The Iron Horse

THE IRON HORSE

EDWARD MARSTON

EDWARD MARSTON was born and brought up in South Wales. A full-time writer for over thirty years, he has worked in radio, film, television and the theatre, and is a former Chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association. Prolific and highly successful, he is equally at home writing children’s books or literary criticism, plays or biographies. The Iron Horse is the fourth in the Inspector Colbeck series.

www.edwardmarston.com

Available from ALLISON & BUSBY

The Inspector Robert Colbeck series

The Railway Detective

The Excursion Train

The Railway Viaduct

The Iron Horse

Murder on the Brighton Express

The Silver Locomotive Mystery

The Christopher Redmayne series

The Frost Fair

The Parliament House

The Painted Lady

The Captain Rawson series

Soldier of Fortune

Drums of War

Fire and Sword

CHAPTER ONE

1854

The accident could have happened to anyone but it was much more likely to befall Reginald Hibbert. He had, after all, a tradition to maintain. Hibbert was not so much clumsy as unlucky. Whenever there was an opportunity to stub his toe, or tear his clothing on a protruding nail or bruise himself by walking into an unexpected obstruction, he would somehow always manage to take it. His devoted wife, Molly, had lost count of the number of times he had returned from work with a black eye, a decided limp or a jacket unwittingly ripped open. Life with Reginald Hibbert meant that there was a constant demand on her sympathy.

‘Be careful, Reg!’ she cried.

But her warning came too late. He had already tripped over the step by the back door and pitched helplessly forward onto the hard stone floor of the scullery. The tin bath he had been carrying hit the slab with a loud clang then bounced out of his grasp. Hibbert landed heavily on his left hand before rolling over. His wife bent over him.

‘Are you hurt?’ she asked solicitously.

‘No, no,’ he replied bravely. ‘I’m fine, Molly.’

‘You always forget that step.’

‘I just didn’t see it with the bath in my hands.’

‘You should have let me bring it in.’

‘It’s my job now,’ he said seriously. ‘A woman in your condition must be spared any lifting. You must learn to take it easy.’

‘How can I take it easy on washing day?’ she said, clicking her tongue. ‘Besides, the baby is not due for months and months. Now, come on – get up off that floor.’

When she grabbed his left hand to pull him up, he let out a yelp of pain and snatched it swiftly away. Rubbing his wrist gingerly, he got to his feet and almost fell over the tin bath. His wife quickly retrieved it and put it on the table. She studied him with a love that was tempered by mild irritation.

‘I wish you didn’t keep doing that sort of thing, Reg.’

‘What sort of thing?’

‘Hurting yourself all the time.’

Hibbert grinned amiably. ‘I’m a big boy. Nothing hurts me.’

But he was clearly in pain and winced as his left hand brushed the sink. His wife took charge at once. Leading him into the next room, she made him sit down so that she could examine the injury, doing so with great tenderness. They were in their little red-brick terraced house in Crewe. Cramped, cluttered and featureless, it had two small rooms and a scullery. A bare wooden staircase led up to two bedrooms, one at the front and the other at the back. The privy was at the end of the tiny but well-tended garden.

To a married couple in their late twenties, however, it was a paradise after years of sharing an even smaller house in Stoke-on-Trent with Molly’s intrusive parents. The Hibbert household had only one major defect. It bristled with possibilities of incurring minor accidents and he had explored them all.

His wife scrutinised the injured wrist.

‘I think you may have broken it, Reg,’ she said with concern.

He gave a boastful laugh. ‘I don’t break that easy.’

‘You ought to see a doctor.’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t afford to, Molly. With a baby on the way, we need to save every penny that we can.’

‘Then stay off work for a day or two.’

‘And lose my pay? No chance of that.’

‘At least ask Mr Fagge to put you on light duties.’

‘Douglas Fagge does nobody any favours,’ said Hibbert grimly as an image of the head porter came into his mind. ‘He’s a slave driver. If I showed even the slightest sign of weakness, he’d be down on me like a ton of bricks.’

‘Then let me come to the station with you. I’ll speak to him.’

‘Oh, no! That wouldn’t do at all.’

‘You need to rest that hand, Reg.’

‘I need to do my job properly,’ he said, rising to his feet and easing her away. ‘Think how it would look. If my wife came and asked for special treatment for me, I’d be a laughing stock.’

As it was, Hibbert was often the butt of his colleagues’ jokes and he did not wish to offer them more ammunition. He was a short, thin individual with a shock of red hair and a bushy moustache that acted as the focal point in a freckled face. The fact that his pretty wife was both taller and older than him caused much amusement at the railway station and he wanted to protect her from the routine mockery that he endured. Though she was still in the early stages of pregnancy, he was afraid that someone would guess their little secret, exposing him to endless ribald comments. Whatever happened, he resolved, his wife must be kept away from his place of work.

‘That wrist needs seeing to,’ she urged.

‘I sprained it, Molly, that’s all.’

‘At least let me put a bandage around it.’

‘No need,’ he said, bending forward to give her a farewell kiss. ‘It feels better already. In any case, I have to be off straightaway. Now remember what I said – if that washing is too much for you, leave it until I come home.’

‘I can manage,’ she said, touched by his consideration. ‘Forget the washing. I’m more worried about that poor wrist of yours.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with it, I tell you.’

By way of demonstration, he clapped his hands several times together then held up both palms, beaming as he did so. It was only when he had left the house that the agony showed in his face.

Until the arrival of the railway in 1837, Crewe had been a sleepy hamlet in the heart of the Cheshire countryside. Three separate railway companies then moved in and Crewe became the connecting point for their respective lines. The Grand Junction Railway, the largest of the companies, soon bought large tracts of land around Crewe and moved its locomotive and carriage works there. It also built two hundred houses for the employees it attracted to the area. When the GJR was absorbed into the London and North West Railway in 1846, the latter markedly increased the number of dwellings and added churches, chapels, schools, shops, public houses and all the amenities needed by a growing community.

An archetypal railway town had been created.

Reginald Hibbert had been delighted to move there with his wife. He loved the fact that he worked at the hub of the LNWR. Passenger and freight trains came in and out from all directions. The variety was unlimited. No two days were the same. There was always something new, exciting and unscheduled. As a porter, he gave directions to board trains, stowed luggage on the roofs of departing carriages and unloaded it on arrival before carrying it out to waiting cabs and horse-drawn omnibuses. Dealing with the public was what he enjoyed most. His wage might not be high but it was regular and he gained immense satisfaction from his work.

As he approached the station that morning, he gazed at it with pride. Four years earlier, the LNWR had replaced the original building with a larger and much more ornate one. In Hibbert’s eyes, it still had an air of newness about it and he always felt a slight thrill as he went through its doors. He was content with his lot, asking nothing more of life than to be doing a valuable job at an important junction on the railway network. Hibbert entered the station with a spring in his step. In spraining his wrist at home, he had already had his daily accident. That, he hoped, absolved him from any further mishaps.

There was, of course, still the wrath of his boss to be faced.

‘Hibbert!’

‘Good morning, Mr Fagge.’

‘You’re two minutes late.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. I was held up by—’

‘Spare me your excuses,’ snapped Douglas Fagge, interrupting him with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘I’ve heard them all before. You’re working on Platform Two.’

‘Yes, Mr Fagge.’

‘Well, don’t stand there, man. Get across there quickly. The next train is due in five minutes.’

‘Three, actually,’ corrected Hibbert, who knew the timetable by heart. ‘It’s the through train to Carlisle.’

‘That’s immaterial,’ said Fagge testily. ‘I’m talking about the Birmingham train that terminates here in…’ He consulted his watch. ‘…in less than five minutes. All available porters must be on duty.’

‘Of course, Mr Fagge.’

‘One small plea.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Try to have a day without any little accidents.’

There was a withering scorn in the head porter’s voice. Fagge was a tall, wiry man with all the attributes of a martinet. He subjected Hibbert to verbal persecution but the latter had learnt to live with the discomfort. He saw it as a small price to pay for the privilege of working at Crewe Station. As he made his way to Platform Two, he was relieved that Fagge had not noticed the handkerchief that he had tied around his left wrist. Had he been forced to admit suffering yet another domestic mishap, Hibbert would have provoked more ridicule from the head porter.

It was a busy morning. Passenger trains came and went. Goods trains thundered past in both directions on the through lines in the middle. Traffic was relentless and Reginald Hibbert was kept on his toes along with the other porters. Working with his usual enthusiasm, he tried to ignore the twinges in his left wrist. By the afternoon, he had forgotten all about his injury. Hibbert was emboldened to handle even the heaviest luggage without trepidation. His overconfidence was to prove fatal.

Another train steamed into the station in a riot of noise, vibration and pungent smoke. As soon as the passengers had alighted, Hibbert climbed onto the roof of one of the carriages and began to pass down the luggage to another porter. Stacked on the platform, it was singled out by its owners before being carried away for them. Hibbert had no problems until he tried to handle a large leather trunk. Having manoeuvred it to the edge of the roof, he attempted to lift it in one fluent move but his left wrist suddenly gave way and he let go of the trunk with a cry of anguish.

It plummeted through the air and the porter waiting to take it from him had the presence of mind to step back smartly out of the way. The trunk hit a lady’s hatbox with such force that it broke the strap attached to its lid. A small crowd of passengers stood beside the piles of luggage and a collective gasp of horror went up. As the lid of the hatbox flipped open, its contents were tipped roughly out. Reginald Hibbert could not believe his eyes.

Rolling around below him on the platform was a human head.

CHAPTER TWO

Seated at the desk in his office, Detective Inspector Robert Colbeck was writing a report on his latest case. Details of a brutal murder in Seven Dials were somehow robbed of their full horror by his elegant hand but they remained fresh and disturbing in his mind. He was nearing the end of his work when the door suddenly opened and Superintendent Edward Tallis burst in without bothering to knock.

‘Stop whatever you’re doing, Inspector,’ he ordered.

Colbeck looked up. ‘Is there a problem, sir?’

‘There’s always a problem at Scotland Yard. Problems arrive on my desk by the dozen every day. Policing a city like London is one long, continuous problem that defies solution.’

‘I think you’re being unduly pessimistic, Superintendent.’

‘Be that as it may, I’ve a new assignment for you.’

‘Here in London?’

‘No,’ said Tallis. ‘In Crewe.’

‘That means a railway crime,’ said Colbeck with interest, getting to his feet. ‘Have the LNWR been in touch with you?’

‘They requested you by name.’

‘I’m flattered.’

‘This is no time to preen yourself,’ warned Tallis. ‘The London and North West Railway want immediate action. A severed head was found in a hatbox that was unloaded at Crewe station this afternoon.’

‘Male or female?’

‘What does it matter? A head is a head.’

‘Do you have any more details, sir?’

‘None beyond the few that were sent by electric telegraph.’

Colbeck opened a drawer in his desk. ‘I’ll set off at once,’ he said, taking out a copy of Bradshaw’s Guide. ‘Let’s find a train that will get me there fast.’

‘You’ll take Sergeant Leeming with you.’

‘Victor will not be happy about that.’

‘His job is to obey orders.’

‘And he always does so,’ said Colbeck, running his finger down a list of departure times. ‘Since we won’t get to Crewe until well into the evening, it means that we’ll have to stay the night. Victor hates to be away from his wife and children.’

Tallis raised a contemptuous eyebrow. ‘You know my view of families,’ he said. ‘They cease to exist when a major crime has been committed. Detection takes precedence over everything. It’s the main reason that I never married.’

Colbeck could think of other reasons why the superintendent had not succumbed to holy matrimony, chief among them being the brusque, authoritarian manner that would have little appeal to a member of the opposite sex. Tallis was a solid man in his fifties with grey hair and a neat moustache. Though he had left the army many years ago, he still looked as if he were on the parade ground. He respected Colbeck for his skill as a detective but he could never bring himself to like the undisputed dandy of Scotland Yard. There was a permanent unresolved tension between the two men.

Having selected a train, Colbeck closed his Bradshaw and put it back in the desk drawer. He gave his superior a token smile.

‘Your devotion to duty is an inspiration to us all,’ he said without a trace of irony, ‘but some of us need more than the relentless pursuit of the criminal fraternity to get true fulfilment from life. Victor Leeming is a case in point.’

‘A wife and children are unnecessary handicaps.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion, Superintendent.’

‘Mine is based on experience.’

‘Mine is tempered by a recognition of basic human needs,’ said Colbeck suavely. ‘A police force is not a monastic order, sir. I refuse to believe that celibacy in our ranks is to be encouraged.’

‘I’m well aware of your eccentric views, Inspector,’ said Tallis with exasperation, ‘and I’d be grateful if you kept them to yourself. What time is your train?’

‘In just under an hour.’

‘Then find Sergeant Leeming and get over to Euston Station.’

‘At once, sir.’

‘And don’t presume to rest on your laurels.’

‘I’d never dare to do that.’

‘This is an entirely new case.’

Colbeck knew what he meant. It was not the first time that the inspector had answered the call of the London and North West Railway. When a mail train was robbed on its way to Birmingham, a succession of other serious crimes had been committed in its wake. Because of the way he had brought the investigation to a satisfactory conclusion, Robert Colbeck had earned the gratitude of the LNWR as well as that of the Post Office and the Royal Mint. Newspapers had unanimously christened him the Railway Detective. It was an honour that he cherished but it also placed a heavy and often uncomfortable burden of expectation on his shoulders.

‘Are you sure you’ve picked the fastest train?’ asked Tallis.

‘I couldn’t have chosen a better one, sir.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The engine driver is a good friend of mine.’

Caleb Andrews was a short, thin, sinewy man of middle years with the energy of someone half his age. Though he had spent his entire working life on the railway, he had lost none of his boyish enthusiasm for his job. Having begun as a cleaner, he had eventually become a fireman before reaching the pinnacle of his profession as an engine driver. Andrews considered himself to be one of the aristocrats of the railway world and expected deference from those in lowlier positions. He was on the footplate of his locomotive, checking that everything was in order for departure, when two familiar figures came along the platform to see him.

‘Hello, Mr Andrews,’ said Robert Colbeck.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed the driver, turning to look at them. ‘I had a feeling that I might be seeing you on my train, Inspector.’

‘You remember Sergeant Leeming, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’

Andrews and Leeming exchanged a friendly nod.

‘We need to get to Crewe as fast as possible,’ said Colbeck.

‘Then you’ve come to the right man.’

‘You sound as if you expected us,’ said Victor Leeming.

‘I did, Sergeant. When a man’s head is found inside a hatbox at a railway station, the people they’ll always send for are you and Inspector Colbeck.’

‘A man’s head, did you say?’

‘You already know more than us,’ noted Colbeck.

‘That’s the rumour, anyway,’ said Andrews, scratching his fringe beard. ‘Messages keep coming in from Crewe. According to the stationmaster, it was the head of a young man. It was discovered by accident.’

‘What else can you tell us?’

‘Nothing, Inspector.’

‘Then take us to the scene of the crime.’

‘But not too fast,’ pleaded Leeming with a grimace. ‘Trains always make me feel sick.’

‘Not the way that I drive,’ boasted Andrews, adjusting his cap. He beamed at Colbeck. ‘Well, what a piece of news to tell Maddy! I’m helping the Railway Detective to solve a crime.’

‘It won’t be the first time,’ said Colbeck with a smile.

Caleb Andrews had been the driver of the mail train that had been robbed a few years earlier, and he had received such serious injuries during the incident that it was doubtful if he would survive. In the event, he had made a complete recovery, thanks to his remarkable resilience and to the way that his daughter, Madeleine, had nursed him back to full health. During the course of his investigation, Colbeck and Madeleine had been drawn together in a friendship that had slowly matured into something much deeper.

‘I knew that you’d probably be driving this train,’ said Colbeck. ‘Madeleine always tells me what your shift patterns are.’

Andrews grinned. ‘It feels as if I’m on duty twenty-fours a day.’

‘Just like us,’ said Leeming gloomily.

‘Climb aboard, Sergeant. We’re due off in a couple of minutes.’

‘Is there any way to reduce the dreadful noise and rattle?’

‘Yes,’ said Andrews. ‘Travel by coach.’

‘At a conservative estimate,’ observed Colbeck, ‘it would take us all of sixteen hours to get to Crewe by coach. The train will get us there in just over four hours.’

‘Four hours of complete misery,’ Leeming groaned.

‘You’ll learn to love the railway one day, Victor.’

Leeming rolled his eyes. He was a stocky man in his thirties, slightly older than the inspector but having none of Colbeck’s sharp intelligence or social graces. In contrast to his handsome superior, the sergeant was also spectacularly ugly with a face that seemed to have been uniquely designed for villainy rather than crime prevention.

‘Let’s find a carriage, Victor,’ advised Colbeck.

‘If we must,’ sighed Leeming.

‘When you catch the person who was travelling with that hatbox,’ said Andrews sternly, ‘hand him over to us.’

‘Why?’ asked Colbeck.

The engine driver cackled. ‘That severed head had no valid ticket for the journey,’ he said. ‘We take fare-dodging very seriously.’

On that macabre note, they set off for Crewe.

It was a warm May evening but Reginald Hibbert was still shivering. Since the accident with the hatbox, he had been relieved of his duties and kept in the stationmaster’s office. When a local policeman interviewed him, the hapless porter was made to feel obscurely responsible for the fact that a severed head had been travelling by train. Dismissal from his job was the very least that he expected. The worst of it was that his wife would be at home, wondering where he was and why he had not returned at the end of his shift. She would grow increasingly worried about her husband. He feared that Molly might in due course come to the station in search of him and thereby witness his disgrace.

‘When can I go home?’ he asked tentatively.

‘Not until the detectives arrive from Scotland Yard,’ said Douglas Fagge with a meaningful tap on the nose. ‘They’ll need to speak to you. We can’t have you disappearing.’

‘I’d only be gone ten minutes, Mr Fagge.’

‘How do we know that you’d come back?’

‘Because I’d give you my word.’

‘And I know you’d keep it,’ said Percy Reade, the stationmaster, adopting a gentler tone. ‘I trust you implicitly, Reg, but I still think it better that you stay here until they arrive.’

Hibbert quivered. ‘Am I in trouble, Mr Reade?’

‘Yes!’ affirmed Fagge, folding his arms.

‘No,’ countered the stationmaster. ‘Accidents will happen.’

‘Especially when Hibbert is around.’

‘You’re too harsh on him, Douglas.’

‘And you’re too lenient.’

Percy Reade was a mild-mannered little man in his forties with a huge walrus moustache concealing much of his face. Conscientious and highly efficient, he treated the staff with a paternal care in the belief that it was the way to get the best out of them. Fagge, on the other hand, favoured a more tyrannical approach. Left to him, flogging would have been meted out to anyone who failed to do his job properly and Fagge would happily have wielded the cat o’ nine tails himself. Hibbert was relieved that the stationmaster was there. His kindly presence was an antidote to the venom of the head porter.

The distant sound of an approaching train made all three men turn their heads to the window. Reade consulted his watch and gave a nod of satisfaction at the train’s punctuality. Fagge’s hope was that it would bring the detectives from Scotland Yard and allow him to play a decisive part in a murder investigation. As the train thundered into the station and slowly ground to a halt amid a symphony of hissing and juddering, all that Hibbert could think about was his anxious wife, the threat of unemployment and his rumbling stomach. It was several hours since he had last eaten.

After stopping at major stations on the way, the train had finally arrived at Crewe. Robert Colbeck and Victor Leeming were aboard and the stationmaster went out to greet them. When he brought the visitors back to his office, Reade introduced them to Hibbert and to Fagge. At a glance, Colbeck could see that the porter was trembling and that his superior was revelling in the man’s discomfort.

‘This is the miscreant,’ declared Fagge, pointing at Hibbert. ‘He dropped a trunk onto that hatbox.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Colbeck.

‘He admits it.’

