remarked.

‘I always think there’s an element of narcissism in having one’s portrait painted,’ said Colbeck, ‘and, happily, that’s something I lack. I’d be much more likely to commission a portrait of Madeleine. She would adorn our home whereas I would feel embarrassed to see myself glaring down from a portrait.’

‘Like you, Mr Moyle has a lovely wife. I wonder why she isn’t hanging over the mantelpiece — or a portrait of both of them, maybe.’

‘We may never know, Victor.’

‘I noticed that you didn’t tell her what had actually happened to him.’

‘Mrs Moyle was clearly worried before we even got here,’ said Colbeck. ‘I didn’t want to distress her even more by telling her that her husband had jumped out of a train. If she presses you for information, don’t give too much away.’

‘Where will you be, sir?’

‘I intend to call on Mr Welling. When I’ve spoken to him, I’ll catch the next train to Sheffield and join you at Doctor Scanlan’s house. One last thing,’ he added. ‘If you can get her to volunteer the information, see what you can learn about Mrs Moyle and her husband. This room is telling me an interesting story. I’d like to know if my instincts about it are sound.’

Humphrey Welling was an affable man in his early fifties with prematurely white hair and a paunch. When he called at the house, Colbeck was given a cordial welcome and ushered into the library. Welling was surprised that a senior detective from Scotland Yard had been summoned to investigate what was simply an unfortunate accident.

‘They happen all the time on the railways,’ he said. ‘I would have thought that it was too starved a subject for your sword, Inspector.’

‘It may well be,’ said Colbeck, noting the quotation from Shakespeare.

‘Have you been in touch with the man’s family?’

‘We called on his wife earlier, sir. Mrs Moyle is now on her way to Sheffield.’

‘Moyle, is it? The fellow didn’t give me his name. To be honest, he was not the most communicative travelling companion. He spent most of the journey with his head buried in a newspaper.’

Welling described what had happened, telling a story that tallied to the last detail with the statement he’d given at the police station. He expressed sympathy at what he assumed was the death of Rufus Moyle.

‘The gentleman is still alive,’ said Colbeck, ‘though he’s in a coma and his life is hanging by a thread. I didn’t want to alarm his wife by telling her that. Mrs Moyle will learn the full truth when she gets to Sheffield.’ He looked at the well-stocked shelves. ‘You’re a reading man, I see.’

‘I’ve only become one since my wife died,’ explained Welling. ‘That’s when I had this room converted into a library. It helps to stave off loneliness.’ He picked up the book on the table beside him. ‘This is what’s engrossing me at the moment. It’s a history of cricket. Do you take an interest in the game, Inspector?’

‘I try to, sir. In fact, I was telling my colleague about the report I read in The Times about Stephenson’s hat trick. It was achieved at Hyde Park in Sheffield.’

‘Yes and I kicked myself that I wasn’t there to witness the feat. I’ve seen Stephenson bat and bowl many times. He’s a born cricketer.’

Having got him on a subject in which they were both interested, Colbeck let him roll on, feeling that he’d discover far more about the man if he learnt about his passions. When there was a lull in the conversation, he shifted its direction.

‘I gather that you’re a director of the Midland Railway.’

‘That’s right, Inspector.’

‘When it first came into existence, why didn’t the NMR, as it was called then, build a direct line to Sheffield?’

‘Ah,’ said Welling, settling back into his chair, ‘that’s a long story.’

Having taken Beatrice Moyle to the house in a cab, Leeming bided his time. Doctor Scanlan gave his prognosis as gently as he could but it nevertheless had a stunning effect on Beatrice. She staggered backwards and would have fallen to the floor if Leeming had not caught her. He lowered her into a chair. It was several minutes before she recovered. When she did so, she insisted on seeing her husband. The doctor took her off into the room where the patient lay and Leeming heard her cry of horror. He waited for a long time before she emerged. The doctor was more or less supporting her. He helped her into a chair where she sobbed into a handkerchief. Scanlan took Leeming aside.

‘The situation is this,’ he whispered. ‘Mr Moyle is very near his end. His wife wanted to stay with him but feels she’d be unequal to the ordeal. She’s already overwrought. There’s a hotel where she’s stayed before. I suggest that you take her there, Sergeant. If there’s any change in his condition, I’ve promised that word will be sent at once — whatever time it might be.’

‘That’s very good of you.’

‘I’m surprised that he’s held out this long.’

‘I’ll take Mrs Moyle away for a while.’

Overcome with grief, Beatrice took a last look at her husband before leaving. Their cab had been waiting outside so they were able to go straight to a hotel at the heart of the town. When Leeming tried to reserve a room for her, Beatrice insisted that she could manage that. After thanking him for his help, she went slowly upstairs. Leeming walked across to the reception desk and spoke to the duty manager.

‘Take good care of the lady,’ he said. ‘She’s had to bear some terrible news.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘This is not her first visit here, I believe.’

‘No, sir,’ said the man. ‘They’ve stayed here a few times in the last year.’

‘When did you last have Mr and Mrs Moyle as your guests?’

The duty manager raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

When Colbeck left the train at Sheffield, he went quickly into the waiting room and stayed there until all the passengers had got off. Only when everyone had gone past did he take a cab to Scanlan’s house. Leeming had returned but there was no sign of the doctor. He came into the room with a gesture of helplessness.

