The Railway Viaduct

CHAPTER TWELVE

Victor Leeming was thoroughly delighted when Colbeck called on him that morning. Simply seeing the inspector again was a tonic to him. Time had been hanging with undue heaviness on his hands and he desperately missed being involved in the murder investigation. He felt that he was letting the inspector down. They sat down together in the cramped living room of Leeming's house. He listened attentively to the recitation of events that had taken place in France, only interrupting when a certain name was mentioned.

'Brendan Mulryne?'

'Yes, Victor.'

'There was no reference to him in the newspapers.'

'Mr Tallis made sure of that,' said Colbeck. 'He refused to give any public acknowledgement to Brendan because he felt that it would demean us if we admitted any reliance on people like him. As it happens, I would have kept his name secret for another reason.'

'What's that, Inspector?'

'I may want to employ him again. If his name and description are plastered all over the newspapers, it would make that difficult. He needs to be kept anonymous.'

'I'm not sure that I'd have used him at all,' admitted Leeming.

'That's why I didn't discuss the matter with you.'

'I like Mulryne – he's good company – but I'd never trust him with anything important. He's likely to go off the rails.'

Colbeck smiled. 'In this case,' he pointed out, 'he did the exact opposite. Instead of going off the rails, he kept Mr Brassey on them. Largely because of what Brendan did, the railway can still be built.'

'Then I congratulate him.'

'You have a reason to thank him as well, Victor.'

'Do I?'

'One of the men who gave you the beating was Pierce Shannon.'

'I'm not surprised to hear it. He was a sly character.'

'Brendan laid him out cold on your behalf.'

'I wish I'd been there to do it myself,' said Leeming, grimly.

'The other man who attacked you was Liam Kilfoyle.'

'Liam? And I thought he was a friend of mine!'

'Not any more,' said Colbeck. 'I had the pleasure of exchanging a few blows with Mr Kilfoyle. I let him know what I felt about people who assaulted my sergeant.'

'Thank you, sir.'

Colbeck told him about the capture of the villains and how they had been handed over to the French police the next day. Thomas Brassey and Aubrey Filton had been overwhelmed with gratitude. The second visit to France had been eventful. Colbeck felt satisfied.

'So that part of the investigation is now concluded,' he said.

'What comes next?'

'The small matter of tracking down the killer.'

'Do you have any clues, Inspector?'

'Yes, Victor. One of them came from the most unexpected source, but that's often the way with police work. And I'm a great believer in serendipity.'

Leeming was honest. 'So would I be, if I knew what it meant.'

'Picking up a good thing where you find it.'

'Ah, I see. A bit like beachcombing.'

'Not really,' said Colbeck. 'Beachcombing implies that you deliberately go in search of something. Serendipity depends entirely on chance. You might not even be looking for a particular clue until you stumble upon it in the most unlikely place.'

'Serendipity. I'll remember that word. It will impress Estelle.'

'How is your wife?'

'She's been a tower of strength, sir.'

'Happy to have you at home so much, I should imagine.'

'Yes and no,' said Leeming, sucking in air through his teeth. 'Estelle is happy to have me here but not when I'm convalescing. She'd like more of a husband and a bit less of a patient.'

'You seem to be recovering well.'

Leeming's facial scars had almost disappeared now and the heavy bruising on his body had also faded. What remained were the cracked ribs that occasionally reminded him that they were there by causing a spasm of pain. He refused to give in to his injuries.

'I'm as fit as a fiddle, sir,' he said, cheerily. 'But for the doctor, I'd be back at work right now.'

'Doctors usually know best.'

'It's so boring and wasteful, sitting at home here.'

'Do you get out at all?'

'Every day, Inspector. I have a long walk and I sometimes take the children to the park. I can get about quite easily.'

'That's good news. We look forward to having you back.'

'I can't wait,' said Leeming. 'Much as I love Estelle and the children, I do hate being unemployed. It feels wrong somehow. I'm not a man who can rest, sir. I like action.'

'You had rather too much of it in France.'

'I like to think that I helped.'

'You did, Victor,' said Colbeck. 'You did indeed.'

'Mind you, I couldn't make a living as a navvy. A week of that kind of work would have finished me off. They earn their money.'

'Unfortunately, some of them tried to earn it by other means.'

'Yes,' said the other with feeling. 'Shannon and his friends were too greedy. They wanted more than Mr Brassey could ever pay them. Pierce Shannon always had an ambitious streak. It's a pity you got so little out of him when you questioned him.'

'That's not true.'

'He couldn't even tell you the name of the man who paid him.'

'Oh, I think that he gave us a lot more information than he realised,' said Colbeck. 'To begin with, we now know how he and his paymaster first met.'

'In a police cell.'

'What does that tell you?'