‘But did you actually see the incident, Mr Fagge?’

‘No – I was on another platform.’

‘Then we have no further use for you. Goodbye.’

‘But I have to be here,’ blustered Fagge. ‘I’m the head porter.’

‘We’re only interested in the porter with the head,’ said Leeming, unable to stop himself from blurting out his joke. He was immediately contrite. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I meant no disrespect to the dead.’

‘I’m sure that you didn’t, Victor,’ said Colbeck easily, turning to the stationmaster. ‘Mr Reade, I assume that you reported the grim discovery to the local police.’

‘Yes, Inspector,’ said Reade. ‘Constable Hubbleday was summoned at once. He took statements from several witnesses.’

‘Then I’ll want to hear what else he did.’ Colbeck swung round to confront Fagge. ‘How far away is the police station?’

‘Not far,’ said the head porter.

‘In that case, perhaps you’ll be good enough to show Sergeant Leeming the way and introduce him when you get there.’ He ushered both men to the door. ‘You know what to ask, Victor.’

‘Yes, Inspector.’

‘Leave your bag here.’

Putting his valise down beside Colbeck’s, the sergeant led the reluctant Fagge out and the door was closed behind them. Colbeck could sense the air of relief in the office. Hibbert was clearly afraid of his hectoring boss and Reade unwilling to challenge him. Now that Fagge had gone, both of them had relaxed.

‘Right,’ said Colbeck, removing his top hat and placing it on the desk, ‘let’s get down to business, shall we, gentlemen? Before you tell me how the severed head was found, perhaps you’d be good enough to show it to me.’

‘Of course,’ said Reade. Crossing to a cupboard, he took out a bunch of keys and inserted one of them into the lock. ‘I had to hide it away in here. When it was standing on the floor, people kept peering in at it through the window. It was so ghoulish.’ Unlocking the door, he opened it and lifted the hatbox out. ‘Here we are, Inspector.’

Hibbert flinched at the sight but Colbeck was fascinated. The leather hatbox was large, beautifully made and very expensive. Tied to the handle was a ticket that told him Euston was the point of departure. The name on the ticket, written in a spidery hand, was Mr D Key. Capital letters had been used for the destination – Crewe.

Since the strap had been broken, Colbeck simply had to pull back the lid to expose the occupant of the hatbox. It was the head of a young man and dark bruising on the forehead suggested that he had been beaten before being killed. Extracting a large handkerchief from his pocket, Colbeck used it to encircle the back of the head so that he could lift it gently out.

Reginald Hibbert emitted a gasp of alarm as it came into view once again. The open eyes seemed to be staring accusingly at him. He stepped back guiltily and collided with a chair, almost knocking it to the floor. Percy Reade admired the detective’s coolness. Simply carrying the hatbox had induced feelings of nausea in the stationmaster and he could not possibly have handled its contents with his bare hands. Colbeck seemed to have no qualms. He was examining the head from all angles as if it were a bronze bust of a Roman emperor rather than part of a human being.

‘You’ve obviously done this before,’ remarked Reade.

‘Not at all,’ said Colbeck, coming to the end of his scrutiny. ‘As a matter of fact, this is my first severed head. I am, however, all too accustomed to looking at dead bodies, many of them, alas, hideously mutilated.’

‘What happens next, Inspector?’

‘We’ll do all we can to unite this fellow with his torso.’

‘How on earth can you do that when you have no clues?’

‘We have two important ones right here,’ said Colbeck, lowering the head carefully back into its box. ‘We know from the ticket that this began its journey at Euston station and we may be able to find the porter who loaded it onto the train. Failing that, we’ll begin our enquiries in Jermyn Street.’

‘Why there?’

‘Clearly, you didn’t study the inside of the hatbox. The name of a milliner is sewn into the silk padding on the underside of the lid.’ He pointed to the gold thread. ‘I should imagine he will be very upset to learn to what use the box has been put.’ He closed the lid. ‘Now, Mr Hibbert,’ he said, straightening up, ‘we come to you.’

‘I didn’t mean to do it, Inspector,’ said the porter defensively.

‘Dropping a trunk onto a hatbox is not a criminal offence.’

‘Mr Fagge said that I ought to be arrested.’

‘Well, Mr Fagge is not here any longer so why don’t you tell me, in your own words, exactly what happened?’

Hibbert was reassured by Colbeck’s friendly tone and courteous manner. Clearing his throat, the porter licked his lips.

‘It all began this morning, when I sprained my wrist…’

It was a slow, long-winded account filled with much extraneous detail but the others heard him out in silence. While he was speaking, his essential character was laid bare and Colbeck saw that the porter was a decent, honest, hard-working young man in terror of losing a job that was a labour of love to him. The inspector was surprised to hear that he had been kept at the station beyond the time when his shift ended and guessed that the wife about whom Hibbert had spoken so fondly would be very distressed at her husband’s lateness. When the narrative at last came to an end, Colbeck’s first concern was for Molly Hibbert.

‘Did you not think to send your wife a message?’ he asked.

‘Mr Fagge refused to let me, Inspector.’

‘That was very high-handed of him. He had no right to deny you and should have been overruled by the stationmaster.’

‘I tried to put myself in Mrs Hibbert’s position,’ said Reade, attempting to justify his actions. ‘I felt that she would be very upset if she had a note from Reg to say that he was being held here, pending the arrival of detectives from Scotland Yard.’

‘Why not simply tell her that her husband was working overtime?’ said Colbeck reasonably. ‘That would at least have given her peace of mind.’

‘That never occurred to me, Inspector. To tell you the truth, this incident with the hatbox left me rather jangled. It’s not the sort of thing that happens every day – thank God!’

‘It must have caused a great stir.’

‘It did,’ confirmed Hibbert. ‘There were dozens of people on the platform. They all gathered round for a goggle at the head.’

‘That was unfortunate,’ said Colbeck. ‘In the confusion, the person who would have reclaimed that hatbox slipped away. I don’t suppose you recall any other luggage for a Mr Key?’

‘I never look at the names, Inspector – only the destination. If it says “Crewe” on the ticket, I unload it here.’

‘In that case, he may have reclaimed any other items with which he was travelling and beat a hasty retreat. A severed head is hardly something that anyone would willingly admit to owning.’

‘It gives me the creeps just to look at that hatbox.’

‘Then you don’t have to suffer any more,’ decided Colbeck, taking pity on him. ‘Your statement was very thorough and I’m sure it will be corroborated by the many that Constable Hubbleday took. We’ll be staying the night in Crewe so, if I need to speak to you again, I know where to find you.’

‘Off you go,’ said Reade. ‘Molly will be missing you.’

Hibbert was overjoyed. ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ he said, grinning inanely. ‘Thank you, Mr Reade. Does that mean I’m in the clear?’

‘As far as I’m concerned, that’s always been the case.’

‘Mr Fagge said there’d be repercussions.’

‘Then he was wildly misinformed,’ said Colbeck.

He opened the door to let Hibbert out, only to find a buxom young woman bearing down on them. Molly Hibbert had the look of a wife who has just been told that her husband is in grave danger. She flung herself at him and held him tight.

‘What’s going on, Reg?’ she demanded.

‘Nothing, my love,’ he replied. ‘I was just coming home.’

‘I met Mr Fagge on the way here. He said you were being questioned by a detective from London and that you ought to face charges for what you did.’

‘On the contrary, Mrs Hibbert,’ said Colbeck politely. ‘The only thing your husband will get from me is praise. My name is Inspector Robert Colbeck, by the way, and I’m here because a severed head was found in a hatbox that arrived at this station. Your husband not only showed bravery in coming to work with an injured wrist that must have given him constant pain. He inadvertently rendered us a great service. But for him,’ he went on, patting Hibbert on the shoulder, ‘a heinous crime would have gone unnoticed and therefore unpunished.’

‘That’s true,’ said Reade, feeling obliged to make a comment. ‘In a sense, Reg is something of a hero.’

‘Am I?’ Hibbert was baffled by the news.

‘He’s always a hero to me,’ said Molly, clutching his arm.

‘Take him home, Mrs Hibbert,’ suggested Colbeck. ‘And if you happen to pass Mr Fagge on the way, please warn him that I shall need to speak to him about the unnecessary cruelty he displayed towards your husband. If anyone is due a reprimand, it’s Mr Fagge.’

Hibbert had never laughed so triumphantly in all his life.

Victor Leeming was deeply unhappy. It was bad enough to be exiled for a night from the marital bed but he had additional causes for complaint. The first had come in the burly shape of Constable Royston Hubbleday, a good-hearted but ponderous individual who had insisted on reading out every statement he had taken relating to the discovery at the railway station, however repetitive, hysterical or contradictory they happened to be. Leeming’s second grievance was that he had to share an airless room with Robert Colbeck at a public house. Situated near the station, it was called The Rocket and its inn sign sported a painting of Stephenson’s famous locomotive. To a man who loathed railways as much as the sergeant, it was an ordeal to stay the night in a place that celebrated them.

His major source of unease, however, was only feet away. For reasons the sergeant did not understand, Colbeck had placed the hatbox between the two beds so that each of them would be sleeping cheek by jowl with incontrovertible evidence of foul play. Leeming was by no means squeamish but the proximity of the severed head unnerved him. Yet it seemed to have no effect on the inspector. When they retired to their beds for the night, Leeming voiced his thoughts.

‘Why would anyone do it?’ he wondered.

‘Do what?’

‘Carry a human head in a hatbox.’

‘I can think of a number of reasons,’ said Colbeck.

‘Such as?’

‘It could be a trophy, something which signalled a victory.’

‘Who would want to keep such a grisly item as that?’

‘There’s no accounting for taste, Victor.’

‘What else could it be?’

‘A gift.’

Leeming started. ‘A weird sort of gift, if you ask me.’

‘I agree but we may be dealing with a weird mind. Don’t forget that case we had last year. A young woman was dismembered and pieces of her body were returned one by one to the bereaved family.’

‘I remember it only too well, Inspector. The killer worked at Smithfield – a butcher in every sense.’ He glanced down at the hatbox. ‘Do you have a theory about this crime, sir?’

‘One is slowly forming in my brain, Victor.’

‘Well?’

‘I fancy that it’s a warning,’ said Colbeck. ‘Look how far it’s travelled. Would somebody bring it all that way without a specific purpose? My belief is that it was going to be delivered to someone by way of a dire warning. Think what an appalling shock it would have given as the lid was opened.’

‘I’m scared stiff when the lid is closed.’

‘Only because you know what’s inside the box.’

‘The one consolation is that we’ll soon catch the villain.’

‘I wish that I shared your confidence.’

‘You must do, sir,’ argued Leeming. ‘The man was kind enough to put his name on the ticket – Mr D Key. What does that initial stand for, I wonder – David, Donald, Derek perhaps? We had a census only three years ago so his name will be somewhere in the list of London residents. All we have to do is to work our way through them.’

‘That would be a complete waste of time.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we have no proof that the person we want lives in London. All we know for certain is that the train was boarded there. As for the name, I’ll wager every penny I have that it’s a false one. Who would be stupid enough to attach his real name to a hatbox that contained a human head? Besides,’ Colbeck added, ‘the person who brought it to Crewe might have nothing whatsoever to do with the murder. He might simply have been a delivery boy.’

‘It’s not a job I’d have taken on,’ confessed Leeming with a shudder. ‘Nothing on God’s earth would have persuaded me to get on a train with something like that.’

‘You’ll be doing so tomorrow, Victor.’

‘That’s different, sir. Now it can be classed as evidence.’

‘Vital evidence – that’s why we mustn’t let it out of our sight.’

‘Does it have to spend the night with us?’

‘Most certainly.’

‘Why not leave it at the railway station?’

‘Because the man who lost the hatbox might well try to retrieve it,’ Colbeck pointed out. ‘We can’t allow that, can we? Imagine what Superintendent Tallis would say if something as important as this was stolen from under our noses.’

‘Do you really think that someone will come back for it?’

‘It’s highly likely.’

‘Then shouldn’t a watch be kept on the stationmaster’s office?’

‘Of course. I took the precaution of speaking to Constable Hubbleday on the matter and he agreed to patrol the area throughout the night. There’s no point in our losing sleep when we have a uniformed policeman at our disposal, is there? He leant over to give the hatbox a companionable pat. ‘This chap is perfectly safe with us,’ he went on before reaching up to turn off the gaslight. ‘Good night, Victor – and sweet dreams.’

Sergeant Leeming gurgled into his pillow.

It was well past midnight before Constable Royston Hubbleday began to tire. Eager to impress a detective from Scotland Yard, he had been delighted when Colbeck asked him to keep a close eye on the railway station that night. Hubbleday was a hefty young man with a fondness for action and a desire to move to a large city where he might find plenty of it. Nothing appealed to him more than the notion of joining the Metropolitan Police Force and, if he could make a significant arrest while assisting two members of it, he felt that it would help him to fulfil his ambition.

The night was humid, the sky dark and Crewe passenger station was no more than a shadowy outline. Having circled it time and again, he paused to remove his top hat so that he could wipe the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. It was a grave mistake. Before he could replace his hat, something struck him hard on the back of his head and sent him sprawling forward into oblivion. After checking that the policeman was unconscious, his attacker stepped over the body and trotted off in the direction of the stationmaster’s office.

When he reached the door, he used a powerful shoulder to smash it open then stepped inside. Having studied the office earlier through the window, he knew where to find the oil lamp and lit it at once, moving it so that it illuminated the large cupboard in the corner. Pulling a knife from inside his jacket, he inserted it in the gap beside the lock and jiggled it violently until the door suddenly flipped open. It took him a split-second to realise that the item he was after was no longer there. He thrust the knife angrily back into its sheath.

‘Damnation!’ he swore.

Then he ran off swiftly into the darkness.

CHAPTER THREE

Ever since the death of her mother, Madeleine Andrews had looked after her father and willingly taken on the roles of housekeeper, cook, nurse, maidservant and companion. She was an intelligent woman in her twenties, vigorous, decisive and self-possessed, with attractive features framed by auburn hair parted in the middle. In spite of her domestic commitments, Madeleine had taken the trouble to educate herself way beyond what might be expected of an engine driver’s daughter and to develop her artistic talent. In a busy life, she had somehow managed to strike a good balance between her household duties and her leisure pursuits.

Working the late shift, Caleb Andrews had not returned home to the modest house in Camden until after his daughter had gone to bed the previous night. Unable to pass on his news, therefore, he was keen to do so when a new day dawned. As he came downstairs, there was a jauntiness in his gait and a twinkle in his eye. He went into the back room to find Madeleine ladling porridge into two bowls.

‘Breakfast is ready,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Maddy – you spoil me, you know.’

‘That’s what I’m here for, Father.’

‘I don’t think I could manage without you,’ he said, taking a seat at the table. ‘Though I suppose that I’ll have to sooner or later.’

‘Now, don’t play that little game,’ she warned.

He feigned innocence. ‘What game?’

‘You know quite well. Robert and I are close friends but I won’t be teased on that account. Eat your breakfast.’

‘I’m not teasing anybody. It’s a father’s duty to safeguard his daughter and to make sure that nobody takes advantage of her. I have your best interests at heart, Maddy.’ He gave a sly grin. ‘I also have a surprise for you.’

She sat opposite him. ‘I don’t like surprises this early in the morning,’ she said briskly. ‘Save it until later.’

‘You’d never forgive me if I did.’

‘Why not?’

‘It concerns Inspector Colbeck.’

‘Robert?’ Her face ignited with pleasure. ‘What about him?’

He shrugged. ‘I’ll tell you after breakfast.’

‘Tell me now.’

‘You said that you’d rather wait.’

‘Father!’

‘And it’s not that important,’ he said dismissively.

‘You’re teasing me again,’ she told him, ‘and I don’t like it. Remember who got up early this morning in order to make your breakfast. You ought to show some gratitude.’

‘I always do, Maddy.’

‘Then stop annoying me.’

He gave another shrug. ‘Is that what I’m doing?’

‘What do you want to tell me about Robert?’

‘Only that I drove the train that took him to his latest case,’ said Andrews, thrusting out his chest. ‘I helped in the investigation.’

‘Investigation?’

‘It will be in all the newspapers.’

‘What will?’

‘A hatbox was unloaded at Crewe Station yesterday afternoon.’

‘Nothing unusual in that.’

‘Yes, there was – it had a man’s head inside it.’

‘Goodness!’ she exclaimed, bringing both hands up to her face. ‘You mean that someone had been…beheaded? That’s grotesque.’

Andrews told her all that he knew about the incident, omitting some of the more lurid details he had picked up but giving the impression that he was an essential part of the investigative team. What Madeleine really wanted to hear about was Robert Colbeck and she pressed for more information.

‘Did he find any clues to the crime?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know, Maddy. There was no time to speak to him after we reached Crewe. I had to drive a train back to London. But I daresay he’ll call here at some point to ask my advice,’ he added airily. ‘After so many years with the LNWR, I can tell him all he needs to know about the transport of luggage.’

‘There’s nothing you can teach Robert about railways. He has a real passion for them.’

He chuckled. ‘It’s not the only thing he has a passion for.’

‘Being able to travel around the country by train,’ she said, ignoring her father’s innuendo, ‘has made his job so much easier. That’s why he relishes any crime that’s connected to the railways.’

‘There’s far too much of it, Maddy.’

‘There’s too much crime everywhere.’

‘If railways aren’t safe, people won’t travel on them.’

‘People like Robert make them safe,’ she said proudly. ‘Did he come back to London on your train last night?’

‘No, they stayed the night in Crewe – all three of them.’

‘All three?’

‘Yes,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Inspector Colbeck, Sergeant Leeming and that absent-minded fellow who mislaid his body somewhere.’

‘Father!’ Madeleine was shocked. ‘It’s cruel to make a joke out of something like that. The man has a family somewhere. They’ll be distraught when they learn what’s happened to him. How can you be so callous about it? This is an appalling crime.’

‘I know, Maddy,’ he said penitently. ‘You’re right. Please forgive me.’ Andrews rallied immediately. ‘But there’s one consolation.’

‘Is there?’

‘The Railway Detective is in charge of the case.’

As soon as he got back to Scotland Yard that morning, Robert Colbeck went to the superintendent’s office to deliver a verbal report of the visit to Crewe. Wreathed in cigar smoke, Edward Tallis listened intently, irritated that he was unable to find fault with the inspector’s methods or his thoroughness. Colbeck’s account was crisp, comprehensive and lucid. Tallis invented a reason to offer some criticism.

‘The station should have been guarded by more men,’ he said.

‘Constable Hubbleday volunteered for night duty, sir.’

‘Two other officers should have been there with him. In your place, I’d have added Sergeant Leeming as well.’

‘Four people would have frightened away the intruder,’ argued Colbeck, ‘whereas he might have been tempted to make his move if he saw only one person on patrol. That, indeed, proved to be the case. I’m sorry that the constable was attacked in the process. Fortunately, he seems to have recovered well. And the main thing is that the thief left the station empty-handed.’

‘It was sensible of you to take the severed head with you.’

‘Victor didn’t think so.’

‘Where is it now?’

‘Being examined at the morgue by an expert.’

‘And where is the sergeant?’

‘I told him to wait there in case the doctor was able to glean any information that might be of use to us. It would, for instance, be interesting to hear his opinion on exactly how the head was separated from the body. When he has the report, Victor will return here.’

It was not strictly correct. Since the sergeant had been parted from his wife overnight, Colbeck had shown his usual compassion and allowed him to go home as soon as they reached Euston, instructing him to call at the morgue for the report on his way back to work. Tallis would not have approved.

‘No luck at Euston, then?’ asked the superintendent.

‘None whatsoever,’ replied Colbeck. ‘We spoke to all the porters who helped to load that particular train but not one of them recalled a hatbox or the person carrying it. They stow so much luggage aboard in the course of an average morning that it’s impossible to remember individual items.’ He raised the hatbox. ‘It was only by complete chance that we learnt what was in this.’