‘Mr Moyle has passed away,’ he declared. ‘There was nothing I could do.’

‘You did all that was humanly possible,’ said Colbeck.

‘The astonishing thing is that he survived that fall from the train.’

‘I don’t believe that he was meant to, Doctor.’

‘Well,’ said Leeming, ‘I suppose I’d better go to the hotel where Mrs Moyle is staying and … pass on the sad news.’

‘Please do that.’

‘I discovered a strange thing, sir. She and her husband have stayed there before but she reserved the room under a very different name.’

‘That’s only natural,’ said Colbeck, ‘because the man with whom she stayed there was not her husband. I don’t know what alias he used but I’d wager anything that his real name is Humphrey Welling.’

Leeming was astounded. ‘How did you find that out?’

‘I listened and then I looked. Mr Welling is altogether too plausible. He gave me an account of Mr Moyle’s leap from the train as if he’d been rehearsing it from a prepared text. He pretended to be hearing Moyle’s name for the first time when I mentioned it,’ recalled Colbeck, ‘but I saw a light in his eye when I told him that Mrs Moyle was on her way to Sheffield. As a result, he came here as well. My guess is that he will already have joined Mrs Moyle.’

‘Are you sure he’s here, Inspector?’

‘He caught the same train that I did, making certain that I didn’t see him board it. When we got to the station here, however, I lingered in the waiting room so that I could watch them both go by.’

‘Them?’ echoed Scanlan.

‘It was Mr Welling and a servant of his, a broad-shouldered fellow who admitted me to the house. Welling wouldn’t have the strength to overpower another man. Besides, he has a game leg. His servant, however, has the look of someone who’d do anything for which he was paid. In short,’ said Colbeck, ‘there were three of them in that compartment.’

‘Do you have any proof of that, sir?’ asked Leeming. ‘If you confront them, they’ll simply deny it and Mr Moyle is no longer alive to challenge them.’

‘Yes, he is, Victor.’

‘But I’ve just pronounced him dead,’ said Scanlan, confused.

‘We know that,’ said Colbeck, ‘but they don’t. I think we should bring him back to life like a latter-day Lazarus. The message that the sergeant will take to the hotel is that Mr Moyle has rallied a little and should recover consciousness.’ His smile broadened into a grin. ‘That should produce a result, I fancy.’

It was in the early hours of the morning when a figure crept stealthily around to the rear of the house. There was enough moonlight to help him find his way to a particular window. Since the curtains had been left slightly open, he was able to make out the shape of a body in the bed. Making as little noise as possible, he inserted a knife and flicked the catch on the sash window. He then lifted the window up and stepped cautiously through it, intending to grab the pillow to smother the patient to death. When he approached the bed, however, he found that he’d have a lot more resistance than he’d expected. A man leapt suddenly out of bed, grappled with him then flung him hard against the wall before felling him with a vicious right hook. As he collapsed to the floor, the visitor heard the door open and someone came in with an oil lamp to illumine the scene.

‘Well done, Victor!’ said Colbeck. ‘Put the handcuffs on him.’

Having driven to the police station in the trap borrowed from the doctor, they left their prisoner in custody and went on to the hotel. After explaining the purpose of their visit to the duty manager, they went upstairs and roused the occupants of one room by pounding on the door. It was Beatrice Moyle who opened it a few inches, blinking in bewilderment when she saw the detectives. Colbeck gave Leeming the privilege of arresting both her and Humphrey Welling on a charge of conspiracy to murder. The prisoners were given time to dress then taken off to the police station to join their accomplice. As they left the building, Leeming wanted clarification.

‘However did you link Mr Welling with Mrs Moyle?’ he asked. ‘They just didn’t look like a married couple. Welling was so much older.’

‘So was her real husband, Victor. The lady is obviously drawn to more mature men. Unfortunately, marriage to Rufus Moyle did not live up to her expectations. She was a neglected wife in a house that reflected his personality and not hers.’

‘There was that portrait of him.’

‘It was only one of the indications that told me he was a strutting peacock.’

‘Then there was the fact that they had no children.’

‘I did say that she was a neglected wife and I meant it in the fullest sense. Mr Welling may not have seemed the ideal replacement but he was rich, indulgent and knew how to talk to a woman. How they first met,’ said Colbeck, ‘I don’t know but I believe there was genuine love on both sides. There had to be because that’s what drove them to the extreme of murder.’

‘Welling could have found out from Mrs Moyle when exactly her husband would be travelling to Sheffield,’ said Leeming. ‘He made sure that he shared the same compartment and his servant did the rest.’

‘Oddly enough, I rather liked Welling. He was an engaging companion and his love of cricket almost won me over. But he was also a ladies’ man whereas Moyle — remember the portrait and the attention to his appearance — sought company among his own sex.’

‘I can never understand people like that, sir.’

‘You don’t have to, Victor. You can simply bask in your glory.’

‘What glory?’

‘Don’t be modest,’ said Colbeck, patting him on the back. ‘You made three arrests in succession — Welling, his servant and Mrs Moyle. That’s what I’d call a hat trick.’