The Railway Viaduct

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Superintendent Edward Tallis was in a buoyant mood for once. He had just received a letter from Thomas Brassey, expressing formal thanks for all the help that had been rendered by the Metropolitan Police Force. The commissioner had then complimented him on his wisdom in dispatching Robert Colbeck abroad and, even though Tallis had been strongly opposed to the notion, he was happy to claim some credit for it now that the French expedition had paid such dividends. But the main reason for the superintendent's good humour was that he was at last in possession of a murder suspect.

'Luke Rogan,' he said, rolling the name off his tongue.

'I have men out looking for him at this very moment, sir.'

'But you do not know his home address.'

'Not yet,' replied Colbeck.

'He sounds like a slippery customer.'

'He is, Superintendent.'

'A former policeman, operating on the wrong side of the law. That's very distressing,' said Tallis, clenching his teeth. 'It sets a bad example. He needs to be caught quickly, Inspector.'

'Rogan is not the only person we need,' Colbeck reminded him. 'He was merely the agent for someone else. The man who employed him is equally culpable.'

'Unfortunately, we do not have his name.'

'You are holding it in your hands, sir.'

They were in the superintendent's office and there was no sign of a cigar. Cool air blew in through a half-open window. When he had delivered his verbal report, Colbeck had also shown his superior the list of those who had attended Gaston Chabal's lecture. Tallis looked at it more closely and noticed something.

'Why have you put crosses against some of the names?'

'Those are the men I've been able to eliminate, sir.'

'How?' asked Tallis.

'Some of them – Alexander Marklew, for instance – invested a sizeable amount of money in the Mantes to Caen Railway. They are hardly likely to connive at the destruction of the project when they have a financial stake in it.'

'I accept that.'

'As for the other names I have set aside,' said Colbeck, 'that was done so on the advice of Mr Kane.'

'He's the secretary of this Society, isn't he?'

'Yes, sir. Once I had persuaded him to cooperate with me, he was extremely helpful. Mr Kane pointed out the civil engineers who were in the audience that day. Men who make their living from the railway,' Colbeck reasoned, 'would not be inclined to inflict damage on one. They would be violating an unwritten code.'

'So how many names are left?'

'Just over thirty.'

'It will take time to work through them all.'

'If we arrest Rogan, we'll not have to do so. He'll supply us with the name we want. It obviously belongs to a man of some wealth. He spent a large amount on this whole venture.'

'Luke Rogan must have been highly paid to commit murder.'

'I suspect that he needed the money,' said Colbeck, 'which is why he was prepared to take on the assignment. Judging by the size of his office, his business activities were not very profitable. It was very small and he could not afford to employ anyone to take care of his secretarial work.'

'Then why was he chosen?' said Tallis, frowning. 'Wouldn't his paymaster have gone to someone who was more successful?'

'No, sir. That would have been too risky for him. Most private detectives would have refused to have anything to do with such blatantly criminal activities. They are far too honourable. They would have reported to us any such approach. What this man required,' Colbeck said, 'was someone who was less scrupulous, a mercenary who could not afford to turn down such a generous offer. He found what he wanted in Luke Rogan.'

'How soon do you expect to apprehend him?'

'I could not say. He's proving rather elusive.'

'Was there nothing in his office to indicate his whereabouts?'

'Nothing whatsoever,' replied the other. 'I searched the place thoroughly this morning. Rogan was canny. He left no correspondence in his office and no details of any clients.'

'He must have had an account book of sorts.'

'Kept at his home, I presume.'

'Wherever that might be.'

'Mr Kane had an address for everyone on that list so that he could inform them about future events that took place. Luke Rogan had supplied what purported to be his home address but, when I got there, the house did not even exist.'

'What about the police in Paddington?'

'They confirmed that Rogan had always been rather secretive.'

'But they must have known where his abode was,' said Tallis, returning the sheet of paper to Colbeck. 'A police constable would have to register a correct address.'

'That's what he did, sir.'

'Did you visit the place?'

'There was no point,' said Colbeck. 'When he was dismissed from the police force, he moved from the house. Nobody seems to know where he went. Luke Rogan is not married so he has only himself to consider. He can move at will.'