‘Let me take a look at it,’ said Tallis.

Putting his cigar down in the tray, he stood up and took the hatbox from Colbeck, noting the broken strap and the dent in the shiny leather where it had been struck by the heavy trunk. Tallis opened it slowly, as if still expecting to find a severed head inside. As it was, he was still surprised by what he saw. A pleasing aroma drifted into his nostrils and countered the smell of tobacco smoke.

‘Herbs,’ explained Colbeck. ‘The interior of the box was scented and, as you see, packed with wool.’

‘What was the purpose of that?’

‘It was not for the comfort of its occupant, sir, that much is certain. My guess is that the wool was used to prevent the head from rolling around and the herbs were there to kill any unpleasant odour. The care taken also suggests that the hatbox was going on a lengthy journey which may not have ended at Crewe.’

‘But that’s where it was unloaded.’

‘It’s the hub of the LNWR. Trains go off in all directions. The passenger carrying that hatbox might have been travelling on to another destination.’

Tallis lowered the lid. ‘How do you intend to find him?’

‘By starting with the hatmaker, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘What you failed to notice was that his name is on the underside of the lid.’

‘I assumed that it would be,’ claimed the superintendent gruffly. ‘It’s standard practice in the trade.’

Colbeck was amused. ‘I didn’t know that you were so well informed about the running of ladies’ hat shops,’ he said wryly. ‘They are the last places in London where I’d expect to find you.’

‘This is no time for drollery, Inspector.’

‘I was merely making an observation, sir.’

‘One that’s entirely uncalled for,’ said Tallis.

‘Yes, sir.’

Tallis looked at the ticket attached to the hatbox. ‘Mr D Key. I don’t suppose that particular key will open any doors for us. It’s sure to be a false name.’

‘Elijah Swinnerton, however, is certainly not.’

‘Who the devil is he?’

‘The milliner,’ said Colbeck with a disarming smile. ‘The one whose name you rightly assumed would be inside the hatbox.’

Tallis bristled. ‘Do I detect a note of sarcasm?’

‘Mistakenly, sir.’

‘I’ll brook no mockery, Inspector.’

‘None is intended,’ said Colbeck, stretching out his hands. ‘If I may have the box back, Superintendent, then I propose to go and meet Elijah Swinnerton right now. I have every confidence that he will be able to point us in the right direction.’

Jermyn Street had been a fashionable address ever since the reign of Charles II when it was first built and when it numbered luminaries such as the future Duke of Marlborough among its residents. It still boasted many fine houses but had also acquired a reputation for its hotels and its many shops. Gentlemen’s outfitters had started to appear alongside specialist shirtmakers, shoemakers and hatters. The bow-fronted establishment owned by Elijah Swinnerton was the only one that sold quality millinery and its popularity among wealthy ladies had grown steadily during the five years of its existence.

Though the staff was entirely female, it was presided over by Swinnerton himself, a vigilant man who watched his employees with care and reserved for himself the privilege of serving any titled customers. Tall, slim, beak-nosed, dark-haired, of middle height and years, Swinnerton was immaculately attired in a frock coat and striped trousers with a red cravat bursting out from under his chin like a giant rose. Seasoned in all the arts of flattery, he was much liked by his customers for his fastidiousness, his delicate hand gestures and his confiding manner. Most men felt less at ease in his presence, finding him altogether too foppish to suit their taste.

It was very busy in the shop that day and every member of staff was serving an individual customer. Elijah Swinnerton adopted a purely supervisory role until a tall, well-favoured, elegant man came through the door, carrying a hatbox. Struck by his appearance, the owner ran an appreciative eye over him before crossing to greet him.

‘Good day to you, good sir,’ he said, glancing at the hatbox. ‘I hope that you’re not here to return one of our hats.’

‘Am I speaking to Mr Swinnerton?’ asked Colbeck.

‘The very same.’

‘Then perhaps I could have a word with you in private, sir.’

‘To what does it pertain?’

‘I’ll tell you when we’re alone, Mr Swinnerton.’

‘And who might you be, may I ask?’

‘Inspector Robert Colbeck from Scotland Yard.’

Swinnerton’s unctuous smile vanished immediately and he looked round nervously, hoping that nobody else had heard the name. A visit from a detective was unlikely to bring good news and he did not want his clientele upset by any bad tidings. Escorting his visitor to a storeroom at the back of the premises, he closed the door firmly behind them. Alone with the man in a confined space, Colbeck caught a faint whiff of perfume. One shelf was lined with hatboxes very much like the one that he had brought. He held it up.

‘Do you recognise this, Mr Swinnerton?’

‘Of course,’ replied the other. ‘It was sold here.’

‘Does everyone buy a leather box with their hat?’

‘By no means, Inspector – most of the ladies with whom we deal already have a travelling hatbox. They take home what they purchase in a cardboard box with my name exquisitely emblazoned on its top.’

‘Buying something like this, then,’ said Colbeck, indicating the hatbox, ‘is the exception rather than the rule.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘So there’s a good chance that you might remember to whom this particular item was sold?’

‘It’s not a question of chance, Inspector,’ said Swinnerton, adjusting his cravat. ‘I keep a careful record of each sale. That record, of course, is highly confidential. Before I could even begin to think of providing you with a name, I’d need to know how Scotland Yard came by the item in the first place.’

‘That’s your right, sir, and I’m happy to oblige you. When this hatbox was damaged on Crewe railway station, a human head was found inside it.’

‘Oh, my God!’ cried the other, shying away as if Colbeck had just produced a severed head from the box like a conjuror extracting a rabbit. ‘Please don’t tell me that the silk lining was soaked in blood.’

‘It was not, sir. Whoever put the head in here took great care not to soil it in any way. It was even filled with aromatic herbs.’

‘A head in a hatbox – what a gruesome thought!’

‘I need to find the person who put it there, Mr Swinnerton.’

‘You may rely on my complete cooperation.’

‘Then tell me who bought this from you,’ said Colbeck. ‘That will at least give me a starting point.’

‘Excuse me for one moment, Inspector,’ said the other, opening the door. ‘The record book is kept in the shop.’

‘I apologise for coming at such an awkward time.’

‘Business always picks up when the Derby is in the offing. Every lady wants to look her best on Epsom Downs. It’s been like this for several days now.’

Swinnerton went out and closed the door behind him, leaving Colbeck to take a closer look at the storeroom. As well as the row of leather hatboxes, there were a number of brightly coloured cardboard ones with the name of the milliner painted boldly on the lid. Evidently, it was a thriving enterprise with a constant demand for the hats that Swinnerton designed and sold. Catering for the upper echelons of society, the shop clearly fulfilled its requirements. When he returned with his ledger, the first thing that Swinnerton did was to lift up the hatbox so that he could look at the number on the back. He then referred to his record book, flipping over the pages until he came to the one he sought.

‘Here we are,’ he said, tapping the name with a long finger. ‘The hat and hatbox were sold two months ago. As a matter of fact, I handled the sale myself. Certain customers expect my individual attention, you know, so I have to oblige them. Yes, I remember the hat clearly – a little too flamboyant for most ladies but she carried it off well. It was almost as if it were made for her, Inspector.’

‘Made for whom?’

‘His wife,’ replied Swinnerton. ‘He came in with her and waited patiently while she tried on almost everything in the shop. That’s the hatbox he bought, no question of it. Though I can’t believe for a moment that he would have been responsible for putting a man’s head in it. That’s unthinkable. He would never dream of such a thing.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’m an astute judge of character, Inspector. One has to be in this trade. Dealing with the public sharpens one’s instincts.’

‘What did your instincts tell you about this gentleman?’

‘He’s a pillar of society – decent, upright, wholly incorruptible.’

‘May I know his name, please?’

‘Lord Hendry.’

‘Thank you, Mr Swinnerton.’

‘Shall I furnish you with his address?’

‘There’s no need,’ said Colbeck, picking up the hatbox. ‘I think I know exactly where to find Lord Hendry.’

Hands on hips, Lord George Hendry stood back to admire the painting that had just been hung over the marble fireplace. Every detail intrigued him, every nuance of colour was a delight. He was a stout, distinguished-looking man of medium height with a fleshy, rubicund face that looked much older than his fifty years and large, blue eyes that had a zestful glint. He was still gazing at the portrait when his wife came into the library, leaning heavily on her walking stick.

‘Aren’t you tempting Providence somewhat?’ she enquired.

He turned round. ‘Providence?’

‘I would have thought it much safer to hang the painting after Odysseus had won the Derby, not before the race had even taken place. What happens if your horse loses?’

‘Out of the question, my dear.’

‘You’ve said that on many previous occasions.’

‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘and my confidence has often proved to be without foundation. Not this time, Caroline. I have the best trainer and the best jockey. More to the point,’ he went on, indicating the racehorse in the oil painting, ‘I have the finest three-year old ever to enter the race. Look at a true thoroughbred, my dear, look at that conformation, look at that imperious quality the artist has caught so brilliantly. Every bookmaker in London has made Odysseus the favourite. I account him a certainty.’

‘Then I hope, for your sake, that he is, George,’ she said, coming forward to take a closer look at the animal. ‘It’s a superb piece of work – quite inspiring, in its own way.’

Lady Caroline Hendry did not share her husband’s passion for the Turf but she tolerated all of his sporting interests. If a painting had to be given pride of place in the library, she would rather it be of a champion racehorse than of one of the battle-scarred pugilists whom he chose to patronise. She was a short, full-bodied woman with a beauty that had slowly given way to a startling pallor savagely criss-crossed by age. Rheumatism and its attendant pain had put many of the lines in her face and hampered her movement. It did not, however, diminish her spirit or her Christian impulse.

‘Did you speak with the archdeacon?’ asked her husband.

‘I’ve just returned from the meeting.’

‘Well?’

‘He agreed that the charity was eminently worthwhile.’

‘You have to draw the line somewhere, my dear. You already give to far too many people. Why add to the burden?’

‘I only give to the deserving poor, George,’ she said.

‘But how do you know they are deserving?’

‘I take the archdeacon’s advice.’

‘Not in every instance,’ he recalled. ‘He had severe reservations about your donation to the lunatic asylum.’

‘I visited the place – he did not. The conditions there are quite revolting. I simply had to do what I could for those benighted souls.’

He forced a smile. ‘As always, my dear, you were right.’

Lady Hendry was a woman of independent means. Her private wealth had been an agreeable irrelevance when her husband had first met and fallen in love with her. He had been ensnared by her beauty, grace and sophistication. The fact that she took an interest in various charitable institutions only added to her appeal. Now, however, it was different. Lord Hendry strongly resented the recipients of his wife’s benevolence. On those occasions when he had heavy gambling debts to settle, he would have liked to turn to her for help but felt unable to do so. Someone who owned a splendid mansion at the heart of a large estate in Surrey could hardly claim to be one of the deserving poor.

‘How much do you propose to give this time?’ he asked.

‘Five hundred pounds.’

He felt a pang of envy, thinking of how he could spend that amount of money. The familiar bitterness rose up within him but he concealed it behind another bland smile.

‘You could donate even more than that, Caroline.’

‘We felt that was the appropriate amount.’

‘There’s a very simple way to increase it.’

‘Is there?’

‘Of course,’ he said, turning back to the painting. ‘Invest the money in Odysseus and let him double or treble it. I own the horse so you’ll be supporting the family into the bargain. After all,’ he went on with a chortle, ‘charity begins at home. Even the archdeacon would accept that, I dare venture.’

Victor Leeming was more lugubrious than ever. The past twenty-four hours had been something of a nightmare. Forced to endure a long train journey, he had spent an uncomfortable night in the company of a severed head before having to suffer another four hours or more on the railway. Though he was allowed a brief respite to see his wife and children, all the pleasure from the encounter had been dissipated by his visit to the morgue where he had had to listen to details of the decapitation that had made his stomach heave. No sooner had he taken the medical report back to Scotland Yard than he was grabbed by Robert Colbeck and taken off to another railway station. As the train rumbled south with ear-splitting assurance, Leeming retreated into a moody silence.

Colbeck had no difficulty in reading his mind.

‘You’ll thank me for bringing you on this trip, Victor.’

‘I doubt it, sir.’

‘You are about to meet an interesting gentlemen.’

‘What is interesting about buying your wife a hat?’

‘You obviously don’t know who Lord George Hendry is.’

‘I rarely rub shoulders with the aristocracy.’

‘You might enjoy doing so on this occasion.’

‘Why?’

‘Lord Hendry is a devotee of the Turf.’

‘So are thousands of other people, Inspector.’

‘Very few of them own racehorses,’ said Colbeck. ‘Lord Hendry has a whole string of them. One horse is due to run in the Derby.’

‘Really?’ Leeming’s curiosity made his face glow. ‘It’s the only race I always place a bet on.’

‘Have you ever picked a winner?’

‘Not so far – I was born unlucky.’

‘Judgement is just as important as luck, Victor. The more you know about a particular horse, the better able you are to assess its chances of success. If you simply pick a name out of a newspaper, then you are making a blind choice.’

‘Do you think Lord Hendry will give us any advice?’

‘I’m sure that he will.’

‘Then I must ask a favour,’ said Leeming.

‘Favour?’

‘Could you please let me get the information about the Derby from Lord Hendry before you arrest him?’

‘I’ve no intention of making an arrest.’

‘But the severed head was in his wife’s hatbox.’

‘That doesn’t mean he or she are guilty of putting it there. Neither are possible suspects, in my view. Who would be rash enough to place a head in a hatbox that they must have known could be traced to the person who sold it to them in the first place? My guess is that Lord and Lady Hendry are victims of this crime rather than the perpetrators. Our visit to Reigate is only the first stop on what may turn out to be a very long journey.’

Leeming shuddered. ‘Does it all have to be by train?’

‘Unless you can provide us with a magic carpet.’

They were travelling on the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway, a network that enjoyed a virtual monopoly in the area that it covered. Colbeck was impressed with their carriage but less impressed by the engine driver, who seemed unable to bring the train to a halt at the various stations without jolting the passengers from their seats. When they eventually alighted at Reigate, the detectives needed a cab to take them out to the Hendry estate. Leeming was contented at last.

‘This is more like it,’ he observed, settling back.

‘You were born in the wrong age, Victor. The future will be forged by railway engineers, not by those who design coach and cab.’

‘That’s a pity in my opinion.’

‘Lord Hendry would beg to differ.’

‘Why – is he another train fancier like you?’

‘No,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I’m sure he’s a practical man. When you move thoroughbred horses between racecourses, you have to do so with great care. If Lord Hendry wanted to enter one of his horses in some of the major meetings in Yorkshire, it would take him at least two weeks to get it there by road. In a train, horses can be carried from one end of the country to another in a matter of hours.’

‘Then they have my sympathy.’

‘You’re a Luddite, fighting a losing battle against the inevitable.’

‘And I’ll go on fighting,’ Leeming resolved.

‘What presents did your children have for Christmas?’

‘Not very many on my wage, sir.’

‘You gave them lots of things. I remember you telling me about them. And what was it that they liked best? Of all the gifts, which was the most popular?’ Leeming looked shifty. ‘Come on, admit it – what did your children get most pleasure from last Christmas?’

‘Something that you kindly bought for them.’

‘And what was that, Victor?’

Leeming spoke through gritted teeth. ‘A toy train.’

‘I rest my case,’ said Colbeck with a smile.

Lord Hendry was surprised to hear that two detectives had travelled down from Scotland Yard to see him and he had them shown into the library for the interview. After introductions had been made, they all sat down. Victor Leeming was mesmerised by the painting of Odysseus over the mantelpiece but Colbeck was more interested in the library itself. Lord Hendry had catholic tastes. Greek and Latin texts nestled beside novels by Richardson, Fielding and Smollett. Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire occupied a whole shelf in its handsome calf-bound volumes. Books of sporting prints abounded and there were learned works devoted to almost every subject under the sun.

‘You’re a reading man, I see,’ said Colbeck with approval.

‘When I have the time, Inspector,’ replied Lord Hendry.

‘What do you think of our present-day novelists?’

‘I’m bound to say that I’ve little enthusiasm for them. Dickens is too earnest and Mrs Gaskell too dreary. Why will they persist in writing about what they view as the downtrodden classes? Novels should be about people who matter. However,’ he continued, ‘I refuse to believe that you and Sergeant Leeming came all the way here in order simply to discuss my literary interests.’

‘Quite so, Lord Hendry,’ said Colbeck. ‘My superintendent would never have condoned that. We’re here in connection with a distressing incident that occurred yesterday at Crewe.’

He gave a brief description of what had happened and explained that they had traced the hatbox to him. Seeing indignation show in the man’s face, Colbeck assured him that he was not a suspect in the case. He failed to mollify Lord Hendry.

‘Swinnerton had no right to give you my name,’ he said sharply.

‘He had no choice, Lord Hendry. This is a criminal investigation. Withholding evidence would have made him liable to arrest.’

‘Breaking a confidence like this also renders him liable to the harshest reproach, Inspector, and I shall deliver it. Elijah Swinnerton will get no more business from me, I promise you that.’

‘All that concerns me is one particular hatbox.’

‘It concerns me as well,’ said the other. ‘That hatbox was stolen from a hotel where my wife and I stayed earlier this year. We went to the races in Newmarket.’

‘Is that where the hotel was?’

‘No, Inspector – it was in Cambridge.’

‘Which hotel would that be?’

‘That’s of no consequence.’

‘Have you any idea who took the hatbox?’ asked Leeming, finally tearing his eyes from the painting and feeling that he should make a contribution. ‘Did you report the theft to the police, Lord Hendry?’

‘No, Sergeant.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I chose not to, man. It was only a hatbox. Fortunately, there was no hat inside it so I did not feel that it justified a hue and cry. To be honest, I’d forgotten the whole business.’

‘What about your wife?’ said Colbeck.

‘What about her?’

‘Well, she must have been upset by the theft. What did she do when she first discovered it?’

‘Let’s keep her out of this, shall we?’ said Lord Hendry quietly. ‘My wife is not in the best of health. Losing that hatbox was a shock to her at the time. If she heard what became of it, it would cause her a lot of unnecessary distress. I’d rather she was not brought into this at all. I’m sure that I can count on your discretion, Inspector.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘And while we’re on the subject, I’d be very grateful if my name could be kept out of any newspaper reports. It would not only trouble my wife deeply, it would cause a lot of distraction for me. With the Derby in the offing, I need to concentrate all my energies on the race. I could never do that with reporters snapping at my heels.’

‘We’ll keep them well away from you.’

‘Especially if you give us any advice about the Derby,’ said Leeming with a hopeful smile. ‘You must have a good idea who the serious contenders are.’

‘The only serious contender,’ declared Lord Hendry with a gesture in the direction of the fireplace, ‘is the horse in that painting. I commissioned it by way of celebration of his victory. There’s the winner, Sergeant – Odysseus.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘There are other horses in the race,’ Colbeck reminded them.

‘None that can touch Odysseus,’ insisted Lord Hendry.

‘What about Merry Legs?’

‘An overrated filly.’

‘Hamilton Fido is a shrewd judge of horses.’

‘I question that.’

‘Mr Fido did win the Derby once before, Lord Hendry.’

The older man appraised him. ‘You seem to know a lot about the Turf, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Are you a confirmed racegoer?’

‘My job gives me little opportunity to be one,’ said Colbeck sadly, ‘but I do read the racing pages and I like an occasional wager. From what I hear, this year’s Derby will be a three-horse race.’

‘With Odysseus being the winner,’ said Leeming.

‘We shall see, Victor. I fancy that Merry Legs, owned by Hamilton Fido, will not be easily beaten.’

‘Yes, she will,’ said Lord Hendry firmly.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘That’s my business, Inspector.’