'Nothing that I couldn't have guessed about Shannon, sir. He got involved in a brawl and was arrested for disturbing the peace. Men like that always get into trouble when they've had a few drinks.' He cleared his throat. 'I'm bound to point out that the same thing happened to Brendan Mulryne after he'd left the police force.'

'He might not be the only policeman that we lost.'

'I don't think that Shannon was ever in uniform, sir.'

'What about the man who employed him?'

'We know nothing whatsoever about the fellow.'

'Yes, we do,' said Colbeck. 'We know that he's able to talk to someone in a police cell, which means that he's either a lawyer, a policeman or someone who used to be involved in law enforcement. I'd hazard a guess that he has friends in the police force, or he'd not have been given such easy access to a prisoner. Also, of course, we do have his Christian name.'

'Luke.'

'You can find out the rest when you get there.'

'Where?'

'To the station where Pierce Shannon was detained.'

Leeming was taken aback. 'You want me to do that, sir?'

'You enjoy a long walk, don't you?'

'Yes.'

'And you're chafing at the bit while you're sitting here.'

'I am, Inspector – that's the plain truth.'

'Then you can return to light duties immediately.' His grin was conspiratorial. 'Provided that you don't mention the fact to Mr Tallis, that is. He might not understand. He has a preference for making all operational decisions himself.'

'I won't breathe a single word to him.'

'Not even serendipity?'

'I'm saving that one for my wife.'

'Does that mean you're willing to help us, Victor?'

Leeming struggled to his feet. 'I'm on my way, sir.'

They noticed the difference at once. It was as if a threatening black cloud that had been hanging over the site had suddenly dispersed to let bright sunshine through. In fact, it was raining that morning but nothing could dampen their spirits or that of the navvies. Hectic activity was continuing apace. They were now certain to complete the stipulated amount of work on the railway by the end of the month. The sudden and dramatic improvement made Aubrey Filton blossom into an unaccustomed smile.

'This is how it should be, Mr Brassey,' he said. 'Now that we've got rid of the rotten apples from the barrel, we can surge ahead.'

'Word spread quickly. When they heard about the arrests, the men were as relieved as we were. And you can't blame them,' said Brassey, reasonably. 'If work had ground to a halt here, I'd have been in danger of losing the contract. Thousands of them would have been thrown out of work. Their livelihoods have been saved.'

'And your reputation has been vindicated.'

'I care more about them than about me, Aubrey.'

'You treat them like members of a huge family.'

'That's exactly what they are.'

They were at the window, gazing out at sodden navvies who laboured away as if impervious to rain. There was a new spirit about the way everyone was working. It was almost as if the many wanted to atone for the dire shortcomings of the few by demonstrating their commitment to the project. Eamonn Slattery had noticed it. The priest was standing between the two men.

'Look at them,' he said with pride. 'There's not a navvy alive who can match an Irishman when it comes to hard physical work. The Potato Famine nearly crippled our beloved country but it was a blessing to someone like you, Mr Brassey.'

'I agree, Father Slattery,' conceded the other. 'A lot of the men here emigrated from Ireland. I was glad to take them on. What's the feeling among them now?'

'Oh, they reacted with a mixture of thanks and outrage.'

'Inspector Colbeck deserves most of the thanks.'

'So I hear,' said Slattery with a cackle. 'And there was me, thinking that dandy was working for the Minister of Public Works. He took me in completely but, then, so did Brendan Mulryne.'

'He's the real hero here,' opined Filton.

'The others will miss him. He made himself very popular. Well, there's one good thing to come out of all this.'

'And what's that, Father?'

'I can count on a decent congregation on Sunday,' explained the priest with a grin. 'It's strange how adversity turns a man's mind to religion. They know how close they came to losing their jobs. A lot of them will get down on their knees to send up a prayer of thanks. I'll make the most of it and preach a sermon that will sing in their ears for a week. By next Sunday,' he added, philosophically, 'most of them won't come anywhere near the service.'

'Were you surprised to find out who was trying to disrupt the railway?' asked Brassey.

'I'd always suspected that Shannon might have something to do with it. He was the type. Kilfoyle disappointed me. I thought that Liam would have more sense.'

'What about the other two men?'

'Dowd and Murphy? Weak characters. Easily lead.'

'They'll get no mercy in court,' predicted Brassey. 'This railway has the backing of Louis Napoleon and his government. Anyone who tries to bring it to a halt will be hit with the full weight of the law.'

'The whole sad business is finally over,' said Slattery. 'I think that we ought to console ourselves with that thought.'

'But it isn't over yet.'

'No,' said Filton. 'The murder of Gaston Chabal has still to be solved. What happened here was entangled with that, Father Slattery.'

'How?'

'The only person who knows that is Inspector Colbeck.'

'Does he know the name of the killer?'