'He must live somewhere, Inspector.'

'Of course. I believe it will not be too far from Paddington.'

'Then roust him out.'

'We are doing all that we can, sir.'

'How many men are out looking for him?'

'Hundreds of thousands.'

Tallis glared at him. 'Are you trying to be droll?'

'Not at all,' said Colbeck. 'I'm working from the figures in last year's census. London has a population of well over three million.'

'So?'

'We can discount the large number of people that are illiterate and any children can also be taken out of the equation. It still leaves a substantial readership for the daily newspapers.'

'Newspapers?'

'You obviously haven't read your copy of The Times this morning,' said Colbeck, indicating the newspaper that was neatly folded on the desk. 'I took the liberty of placing a notice in it and in the others on sale today.'

'I was about to suggest that you did exactly that,' said Tallis, reaching for his newspaper. 'Where is the notice?'

'Page four, sir. Why restrict the search to a handful of detectives when we can use eyes all over London to assist us? Somebody reading that,' he said, confidently, 'is bound to know where we can find the elusive Luke Rogan.'

When the cab reached the railway station, Sir Marcus Hetherington alighted and paid the driver. He then bought a first class ticket and walked towards the relevant platform. On his way, he passed a booth from which he obtained a copy of The Times. Stuffing it under one arm, he marched briskly on with his cane beating out a tattoo on the concourse. A porter was standing on the platform, ready to open the door of an empty first class carriage for him. Sir Marcus gave him a nod them settled down in his seat. The door was closed behind him.

While he enjoyed travelling by rail, he hated the hustle and bustle of a railway station and he always tried to time his arrival so that he did not have to wait there for long in the company of people whom he considered undesirables. Sir Marcus was not so aristocratic as to believe that trains should be reserved exclusively for the peerage but he did consider the introduction of the third class carriage a reprehensible mistake. It encouraged the lower orders to travel and that, in his opinion, gave them a privileged mobility that was wholly undeserved. When he saw a rough-looking individual, rushing past his carriage with a scruffy, middle-aged woman in tow, Sir Marcus grimaced. To share a journey with such people was demeaning.

Moments later, the signal was given and the train sprang into life, coughing loudly before giving a shudder and pulling away from the platform. Another latecomer sprinted past the carriage to jump on to the moving train farther down. Sir Marcus clicked his tongue in disapproval. Now that they were in motion, he was content. He had the carriage all to himself and the train would not stop until it reached his destination. Opening his newspaper, he began to read it. Since he took a keen interest in political affairs, he perused every article on the first two inside pages with care. When he turned to the next page, however, it was a police notice that grabbed his attention.

'What's this?' he gulped.

The notice requested the help of the public to find Luke Rogan, the prime suspect in a murder investigation, who operated as a private detective from an office in Camden. A detailed description of the man was given and, to his chagrin, Sir Marcus could see that it was fairly accurate. Anyone with information about Rogan's whereabouts was urged to come forward.

'Damnation!' cried Sir Marcus.

He flung the newspaper aside and considered the implications of what he had just read. It was disturbing. If everyone in the capital was looking for Luke Rogan, he could not escape arrest indefinitely. The trail would then lead to Sir Marcus. He began to perspire freely. For a fleeting second, the shadow of the Railway Detective seemed to fall across him.

'If you come down to Euston Station with me,' offered Caleb Andrews, 'I'll show you how it was done.'

'I think I already know,' said Colbeck.

'There are some empty carriages in a siding, Inspector. I could demonstrate for you.'

'Robert is far too busy, Father,' said Madeleine.

'I'm only trying to help, Madeleine. What you have to do, you see, is to prop the door open while the train is in motion. Someone did just that a few months ago on a train I was driving from Birmingham,' he explained. 'Some villains got on with a strongbox they'd stolen. After a couple of miles, they jammed open the door and flung the strongbox out so that they would not be caught with it.'

'I remember the case,' said Colbeck. 'When they came back later to retrieve their booty, the police were waiting for them. A farmer had found the strongbox in his field and raised the alarm.'

'The point I'm trying to make is that the box was heavy – almost as heavy as that Frenchman. Yet it was slung out with ease.'