‘What about Limerick Lad? He, too, will pose a challenge.’

‘If that’s what you feel, put your money on the horse.’

‘I think I’ll bet on Odysseus,’ said Leeming.

Colbeck was circumspect. ‘And I’ll make up my mind nearer the time of the race,’ he decided. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a piece of cartridge paper and unfolded it. ‘This is an artist’s impression of the young man whose head was discovered in the hatbox. It’s a rough approximation of what he must have looked like. I wonder if you might recognise him.’

‘Let me see.’ Lord Hendry took the drawing from Colbeck and studied it for a full minute before shaking his head. ‘No, Inspector,’ he said at length. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t help you.’ He returned the paper. ‘Have you any idea at all who he might be?’

‘Not yet, my lord, but we will do before too long. Apart from anything else, someone is likely to report him missing.’ After folding the paper, Colbeck slipped it back into his pocket. ‘Well, thank you for seeing us,’ he said. ‘We won’t trouble you any further.’ Leeming’s attention had drifted back to the painting of the horse. ‘It’s time to go, Victor. Bid farewell to Odysseus.’

Prodded out of his reverie, the sergeant thanked Lord Hendry profusely before following Colbeck out. The cab was waiting for them outside the house and they clambered in. Colbeck was pensive but his companion was overcome with envy. As they drew away, the sergeant looked back over his shoulder.

‘What a wonderful existence!’ announced Leeming. ‘To live in a mansion like that and to own racehorses – it’s my notion of paradise. Lord Hendry was such an impressive gentleman in every way.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Colbeck. ‘A pity that he felt the need to lie to us.’

‘He struck me as an honest, straightforward man.’

‘You may revise that opinion when you go to Cambridge.’

Leeming spluttered. ‘Cambridge?’

‘I want you to find the hotel where Lord Hendry stayed.’

‘Why?’

‘Two reasons, Victor. I’d like to know how and when that hatbox was stolen. And I’d like you to get a good description of the woman posing as Lady Hendry.’

‘But she was Lady Hendry. You heard what he said, sir.’

‘What I heard was a man being evasive,’ said Colbeck. ‘If he really had been there with his wife, he’d have volunteered the name of the hotel instead of refusing to give it. And if he was going to the races in Newmarket, why not stay there instead of Cambridge?’

‘Perhaps the accommodation is better in Cambridge.’

‘It’s not the accommodation that interests me but the person with whom he was sharing it, the person for whom he bought that hat in Jermyn Street. Since we can’t get her name from Lord Hendry, we’ll have to find it by other means.’

Leeming sighed. ‘Do I have to take a train to Cambridge?’

‘Go on horseback, if you prefer. Emulate a king.’

‘What king?’

‘Charles II,’ said Colbeck. ‘He used to ride all the way to Newmarket to see the races then ride back to London again. That’s upwards of eighty miles in the saddle. Do you think you could manage that in a day, Victor?’

‘I’ll go by rail,’ conceded Leeming. ‘And I hope you’re wrong about Lord Hendry. He spoke so caringly about his wife that it never crossed my mind he might have a mistress.’

‘You’re too trusting, Victor.’

‘What other lies did he tell us?’

‘Wait and see.’

‘Am I to go to Cambridge on my own, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then how do I find the hotel where Lord Hendry stayed?’

‘By using your intelligence,’ said Colbeck. ‘Cambridge is a charming city but it won’t have many hotels where a member of the aristocracy would deign to stay. Eliminate them one by one.’

‘What about you, Inspector?’

‘Oh, have no fear. I’ll be on my travels as well – if I can persuade the superintendent to let me go there, that is.’

‘Go where?’

‘Ireland.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Superintendent Edward Tallis was pushed to the verge of apoplexy.

‘Ireland?’ he said. ‘You want to go to Ireland?’

‘With your permission, sir,’ said Robert Colbeck.

‘Denied.’

‘I haven’t given you my reasons yet.’

‘Save your breath, Inspector.’

‘I’m not making this request lightly, sir.’

‘And I’m not turning it down lightly,’ said Tallis, glaring at him. ‘Here you are, in the middle of a murder investigation, and you come up with some hare-brained scheme about crossing the Irish Sea.’

‘That’s where the answer may lie, Superintendent.’

‘Poppycock! When a severed head is found in Crewe and when the hatbox in which it was being transported was bought in London by someone who lives near Reigate, then I’d say we were dealing with an exclusively English murder.’

‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ said Colbeck.

‘It’s the only way of looking at it, Inspector.’

Arms folded, Tallis sat back heavily in his chair. They were in his office at Scotland Yard and he was not in an accommodating mood. If Colbeck had suggested sailing to America, he could not have met with a more resounding rebuff. It was time to delve into the murky reservoir of their past disagreements.

‘Do you happen to recall a murder that took place aboard a train in Twyford a couple of years ago?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Vividly.’

‘Then you may also recall how obstructive you were when I argued that the only way to solve a crime that took place in Berkshire was to travel to Ashford in Kent.’

‘I was not obstructive,’ said Tallis indignantly. ‘I was simply being cautious. When further evidence emerged, I saw the virtue of sending you to Kent.’

‘Where two separate murders were successfully solved.’

‘We can both take credit from that, Inspector.’

‘Let’s move on to the Sankey Viaduct, if we may,’ said Colbeck smoothly. ‘When a man was hurled over the viaduct from a moving train, you thought I was mad to insist that my investigations should begin in France.’

‘It seemed a lunatic course of action at the time.’

‘What was the result, sir?’

‘The killer was eventually tracked down and caught.’

‘You did everything in your power to stop me from sailing to France,’ said Colbeck. ‘The only way I finally wrung a concession out of you was by threatening to resign from the Detective Department.’

Tallis’s face darkened. ‘Where is all this leading?’

‘To the present situation – it’s comparable to the two cases I’ve just mentioned. When you trust my judgement, I secure arrests. When you block my initiatives, guilty men go free.’

‘The cases bear no resemblance to each other,’ Tallis said, waving a hand. ‘The murder victim at the Sankey Viaduct was a Parisian. There was a reasonable argument for moving the inquiry to France. As for the other victim, he was so closely linked to an execution at Maidstone Prison that I encouraged you to go to Kent.’

Colbeck’s memories were very different. In both instances, Tallis had hampered him at every stage of the investigation and only the inspector’s single-mindedness had enabled him to solve the respective crimes. The superintendent had deliberately rewritten history.

‘We have no proof whatsoever,’ Tallis continued, ‘that the murder victim discovered at Crewe has any discernible link with Ireland. You might just as well charge off to the Hebrides.’

‘I’d not find many racehorses there, sir.’

‘What?’

‘This crime is somehow connected to the Turf,’ said Colbeck with obvious conviction. ‘I feel it in my bones, Superintendent.’

‘Sciatica.’

‘It’s no accident that the hatbox in question was one purchased by Lord Hendry. He owns the favourite for the Derby.’

‘That information is irrelevant. I’m not a betting man.’

‘It might be advantageous for you to take an interest in this year’s race, sir. Three horses stand out from the listed starters – Odysseus, Merry Legs and – the one that fascinates me – Limerick Lad, an Irish horse.’

‘I abhor gambling in all its forms,’ said Tallis coldly, ‘and that’s not the only thing I have against the Derby. It’s a magnet for every criminal within a hundred miles. Year after year, pickpockets, prostitutes, fraudsters, ruffians and villains of every kind flock to Epsom Downs in search of rich pickings. Only a veritable army of policemen could keep them under control and we do not, alas, have such an army at our disposal. Don’t mention the Derby to me, Inspector,’ he went on, curling his lip. ‘If it was left to me, I’d cancel the whole disgraceful event.’

‘You’d cancel most things that people enjoy, sir.’

‘Large crowds mean constant crime.’

‘Abide by that argument and you’d stop every circus, fair and public celebration in London – not to mention royal processions.’

‘You’re being facetious.’

‘I’m questioning your prejudice against racing.’

‘I have no prejudice – I just oppose it wholeheartedly.’

‘Then I beg you to assign this case to someone else,’ said Colbeck abruptly. ‘Find someone who doesn’t have wild impulses like mine. Someone who believes that the crime has nothing whatsoever to do with the forthcoming Derby and who would therefore never imagine in a million years that a severed head found in Cheshire might be destined for Brian Dowd in Ireland.’

‘Who?’

‘Brian Dowd is the owner of Limerick Lad, sir. Unlike the vast majority of owners – Lord Hendry among them – he is also the horse’s trainer. However,’ he went on, getting to his feet, ‘none of this is germane to the investigation. The person who replaces me will conduct his enquiries exclusively on English soil.’

Edward Tallis glowered at him. Resisting the temptation to reach for a cigar, he weighed up the implications of what Colbeck had said. To replace the inspector would be as rash as it was foolish. Nobody commanded the respect of the London and North West Railway in the way that Colbeck did. He was revered and his knowledge of railway lore was unmatched. But that did not make him infallible. Colbeck had made mistakes in the past and Tallis was convinced that he was making the biggest of all now. He flung out a challenge.

‘Give me one good reason why I should send you to Ireland.’

‘Look at my copy of Bradshaw,’ suggested Colbeck.

‘Why?’

‘You’d see the choice of trains confronting the person who travelled with that stolen hatbox. One destination would catch your eye, sir – Holyhead. Fifteen minutes after leaving the train at Crewe, the man could have caught another to North Wales.’

‘This is idle supposition.’

‘Humour me, Superintendent.’

‘I’ve made that mistake before.’

‘Let me go to Ireland.’

‘It’s an unwarranted use of police money.’

‘Then I’ll pay for the trip myself,’ said Colbeck earnestly. ‘As long as you reimburse me when you discover that idle supposition can sometimes produce benefits.’

‘Not in this case,’ Tallis promised, asserting his authority. ‘Sound, solid, unrelenting detective work is the only way to achieve a good result and it must be done here in England where the crime occurred.’ When Colbeck tried to speak, he was silenced with a peremptory gesture. ‘I’ll hear no more, Inspector. Get out there and find me a killer – and don’t you dare mention Ireland to me again.’

There was a tap on the door. In response to a barked command from the superintendent, a young detective constable came in with a letter. After giving Colbeck a deferential smile, the newcomer handed the letter to Tallis.

‘This came from the coroner, sir,’ he said. ‘Marked urgent.’

‘Thank you.’

While the messenger went out, Tallis tore open the letter and took out the missive. His eyes widened with interest.

‘A headless body was hauled out of the Thames this morning,’ he explained, still reading it. ‘From its condition, it appears that it was in the water for a couple of days at least. Although it was hideously bloated, the coroner is certain that the body and the severed head belong to the same person.’

‘May I hazard a guess, Superintendent?’ asked Colbeck.

‘If you must.’

‘Is the man’s height given?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Then I guarantee that he’ll be no taller than five feet.’

Tallis blinked. ‘How did you know that?’

‘I suspect that he might be a jockey.’

‘His height is approximately four foot ten.’

After studying the letter again, Tallis put it aside and reached for a cigar. Deep in thought, he did not light it but rolled it slowly between his palms. He was reluctant to change his mind at the best of times, particularly where Robert Colbeck was involved, but he came to see that he had no choice. His voice dripped with rancour.

‘You did say you’d pay your own fare to Ireland, didn’t you?’

Colbeck beamed. ‘There and back, Superintendent.’

‘I’m still not persuaded, however,’ warned Tallis.

‘Then I’d better find the evidence that will bring you around to my point of view. Thank you, superintendent,’ he went on, moving happily to the door. ‘You won’t regret this decision.’

‘I wasn’t aware that I’d made one,’ grumbled the other.

Then he lit his cigar and puffed on it with a vengeance.

Victor Leeming surprised himself. For the first time in his life, he almost enjoyed a train journey. Though he was travelling away from London, he had the comfort of knowing that he would be able to return to his family that night and shake off the memory of his two unsought trips on the railway. Cambridge was within comparatively easy reach of the capital and he realised how beautiful the scenery was on the way there. As the train maintained a steady speed through open country, Leeming observed how effortlessly it overtook coaches and carts rumbling along roads that, from time to time, ran parallel with the line. By the time he reached his destination, he was compelled to admit that the railway did, after all, have its advantages.

Renowned for its university, Cambridge was also a thriving market town that brought people in from a wide area. While students inhabited the cloistered calm of the colleges or sought more boisterous pleasures on the playing fields, the narrow streets were thronged with local residents, visitors and the occasional beggar soliciting money from both. Having no inclination in that direction himself, Leeming had always been daunted by Cambridge’s reputation for scholarship. In reality, it was not at all intimidating. To his relief, he found it a warm, welcoming, friendly place filled with what he deemed were refreshingly ordinary people.

Cambridge was small enough to explore on foot and replete with such wonderful medieval architecture that even the sergeant stopped to gape from time to time. There were a number of hotels but, as Colbeck had predicted, not all of them would have attracted someone like Lord Hendry, especially if he was there with someone other than his wife. Comfort and discretion would be the qualities he would expect from his accommodation. It took Leeming less than half an hour to find the establishment. After three failed attempts, he finally located the hotel he was after, a half-timbered building from the late Elizabethan period with a recently painted exterior and a sagging charm. Situated in a quiet street, the Angel Hotel offered a compound of luxury, tradition and quality service.

When he asked to see the manager, Leeming was taken to a low-ceilinged room that served as an office and obliged Neville Hindmarsh to duck as he rose to his feet behind his desk. Had the sergeant not already have removed his top hat, it would have been scythed from his head by one of the solid oak beams. Unsettled by a visit from a Scotland Yard detective, the manager waved him anxiously to a seat before resuming his own.

‘What brings you all the way from London?’ he inquired.

‘We’re involved in an investigation, sir,’ replied Leeming, ‘and the name of this hotel cropped up in the course of it.’

‘And what exactly are you investigating?’

‘A murder.’

Hindmarsh gulped. He was an exceptionally tall man in his forties, lean, long-faced and with a studious air. He looked less like the manager of a hotel than the Fellow of a nearby college who had wandered absent-mindedly into the building after mistaking it for the Senior Common Room. When the sergeant explained that he wanted to know more detail about the theft of a hatbox, Hindmarsh blushed as if being accused of the crime himself. He needed a moment to compose himself.

‘I think you’ve been misinformed, Sergeant,’ he said.

‘Really?’

‘No hatbox – or any other item, for that matter – was stolen from this hotel. We pride ourselves on the security we offer our guests. It’s a major reason why many of them return to us again and again.’

Leeming was puzzled. ‘Nothing was stolen?’

‘If it had been, it would have been reported to the police.’

‘Lord Hendry assured us that the theft occurred here and he would surely know. You do recall the recent visit he and his wife made here?’

‘Very clearly.’

‘Then why does his version of events differ from yours?’

‘I can’t answer that,’ said Hindmarsh nervously. ‘What I can tell you categorically is that the hatbox was not taken on these premises. I distinctly remember seeing Lady Hendry depart with it.’

‘Oh?’

‘I was standing by the door to bid her farewell when the porter carried it out to the cab. Lady Hendry arrived with one hatbox and left with it. I’d take my Bible oath on that.’

‘I can’t believe that her husband deliberately misled us.’

‘I’m sure it was an honest mistake,’ said Hindmarch, groping for an explanation. ‘Perhaps the item was stolen at the railway station. Unfortunately, we’ve had luggage taken from there before. When he mentioned this hotel, Lord Hendry could have been hazarding a guess. After all, he was not here at the time.’

‘That’s odd,’ said Leeming. ‘Where else would he be?’

‘At the races in Newmarket.’

‘What about Lady Hendry?’

‘She remained here for a while then left to catch an afternoon train. Lady Hendry had all of the luggage she had brought.’

‘How long did they stay at the Angel?’

‘They booked in for three nights, Sergeant Leeming. In the event, they only stayed for one.’

‘Why was that, sir?’

‘Not because of any shortcomings on our part,’ said Hindmarsh quickly. ‘Lady Hendry’s sudden departure was quite unexpected. When her husband got back from Newmarket, he was astonished that she was not here. After paying the bill, he left immediately.’

‘Did you find that behaviour rather strange?’

‘It’s not for me to say, Sergeant.’

‘Have Lord and Lady Hendry ever stayed here before?’

‘Yes,’ said Hindmarsh. ‘On two previous occasions.’

‘When there were races at Newmarket?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Did his wife accompany Lord Hendry to the races?’

‘No, sergeant – Lady Hendry always remained at the hotel.’

‘Does she have no interest in the Turf?’

‘Who knows, sir?’

‘You must have speculated on the reason.’

‘When guests book a room here,’ said Hindmarsh tactfully, ‘they can come and go as they wish. I do not keep an eye on them or pry into their private lives.’

Leeming was not hindered by any restraints. He was employed to pry. There was one obvious reason why the woman posing as Lady Hendry did not go to Newmarket. Lord Hendry was a familiar figure at any racecourse. Had he been seen flaunting his mistress, word would certainly have trickled back to his wife. Colbeck’s theory about the Lady Hendry with the hatbox had now turned into hard fact. The sergeant took out his notebook then licked the end of his pencil.

‘I need your assistance, Mr Hindmarsh,’ he said with what he hoped was a disarming smile, ‘and I don’t think you’ll be breaking a confidence in giving it to me.’

The manager was suspicious. ‘What kind of assistance?’

‘I want you to describe Lady Hendry to me.’

When he finished work that evening, Caleb Andrews paid his customary visit to a tavern frequented by railwaymen. He enjoyed an hour’s badinage with friends, a couple of pints of beer and, by dint of winning two games of dominoes, he did not even have to pay for the alcohol. As he sauntered home towards Camden, therefore, he was cheerful and the mood continued when he reached his house and found that Madeleine had supper waiting for him.

‘You’re back early for a change,’ she observed, giving him a token kiss of welcome. ‘Did you have a good day?’

‘Yes, Maddy – I’ve been to Crewe and back again.’

‘You must know every inch of that line.’

‘I could drive it in my sleep.’

‘Well, I hope I’m not a passenger when you do it.’ They shared a laugh and sat down at the table. ‘And thank you for coming back while I’m still up. It makes a big difference.’

‘I stopped playing dominoes while I was still winning.’

‘We could have a game afterwards, if you like.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Andrews, raising both hands as if to ward her off. ‘You have the luck of the devil whenever we play a game together. Cards, dominoes, draughts – it’s always the same. You manage to beat me every time somehow.’

Madeleine grinned. ‘I had an excellent teacher.’

‘It was a mistake to teach you at all.’ He forked some food into his mouth. ‘What have you been doing all day, Maddy?’

‘Working and reading.’

‘Have you started your latest painting yet?’

‘I’ve done a pen-and-ink sketch, that’s all.’

‘Will I be in this one?’

‘No, Father – just the locomotive.’

‘It has to have a driver,’ he complained.

‘Figures are my weak spot. I try to leave them out.’

He munched disconsolately. ‘What have you been reading?’

‘All sorts of interesting things,’ she said chirpily. ‘Robert lent me some books. He has hundreds of them in his library.’

‘I’m glad you mentioned Inspector Colbeck,’ he said, swallowing a piece of bread and washing it down with a sip of tea. ‘Next time he gets in touch, tell him I need to speak to him.’

‘What about?’

‘That severed head, of course. I’ve been thinking about it a lot and I’ve got an idea of what might have happened.’

‘Why not leave the detection to Robert?’

‘He’s always grateful for help from the public.’

‘Only if it’s useful to him.’

‘Well, this will be, Maddy,’ he argued. ‘I’ve worked it out, see? It was a crime of passion. A married woman who lives in Crewe betrayed her husband with a young man from London. The husband was so angry that he took his wife’s hatbox to London – I may even have been driving the train that took him there – and killed the lover before cutting his head off. Then he took it back to Crewe to give to his wife.’

Madeleine grimaced. ‘That’s a horrible story!’

‘It could also be a true one.’

‘I doubt that very much, Father.’