'He will do before long.'

'You sound very confident of that, Mr Filton.'

'He's an astonishing man.'

'It was an education to see him at work,' said Brassey. 'In his own way, Inspector Colbeck reminded me of Gaston. Both share the same passion for detail. They are utterly meticulous. That's why I know that he'll apprehend the killer in due course, Father Slattery.'

'More power to his elbow!'

'The inspector is tireless,' said Filton.

'Yes,' confirmed Brassey. 'His energy is remarkable. Even as we speak, the hunt is continuing with a vengeance.'

Robert Colbeck did not like him. The moment he set eyes on Gerald Kane, he felt an instant aversion. Kane was a short, neat, vain, conservatively dressed, fussy man in his forties, with long brown hair and a thick moustache. His deep-set eyes peered at the newcomer through wire-framed spectacles. His manner was officious and unwelcoming. Even after he had introduced himself, Colbeck was viewed with a mingled suspicion and distaste.

'Why are you bothering me, Inspector?' asked Kane, huffily. 'As far as I'm aware, we have broken no laws.'

'None at all, sir.'

'Then I'll ask you to be brief. I'm a busy man.'

'So am I.'

'In that case, we'll both profit from brevity.'

'This cannot be rushed, Mr Kane,' warned Colbeck.

'It will have to be, sir. I have a meeting.'

'Postpone it – for his sake.'

'Whom are you talking about?'

'Gaston Chabal.'

Gerald Kane raised his eyebrows in surprise, but the name did not encourage him to adopt a more friendly tone. He simply treated his visitor to a hostile stare across his desk. They were in his office, a place that was as cold, ordered and impeccably clean as the man himself. Everything on the leather top of the desk was in a tidy pile. All the pictures on the walls had been hung at identical heights. Kane was the secretary of the Society of Civil and Mechanical Engineers and he seemed to look upon his post as a major office of state. He sounded an almost imperious note.

'What about him, Inspector?' he said.

'I believe that you wrote to him, sir.'

'I don't see why that should concern you. Any correspondence in which I am engaged is highly confidential.'

'Not when one of the recipients of your letters is murdered.'

'I'm well aware of what happened to Chabal,' said Kane without the slightest gesture towards sympathy. 'It's caused me no little inconvenience.'

'He did not get himself killed in order to inconvenience you,' said Colbeck, sharply. 'Since you wrote to invite him to lecture here, you might show some interest in helping to solve the crime.'

'That is your job, Inspector. Leave me to do mine.'

'I will, sir – when I have finished.'

Kane looked at his watch. 'And when, pray, will that be?'

'When I tell you, sir.'

'You cannot keep me here against my will.'

'I quite agree,' said Colbeck, moving to the door. 'This is not the best place for an interview. Perhaps you'd be so good as to accompany me to Scotland Yard where we can talk at more leisure.'

'I'm not leaving this building,' protested Kane. 'I have work to do. You obviously don't realise who I am, Inspector.'

'You're a man who is wilfully concealing evidence from the police, sir, and that is a criminal offence. If you will not come with me voluntarily, I will have to arrest you.'

'But I have no evidence.'

'That's for me to decide.'

'This is disgraceful. I shall complain to the commissioner.'

Colbeck opened the door. 'I'll make sure that he visits you in your cell, sir,' he said, levelly. 'Shall we go?'

Gerald Kane got to his feet. After frothing impotently for a couple of minutes, he finally capitulated. Dropping back into his chair, he waved a hand in surrender.

'Close that door,' he suggested, 'and take a seat.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Colbeck, doing as he was told. 'I knew that you'd see the wisdom of cooperating with us. The situation is this. When I was in Mantes recently, I went through Chabal's effects and found a letter written by you. Since it invited him to give a second lecture, I take it that you organised his earlier visit.'

'I did. It's one of my many duties.'

'Where did the earlier lecture take place?'

'Right here, Inspector. We have a large room for such meetings. My colleagues are sitting in it at this very moment,' he went on with a meaningful glint, 'awaiting my arrival for an important discussion.'

'Engineers are patient men, sir. Forget them.'

'They will wonder where I am.'

'Then it will give them something to talk about,' said Colbeck, easily. 'Now, sir, can you tell me why you invited Chabal here?'

'He was a coming man.'

'Do we not have enough able engineers in England?'

'Of course,' replied Kane, 'but this fellow was quite exceptional. Thomas Brassey recommended him. That was how he came to my notice. Gaston Chabal had enormous promise.'

'His lecture was obviously well-received.'

'We had several requests for him to come back.'

'Could you tell me the date of his visit to you?'

'It was in spring, Inspector – April 10th, to be exact.'

'You have a good memory.'

'That's essential in my job.'