'How do you know?' asked Madeleine. 'You weren't there.'

'I was driving the train.'

'But you didn't actually see them throw anything out.'

'Stop interrupting me, Maddy.'

'You make a fair point, Mr Andrews,' said Colbeck, trying to bring the conversation to an end, 'and I'm grateful. But we've moved on a long way from the Sankey Viaduct.'

'You should have come to me at the time, Inspector.'

'I'm sure.'

Colbeck had paid a return visit to Luke Rogan's office to see if there had been any sign of the man. The uniformed policeman who had been keeping the place under surveillance assured him that Rogan had not entered the building by the front or rear doors. Since he was in Camden, only a few streets away from her house, Colbeck decided to call in on Madeleine but it was her father's day off so he had to contend with Caleb Andrews. It was several minutes before he was finally left alone with Madeleine.

'Can I make you some tea, Robert?' she asked.

'No, thank you. I only popped in for a moment.'

'I'm sorry that my father badgered you.'

'I never mind anything that he does,' said Colbeck, tolerantly. 'But for him, we'd never have met. I always bear that in mind.'

'So do I.'

'You were the strongbox thrown from that particular train.'

'I'm not a strongbox,' protested Madeleine with a laugh.

'I was speaking metaphorically.'

'You mean, that I'm very heavy and difficult to open.'

'No,' said Colbeck, giving her a conciliatory kiss. 'I mean that you possess great value – to me, that is.'

'Then why didn't you say so?'

'I was dealing in images.'

'Well, I'd prefer you to speak more directly,' she chided him. 'It would help me to understand you properly. I still don't know what you meant about my drawing of the viaduct helping you to solve a murder. All you would tell me was that it was symbolic.'

'Highly symbolic.'

'It was a sketch – nothing more.'

'Show it to me again,' he invited, 'and I'll explain.'

'In simple language?'

'Monosyllables, if you prefer.'

Madeleine fetched her portfolio and extracted the drawing of the Sankey Viaduct. She laid it on the table and they both scrutinised it.

'What you did was to bridge the Channel between England and France,' he pointed out. 'All the way from Dover to Calais.'

'I drew that picture out of love.'

'But it's a symbol of something that certain people hate.'

'And what's that?'

'I'll tell you, Madeleine. The railway that's being built from Mantes to Caen will not end there. In due course, an extension will be added to take it to Cherbourg.'

'I don't see anything wrong in that.'

'There's an arsenal there.'

'Oh.'

'The railway that Thomas Brassey is constructing will in time provide a direct route between Paris and a main source of arms and ammunition. That's bound to alarm some people here,' he continued. 'It's less than forty years since we defeated France and that defeat still rankles with them. Louis Napoleon, who rules the country, is an emperor in all but name. Emperors need imperial conquests.'

Madeleine was worried. 'Do you think that France would try to invade us?' she said, turning to look up at him. 'I thought we were completely safe.'

'I'm sure that we are,' said Colbeck, 'and I'm equally certain that Mr Brassey is of the same opinion. If he believed for one moment that he was endangering his native country by building that railway, he would never have taken on the contract.'

'Then why did someone try to wreck the project?'

'Because he is afraid, Madeleine.'

'Of what?'

'Potential aggression from the French.'

'But you just said that we had nothing to fear.'

'Other people see things differently,' he said, 'and it was only when you showed me this drawing that I realised how they could view what was happening in northern France. A railway between Paris and Cherbourg is a source of intense concern to some Englishmen.'

'All that I can see is my crude version of the Sankey Viaduct.'

'Look beyond it,' he advised.

'At what?'

'The railway that will connect the French capital to a port with military significance.' He gave an apologetic smile. 'I'm afraid that I'm going to have to use a word that you don't like.'

'Will it explain what all this is about?'

'I think so, Madeleine.'

'What's the word?'

'Metaphorical.'

She rolled her eyes. 'We're back to that again.'

'Your drawing is to blame,' he said, indicating it. 'You've created what someone clearly dreads – a viaduct between England and France. In his mind – and we have to try to see it from his point of view, warped as it might be – the railway between Paris and Cherbourg will be a metaphorical viaduct between the two countries. It's a potent symbol of French imperial ambition.'