‘Let the Inspector be the judge of that.’

‘He already has been.’

‘I know I’m right, Maddy. I’ve solved the crime for him.’

‘If that were the case,’ she said, ‘Robert would be grateful. But he has his own notions about the murder. To start with, that hatbox was not going to Crewe at all.’

‘It had to be – that’s where it was unloaded.’

‘Only so that it could be transferred to another train.’

‘You know nothing,’ he said, irritated at the way she dismissed his idea. ‘I’ve put a lot of thought into this. It was a crime of passion.’

‘Robert has discovered who owned that hatbox.’

‘An unfaithful wife in Crewe.’

‘Someone who lives in Surrey,’ she explained. ‘He gave me no details but he’s picked up clues that are sending him off in another direction altogether.’

Andrews was hurt. ‘You’ve discussed the case with him?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Why didn’t you keep him here until I came back? You know how keen I am to help, Maddy. I’m a bit of a detective myself.’

‘Robert didn’t call here,’ she said, ‘but he sent me a short note to say that he’d be away for a few days and would speak to me when he came back.’

‘Where has he gone – back to Crewe?’

‘Yes, Father.’

He clapped his hands. ‘I knew it!’

‘But only to change trains, I’m afraid,’ Madeleine went on. ‘He was planning to spend the night at Holyhead before catching the morning tide tomorrow.’

He was startled. ‘Where, in God’s name, is the man going?’

‘Ireland.’

Robert Colbeck’s passionate interest in railways was not only based on the fact that they could get him from one place to another quicker than any other means of transport. They also gave him a privileged view of town and country that he would never have got from a coach, and he always saw something new to admire even on lines he had used many times. After leaving Euston on the LNWR, he changed trains at Crewe, had a few cheering words with Reginald Hibbert, now restored to his job as a porter at the station, then went along the North Wales coast by courtesy of the Chester and Holyhead Railway, a line built specifically to carry the Irish mail. Some of the panoramas that unfolded before him were stunning – dramatic seascapes, sweeping bays, craggy headland, sandy beaches and long, scenic stretches of unspoilt countryside. The train hugged the coast until it reached Bangor where it gave Colbeck an experience he had been looking forward to since the moment of his departure.

He had read a great deal about the Britannia Tubular Bridge over the Menai Straits and recognised it as one of the most significant advances in railway engineering. With only existing rock for intermediate support, the bridge had to span a gap of over 450 feet that could not be traversed by suspension techniques used elsewhere. Five years in construction, the Britannia Bridge comprised two very stiff rectangular wrought-iron tubes with cellular tops and bottoms to increase rigidity. With a novel application of beam action, the tubes were made to act as continuous girders over five spans. When it was finally opened in 1850, the bridge was daring, innovative and an instant success.

Colbeck was unable to appreciate its finer points as he crossed the bridge but he felt an excitement as they entered the tube and liked the way that the clamour of the train was suddenly amplified. By the time he reached Holyhead, he had travelled 84 miles on the CHR and had relished every moment of it. Having obtained the monopoly to carry mail by land, the company had hoped to extend this to sea and had secured the powers to own and operate steamships. To their utter dismay, however, the CHR failed to win the contract for taking the mail across the Irish Sea.

When he sailed on the following morning, therefore, Colbeck did so on a vessel owned by the City of Dublin Steam Packet Company. The first thing he noticed was that far more passengers poured off the incoming steamer than actually went aboard. Emigration from Ireland had reached its peak in the previous decade when a succession of disastrous harvests had driven hundreds of thousands out of their native land. Though the process had slowed markedly, it still continued as whole families left the poverty and hunger of Ireland in the hope of finding a better life in England or beyond its shores.

The sea was choppy and the crossing uncomfortable. Gulls accompanied them all the way and kept up a mocking chorus as they dived and wheeled incessantly around the vessel. Colbeck was glad when they eventually entered the relative calm of the harbour and when he was able to step onto dry land again. He would have been interested to travel on an Irish railway but it was not possible. The place he was visiting was not accessible by rail and was, in any case, only a twenty-minute ride by cab from Dublin.

Though vast numbers had fled Ireland, not all of those who remained lived in the squalor and penury that had driven the others away. The capital city was full of beautiful Georgian properties and fine civic buildings and there was ample evidence of prosperity at every turn. Ireland had its fair share of wealthy men and, judging by the mansion in which he lived, Brian Dowd was one of them. Set in a hundred acres of parkland, the house was an impressive piece of Regency architecture that stood four-square on a plateau and commanded inspiring views on every side. At its rear was the extensive stable block that Colbeck had come to visit.

He had no difficulty picking out Brian Dowd. Standing in the middle of the yard, the racehorse owner and trainer was a bull-necked man in his fifties with a solid frame and a gnarled face. He wore an old jacket, mud-spattered trousers and a bowler hat. Yelling orders to all and sundry, he had a natural authority that gained him unquestioning obedience. Colbeck ran an eye along the stalls and guessed that at least thirty racehorses were kept there. He walked across to Dowd and introduced himself. The Irishman laughed affably.

‘Have you come to arrest me, then, Inspector?’ he taunted. ‘Since when has there been a law against breeding a Derby winner?’

‘It doesn’t exist, Mr Dowd. Over the years, Parliament has put many absurd pieces of legislation in the statute book but it’s far too fond of racing even to contemplate such a ridiculous law as that.’ He shook hands with Dowd and felt the strength of his grip. ‘No, I come on a different errand.’

‘Pleasant or unpleasant?’

‘Unpleasant, I fear.’

‘Then let’s discuss this over a drink.’

He led Colbeck to an office at the edge of the stable block and took him in. Horses dominated the little room. Every wall was covered with paintings of them and their smell pervaded the whole place. Equine memorabilia covered the desk. While his visitor removed his top hat and looked around, Dowd produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from a cupboard. He poured the liquid out generously.

‘Irish whiskey,’ he said bluntly. ‘Never touch any other.’

‘That suits me, Mr Dowd,’ said Colbeck, taking a glass from him with a nod of gratitude. ‘We had a rough crossing. I need something to settle my stomach.’ He sampled his drink. ‘Excellent.’

‘You’ll not find better in the whole of the Emerald Isle.’

‘It was worth the long journey just to taste this.’

‘You’re a good liar.’

Colbeck smiled. ‘Part of my stock-in-trade.’

‘Sit yourself down, Inspector.’

‘Thank you.’

Putting his hat aside, Colbeck lowered himself into a chair and Dowd perched on the edge of his desk. As they sipped their drinks, each weighed the other man up. The Irishman had a friendly grin but his gaze was shrewd and calculating. Nobody as elegant and as quintessentially urban as Colbeck had ever been in the office before and he looked distinctly incongruous. That did not disturb the visitor in any way. He was relaxed and self-assured. Dowd had another sip of whiskey and savoured its taste before speaking.

‘So what’s this all about, Inspector Colbeck?’ he asked.

‘A murder, sir.’

‘Murder? I don’t like the sound of that.’

‘I’m hoping that you may be able to help me solve the crime.’

‘I’d gladly do so, my friend, but I don’t rightly see how. I’m no policeman. This murder happened in England, I take it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And who was the victim?’

‘We’re not certain,’ said Colbeck, putting his glass on the desk so that he could take a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘I got an artist to draw a rough portrait of the young man.’ He unfolded the paper and handed it over. ‘I came here in search of his identity.’

Eyes gleaming and brow corrugated, Brian Dowd looked at the drawing with great concentration. He took a long time to reach a decision and even then he qualified it.

‘I could be wrong, mind you,’ he cautioned.

‘But you think you recognise him?’

‘I might do. It’s like the lad in one way, then again it isn’t.’

‘Make allowances for the fact that the face was distorted in death,’ said Colbeck. ‘When the artist drew this, by the way, he only had the head to work from. The body was hauled out of the Thames long after he’d finished.’

Dowd was aghast. ‘The lad was beheaded?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Dear God!’ exclaimed the other. ‘What monster did that?’

Colbeck explained the circumstances in which the head had been found and how the hatbox had been linked to Lord Hendry. The more the inspector spoke, the more convinced Dowd became that he knew the deceased. Folding the paper, he gave it back.

‘His name is John Feeny.’

‘Are you sure?’ pressed Colbeck.

‘Pretty sure – he used to work for me.’

‘As a jockey?’

‘No, Inspector,’ replied Dowd, ‘it was as a groom. That was the reason we fell out. John thought he had the makings of a jockey. I told him straight that he wasn’t good enough.’

‘What did he do?’

‘What any lad with real mettle would’ve done – he went off in search of a job at another stables. He’d no family here to turn to so he sailed off to try his luck in England.’

‘Did you keep in touch with him?’

‘I’d no reason to, Inspector. One of my other lads did, though. John Feeny couldn’t read or write but he got someone to send a letter or two on his behalf. Things were tough at first but he found a job in the end. He even boasted he’d soon be a jockey.’

‘That will never happen now,’ said Colbeck sadly.

‘No – and it’s a crying shame.’ He smacked his thigh. ‘Jesus, I feel so guilty! I wish I’d kept him here and given him a chance in the saddle. But,’ he added with a deep sigh, ‘it wouldn’t have been fair to other lads with more talent as riders. John Feeny was never strong enough or ruthless enough to make a living as a jockey.’

‘Could I speak to the person who kept in touch with him?’

‘Of course – his name is Jerry Doyle.’

‘Did he tell you which stables Feeny was working at?’

‘He did, Inspector – I had a vested interest in knowing.’

‘Did they happen to belong to Lord Hendry?’ When the Irishman shook his head, Colbeck was disappointed. ‘I obviously made the wrong assumption.’

‘In the world of racing,’ said Dowd sagely before gulping down more whiskey, ‘you should never make assumptions of any kind. It’s far too dangerous, Inspector.’

‘I can see that.’

‘It was a big decision for someone like John to go to England but the lad seemed to have fallen on his feet.’

‘For whom was he working?’

‘Hamilton Fido.’

‘The bookmaker?’

‘There’s only one Mr Fido in this game,’ said Dowd bitterly, ‘and that’s one too many in my book. The man is as slippery as an eel and as vicious as a polecat. He gives racing a bad name. He ought to be drummed out of it in disgrace.’

‘You and he are clearly not on the best of terms.’

‘We’re not on any kind of terms, Inspector.’

‘Mr Fido has a horse running in the Derby – Merry Legs.’

‘She’ll be left standing by Limerick Lad.’

‘Odysseus is the favourite.’

‘Not from where I stand,’ asserted Dowd, ‘and I’ve spent my whole life around racehorses. I’ve seen both Odysseus and Merry Legs at their best. Neither of them cause me any worry.’

‘Let’s go back to John Feeny,’ said Colbeck, reclaiming his glass from the desk. ‘I believe that severed head was destined to come here. It could have been sent to you as a warning.’

‘I agree, Inspector.’

‘Someone is trying to frighten you off.’

‘It was a message for me,’ said Dowd grimly, ‘no question about that. Because he used to work here at one time, John Feeny was suspected of being a spy. Someone thought he’d been planted in the stables so that he could feed back information to me about a leading Derby contender. Since I was seen as the villain, they tried to send a piece of the lad back here to give me a scare.’

‘That means Hamilton Fido is somehow involved.’

‘He’s your killer, Inspector. He’s such a cruel bastard that he’d enjoy cutting off someone’s head. Go back and arrest him.’

‘It may not be as simple as that, Mr Dowd,’ said Colbeck. ‘From what I’ve heard of Mr Fido, he’s devious and manipulative. He’d get someone else to do his dirty work for him and make sure that he kept his hands clean. In any case, we’ve no proof that he’s in any way connected to the crime. But let me return to this charge of spying,’ he continued. ‘When a major race is coming up, there must be a lot of that sort of thing going on.’

‘We all like to know as much as we can about the competition.’

‘How would you find out about Merry Legs and Odysseus?’

‘Not by putting a lad like that in someone’s stables,’ retorted Dowd. ‘I didn’t send him off to his death, Inspector, so don’t look to accuse me. I told you what happened. John Feeny left of his own accord. I wished him well before he went and gave him twice what I owed him. You can ask Jerry Doyle – or anyone else, for that matter.’

‘I take your word for it, sir.’

‘The man you’re after is Hamilton Fido.’

‘I’ll speak with him at the earliest opportunity,’ said Colbeck, taking a longer sip of his whiskey. ‘If he’s capable of murder, he’ll clearly stop at nothing to win the Derby.’

‘Nothing at all.’

‘I hope you’ve taken extra precautions to protect Limerick Lad.’

‘Don’t trouble yourself on that score.’

‘Mr Fido – or your other rivals – might have someone watching these stables and biding their time until they can strike.’

‘We took that into account, Inspector Colbeck.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘As I told you,’ said Dowd, looking him in the eye, ‘racing has been my life. There’s not a dirty trick or a clever ruse I haven’t seen ten times over. On the night before a big race, I’ve often slept on the straw beside one of my horses with a loaded shotgun. Nobody has ever managed to cause serious injury to one of my animals.’

‘They killed one of your former grooms.’

‘John Feeny was an innocent victim – God save his soul!’

‘How can you be sure they won’t strike at Limerick Lad next?’ said Colbeck. ‘You’ve a long journey ahead of you. There’ll be plenty of opportunities to attack him on the way. When do you leave?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘I’ll be happy to come with you to act as a guard.’

‘Kind of you to offer, Inspector,’ said Dowd, ‘but it won’t be necessary. We’ll travel on our own, if you don’t mind. And don’t worry about my horse. It’s quite impossible for anyone to get at Limerick Lad on the way to England.’

‘Not if someone is desperate enough.’

‘That’d make no difference.’

‘Have you forgotten what happened to John Feeny?’

‘No, I haven’t,’ said Dowd soulfully, ‘and I’ll do everything in my power to help you catch his killer. It’s the least I can do for the boy. But I still have no concerns about Limerick Lad.’

‘Why not?’

‘For reasons of safety, he was taken to England days ago. Until the Derby, he’s being kept in a secret location.’ Dowd grinned broadly. ‘I wouldn’t tell my own mother where we’ve got him hidden.’

CHAPTER FIVE

When he eventually returned to London, it was too late for Victor Leeming to report to the superintendent so he was glad to postpone that unappealing duty until the following day. There was a further delay. Edward Tallis spent all morning at a meeting with the commissioner. It was not until early afternoon that Leeming was able to speak to the superintendent. He approached the office with trepidation. Robert Colbeck enjoyed sparring with Tallis and welcomed their encounters. Leeming viewed them as nerve-racking ordeals. With the inspector beside him, he could put on a brave face at such interviews. When he had to confront the superintendent alone and unaided, he quailed inwardly.

Plucking up his courage, the sergeant knocked on the door. The invitation for him to enter was an angry bellow. Superintendent Tallis, it appeared, was not at his most docile. Leeming went in.

‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ said Tallis irritably. ‘What kept you?’

‘Nothing, sir…that is…I mean…well, you see…’

‘Spare me your excuses, sergeant. I know from past experience that they’ll be embarrassingly weak. What do you have to report?’

‘I went to Cambridge yesterday,’ said Leeming.

‘That much I know. Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘It’s a very pleasant place, Superintendent.’

‘I don’t want a guided tour of the town,’ snapped Tallis. ‘I want to hear what evidence you managed to gather.’

‘Ah, yes.’

‘Take a seat while you give it.’

Leeming sat down. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Consulting his notebook throughout, he gave a halting account of his visit to the Angel Hotel and explained that the hatbox had not been stolen from there. When Leeming passed on a description of the woman who had stayed in Cambridge with Lord Hendry, the superintendent’s eyebrows went up and down like a pair of dancing caterpillars. A note of moral outrage came into his voice.

‘That does not sound like his lawful wife.’

‘She was so much younger than him, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘The inspector was certain that the real Lady Hendry had not been at that hotel. He sensed it from the start.’

‘Let’s forget Inspector Colbeck for a moment, shall we?’ said Tallis with a sniff. ‘All that interests me at this juncture is what you found out about that hatbox.’

‘It must have been stolen elsewhere.’

‘Then why did Lord Hendry lie about it?’

‘I intend to ask him that very question, sir.’

‘No, no – don’t do that. We don’t want Lord Hendry to know that we’ve found him out. That will only throw him on the defensive. Also, of course,’ he went on, stroking his moustache, ‘the fact that he and a certain person spent the night together may have nothing whatsoever to do with the crime we are investigating.’

‘Inspector Colbeck felt that it did.’

‘I told you to keep him out of this.’

‘But he’s usually right about such things, sir.’

‘We have to tread very carefully,’ insisted Tallis, thinking it through. ‘Lord Hendry has misled two officers of the law and I deprecate that but it is not, at this stage, an offence that renders him liable to arrest. It may well be that this so-called “Lady Hendry” told him that the hatbox was stolen from that hotel. What she said to him was thus passed on to you in good faith. Conceivably, he may be the victim of her deception.’

‘His wife is the real victim here,’ noted Leeming.

Tallis nodded. ‘One of the many perils of marriage.’

‘It has its compensations, sir.’

‘How can you compensate for adultery?’

‘That’s not what I meant, Superintendent. Because one man goes astray, it doesn’t mean that marriage itself is at fault. There’s nothing so wonderful as being joined together in holy matrimony. Family life is a joy to me.’

‘We are not talking about you, Leeming.’

‘You seemed to be criticising the whole idea of marriage.’

‘I was,’ said Tallis vehemently, ‘and I’ll continue to do so. Lord Hendry’s case is only one of thousands. All over London, husbands and wives readily forget the vows they took so solemnly at the altar. If adultery were made the crime that it should be, every gaol in the country would be bursting at the seams.’

‘For every bad marriage, there are dozens of good ones.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It stands to reason, sir.’

‘Then why do we have to deal with so much domestic strife? Policemen in some parts of the city seem to spend half their time stopping married couples from trying to kill each other. Wives have been bludgeoned to death. Husbands have been poisoned. Unwanted children have had their throats cut.’

‘We only get to see the worst cases, superintendent.’

‘They show the defects of the institution of marriage.’

Victor Leeming bit back what he was going to say. Arguing with the superintendent was never advisable. He decided that it was better to weather the storm of Tallis’s vituperation in silence. The tirade against holy matrimony went on for a few minutes then came to an abrupt stop.

‘Where were we?’ demanded Tallis.

‘You thought Lord Hendry might be the victim of deception, sir.’

‘It’s a possibility we have to consider.’

‘What we need to find out is who that other Lady Hendry was.’

‘I doubt very much if he would volunteer the information.’

‘Since the hatbox belonged to her,’ said Leeming, ‘it may even be that she was a party to the conspiracy to murder. She only pretended that the item was stolen.’

‘That would implicate Lord Hendry as well.’

‘Not necessarily, sir.’

‘You met him – what manner of man was he?’

‘Exactly what you’d expect of a lord, sir,’ recalled Leeming, pulling at an ear lobe. ‘He was dignified, well spoken and a bit too haughty for my liking. He seemed honest enough to me until Inspector Colbeck pointed out something I’d missed. Lord Hendry was a proper gentleman.’ He became confidential. ‘And the best thing about the visit was that he told us who’d win the Derby. I know where to put my money now.’

Tallis scowled. ‘You intend to place a bet, Sergeant?’

‘Just a small amount, sir.’

‘I don’t care if it’s only a brass farthing. Gambling is sinful. Think what a bad example you’re setting.’

‘Everyone bets on the Derby.’

‘I don’t and nor should you.’

‘Why not, Superintendent?’

‘Because it only encourages crime,’ said Tallis. ‘Bookmakers are, by definition, thoroughgoing villains. They rig the betting so that they can never lose and they exploit gullible fools like you. They’re a despicable breed who should be hung in chains and left to rot.’

Leeming was roused. ‘Betting is harmless fun, sir.’

‘It’s a foul disease.’