'Then I'll take advantage of it again, if I may,' said Colbeck. 'Can you recall how many people attended the lecture? Just give me an approximate number.'

'I represent civil and mechanical engineers,' declared the other, loftily. 'Accuracy is all to us. We do not deal in approximates but in exact measurements. When he first spoke here, Gaston Chabal had ninety-four people in the audience – excluding myself, naturally. As the secretary of the Society, I was here as a matter of course.'

'Were the others all exclusively engineers?'

'No, Inspector. The audience contained various parties.'

'Such as?'

'People with a vested interest in railways. We had directors of certain railway companies as well as potential investors in the Mantes to Caen project. Mr Brassey, alas, was not here but Chabal was a fine ambassador for him.'

'Ninety-four people.'

'Ninety-five, if you add me.'

'I would not dream of eliminating you, Mr Kane,' said Colbeck. 'With your permission, I'd like to plunder that famous memory of yours one last time. How many of those who attended do you recall?'

'I could give you every single name.'

Colbeck was impressed. 'You can remember all of them?'

'No, Inspector,' said Kane, opening a drawer to take something out. 'I kept a record. If I'd secured Chabal's services again, I intended to write to everyone on this list to advise them of his return.' He held out a sheet of paper. 'Would you care to see it?'

Colbeck decided he might grow to like Gerald Kane, after all.

Victor Leeming was so pleased to be taking part in the investigation again that he forgot the nagging twinge in his ribs as he walked along. It took him some time to reach his destination. He had been sent to the police station that was responsible for Limehouse and adjoining districts. Close to the river, it was a bustling community that was favoured by sailors and fishermen. Limehouse had taken its name centuries earlier from the lime kilns that stood there when plentiful supplies of chalk could be brought in from Kent. It was the docks that now gave the area its characteristic flavour and its central feature.

When his nostrils first picked up the potent smell of fresh fish, Leeming inhaled deeply and thankfully. The bracing aroma helped to mask the compound of unpleasant odours that had been attacking his nose and making him retch. Streets were coated with grime and soiled with animal excrement and other refuse. Soap works and a leather tannery gave off the most revolting stench. Unrelenting noise seemed to come from every direction. Leeming saw signs of hideous poverty. He could almost taste the misery in some places. Limehouse was an assault on his sensibilities. He was grateful when he reached the police station and let himself in.

A burly sergeant sat behind a high desk, polishing the brass buttons on his uniform with a handkerchief. A half-eaten sandwich lay before him. He looked at his visitor with disdain until the latter introduced himself.

'Oh, I'm sorry, sir,' he said, putting the sandwich quickly into the desk and brushing crumbs from his thighs. 'I didn't realise that you were from the Detective Department.'

'Who am I speaking to?' asked Leeming.

'Sergeant Ryall, sir. Sergeant Peter Ryall.'

'How long have you been at this station?'

'Nigh on seven years, sir.'

'Then you should be able to help us.'

'We're always ready to help Scotland Yard.'

Ryall gave him a token smile. His face had been pitted by years of police service and his red cheeks and nose revealed where he had sought solace from the cares of his occupation. But his manner was amiable and his deference unfeigned. Leeming did not criticise him for eating food while on duty. Having worked in a police station himself, he knew how such places induced an almost permanent hunger.

'I want to ask about a man you kept in custody here,' he said.

'What was his name?'

'Pierce Shannon.'

Ryall racked his brains. 'Don't remember him,' he said at length. 'Irish, I take it?'

'Very Irish.'

'Hundreds of them pass through our cells.' He lifted the lid of the desk and took out a thick ledger. 'When was he here?'

'A couple of months ago, at a guess,' said Leeming. 'When he left here, he went to France to help build a railway.' Ryall began to flick through the pages of his ledger. 'The person I'm really hoping to find is a man who visited Shannon in his cell while he was here.'

'A lawyer?'

'No – a friend.'

'We don't keep a record of visitors, Sergeant Leeming.'

'I was hoping that someone here might recall him. If he was a stranger, he'd have no authority to interview the prisoner in his cell. You'd not have let him past you.'

'That, I wouldn't,' said Ryall, stoutly.

'So how was he able to get so close to Shannon?'

'One thing at a time, sir. Let me locate the prisoner first.' He ran his finger down a list of names. 'I've a Mike Shannon here. He was arrested for forgery in June.'

'That's not him. This man was involved in a brawl.'

'Pat Shannon?' offered the other, spotting another name. 'We locked him up for starting a fight in the market. What age would your fellow be?'

'In this thirties.'

'Then it's not Pat Shannon. He was much older.' He continued his search. 'It would help if you could be more exact about the date.'

'June at the earliest, I'd say.'