'Is that why a man was killed?' she said, trying to assimilate what she had been told. 'Because of symbols and metaphors?'

'Chabal was an engineer with an important role in the project.'

'According to father, lots of engineers work on a new railway.'

'Quite true. Mr Brassey has a whole team of them.'

'Why was this particular man murdered?'

'He had the wrong nationality – he was French.'

'Did he have to be thrown from the Sankey Viaduct?'

'I think so.'

'You're going to tell me that that was symbolic as well, aren't you?' she said. 'It's something to do with whatever you called it a few moments ago.'

'A metaphorical viaduct. I'm only guessing,' he went on, 'and I could be wrong. There are just too many coincidences here. Someone is so horrified at the prospect of that railway being built that he will go to any lengths to stop it.'

'What sort of a man is he, Robert?'

'One who has an implacable hatred of the French.'

'Why?'

'He probably fought against them.'

Nobody else was allowed in the room. It was on the first floor of the mansion and it overlooked the rear garden. It was kept locked so that none of the servants could get into it. The first thing that Sir Marcus Hetherington did when he let himself in was to lock the door behind him. He gazed around the room and felt the familiar upsurge of pride and patriotism. What he had created was a shrine to England's military glory. Banners, uniforms and weapons stood everywhere. Memorabilia of a more gruesome kind were contained in a glass case. Its prime exhibit, a human skull, was something that he cherished. It had belonged to a nameless French soldier who had fallen at the battle of Waterloo. Sir Marcus had killed him.

He wandered around the room, examining various items and luxuriating in the memories that they kindled. Then he crossed to the window. It was a fine day and sunlight was dappling the back lawn, but he was not looking at the garden. His gaze went up to the flag that was fluttering in the breeze at the top of its pole. He gave it a salute. Turning back, he surveyed his collection once more, drawing strength from it, finding consolation, recapturing younger days. On the wall above the mantelpiece was a portrait of himself in uniform. It never failed to lift his heart.

Crossing to a rosewood cabinet, he opened the top drawer and took out a wooden case that he set down on the table. When he lifted the lid of the case, Sir Marcus looked down fondly at a pair of percussion duelling pistols with plated turnoff barrels and walnut stocks inlaid with silver. The weapons gleamed. Packed neatly around them was a small supply of ammunition. He removed the pistols from the case and held one in each hand. The sensation of power was thrilling. It coursed through him for minutes. When it finally began to ease, Sir Marcus started to load the pistols.

Now that he was involved in the investigation once more, Victor Leeming was eager to take on more work. He spent the morning on the hoof, tracking down some of the people who had attended the lecture given by Gaston Chabal. It had been a largely fruitless exercise but it made him feel useful again. Instead of meeting the inspector at the Lamb and Flag, he agreed to visit Colbeck's house in John Islip Street so that they could have more privacy. Robert Colbeck's father and grandfather had been cabinetmakers with a string of wealthy clients. When he inherited the house, he also inherited examples of their work. In the drawing room where he and Leeming sat, a large cupboard, two matching cabinets and a beautiful mahogany secretaire bore the Colbeck name.

'How are you feeling today, Victor?' asked the inspector.

'Tired but happy to be so, sir.'

'You must not overdo it.'

'Knocking on a few doors is no effort,' said Leeming. 'I just wish that I had more to report. None of the four people I called on could possibly have hired Luke Rogan. You can cross them off the list.'

'That saves me the trouble of bothering with them.'

'How many names are left?'

'Less than twenty. We are slowly whittling them down.'

'Why are you so sure that the man we want actually attended that lecture? If he detested the idea of that railway being built in France, wouldn't he avoid a man who was talking about it?'

'On the contrary,' said Colbeck. 'He'd want to find out as much about it as he could. Also, of course, he'd be keen to take a closer look at Gaston Chabal. The man represented everything that he loathed and feared. No, he and Rogan were there together, I'm certain of it. They may not have sat beside each other – they probably took care to stay apart in order to conceal their relationship – but they were both at that lecture.'

'Then we are bound to find him in the end.'

'Oh, yes.'

Colbeck stirred his tea before tasting it. Leeming had already finished one cup and was halfway through the second. He chewed on the slice of cake that he had been offered.