‘People are entitled to dream.’

‘Not if their dreams have a selfish foundation. That’s what gambling is about, sergeant – investing little money in the hope of making a large amount. Work!’ declared the superintendent, pounding his desk with a fist. ‘That’s the only decent way to acquire money.’

‘But when people have worked,’ said Leeming, stung by the blanket condemnation of gambling, ‘they’re entitled to spend it how they wish. Betting on the Derby is a tradition.’

‘A very bad tradition.’

‘Wanting to win is a normal human urge, sir.’

‘But common sense tells you that the overwhelming majority of people will lose. All that gambling does is to fill up debtors’ prisons. In the case of the Derby, it’s part of the whole ugly panoply of crime.’

‘What’s criminal about putting a few shillings on a horse?’

‘You’re helping to fund a national scandal,’ said Tallis, raising his voice and gesticulating as he warmed to his theme. ‘What are the constituent elements of the Derby? I’ll tell you, Sergeant. Violence, theft, deceit, drunkenness, gluttony, gambling and sexual licence – all played out against a background of loud music, bawling crowds and a loss of inhibition that would make any true Christian weep.’

‘I like to think I’m a true Christian,’ said Leeming meekly.

‘Then why do you condone this annual saturnalia?’

‘All I want to do is to put money on Odysseus.’

‘Off-course betting was banned last year. Surely, you’re not intending to go to Epsom for the express purpose of being tricked by a bookmaker?’ He saw Leeming shrink back in his chair. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of flouting the law by indulging in illegal betting.’

‘It would never cross mind, sir,’ said Leeming hastily, wishing that he had held his peace. He sought a means of escape. ‘Thank you, Superintendent – you’ve talked me out of it.’

‘At least, some good may have come out of this conversation.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Let’s put the Derby from our minds, shall we?’

‘But this murder is connected to the race.’

‘Inspector Colbeck is the only person who thinks that.’

‘I agree with him,’ said the sergeant loyally. ‘There’s a huge amount of money at stake, sir. Whenever that happens, you’ll always have corruption of some sort or other.’

‘That’s exactly what I’ve been saying.’

‘The inspector wouldn’t have gone to Ireland on a whim.’

‘I reserve my judgement on that particular venture,’ said Tallis coolly. ‘I still fear that it may have been a wild goose. While we’re waiting for Inspector Colbeck to return from his unnecessary visit to Ireland, exercise your mind with this question – what is the name of the bogus Lady Hendry?’

Lord Hendry was not known for his patience. He was accustomed to getting what he wanted when he needed it. Waiting quietly was an alien concept to him. Instead of relaxing in a chair, he paced the room like a caged animal, checked his watch every few minutes and kept pulling back the curtain to look out into the street below. The time arranged for the meeting came and went. Half an hour soon scudded past. His impatience gave way to a cold anger that was, in turn, replaced by a burning desire for revenge. When he saw that it was an hour past the appointed time, he could stand the suspense no longer. Snatching up his hat, he moved towards the door. Before he reached it, however, someone tapped on the other side.

Torn between rage and hope, he flung open the door.

She had come at last.

‘Where on earth have you been?’ he demanded.

‘I was unavoidably detained.’

‘By whom?’

‘If you’ll let me in,’ she said with an appeasing smile, ‘then I might be able to explain.’ He stepped aside so that she could enter the room then shut the door. ‘First of all, let me apologise.’

‘You’re an hour late, Kitty!’

‘Be grateful that I came at all. When I got your letter, my first instinct was to burn it along with all the others. It was only after calm reflection that I felt you deserved the right to see me.’

‘I told you how important it was.’

‘Important to you, George,’ she said with mock sweetness, ‘but not quite so important to me, I suspect. Before we go any further, let me make one thing crystal clear. If the purpose of this meeting is to make overtures to me, then I may as well leave immediately. After what happened between us, I could never countenance a return to our earlier situation.’

Kitty Lavender glanced around the room with mingled distaste and nostalgia. They were in the London hotel where their romance had first started and it aroused mixed emotions in her. She was a graceful woman in her twenties with a startling beauty that was enhanced by exquisite clothing. Her blonde ringlets hung around the flower-trimmed edges of a poke bonnet. Kitty Lavender had the bearing and assurance of an aristocrat even though she had been born much lower down the social scale. In spite of himself, Lord Hendry felt the pull of an old affection.

‘You look positively divine,’ he said, appraising her with a smile.

She stiffened. ‘I need no compliments,’ she said frostily.

‘At least, take a seat while you’re here.’

‘I’ll not be staying.’

‘Doesn’t this room bring back memories?’

‘Ones that I’d prefer to forget.’

‘Have it your way,’ he said, reverting to a subdued fury. ‘I asked you here for one reason only. What happened to that hatbox I bought you in Jermyn Street?’

‘Hatbox!’ she echoed with a splutter. ‘You brought me all the way here to talk about a hatbox?’

‘Yes, I did – and you won’t leave until I know the truth.’

Kitty bridled. ‘You can’t keep me against my will.’

‘I’ll do as I wish.’

‘Stand aside,’ she ordered as he put his back against the door. ‘If you don’t do so at once, I shall call for help.’

‘Answer my question, Kitty – or would you rather have it put to you by the police? I’ve already had them banging on my door.’

‘The police?’

‘Two detectives from Scotland Yard.’

She was mystified. ‘And they asked you about my hatbox?’

‘It’s taken on a gruesome significance,’ he told her. ‘It was found at Crewe railway station with a severed head inside it.’

She opened her mouth to emit a silent scream of horror then she slumped onto a chair. Seeing her distress, he tried to put a consoling hand on her shoulder but she waved him away. Kitty Lavender pulled out a delicate lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. It was some time before she was able to collect herself.

‘Can this be true, George?’ she asked.

‘Unfortunately, it can.’

‘But how did they know it was my hatbox?’

‘The milliner’s name was inside. Inspector Colbeck visited him and discovered who purchased it. That brought the inspector to me.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘The same as I told that posturing ninny Elijah Swinnerton – that I was buying the hat and hatbox for my wife. To get rid of him, I said that it had been stolen from that hotel in Cambridge.’

‘Supposing that he checks your story?’

‘There’s no chance of that,’ he said confidently. ‘Besides, I made sure that I didn’t give him the name of the hotel. But the fact remains that your hatbox was responsible for the police visit. It was highly disturbing, Kitty. Had I not been there, Caroline might have spoken to them and discovered what I had been doing in Jermyn Street. That would have been a catastrophe.’

‘It’s your own fault for buying gifts for another woman.’

‘You wanted that hat.’

‘I did – it was perfect for me.’

‘At the time, I was happy to get it for you, Now, however,’ he went on, ‘I wish I’d never gone anywhere near that confounded shop.’

‘Near the shop – or near to me?’

Their eyes locked and he felt a surge of affection. Though they had parted acrimoniously, he had not forgotten the intimacies he had once shared with her in that very room. He tried to read her thoughts but could no longer do so. Uncertain whether she was teasing him or flirting with him, he dared to believe that it might be the latter. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the bed in which they had spent their first night together.

‘I never regretted being near to you, Kitty.’

‘That’s not what you said the last time we met.’

‘I was provoked, as you well know.’

‘So was I, George.’

She held his gaze a little longer then stood up to walk past him. Whatever lingering fondness he felt for her, it was not requited. All that Kitty could think about was the hatbox.

‘You were not so far from the truth,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘As it happens, the hatbox was stolen from a hotel but it was not the one where we stayed in Cambridge.’

‘Which hotel was it?’ he asked.

‘That’s of no concern to you.’

‘It’s of every concern, Kitty. A hatbox that I bought as a present is at the centre of a murder investigation. I want to know exactly what happened to it.’

‘So do I, George.’

‘What was the name of the hotel?’

‘I’m not telling you.’

‘And I suppose you won’t tell me the name of the man who took you there either, will you?’ he said nastily. ‘What did he have to buy you to win your favours?’

She struck a pose. ‘I’m saying nothing.’

‘Was the hotel in London?’

‘Nothing whatsoever.’

‘Oh, no,’ he gasped as realisation hit him with the force of a blow. ‘Please don’t tell me that it was here – in our hotel. Even you would never sink that low, Kitty.’

‘I must be on my way.’

‘Then it was here.’

‘It was a mistake to meet you again. I should have had the sense to foresee that.’ She moved away. ‘Goodbye, George.’

‘But the conversation is not over yet.’

‘Yes, it is – for good.’

‘There are still things to discuss.’

‘Not any more.’

‘You haven’t explained why you were so late.’

‘No,’ she said with utter disdain. ‘I haven’t, have I?’

With a tinkle of laughter, Kitty Lavender went out of the room and left the door wide open. Lord Hendry was mortified.

Madeleine Andrews had had a full day. After doing her domestic chores, she had visited the market to buy food then spent several hours on her painting of a Crampton locomotive. It was only when light began to fade in the early evening that she put her easel aside. After cooking herself a meal, she gave herself the pleasure of starting a new book. Borrowed from Robert Colbeck, it had been warmly recommended by him. As she settled down beside the lamp, it occurred to her that she was probably the only woman in London who was reading John Francis’s History of the English Railway; Its Social Relations and Revelations (1820–45).

The writing was lively and the material absorbing to someone with her abiding interest in the subject. Madeleine became so immersed in the book that she did not hear a cab approaching in the street outside or even the sound of the front door opening. Caleb Andrews came into the house with a knowing grin on his face.

‘Hello, Maddy,’ he said.

‘Oh!’ she cried, looking up in surprise. ‘I didn’t expect you for hours yet, Father.’

‘Does that mean there’s no supper yet?’

‘I can soon make some.’

‘Stay here and entertain our visitor.’

‘What visitor?’

‘This stray gentlemen I picked up in Crewe.’

He stood aside so that Robert Colbeck could come into the house. Doffing his top hat, the detective gave Madeleine a polite bow.

‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ he said.

‘No, no,’ she told him, leaping to her feet and putting the book aside. She straightened her dress. ‘I was reading.’

‘That book on railways, is it?’ asked Andrews scornfully. ‘Why bother with that when you only have to ask me? I can tell you more about railways than John Francis will ever know.’

‘Your father’s train brought me back to London,’ said Colbeck.

‘I wish I’d known that you were coming,’ said Madeleine.

‘I did promise to call in when I returned from Ireland.’

‘How was it?’

‘Invite him to sit down,’ said Andrews, nudging her, ‘and make him feel welcome. I need to have a wash. That’s one thing your book won’t say about work on the railway – how dirty you get.’

Whisking off his cap, he went out to the kitchen and closed the door firmly behind him. Colbeck stepped forward to give Madeleine a proper greeting, taking both hands and kissing her on the lips.

‘I missed you,’ she said.

‘I wish I could have taken you with me.’

‘Was the journey worthwhile?’

‘Extremely worthwhile,’ he replied. ‘I know the identity of the murder victim now and I got some more insights into the ramifications of the racing world.’

‘Do you have a suspect?’

‘A possible one.’

‘Who is he?’

He was cautious. ‘Let me speak to the gentleman first. He may well turn out to be wrongly accused. In my experience, we rarely find our perpetrators this easily. I fancy that I have a long way to go in the investigation yet.’

‘But you still think the murder may be linked to the Derby?’

‘There’s no doubt about it.’

‘Why?’

‘The victim was a groom. He worked at the stables where one of the fancied runners in the race is kept.’

Madeleine smiled. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to the Derby,’ she said wistfully. ‘Father keeps telling me that it’s no place for a young lady to go on her own but it sounds so exciting.’

‘Highly exciting and unique.’

‘You’ve been?’

‘A number of times,’ he told her. ‘But don’t give up hope, Madeleine. You may get to see the race one day.’ He squeezed her shoulders tenderly. ‘There’s something I wanted to say before your father comes back in.’

‘Oh, he’ll stay in the kitchen for a while. Father can be tactful when he wants to be. Has he told you about his theory yet?’

‘He did nothing else on the cab ride from Euston. According to Mr Andrews, instead of rushing off to Ireland, I should be searching for a wayward lady in Crewe who had a dalliance with the murder victim. It seems that the killer was a jealous husband. Your father has obviously devoted time to thinking about the case,’ said Colbeck tolerantly, ‘even though he’s not in possession of the salient facts.’

‘What did you want to say to me?’

‘Only that you look as lovely as ever.’

She laughed. ‘In this old dress – stop lying to me.’

‘It’s not the dress that matters, it’s the young lady inside it.’

‘You pay me the sweetest compliments.’

‘Thank you.’ He became serious. ‘I need to ask you a favour, Madeleine. Unbeknown to the superintendent, you’ve been able to help me a couple of times in the past. If Mr Tallis ever found out, he’d probably have me boiled in oil but I’ll take that risk. Could I impose on you to assist me again, please?’

‘Of course, Robert – it’s no imposition.’

‘It may not be necessary but I’d like to have you in reserve.’

‘Why?’

‘Why else? There’s a lady in the case.’

‘Ah, I see. You want to set a thief to catch a thief.’

‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘This particular lady may turn out to be a hapless victim but she does hold critical information. I need to get it from her and that may involve you.’

‘I’ll do anything you ask me, Robert.’

He smiled roguishly. ‘You might care to rephrase that,’ he said. ‘It puts you in a position of great vulnerability.’

‘I trust you completely.’

‘Then I’ll do nothing to break that trust.’

‘Who is this lady?’

‘That’s the problem – I don’t have her name yet.’

‘But you think she’s involved in some way?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I need to ask her about a missing hatbox.’

If he had not become a bookmaker, Hamilton Fido could easily have pursued a career on the stage. Tall, slim and lithe, he had an actor’s good looks, mellifluous voice and sheer presence. In his black frock coat and fawn trousers, he was an arresting figure with his mane of black wavy hair almost brushing his shoulders. Still in his thirties, Fido was so astute, well informed and ruthless that he had become one of the most successful bookmakers in London. His office was in an upstairs room in the tavern where he sometimes staged exhibition bouts with promising young boxers. In the courtyard at the rear of the building, illegal cock fights and dogfights were also arranged for those who liked to mix blood with their betting.

Hamilton Fido was seated at his desk, poring over a copy of the Sporting Times, when the door suddenly opened. Panting slightly, Kitty Lavender stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips. Fido did not even bother to look up.

‘Go away, whoever you are,’ he ordered. ‘I’m too busy.’

‘You’re not too busy to see me, Hamilton.’ She slammed the door for effect. ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Kitty!’ he exclaimed, going across to embrace her. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Let go of me,’ she said, turning her face away when he tried to kiss her. ‘It’s not that sort of visit.’

He released her and stepped back. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘That’s what I’ve come to tell you.’

‘Can I offer you a drink?’

‘No, I just want you to listen to me.’

‘I’ll do that all day and all night,’ said Fido, leering politely at her. ‘Especially all night.’ He conducted her to a chair and sat beside her. ‘You look distressed, my darling. Has anything happened?’

‘Do you remember that stolen hatbox?’

‘The one that was taken from that hotel?’

‘Yes, Hamilton.’

‘Forget all about it,’ he advised. ‘I know it was a shock at the time but I forced the management to pay for a new one. When a theft occurs on their premises, they must take responsibility.’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘If you’re still upset, I’ll buy you another one – two, if you wish.’

‘You’re not listening to me,’ she complained.

He took her hand. ‘I won’t let anything trouble you,’ he said, placing a gentle kiss on it. ‘You’re mine now and I’ll look after you.’

‘My hatbox has been found, Hamilton.’

‘What?’

‘By the police.’

His smile vanished instantly and he let go of her hand. Recovering quickly, he gave her a reassuring pat on the arm. ‘That’s wonderful news,’ he said. ‘Where was it found?’

‘At the railway station in Crewe.’

‘Crewe – now that rings a bell.’

‘Apparently, it had a man’s head in it.’

Kitty’s face crumpled at the memory. When he reached out to embrace her, she went willingly into his arms. He held her tight for a few moments then drew back so that he could look her in the face.

‘You obviously don’t read the newspapers, my darling. There was an item days ago about a severed head being discovered in Crewe. It never crossed my mind that it was found in your hatbox.’

‘Well, it was.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Let’s just say that I was reliably informed.’

‘Have the police been in touch with you?’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘and there’s no reason why they should. They won’t be able to connect me with the hatbox.’

‘Then what are you worrying about?’

‘You, Hamilton – don’t you see the implications?’

‘All I can see is that my little darling has been badly shaken and that my job is to soothe her. You must have had a terrible jolt when you heard the news.’

‘It made me feel sick, Hamilton.’

‘Try to put the whole thing behind you. It’s the best way.’

‘How can I?’ she asked in despair. ‘This affects both of us. It was quite deliberate.’

‘What was?’

‘The theft of that hatbox – somebody stole it on purpose. That means somebody knew we were staying at that hotel. We must have been watched, Hamilton. That terrifies me.’

‘I told nobody where we were going – neither did you.’

‘One of us must have been followed.’

‘In that case,’ he said with a flash of anger, ‘you’re right to be alarmed. I won’t stand for it, Kitty. I’m bound to make enemies in my profession but I didn’t think any of them would go this far. The murder victim must be linked to me in some way. This is an attack on me and the worst of it is that you were involved.’

‘I’m frightened,’ she confessed. ‘I keep looking over my shoulder in case someone is following me.’

‘We can soon solve that problem, Kitty. I’ll have one of my men act as your bodyguard. Nobody will dare to come anywhere near you.’

‘What about you?’

‘I can look after myself,’ he said, flicking his coat open to show her the pearl-handled pistol he kept in a leather holster. ‘There are too many bad losers about these days. I have to protect myself.’

‘I keep thinking about that severed head.’

‘Somebody will pay for that, mark my words!’

‘I didn’t believe that anyone could do such a thing,’ she said. ‘Who do you think the victim could be, Hamilton?’

‘I intend to find out straight away. I didn’t get where I am today without knowing who and when to bribe. I have two or three policemen in my pocket, Kitty. It’s time they earned their money,’ he said harshly. ‘I’ll have that name before the day is out.’

‘John Feeny?’ said Victor Leeming. ‘Who was he, Inspector?’

‘An Irish lad with ambitions to be a jockey.’

‘Poor devil!’

‘He came to England to better himself,’ said Colbeck sadly, ‘and fell foul of someone. Brian Dowd spoke well of him. Feeny had a real love of horses and he worked hard for low pay.’

‘I can sympathise with that,’ muttered the sergeant.

‘What have you been doing while I was gone, Victor?’

‘Trying to keep out of the superintendent’s way.’

Colbeck grinned. ‘I enjoy playing that game as well,’ he said. ‘Did you learn anything useful in Cambridge?’

‘I think so, sir.’

It was early morning and they were in an office at Scotland Yard. Leeming gave him a brief account of his visit to the Angel Hotel and passed on the description of Lady Hendry that he had drawn out of the manager. Colbeck was interested to hear that the hatbox had not been stolen on the occasion of the couple’s visit to Cambridge.

‘I’ve proved that it was not Lord Hendry’s wife,’ said Leeming.

‘That was my feeling from the outset.’

‘I mean, I’ve got evidence right here, Inspector.’ He pointed to a pile of newspapers on the desk. ‘Lord Hendry has a busy social life. I wondered if he’d ever been featured in London Illustrated News. So I went through all these back copies.’

‘Very commendable, Victor.’

‘I found two drawings of him, both quite accurate. I recognised him immediately.’ He sifted through the papers. ‘One showed him at the races in Newmarket but this one,’ he went on, picking up a copy, ‘was more interesting. It shows his wife as well.’

Robert Colbeck took the newspaper from him and studied the illustration. The caption told him that he was looking at the wedding of Lord Hendry’s daughter but it was not the bride who caught his eye. It was Lady Caroline Hendry, standing beside her husband, who held his attention. In age, height and in every other way, she differed sharply from the description of the woman who had accompanied Lord Hendry to the Angel Hotel in Cambridge.