'Let's try the end of May, to be on the safe side.' Ryall found the relevant page and went down the list. 'It was warm weather last May. That always keeps us busy. When it's hot and sweaty, people drink more. We attended plenty of affrays that month.' His finger jabbed a name. 'Ah, here we are!'

'Have you got him?'

'I've got a Pierce Shannon. Gave his age as thirty-five.'

'That could be him. Was he involved in a brawl?'

'Yes, sir – at the Jolly Sailor. It's a tavern by the river. We have a lot of trouble there. Shannon was one of five men arrested that night but we kept him longer than the others, it seems.'

'Why?'

'He refused to pay the fine, so we hung on to him until he could be transferred to prison. Shannon was released when someone else paid up on his behalf. He was released on June 4th.'

'Do you know who paid his fine?'

'No,' said Ryall. 'None of our business. We are just glad to get rid of them. His benefactor's name would be in the court records.'

Leeming was pleased. 'Thank you,' he said. 'You've been very helpful. While he was under lock and key here, Shannon had a visit from a man whose first name was Luke. Does that ring a bell?'

'Afraid not – but, then, it wouldn't. I wasn't on duty during the time that Pierce Shannon was held here. I spent most of May at home, recovering from injuries received during the arrest of some villains.'

'You have my warmest sympathy.'

'Horace Eames would have been in charge of custody here.'

'Then he's the man I need to speak to,' decided Leeming. 'If he let Luke Whatever-His-Name-Is into one of your cells, he would have been doing so as a favour to a friend. Inspector Colbeck thinks that friend might have been a policeman himself at one time.'

Ryall closed the ledger. 'Possible, sir. I couldn't say.'

'I need to speak to Mr Eames. Is he here, by any chance?'

'No, he left the police force in July. Horace said that he wanted a change of scene. But he's not far away from here.'

'Can you give me the address, please?'

'Gladly,' said Ryall. 'You probably walked past the place to get here. It's a boatyard. Horace was apprenticed to a carpenter before he joined the police force. He was always good with his hands. That's where you'll find him – at Forrestt's boatyard.'

The shop was in a dingy street not far from Paddington Station. It sold dresses to women of limited means and haberdashery to anyone in need of it. In a large room at the back of the premises, four women worked long hours as they made new dresses or repaired old ones. The shop was owned and run by Madame Hennebeau, a descendant of one of the many French Huguenot families that had settled in the area in the previous century. Louise Hennebeau was a tall, full-bodied widow in her fifties, with a handsome face and well-groomed hair from which every trace of grey had been hounded by a ruthless black dye. Though she had been born and brought up in England, she affected a strong French accent to remind people of her heritage.

She was very surprised when Robert Colbeck entered her shop. Men seldom came to her establishment and the few who did never achieved the striking elegance of her visitor. Madame Hennebeau gave him a smile of welcome that broadened when he doffed his top hat and allowed her to see his face. Colbeck then introduced himself and she was nonplussed. She could not understand why a detective inspector should visit her shop.

'Would you prefer to talk in English or French, Madame?'

'English will be fine, sir,' she replied.

'French might be more appropriate,' he said, 'because I am investigating the murder of a gentleman called Gaston Chabal. Indeed, I have spent some time in France itself recently.'

'I still do not see why you have come to me, Inspector.'

'While I was abroad, crimes were committed on a railway line that was being built near Mantes. The men responsible have now been arrested but, had they done what they were supposed to do, they would have been richly rewarded. To get the reward,' Colbeck explained, 'the leader of the gang was told to come here.'

'Why?' she asked, gesticulating. 'This is a dress shop.'

'It's also a place where a message could be left, apparently.'

'Really?'

'For whom was that message intended?'

'I have no idea. I think there's been some mistake.'

'I doubt it. The man I questioned was very specific about this address. He even knew your name, Madam Hennebeau.'

'How?'

'That's what I'd like you to tell me.'

Waving her arms excitedly, she went off into a long, breathy defence of herself and her business, assuring him that she had always been very law-abiding and that she had no connection whatsoever with any crimes committed in France. Her righteous indignation was genuine enough but Colbeck still sensed that she was holding something back from him. He stopped her with a raised hand.

'Madame Hennebeau,' he said, politely, 'you obviously did not hear what I said at the start of the conversation. My visit here concerns a murder investigation. Nothing will be allowed to obstruct me in pursuit of the killer. Anyone who harbours information that may be useful to me – and who deliberately conceals it – will find that they are on the wrong side of the law. Retribution will follow.'

'But I have done nothing wrong,' she said, quivering all over.

'You are protecting someone I need to find.'

'No, Inspector.'

'He may even be hiding here at the moment.'

'That's not true,' she cried in alarm. 'There's nobody here except my women and me.'