'What did Mr Tallis have to say about it all?'

'He was pleased, Victor. Or, to put it another way, he smoked no cigars, had no tantrums and was almost disarmingly civil. All that he craves is a little success,' said Colbeck. 'It stops him from being pilloried in the newspapers.'

'Talking of the newspapers, sir, I saw that notice you put in this morning's edition. It's sure to get a response.'

'Not all of it entirely reliable, alas.'

'No,' said Leeming, wearily. 'The promise of a reward does things to some people. They invent all sorts of stories to try to get their hands on the money. But they won't all be fraudulent. There may be some wheat among the chaff, sir.'

'I'm counting on it.'

'You gave a good description of Rogan. It tallied with the one I had from Horace Eames.'

'I also relied on what Madame Hennebeau told me. She was clearly very fond of the man but, then, so were a number of women.'

'Luke Rogan will be on the run by now. You'll have flushed him out of his hiding place good and proper.'

'That was the idea behind using the press,' said Colbeck. 'I wanted to scare Rogan and drive a wedge between him and his employer. When he realises that we've identified his hired killer, the man who set everything in motion will want to distance himself from Rogan. My guess is that he'll go to ground immediately.'

'Here in London?'

'Well, it won't be in France, we may be certain of that.'

While his visitor drained his teacup, Colbeck told him about the conversation he had had earlier with Madeleine Andrews regarding her sketch of the Sankey Viaduct. Leeming was almost as confused by his talk of symbols and metaphors as she had been, but he trusted the inspector to know what he was talking about. What interested him was Colbeck's theory that the man who had engaged Rogan had probably served in the army at one time.

'I wish you'd told me that before, Inspector,' he said.

'Why?'

'I could have asked the people I interviewed this morning if they knew anyone who'd been at that lecture with a military background. It's a small world – engineers and such like. They all seem to know each other.'

'That's in our favour.'

'Do you have any more names for me?'

'Haven't you done enough work for one day?'

'No,' said Leeming, ignoring the stab of pain in his ribs. 'I'm only just starting to warm up, sir. Use me as much as you wish.'

'Mr Tallis would admonish me, if he knew.'

'You employed Brendan Mulryne behind his back and got away with it. Unlike him, I do work at the Detective Department.'

'But you're supposed to be on sick leave, Victor.'

'I'm sick of sick leave. Give me some more names.'

'As you wish,' said Colbeck, taking a slip of paper from his pocket and handing it over. 'There are four more people for you to chase down. Be sure to find out if any of them bore arms against the French at one time. That would make them fifty or more at least.'

'I'll remember that.'

'And take a cab. You don't have to go all over London on foot. Keep a record of your cab fares and I'll reimburse you.'

'You can save your money with this chap, sir,' said Leeming as he saw the first address on the list. 'He lives in Pimlico. That's well within walking distance of here.'

'It is indeed. What's the man's name?'

'Hetherington – Sir Marcus Hetherington.'

The publicity in the newspapers had given him a real fright. Before his landlady or his neighbours could report his whereabouts to the police, Luke Rogan gathered up everything of value and stuffed it into a bag. Then he changed out of the slightly garish attire he usually wore and put on a pair of dungarees, a moth-eaten old coat and a floppy hat. It was a disguise he often used in the course of his work as a private detective and it was so nondescript as to render him almost invisible. After checking his appearance in the mirror, he fled from his house in Bayswater without leaving behind the unpaid rent.

He left his belongings at the house in Paddington of a woman he had befriended during his days as a policeman. He gave her a plausible explanation about why he was dressed as a workman but she needed no convincing. She was a lonely widow who was so pleased to see him that she offered him accommodation for as long as he wished. As she never read a newspaper, there was no possibility that she would link her former lover with a series of horrific crimes. In the short term at least, Rogan had somewhere to hide.

Sir Marcus Hetherington had ordered him to kill Colbeck in order that the murder investigation would lose the man who directed it and make it founder. In view of what the inspector had done, Rogan was now fired by revenge as well. He was anxious to strike back at the person who had exposed him in the newspapers as a wanted felon and spread his name across the whole of London. He knew that he could never return to his old life again. Colbeck had robbed him of his occupation. In recompense, he would deprive the detective of his life.