‘It says in the article,’ Leeming pointed out, ‘that Lady Hendry devotes all her time to charity.’

‘I don’t think even she would be charitable enough to lend her husband to another woman.’ Colbeck put the newspaper down. ‘If the artist is to be trusted, they have a beautiful daughter.’

‘What would she think if she knew the truth about her father?’

‘I hope that she never does, Victor.’

‘Will we have to speak to Lord Hendry again?’

‘I’m sure that we will, said Colbeck. ‘Before that, however, I’ll have to give my report to the superintendent. Did he say anything about my visit to Ireland?’

‘He felt it was a complete waste of time.’

Colbeck laughed. He went out, walked along the corridor and knocked on a door. The booming voice of Edward Tallis invited him in.

‘The prodigal returns,’ said the superintendent sardonically as his visitor entered. ‘When did you get back?’

‘Last evening, sir.’

‘Then why didn’t you come here? You know how late I work.’

‘I had some calls to make.’

‘Nothing should have taken precedence over me, Inspector.’

‘I felt that it did,’ Colbeck took the drawing from his pocket and unfolded it before putting it in front of Tallis. ‘His name is John Feeny,’ he explained. ‘His parents died years ago. His only living relative was the uncle with whom he’d been staying while he was in England. As next of kin, the uncle deserved to be told of his nephew’s death at the earliest opportunity.’

‘How did you get this uncle’s address?’

‘From a young man called Jerry Doyle, sir – Feeny was a good friend of his. They kept in touch.’

Tallis indicated the drawing. ‘Who identified this?’

‘Brian Dowd, sir – John Feeny used to work for him as a groom.’

‘What was Feeny doing in England?’

‘Trying to become a jockey,’ said Colbeck. ‘But I couldn’t rely wholly on Mr Dowd’s identification. It was, after all, only based on a rough drawing of the deceased. When I got back to London, therefore, I took John Feeny’s uncle to the morgue where he was shown his nephew’s head. It shook him badly but we have what we needed – a positive identification from a family member.’

‘Good,’ said Tallis grudgingly. ‘We now have a head, a body and a name – a degree of progress at last. What else did you learn in Ireland?’

Colbeck had carefully planned what he was going to say so that his report was concise yet filled with all the relevant detail. While in Ireland, he had been shown around the stables and talked at length about Limerick Lad’s chances in the Derby.

‘His trainer thinks he’s a certain winner,’ he said.

‘I hope you’re not suggesting that I place a bet on the Irish horse, Inspector. Gambling is hateful to me. I had to talk Sergeant Leeming out of falling under its wicked spell.’

‘My major concern is to ensure that it’s a fair race, sir.’

‘Mine is to solve a murder.’

‘The two things go together,’ Colbeck reasoned. ‘That severed head was destined for Brian Dowd as a warning of how desperate one of his rivals is to prevent Limerick Lad from winning.’

‘Then you must arrest the man immediately,’ said Tallis.

‘Who?’

‘Hamilton Fido, of course – his guilt is undeniable.’

‘I think he’s entitled to a presumption of innocence before we accuse him of the crime. Mr Dowd may have pointed the finger at him but we have to bear in mind that the two of them are sworn enemies. The villain may be someone else entirely.’

‘What conceivable motive could he have?’

‘The most obvious one, Superintendent,’ said Colbeck, ‘and that’s financial gain. If someone has bet heavily on one horse, the best way to protect his investment is to impede any other runner who’s likely to be a serious contender.’

‘You told me that the Derby was a three-horse race.’

‘That’s the received wisdom, sir, but one should never rule out the possibility that an outsider could win. It’s happened in the past. It only needs the favoured horses to have an off day, or for their jockeys to make bad tactical mistakes. Look at the evidence we’ve collected so far, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘A severed head is found in a hatbox belonging to the mistress of the man who owns the Derby favourite, Odysseus. The head was destined for Brian Dowd, owner and trainer of another fancied runner, Limerick Lad. The murder victim worked at stables owned by Hamilton Fido, whose filly, Merry Legs, also features well in the betting. The three most dangerous horses have been singled out.’

‘What do you conclude, Inspector?’

‘That we may have seen the opening moves in a campaign to set the respective owners at each other’s throats. If they feel they’ve been abused, they’ll seek retribution. No quarter will be given. It’s possible that of the three horses – Odysseus, Merry Legs and Limerick Lad – one or two might not even make the starting post at Epsom.’

‘Do you predict more skulduggery?’ asked Tallis.

‘No, sir,’ replied Colbeck calmly. ‘I don’t predict it – I guarantee it. In my considered opinion, the worst is yet to come.’

Hidden in the trees, he kept the stables under surveillance all morning and bided his time. From his elevated position, he had a good view of the yard through his telescope. When the colt appeared, he recognised Odysseus immediately and knew that his moment was at hand. The travelling box was hauled into the yard by a cart drawn by a pair of matching grey dray-horses. It was time for him to move. Mounting his horse, he rode off until he reached the steepest part of the incline. Then he tethered his horse behind some thick bushes and took up his position. Five minutes later, the travelling box was pulled out of the stables to begin the long, slow climb up the hill.

The man was taking no chances. In case he was seen, he was wearing a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low over his forehead and a scarf that covered the lower half of his face. His clothing was nondescript. Even close friends would not have been able to identify him. He remained concealed in the undergrowth until he could hear the clatter of hooves and the rattle of the cart and the travelling box getting closer and closer.

When the vehicles finally drew level with him, he acted swiftly. Leaping out of his hiding place, he ran to the coupling pin that held the cart and travelling box together. He grabbed it, yanked it out and flung it into the long grass. The vehicles parted dramatically. As the cart was driven forward, the travelling box rolled crazily backward down the hill, swaying from side to side and gathering speed all the time. Reaching a bend, it left the road altogether and spun wildly out of control until it turned over with a sickening crash.

The man did not linger. His mission had been completed. Before the driver of the cart even realised what had happened, the man was already back in the saddle, riding off to report the good news.

CHAPTER SIX

Victor Leeming was relieved to be going on a journey that did not involve a railway. Instead, he and Robert Colbeck sat side by side in a hansom cab as it picked its way through a labyrinth of streets in east London. There was something about the gentle swaying of the vehicle that the sergeant found reassuring. It was like being rocked in a giant cradle with the rhythmical trot of the horse providing a soothing lullaby. Even when they turned down a narrow lane, bouncing and sliding over a cobbled surface, Leeming felt snug and unthreatened.

‘This is better than hurtling along in a train,’ he opined.

‘It’s an agreeable alternative on a short journey,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I’d hate to have gone all the way to Anglesey by cab. Horses and railways are not mutually exclusive, Victor. They’re complementary.’

‘Give me horses every time, sir.’

‘You’ll have a wide choice of those today.’

‘Will I?’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck. ‘We’re going to see a bookmaker. He’ll offer you whole cavalry regiments. Horses are Hamilton Fido’s business. Judging by the success he’s had, I’d say that he was an expert.’

‘Does he know who’s going to win the Derby?’

‘I’m sure that he’ll tell us.’

‘Why does such a rich man live in one of the poorest districts of London?’ asked Leeming. ‘Since the weaving industry fell on hard times, Bethnal Green is starting to look like a graveyard.’

‘Mr Fido only works here, Victor. His house is in a far more salubrious part of the city. Some of his more questionable activities would not be allowed there whereas they suit the character of Bethnal Green perfectly.’

‘Milling and cock-fighting, you mean?’

‘It’s not only boxers and birds who entertain the crowds here,’ said Colbeck. ‘Hamilton Fido will arrange any contest in which blood can be drawn and on which bets can be laid.’

‘Why has he never been arrested?’

‘That, I suspect, will become obvious when we meet him.’

The cab eventually came to a halt outside the Green Dragon, a large, rambling, double-fronted tavern built with an eye to Gothic extravagance but now badly besmirched. As he alighted and paid the driver, Colbeck glanced around him. Signs of extreme poverty were unmistakable. Small, dark, mean, neglected houses and tenements were clustered together in the filthy street. Emaciated and unwashed children in tattered clothes were playing games. Old people sat on stools outside their dwellings and looked on with vacant stares. Filling the air with their strident cries, street vendors sold wares from their handcarts. Dogs and cats had ear-splitting disputes over territory. Hulking men with darting eyes sauntered past. There was a hint of danger in the air.

Victor Leeming was troubled by the stink from the accumulated litter and open drains. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. Within seconds, he and Colbeck were approached by a couple of ancient beggars with threadbare suits, battered hats and ingratiating smiles. From other denizens of the area the visitors collected only hostile stares and muttered curses. They went into the tavern and found it full of rowdy patrons. In the boisterous atmosphere, Colbeck had to raise his voice to be heard by the barman. In answer to the inspector’s enquiry, they were directed upstairs.

Hamilton Fido’s office occupied the front room on the first floor. What surprised them as they were invited in was how little of the hubbub below rose up through the floorboards. A thick oriental carpet helped to insulate the room against the noise from the bar. The office walls were adorned with sporting prints and every shelf was covered with silver cups and other trophies. Yet there was no sense of clutter. Everything was neatly in place. Hamilton Fido was clearly a man who valued order.

He rose swiftly from his seat as the introductions were made.

‘How fortunate!’ he exclaimed, beaming at Colbeck. ‘I’ve always wanted to meet the famous Railway Detective.’

‘And I’ve always wanted to meet the infamous bookmaker,’ Colbeck returned pleasantly. ‘You have a spacious and well-appointed office, Mr Fido. It’s the last thing one might expect to find in a place like Bethnal Green.’

‘I was born and brought up here,’ explained Fido, looking fondly through the window. ‘My father was a weaver – his loom took up most of the space on the ground floor. When he was too ill to work, we had no money coming in. When he recovered his health, the trade had declined and he could find no employment. Life was a daily struggle for us and, from an early age, I had to learn how to survive. Though I say so myself, I became very adept at survival.’ He held the lapels of his frock coat. ‘What you see before you is a self-educated man who was fortunate enough to make good. Most people in my position turn their backs on their humble origins but I rejoice in mine.’

‘That’s creditable, sir,’ said Leeming.

‘Bethnal Green folk are the salt of the earth. When I bought this tavern and set up my business here, I wanted to put something back into the district. But I forget my manners,’ he said, indicating the chairs. ‘Do make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen.’

The detectives sat down and Fido lowered himself into a seat opposite them. Like Colbeck, the bookmaker was impeccably dressed but he had a flamboyance that the inspector lacked. Gold rings shone on both hands and an ornate gold pin anchored his cravat. He produced a ready smile for the detectives.

‘What brought you here was that hatbox, I presume,’ he said helpfully. ‘There’s no need to tell me the name of the unfortunate young man whose head was found inside it. He was John Feeny.’

Colbeck was taken aback. ‘May I ask how you come to know?’

‘The fact was important to me.’

‘But the name of the deceased has not yet been released.’

‘It was released to me, Inspector,’ said Fido complacently. ‘In my walk of life, accurate information is vital so I employ every means of acquiring it.’

‘Even to the extent of bribing a police officer?’

Fido held up both hands in a comic gesture of surrender. ‘Inspector, please – I would never dare to do that.’

‘Then how did you find out?’ asked Leeming.

‘Not because I put the head in the hatbox, Sergeant.’

‘Then how, sir?’

‘An anonymous letter was slipped under my door,’ said Fido glibly. ‘It claimed that the dead man was John Feeny, a lad who used to work as a groom at my stables. Is that correct?’

‘It is, Mr Fido,’ conceded Leeming.

‘Of course, I never met him. My trainer employs several grooms. He’s always had a free hand in his choice of lads. Until this morning, I had no idea that someone called John Feeny even existed.’

‘And when you did discover his existence,’ said Colbeck, ‘and learnt of his bizarre murder, how did you react?’

‘With pity and apprehension,’ said Fido.

‘Apprehension?’

‘Feeny was Irish. According to my anonymous informant, he once worked at the stables owned by Brian Dowd. I was horrified.’

‘Why?’

‘Mr Dowd and I have exchanged hot words,’ said Fido sourly, ‘on and off the racecourse. He’s totally unscrupulous. All that the public sees is the endless stream of success that he’s enjoyed. What’s hidden from them is the deep-dyed villainy behind that success.’

‘You sound as if you’re accusing Brian Dowd,’ said Colbeck.

‘He deliberately infiltrated my stables.’

‘Is that what you believe, sir?’

‘It’s obvious, Inspector,’ argued Fido. ‘My filly, Merry Legs, has an excellent chance of winning the Derby. John Feeny was sent over to England to make sure that Merry Legs did not even run in the race.’

‘Then it would have been in your interests to stop him.’

‘I’d never have employed him in the first place.’

‘Why did your trainer take the lad on?’

‘I mean to ask him that selfsame question when I meet him later today. Who killed John Feeny, I’m unable to tell you, but the person who dispatched him to England to spy on my filly was Brian Dowd.’

‘Could it be that someone at the stables took the law into his own hands?’ wondered Colbeck. ‘When he suspected that the lad had been deliberately planted on them, he struck back.’

Fido was fuming. ‘I do not employ killers, Inspector.’

‘How do you know?’ said Leeming. ‘Until today, you didn’t even know that John Feeny worked at your stables.’

‘Do you have any proof that that is where he was murdered?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Or any evidence to connect the crime to me?’

‘None at all, Mr Fido.’

‘Then I’ll trouble you not to make any unfounded allegations. Instead of badgering me about this murder, you should be chasing that crooked Irishman, Brian Dowd.’

‘I’ve already spoken with Mr Dowd,’ said Colbeck.

‘You have?’ said Fido. ‘I didn’t realise that he was in this country yet.’

‘I went to Dublin to see him. What your anonymous informant failed to tell you was that the severed head was destined for Ireland. It was Mr Dowd who identified a rough portrait of the deceased and thus enabled us to move this investigation on to another stage.’

‘Don’t believe a word that liar told you!’ snarled Fido.

‘He said much the same about you, sir.’

‘Dowd set out to disable Merry Legs in some way.’

‘That’s pure supposition,’ said Colbeck. ‘According to Mr Dowd, the reason that Feeny left Ireland was that there were no prospects of his becoming a jockey there. That must have rankled with the lad. Why should he help a man who told him frankly that he had no future in the saddle?’

Hamilton Fido took a moment to absorb what he had been told. His face remained impassive but his mind was racing. He seized on one piece of information.

‘What makes you think the severed head was destined for Brian Dowd?’ he asked. ‘It was found in Crewe.’

‘Inspector Colbeck looked closely at the railway timetables,’ said Leeming. ‘Not long after that hatbox arrived in Crewe, there was a connecting train to Holyhead.’

Colbeck took over. ‘There was also the fact that Limerick Lad posed a serious challenge to your filly and to Lord Hendry’s Odysseus. Since I was certain that the crime was linked to the Derby,’ he went on, ‘I deduced that Mr Dowd was the most likely recipient of that ghastly present in the hatbox. He agreed with me.’

‘On what grounds?’ said Fido.

‘The false assumption already made by you, sir – namely, that Feeny was paid to report on the progress of Merry Legs and was thus seen as an enemy in the camp. The killer’s motive was revenge.’

‘You’re being fanciful, Inspector Colbeck.’

‘I am merely telling you how it looks to me.’

‘You made the mistake of listening to Brian Dowd.’

‘I’m giving you the chance to set the record straight.’

‘Then let me deny categorically that neither I – nor anyone in my employ – was involved in this murder. If that’s what Dowd is claiming, I’ll sue the bastard for slander.’

‘Some of the things you’ve said about Mr Dowd could be considered slanderous,’ noted Colbeck. ‘They are also very unhelpful. A shouting match between the pair of you will achieve nothing beyond giving you both a sore throat.’

‘Keep him away from me – that’s all I ask.’

The conversation had reached a natural end. Before he could stop himself, Leeming blurted out the question that had been on the tip of his tongue since they had entered the room. ‘Which horse will win the Derby, sir?’

‘The first past the winning post,’ replied Fido.

‘Will that be Odysseus, Merry Legs or Limerick Lad?’

‘Odysseus has to be favourite, Sergeant.’

‘But you want your own horse to win.’

‘I hope and pray that she does,’ said Fido guardedly. ‘But I draw back from overrating her chances. All I will say is that Merry Legs has a wonderful opportunity to beat the field.’

‘That’s not what tradition tells us,’ said Colbeck knowledgeably. ‘The only filly to win the Derby was Eleanor in 1801. Before and since that year, colts have always taken the honours. Why should it be any different this year?’

‘Speaking as a bookmaker, I’d say that Merry Legs was an unlikely winner even though, as a filly, she’ll have a slight weight advantage. Speaking as an owner, however,’ Fido continued, ‘I’m ruled by my heart rather than my head.’

‘Does that mean you’ll be betting on Merry Legs?’ said Leeming.

‘The odds I’m setting are well advertised. Odysseus is 5–2; Limerick Lad is 4–1; and Merry Legs is 8–1. But there are eighteen other runners in the race. One of them might surprise us all.’

‘Bookmakers are rarely surprised,’ observed Colbeck.

Fido smiled. ‘We know how to cover every eventuality.’

‘Even an attack on your own horse?’

‘Merry Legs is under armed guard day and night, Inspector.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Interested as I am in the race, my prime concern will always be the murder of John Feeny. All that you and Brian Dowd have done so far is to speak disparagingly of each other. Answer me this, Mr Fido,’ said Colbeck. ‘It occurs to me that the death of the groom might simply be a device to turn you and Mr Dowd into a pair of fighting cocks, trying to tear each other to bits. Who would profit most from that?’

‘One name leaps out of the pack immediately,’ said Fido.

‘And who is that, sir?’

‘Lord Hendry.’

‘I had hoped to speak to Inspector Colbeck,’ said Lord Hendry as he was shown into the superintendent’s office. ‘I know that he’s in charge of this case.’

‘Colbeck is answerable to me,’ said Tallis, staying on his feet as he waved his guest to a chair. ‘I control the investigation from here.’

‘Then I bring my complaint to you.’

‘Your complaint, Lord Hendry?’

‘Yes, Superintendent – if the blame lies with you.’

‘What exactly is the nature of your grievance?’

‘I deplore your methods,’ said Lord Hendry, tapping the floor hard with his silver-topped cane. ‘It was quite unnecessary for two detectives to come all the way to my house for the sole purpose of asking about a hatbox that was stolen from my wife.’

‘How else could the information have been obtained?’

‘By letter, Mr Tallis – I’m a prompt correspondent.’

‘Inspector Colbeck was anxious to meet you in person.’

‘Then he could have done so at my club,’ said Lord Hendry testily. ‘I’m there on a regular basis. It’s unsettling when two of your men bang on my front door. What are my servants to think? That their master is under suspicion for some dastardly crime? This whole business could have been handled more discreetly.’

‘We wanted an immediate answer, Lord Hendry.’

‘Damn it, man – you offended me, don’t you see that?’

Tallis met his gaze without flinching. In view of what his detectives had found out, he was glad that they had visited Lord Hendry at his home. He certainly felt no need to apologise. There was a lengthy and uncomfortable pause. Lord Hendry finally broke the silence when he took a handkerchief from his sleeve and held it to his mouth as he sneezed.

‘God bless you!’ said Tallis.

‘I’m still waiting for your comment.’

‘I’ve none to make, Lord Hendry.’

‘Won’t you admit you were wrong to send your men to my house?’ demanded the other, slipping the handkerchief back into his sleeve. ‘Or do I have to take my complaint to the commissioner?’

‘I’d advise against that.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the commissioner has been made fully aware of the details of this case,’ said Tallis, tired of being glared at. ‘Like me, he knows that you lied to my detectives when they called on you. And, like me, he knows that the lady for whom you bought a hat and hatbox in Jermyn Street was not, in fact, Lady Hendry.’