'I may need to verify that by searching the premises. If you refuse to help me, Madame Hennebeau, I will have to return with some constables to go through every room. It may be necessary to disturb your seamstresses while we do so but that cannot be helped. As I told you,' he stressed, 'I'll let nobody obstruct me.'

'That is not what I'm doing, Inspector Colbeck.'

'I know when I'm being lied to, Madame.'

'I'm an honest woman. I'd never lie.'

'Do you want me to organise that search?'

'If I could help you, I would.'

'Then tell me the truth.'

'I do not know it myself.' She took a tiny handkerchief from the sleeve of her blouse and dabbed at her watering eyes. 'A gentleman came in here some weeks ago. He asked me if I would receive a message for him in return for some money. That's all I had to do,' she said, earnestly. 'Receive a message and hold it here for him. When it came, I was to put something in the window – a display of green ribbons – so that he could see it as he passed.'

'Was that because he lives nearby?'

'I cannot say. When he saw the signal, he was to pick up the message and leave a reply for whoever had been here. It all seemed so harmless to me, Inspector. I did not realise I was breaking the law.'

'You were not, Madame.'

'I feel as if I was now.'

'What was this gentleman's name?'

'He did not tell me – I swear it.'

'Could you describe him?'

'He was shorter than you, Inspector, and he had broader shoulders. He was not good-looking but he had a pleasant face. I liked him. His hair was thick and turning grey.'

'Could you give me some idea of his age?'

'Ten years older than you at least.'

'Why did he pick here?' wondered Colbeck. 'I can see that he could rely on you do what he asked, but why did he single you out in the first place? Was he ever a customer here?'

'No, Inspector,' she said.

'Then how did you meet?'

'It was some time ago,' she said, hiding her embarrassment behind a nervous laugh, 'and we did not really meet in the way that you imply. He used to wave to me through the window as he passed the shop and we became…' She licked her lips to get the words out more clearly. '…we became acquainted, as you might say. Then, out of the blue, he stepped into the shop one day.'

'When was this?'

'Weeks ago. I did not even recognise him at first.'

'Why not?'

'Because he was not wearing his uniform. When he used to go past regularly, he always looked very smart. That's why I trusted him, Inspector,' she said. 'He was a policeman.'

The Lamb and Flag was a favourite haunt of Victor Leeming's because it had three outstanding features. It was within walking distance of Scotland Yard, it served excellent beer and it was a tavern that Edward Tallis would never deign to enter. Leeming could enjoy a quiet drink there without fear of being caught in the act by his superior. When he got there, a few of his colleagues were already in the bar and they were very pleased to see him again. They chatted happily with him until Robert Colbeck came in through the door. Understanding at once that the two men wanted to be alone, the others greeted the newcomer with a respectful smile then drifted away. Colbeck brought drinks for himself and his sergeant before choosing a table in the far corner. Leeming quaffed his beer gratefully.

'I needed a taste of that,' he said, wiping the froth from his upper lip. 'I've been very busy today, Inspector.'

'I hope that I didn't overtax you, Victor.'

'Not at all. It felt marvellous to be back.'

'Albeit unofficially,' Colbeck observed.

'Quite so, sir.'

'Did you learn anything of value?'

'Eventually,' said Leeming, taking another long sip as he gathered his thoughts. 'I went to the police station and discovered that Pierce Shannon had been locked up there on May 27th.'

'Disturbing the peace?'

'And causing damage to property, most likely, but he wasn't charged with that. Because he couldn't pay his fine, he was kept in his cell, pending a transfer to prison, but the fine was then paid by an anonymous benefactor.'

'The very man who visited him in prison, I daresay.'

'I can confirm that. I spoke to Horace Eames.'

'Who is he?'

'He spends his time making lifeboats now, sir, but he used to be a policeman in Limehouse. It was Eames who let this old friend of his speak to Shannon in his cell. When he gave me his name, I wanted to make sure that we had the right man so I went to the magistrate's court to check their records.'

'Well done, Victor.'

'Sure enough, the very same person had paid the fine.'

'That's conclusive.'

'Do you know what Luke's other name was?'

'Yes – Rogan.'

Leeming's face fell. 'You've already found out,' he complained.

'Let's call it a joint operation, Victor. We've each confirmed what the other managed to ascertain. While you were in a boatyard, I was at a dress shop in Paddington.'

'A dress shop?'

'It was the place where Shannon was told to leave a message for his paymaster. A French lady owns the shop. She and Rogan seemed to have developed something of a friendship.'

'He was a policeman in that district. So was Horace Eames at one time. They worked together.'

'I went to the station and they told me all about Rogan. It seems that he was a ladies' man,' said Colbeck. 'He developed a habit of enjoying favours from some of the women he encountered on his beat. And not the kind that ever charge for such services, I should add. In return, he kept a special eye on their property. He was a good policeman, apparently, but too fond of disobeying orders. In the end, he was dismissed from Paddington and became a private detective.'

'That's what Eames told me.'

'Did he give you an address for him?'

'He has an office somewhere in Camden.'

'What about his home address?'

'Eames couldn't tell me that, sir,' said Leeming. 'When he left the police force, Rogan moved from his house in Paddington.'

'Not all that far,' said Colbeck, taking a sheet of paper from his inside pocket. 'He needed to keep an eye on the window of that dress shop for a signal that was to be put there. It must have been chosen because of its proximity to his home.' He put the paper on the table. 'Take a look at that, Victor.'

'What is it, sir?'

'A list of people attending a lecture given by Gaston Chabal.'

Leeming picked it up. 'Where did you get this from?'

'The man who organised the event,' said Colbeck, taking a sip of his whisky. 'He's very methodical. As you can see, the names are all in alphabetical order. Check those that begin with an "R". Do you recognise someone?'

'Luke Rogan,' said the other, pointing to the name.

'Now, what is a private detective doing at a meeting that had such specialised interest? He knows nothing about civil engineering. I must be the only policeman in London who would have listened to Chabal with any alacrity.'

'So what was Rogan doing there?'

'Following him,' decided Colbeck. 'Unless I'm mistaken, he even followed the man to Paris. Chabal's mother-in-law told me that he felt someone was watching him. I believe that Rogan stayed on his tail until the moment when he had the opportunity to kill him. I'm also fairly certain that he was wearing a police uniform when he committed the murder. If Chabal was afraid that somebody was stalking him,' he added, 'the one person who would not arouse his suspicion was a police constable.'

'A bogus one.'

'Chabal was not to know that.' He had a second sip of his drink. 'Look at that list again, Victor. Can you see another name that you recognise?'

Leeming let his eye run down the neat column of names. 'Yes,' he declared, 'I know this one – Alexander Marklew.' He tapped the piece of paper. 'That's it, Inspector,' he went on with a note of triumph in his voice. 'We've found the link we needed.'

'Have we?'

'Of course. The only way that Rogan would even have known that that lecture was taking place was if someone took him there. That someone must be Mr Marklew. We've come full circle, Inspector,' he said, pausing to pour down some more beer. 'We're back with the most obvious suspect of all.'

'Who's that?'

'A jealous husband.'

'Husbands are not jealous of things they know nothing about.'

'But he did know. He used a private detective to find out.'

'No, Victor. I don't accept that. Alexander Marklew is a person I'd expect to be at such a lecture, but not because he realised that his wife had been unfaithful to him. Had that been the case, he'd surely have challenged Mrs Marklew about it. No,' said Colbeck, taking the list back from him, 'we must look elsewhere on this list.'

'What for?'

'The name of the man who did employ Luke Rogan.'

'Then all we have to do is to work through them one by one.'

'There's a more direct way than that, Victor.'

'Is there, sir?'

'Yes,' said Colbeck, pocketing the list and reaching for his whisky. 'I can pay a call on a certain private detective. Luke Rogan is the killer. His arrest must be our first priority.'

Sir Marcus Hetherington's estates were in Essex and he spent a fair amount of time at his country seat. When he was in London, however, he stayed at his town house in Pimlico. It was there, helped by his valet, that he was dressing for dinner. He was too busy adjusting his white tie in a mirror to hear the doorbell ring down below. It was only when he began to descend the staircase that he became aware of the fact that he had a visitor. A manservant awaited him in the hall.

'A gentleman has called to see you, Sir Marcus,' he said.

'At this hour? Damnably inconvenient.'

'I showed him into the drawing room.'

'What was his name?'

'Mr Rogan.'

Sir Marcus reddened. 'Luke Rogan?' he asked, irritably.

'Yes, Sir Marcus.'

Without even thanking the man, Sir Marcus brushed rudely past him and went into the drawing room, closing the door with a bang behind him to show his displeasure. Luke Rogan was admiring a painting of the battle of Waterloo that hung over the fireplace. He spun round to face the old man.

'What the devil are you doing here?' demanded Sir Marcus.

'I needed to see you.'

'Not here, man. I've told you before. You should only make contact with me at the Reform Club. If I am not there, you simply leave a note for me.'

'I preferred to call on you at home, Sir Marcus.'

'But I refrained on purpose from giving you this address.'

'I soon found it out,' said Rogan. 'When someone employs me, I like to know a little more about them than they're prepared to tell me.'

'Impudent scoundrel!'

'We're in this together, after all.'

'What are you blathering about?'

'Inspector Colbeck.'

Sir Marcus became wary. 'Go on,' he said, slowly.

'He knows.'