‘How dare you, sir!’ yelled Lord Hendry, getting to his feet and frothing with rage. ‘That’s a monstrous allegation and I insist on a retraction.’

‘Insist all you will,’ said Tallis. ‘But before you issue any more denials, I should tell you that Sergeant Leeming visited the Angel Hotel in Cambridge recently. He not only discovered that you and a certain young lady had stayed there on more than one occasion, he learnt that the hatbox was not stolen from the hotel. Why did you tell my officers that it had been, Lord Hendry?’

‘This is insufferable!’ howled the other. ‘Is a peer of the realm to be allowed no private life? Since when has it been the function of detectives to pry into the personal affairs of a man who has committed no crime whatsoever?’

‘Your private life has a bearing on a brutal murder.’

‘I’ll not be watched, Superintendent,’ warned Lord Hendry. ‘I’ll not be treated like the basest scoundrel in London.’

‘You’ve been treated with the respect you deserve,’ said Tallis levelly. ‘Inspector Colbeck believed that you bore false testimony and he set out to prove it. Had you told him the truth in the first place, the visit to Cambridge would not have been necessary.’

‘Heavens above – I’m married!’

‘At moments like this, I’m pleased I remained a bachelor.’

Lord Hendry frowned. ‘Are you mocking me, Mr Tallis?’

‘I am simply observing how much easier life is for a single man.’

‘I have no interest in your observations, sir.’

‘Then I’ll keep them to myself.’ Sitting behind his desk, Tallis clasped his hands together. ‘Now that you’ve made your complaint, Lord Hendry,’ he said, ‘I’ll avail myself of the opportunity to make mine.’

‘I haven’t finished yet.’

‘You have another grievance?’

‘I need to report a crime,’ said Lord Hendry petulantly. ‘That’s why I hoped to see Inspector Colbeck. Yesterday, near the stables where my colt is trained, an attempt was made to kill Odysseus.’

‘An unsuccessful attempt, I hope.’

‘Fortunately, it was. Odysseus was due to be moved to Epsom in his travelling box but my trainer had a strong suspicion that someone was keeping a close watch on the stables. Fearing danger, he took steps to avoid it.’

‘In what way?’

‘Instead of putting Odysseus in the travelling box, he used a substitute – one of the bullocks from the adjoining paddock. As it was going up a hill, the travelling box was uncoupled from the cart pulling it and it careered down the slope before turning over.’

‘Was the bullock injured?’

‘One of its legs was broken,’ said Lord Hendry. ‘Do you see what I am up against, Superintendent? Someone is out to destroy my chances of winning the Derby. Had my horse been in that box, he would have broken his leg instead and we’d have had to put him down. I want you to find the man behind this outrage.’

‘We’ll do all we can to apprehend him as soon as we can,’ Tallis promised him. ‘Can you suggest the name of anyone capable of such a heinous crime?’

‘Two names command especial attention.’

‘And who might they be, Lord Hendry?’

‘Hamilton Fido and Brian Dowd.’

‘Your great rivals, as I understand it.’

‘I mean to win by fair means – they’ll resort to foul ones.’

‘I’ll need to take a fuller statement,’ said Tallis, reaching for his pen and moving a piece of paper into position. ‘I want the time and place of this incident and the names of any witnesses whom we can contact.’

‘First things first, Superintendent – when we do move Odysseus to Epsom, I’ll need police protection for the horse. There may be a second attack.’

‘We’ll look into that, Lord Hendry.’

‘Make sure you question Fido and Dowd.’

‘Inspector Colbeck has already spoken to both gentlemen.’

‘Really?’ Lord Hendry was amazed. ‘Why did he do that?’

‘Because he is accustomed to leaving no stone unturned,’ said Tallis. ‘There are certain things of which you have clearly not been apprised, my lord, and they may alter your view of events. The severed head has been identified as belonging to John Feeny, a groom at the stables owned, coincidentally, by Hamilton Fido. The hatbox was on its way to Brian Dowd in Ireland before it was intercepted in Crewe. Feeny, it transpires, once worked for Mr Dowd.’

‘How do you know all this?’ asked Lord Hendry.

‘As I told you, Inspector Colbeck is famed for his thoroughness.’

‘So both Fido and Dowd are tied in some way to the murder?’

‘Let’s move one step at a time,’ said Tallis, pen poised. ‘What brought this crime to light was a hatbox that sprung open on a railway platform. That leads me to a question I’m compelled to ask, Lord Hendry, and I’m sure that you understand why.’ He cleared his throat. ‘What was the name of the young lady from whom it was stolen?’

‘She has no name,’ retorted Lord Hendry, eyes blazing with defiance. ‘The young lady ceased to exist several weeks ago. That being the case, Superintendent, I regret that I’m unable to help you identify that person.’ He thrust out his jaw. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

The long cab ride back to Scotland Yard gave Robert Colbeck and Victor Leeming plenty of time to discuss their visit to the Green Dragon. The sergeant was impressed.

‘Mr Fido must have made a fortune,’ he said enviously. ‘He owns a stable of racehorses, a tavern in Bethnal Green and a big house somewhere else. Yet he comes from a poor family.’

‘Perhaps that’s what spurred him on, Victor. But he’s not the only person from the working class who went on to succeed. I’m sitting beside another example right now.’

‘Me?’ Leeming gave a dry laugh. ‘I don’t think I’m a success.’

‘You are, in my eyes,’ said Colbeck, letting his affection show. ‘Most people with your background never escape it. They’re doomed to live the same kind of hard, joyless, unrelenting lives as their parents. By sheer determination, you managed to better yourself and – unlike Hamilton Fido – you did so by entirely legal means.’

‘That’s no consolation, sir.’

‘It is to me, Victor.’

‘I’d love to have some of his money.’

‘Then back the winner in the Derby.’

‘You know what I mean, Inspector,’ said Leeming. ‘When I see someone like Mr Fido, dripping with wealth, I feel so jealous. I’ll never earn that amount of money in the Metropolitan Police Force.’

‘Look at it another way,’ suggested Colbeck. ‘You’ll never spend part of your life behind bars.’

‘Is that what will happen to Mr Fido?’

‘Sooner or later.’

‘He seemed so sure of himself.’

‘Yes, he was very plausible. That’s often a danger sign. He had all the answers. Hamilton Fido is clearly an accomplished liar.’

‘What was all that about an anonymous letter?’

‘His first and biggest lie,’ said Colbeck. ‘He must have a source at Scotland Yard and that’s worrying. Only a handful of people knew the name of the murder victim and the fact that he once worked for Brian Dowd. It behoves us to move with extreme care, Victor.’

‘Why?’

‘We have a spy in our ranks – someone who can help Mr Fido to stay one step ahead of us.’

‘How, sir?’

‘By reporting on our movements, for a start,’ replied Colbeck. ‘Didn’t you notice how unsurprised Mr Fido was when we turned up at his door? He knew that we were coming.’

Leeming was unsettled. ‘A spy in our ranks – surely not, sir.’

‘Mr Fido will employ a whole network of informers, Victor. How can he set the odds for a race if he doesn’t have precise details about the runners taking part?’

‘What about the Derby?’

‘He’ll know exactly how the fancied horses fare during their training gallops. A man like Hamilton Fido has eyes everywhere.’

‘Do you think he’s involved in the murder of John Feeny?’

‘He didn’t persuade me that he’s not involved,’ said Colbeck, ‘so it’s an open question. If he is party to the crime, of course, then he may not have a source in the Detective Department, after all. He would know Feeny’s name because he ordered his execution.’

Leeming fell silent. A chevron of deep concentration appeared on his brow as he turned something over in his mind. Colbeck waited patiently until his companion was ready to speak.

‘I was just thinking,’ said the sergeant at length. ‘What would have happened if the severed head had not been discovered in Crewe?’

‘It would have been delivered to Brian Dowd.’

‘Yes – but what would have happened then, sir? Would he have reported it or chosen to keep the whole thing secret?’

‘That depends on whether or not he deliberately put John Feeny in a rival stables to act as an informant. If he did,’ said Colbeck, ‘he might not wish to involve the police at all. Having met Mr Dowd, I’m inclined to believe his explanation – namely, that Feeny left Ireland of his own accord before finding work in England. But,’ he went on, ‘it’s always wise to have a second opinion. That’s why I’m sending you to meet Brian Dowd at a secret location.’

Leeming steeled himself. ‘Will I have to travel by train, sir?’

‘I’m afraid so – but only for a short distance. One thing that even Hamilton Fido doesn’t know is the location of Limerick Lad. Mr Dowd confided in me and I’ve disclosed the address to nobody.’

‘Not even to Superintendent Tallis?’

‘No, Victor,’ said Colbeck, ‘and, in hindsight, I’m glad. If we do have a spy in our midst, this is one piece of information that won’t fall accidentally into his hands. When we get to Whitehall, you can drop me off and go on to Paddington.’

‘What will you be doing?’

‘Reporting to the superintendent, in the first instance.’

‘Better you than me, sir,’ said Leeming gratefully.

‘I thought that he’d mellowed of late.’

‘Then I’ll have to show you the bite marks he left on me.’

Colbeck laughed. ‘You’ll find Brian Dowd far less intimidating,’ he said. ‘Sound him out, Victor. See what you make of him.’

‘Do you think he’ll give me advice about the Derby?’

‘You may even be lucky enough to see Limerick Lad now he’s in England. That’s the advice he’ll give you – bet on the Irish horse.’

‘Who are you going to put money on, sir?’

‘I’m still considering the options,’ said Colbeck. ‘One of them has to be Merry Legs. When I’ve spoken to the Superintendent, I’ll travel to Hamilton Fido’s stables to take a closer look at the filly. I felt from the start that a female would play a crucial role in our investigation.’

Kitty Lavender sat at a table in the corner of the tavern and ignored the curious stares she was getting from most of the men present. As a rule, she enjoyed arousing male interest but she had other things on her mind at that moment. She was grateful when the tall, gangly figure of Marcus Johnson entered the room and crossed over to her. Kitty rose from her chair to accept a kiss on the cheek and an effusive greeting from the newcomer. A collective murmur of disappointment went up from the other tables. She was spoken for.

In fact, Marcus was her half-brother but the familiar way in which he leant across the table towards her hinted at a more intimate relationship. He ordered drinks and exchanged niceties with Kitty until they were brought. After clinking glasses, they sipped their respective drinks.

‘I haven’t seen you for ages, Kitty,’ he complained.

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘On my behalf, I hope.’

‘And on my own,’ she said tartly. ‘I don’t see it as my purpose in life to run your errands, Marcus.’

‘I’m your brother.’

‘My half-brother – there’s a big difference.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you only love me half as much as I love you.’

He grinned broadly. There were certainly no physical similarities to proclaim their blood relationship. Kitty’s beauty was thrown into relief by Johnson’s long, thin, bony face with its aquiline nose and prominent chin. While she was poised, his features were mobile. In place of her perfect set of teeth, he had a mouthful of over-large incisors and canines. A few years older than Kitty, he seemed to glow with confidence. He took her hand.

‘What can you tell me?’ he asked.

‘It’s far too early, Marcus.’

‘You must have picked up some information.’

‘I’ve picked up far too much,’ she said. ‘I only have a very limited interest in horses and I’m fast approaching that limit.’

‘Think what this could mean to us, Kitty.’

‘That’s what I have been doing and I’m coming to the conclusion that this is just another of your madcap schemes to get rich. They always fail, Marcus. Why should this one be any different?’

‘Because we’re working together this time.’

‘That’s not true,’ she denied.

‘You swore that you’d help me.’

‘First and foremost, I’m in this for myself.’

‘I accept that,’ he said, squeezing her hand, ‘but you ought to remember who contrived the introduction for you. Without me, you might never have got to meet Hamilton Fido.’

‘I’d have found a way somehow.’

‘But your clever half-brother made it so much easier for you.’ He bared his teeth in another grin. ‘We both stand to gain, Kitty.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion.’

‘Fido is much more companionable than Lord Hendry.’

‘Don’t mention him,’ she said sharply.

‘Too tight with his money?’

‘Oh, he was generous enough, I suppose. But he was too frightened to be seen with me at a racecourse. He wanted private pleasure without any public acknowledgement of it. Hamilton is the opposite. He loves to be seen at the races with me.’

‘You’re gorgeous – any sane man would want to show you off.’

‘Lord Hendry didn’t.’ She sipped her drink and studied him with a blend of fondness and faint despair. ‘When are you going to find a profession worthy of your talents, Marcus?’

‘I’ve found a number in my time.’

‘But you never stay long in any of them.’

‘I’m a restless spirit, Kitty,’ he said grandiloquently, ‘forever in search of the life on a higher plane that my talents deserve. You’ve elevated yourself by means of beauty. I’m doing it by other means.’

‘By gambling on horses?’

‘Fortunes have often been made that way.’

‘And lost just as often.’

‘Only by people with insufficient information,’ he boasted. ‘That’s why I hold the whip hand over them. I have someone who’s in the perfect place to guide me.’

‘All I can tell you are the odds that Hamilton is setting.’

‘I can get those myself, Kitty. What I need is inside knowledge. Which horse does he really think will win the Derby? Those odds might just be a smokescreen to make people back Odysseus or Limerick Lad. That would lengthen the odds on Merry Legs. If I put a heavy bet on the filly, I could be made.’ He smiled coaxingly. ‘You’ll get your share, of course.’

‘Fillies never win the Derby – I know that much.’

‘Merry Legs could be the exception that proves the rule.’

‘Hamilton thinks she has a good chance but no more than that.’

‘That’s what he says, Kitty, but you should bear in mind that one of his horses won the Derby three years ago. As I recall, he hid his true feelings on that occasion as well, dismissing the colt’s chances as no more than average. He knows,’ insisted Johnson. ‘He’s already run the race a dozen times in his head. Get me the name of the winner.’

‘I like Hamilton,’ she pointed out. ‘I enjoy his company. I hope to enjoy it for a lot longer. I agree that you helped to get me introduced to him, Marcus, and I’m grateful but I’ve been increasingly uneasy about what you expect of me.’

‘All you have to do is to keep your ears open.’

‘I’m worried.’

‘Why?’

‘Certain things have happened. Frankly, I’m scared.’

‘Of what?’

‘That’s the trouble,’ she confessed, ‘I don’t know. Something very strange and very alarming is going on. My hatbox was stolen from a hotel. It was later found with a man’s head in it.’

‘Never!’ he said, grimacing. ‘How perfectly dreadful!’

‘It shook me to the core, Marcus.’

‘I can imagine. Oh, you poor thing – no wonder you’re so uneasy about my plan. Look,’ he went on, kneading her hand sympathetically, ‘forget all about that wicked half-brother of yours. You have enough to worry about, I can see.’

‘I’m afraid of what might happen next.’

‘Are you in touch with the police?’

‘No – and I don’t wish to be.’

‘You’re like me – you have an aversion to authority.’

‘That hatbox belongs to part of my life I’d rather forget.’

‘That’s readily understandable. But don’t trouble yourself on my account. Marcus Johnson will find another way to make his fortune.’ He beamed. ‘And when I do, Kitty, I promise that you’ll be a chief beneficiary.’

Robert Colbeck gave the superintendent an edited version of the visit to the Green Dragon and announced his intention to call at the stables belonging to Hamilton Fido that afternoon. Tallis was brusque.

‘Be sure to take your handcuffs with you.’

‘Why?’

‘To effect an arrest, of course,’ said Tallis. ‘The more I learn, the more convinced I am that Fido is the culprit.’

‘He pleaded his innocence.’

‘Villains always do that, Inspector.’

‘Granted,’ said Colbeck, ‘but, on this occasion, I pay some heed. While Mr Fido is no candidate for sainthood, there’s nothing in his past to indicate he would connive at murder.’

‘There’s a first time for everything.’

‘I’d rather give him the benefit of the doubt.’

‘Had you been here earlier,’ said Tallis, grinding the remains of his cigar in the ashtray, ‘you might not be so ready to give Mr Fido any leeway. I had a visit from Lord Hendry.’

‘Indeed – what did he want?’

‘To complain about you and Sergeant Leeming, as it happens.’

Tallis sat back in his chair and related the conversation he had had with Lord Hendry. While he was interested to hear of the attempt to injure Odysseus, Colbeck was not as ready as the superintendent to attribute the blame to Hamilton Fido. One regret was uppermost in his mind. He was sorry that Tallis had been unable to elicit the name of Lord Hendry’s former mistress.

‘We’ll have to find it by other means,’ said Colbeck.

‘How relevant do you think it will be?’

‘Very relevant – the lady may want her hatbox returned.’

‘Given what happened to it, I find that highly unlikely.’

‘I still wish to talk to her, Superintendent. She will at least be able to tell us when and where the item was stolen. We intercepted it at Crewe on its way to Ireland. Did it begin its journey in London or elsewhere?’ Colbeck stood up. ‘Perhaps I should speak to Lord Hendry myself,’ he said. ‘It may be that he’ll divulge the name to me.’

‘The young lady has vanished forever from his life. I don’t think he’d yield up her name if you stretched him on the rack. In his codex, to all intents and purposes, she is dead and buried.’

‘Then I may need to exhume her.’

Colbeck bade him farewell and went out into the corridor. He had intended to collect his top hat and leave the building. When he entered his office, however, he found that he had a visitor. A short, plump, middle-aged man leapt to his feet apologetically, as if sitting in a chair were a felony. He had the hunted, hangdog look of man who is uncertain if he is doing the right thing.

‘Are you Inspector Colbeck?’ he asked.

‘I am, sir – who might you be?’

‘My name is Dacre Radley.’

‘Do sit down, Mr Radley,’ said Colbeck, wondering why his visitor was so nervous. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

Radley sat down. ‘This may be a fool’s errand, Inspector.’

‘Let me decide that.’

‘I can’t stay long. I’m on duty again soon.’

‘And where would that be, Mr Radley?’

‘At the Wyvern Hotel – that’s just off the Strand.’

‘I know it well,’ said Colbeck. ‘Expensive but tasteful.’

‘We try to maintain high standards.’

‘Are you the manager?’

‘No, no,’ said Radley sheepishly. ‘I occupy a more lowly position. The manager is Mr Claude Fielding and – had he been aware of what I proposed – he would certainly have stopped me coming here.’

‘Why is that?’

‘He believes that the privacy of clients is sacrosanct. And so do I, of course, but not when a murder investigation is concerned. It may just be a weird coincidence, Inspector – I rather hope it is – but I was struck by that article in the newspaper about a stolen hatbox.’

‘Go on,’ urged Colbeck.

‘Well,’ said Radley, licking his lips, ‘the simple fact is that we had a hatbox taken from the hotel not so long ago. I was on duty when the theft was reported.’

‘Do you remember the name of the lady who owned it?’

‘No, sir, it was never given to me. But I know the name of the gentleman who booked the room for the night.’

‘Well?’

‘Mr Hamilton Fido.’

Colbeck shook his hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Radley,’ he said. ‘That information is very valuable. You’ve rendered us a great service in coming forward like this.’

‘You won’t mention anything to Mr Fielding, will you?’

‘I’ve no need to speak to him.’

Radley gasped. ‘I’m so relieved, Inspector. I’ve been torturing myself about whether or not I should come. It preyed on my mind, you see. That hatbox might have been the one taken from the hotel.’

‘I’m fairly certain that it was,’ said Colbeck.

‘Then I’m glad I came.’ He rose to his feet and bit his lip as he wrestled with his conscience. ‘There is something else I could tell you, Inspector, though I’m not sure that I should. I hope you don’t think I make a habit of this. I’m known for my discretion.’

‘Anything you can tell us will be very welcome, sir.’

‘The thing is…’ Radley bit his lip again before plunging in. ‘The thing is that the young lady who accompanied Mr Fido, and whom we assumed was Mrs Fido, had been to the Wyvern Hotel once before.’