Luke Rogan had a hunted look about him. He spoke with his usual bravado but there was a distant fear in his voice. Sir Marcus took note of it. Crossing to a table, he removed the stopper from a crystal decanter and poured himself a glass of brandy. He did not offer a drink to Rogan. After replacing the stopper, he threw down half of the brandy before rounding on his visitor. His face was expressionless.

'What do you mean?' he asked with rasping authority.

'Inspector Colbeck came to my office,' replied Rogan.

'When?'

'This afternoon. Luckily, I was out.'

'How did you learn of his visit?'

'The other offices are leased to a firm of solicitors, Sir Marcus. One of their clerks spoke to the inspector. He said that I would be out all afternoon and was not expected to return. As it happens,' said Rogan, 'I did call in earlier this evening.'

'What did Colbeck want?'

'To speak to me, that's all.'

'Was he on his own or did he bring men with him?'

'He came alone. I take that as a good sign.'

'A good sign!' repeated the old man with asperity. 'First of all, you assure me that he will never connect you in a hundred years with what happened in France. Then, when he comes knocking on your door only days later, you describe it as a good sign.'

'I was referring to the fact that he was on his own, Sir Marcus.'

'It only takes one man to make an arrest.'

'That may not be the reason he came.'

'Why else?'

'To make enquiries, maybe,' said Rogan, hopefully. 'My name may have floated in front of him and he came to satisfy his curiosity. I felt that I should warn you, Sir Marcus, but it may be unnecessary. I can't see how Colbeck could possibly link me with the murder.'

'I can,' said the other. 'You slipped up somewhere.'

'But I covered my tracks very carefully.'

'So you tell me.'

'I did, Sir Marcus. I know how policemen work. I left no clues as to my name or my whereabouts.'

'Then how do you explain Colbeck's visit to your office?'

Rogan shrugged. 'I can't,' he admitted.

'So you come running here, you imbecile!' shouted Sir Marcus before downing the rest of his brandy. 'Did it never occur to you that Colbeck might have left a man to watch your office in case you returned? When you did, and learned what had happened, you might have led him all the way to my door.'

'Impossible!'

'How do you know?'

'Because I left the building by the rear exit,' said Rogan, 'and I changed cabs twice on my way here to throw off anyone who might be following. There was no one, Sir Marcus. I walked around the whole square to be sure before I even rang your bell.'

Sir Marcus put his glass on a table. Flipping his coat tails out of the way, he sank into a leather chair and ruminated for several minutes. Rogan remained on his feet, still trying to work out how Colbeck had managed to identify him as one of the culprits. Having taken such pains to hide behind anonymity, he felt distinctly uneasy, as if layers of protective clothing had suddenly and unaccountably been whisked off him. It made him shiver.

'Where will he go next?' said the old man. 'To your home?'

'No, Sir Marcus. He may have got to my office, but he'll never find out where I live. Even my closest friends don't know that. I keep my address secret and change it regularly. When I go back home tonight,' said Rogan, confidently. 'I'll do so without a qualm.'

'That's more than I'll do.'

'You're perfectly safe here.'

'Not as long as Inspector Colbeck is on the case.' His gaze shifted to the painting above the fireplace and hovered there for while. 'How many men of his standing do they have at Scotland Yard?'

'None at all.'

'He must have an assistant.'

'Victor Leeming was the man beaten up in France,' said Rogan. 'He's not even involved in the case anymore. Colbeck will miss him and that's to our advantage. From what I've heard, Leeming is hard-working and resolute.'

'There must be other capable men in the Department.'

'Not one of them can hold a candle to the Railway Detective.'

'So he is irreplaceable?'

'Completely, Sir Marcus.'

The old man stood up and walked across to stand in front of the fireplace. He looked up at the swirling action in the oil painting on the wall. As rich memories were ignited, he drew himself up to his full height and stood to attention. He could hear the sound of armed conflict and it brought a nostalgic smile to his lips. When he spoke to Rogan, he kept staring up at the battle of Waterloo.

'Did you ever serve in the army?' he asked.

'No, Sir Marcus.'

'A pity – it would have been the making of you. Military life gives a man the best start in life. It shapes his thinking. It imparts courage and teaches him the virtues of patriotism.'

'Nobody is more patriotic than me,' claimed Rogan.

'Winning a battle is quite simple,' said the old man. 'You have to kill your enemy before he can kill you.' He turned round. 'That way, you remove any threat to your life, liberty and prospects of happiness. Do you understand what I'm saying, Rogan?'

'Extremely well, Sir Marcus.'

'We have an enemy. He's trying to hunt the pair of us down.'

'What do wish me to do?'

'Get rid of Inspector Colbeck,' said the other. 'He's the one man with the intelligence to find us and I'll not let that happen. It's time for him to meet his Waterloo, I fancy. You have your orders, Rogan.'

'Yes, Sir Marcus.'

'Kill him.'