Rogan had been patient. He knew what his intended victim looked like and where to find him. Lurking outside Scotland Yard until the inspector had emerged, he waited until Colbeck had summoned a cab then flagged down one of his own and ordered it to follow the first vehicle. What he learned was that Colbeck lived in John Islip Street and that, very soon after his arrival, he had a visitor. While the two men were inside the house, Rogan loitered in a doorway on the other side of the street and bided his time. He felt under his coat for the knife that was thrust into his belt. Having already killed Gaston Chabal, it could now be used to dispatch another man.

Inside the house, the detectives came to the end of their conversation.

'I'll be on my way, Inspector,' said Victor Leeming, rising slowly to his feet. 'Thank you for the tea and cake.'

'When this is all over, we'll celebrate with something a little stronger,' promised Colbeck. 'Before that, I'll want to know how you fared this afternoon.'

'Where will I meet you?'

'At the Lamb and Flag.'

'What time?'

'Shall we say six o'clock?'

'I'll be there, sir.'

'Good.' Colbeck got to his feet and led the way into the hall. 'I'll go back to Scotland Yard to see if anyone has come forward as a result of that notice in the newspapers.'

'And I'll ring some more doorbells.'

'Are you glad to be back in harness again, Victor?'

'Yes, sir – even if I can only manage a trot.' They put on their respective hats and left the house together. Leeming looked up and down the street. 'Not long to go now.'

'I hope not.'

'We'll soon catch Luke Rogan.'

'Yes,' said Colbeck. 'We're getting close. I can feel it.'

They exchanged farewells then parted company. Leeming walked at a gentle pace towards Vauxhall Bridge Road while Colbeck went off in the opposite direction, intending to stop the first empty hansom cab. As none was in view, he continued to stroll briskly along the pavement. He reviewed all the evidence they had so far gathered and it left him with a feeling of guarded optimism. His only worry was that Rogan might leave London to avoid arrest and, possibly, flee the country altogether. If necessary, Colbeck was more than ready to pursue him abroad.

It was minutes before he realised that he was being followed. He did not remember seeing anyone when they came out of the house but he sensed a distinct presence now. When an empty cab came towards him, therefore, he let it pass. Colbeck wanted to know who was on his tail. Moving to the kerb, he glanced back down the street then crossed diagonally to the other side. Out of the corner of his eye, he had seen him. The man had pretended to tie up his bootlace so that he could keep his head down but Colbeck knew at once that it was a ruse. He was being shadowed.

As he walked on, he maintained the same pace, giving no indication that he was aware of someone behind him. They were now on the same side of the street. The gap between them slowly closed until Colbeck could hear the tramp of hobnail boots behind him. That was the danger signal. If he was simply being followed, he knew that the man would stay well back to avoid being seen. The fact that he was moving steadily closer meant that he was going to attack.

Colbeck did not know if the man was a thief or someone with a personal grudge against him. Police work had made him many enemies and he had often received threats from convicted criminals as they were hauled out of the dock to begin a prison sentence. It did not matter who the stalker was. The way to deal with him, he believed, was to invite the attack. When he reached a corner, he turned sharply and went down a narrow lane. He heard footsteps quicken behind him. After a few more yards, Colbeck swung round to confront the man. The sun forewarned him. It glinted on the knife that had suddenly appeared in the stalker's hand. The man lunged forward and thrust hard with his weapon but he could not sink it into the back of an unsuspecting victim this time. Colbeck was ready for him.

Jumping quickly back out of the way, he whisked off his top hat and flung it hard into the man's face to confuse him for an split-second. He grabbed the hand that was holding the knife and turned the point away. They grappled fiercely and it was clear that the man was used to a brawl. Strong and wily, he did everything he could to overpower Colbeck, punching, gouging, spitting into his face, biting his hand and trying to stamp on his toes with his boot. Colbeck responded by tightening his grip. When he managed to manoeuvre the man off balance, he swung him hard against the brick wall. Shaken by the impact, his attacker dropped the knife. Colbeck used a foot to kick it away.

As they grappled once more, Colbeck realised that he was not ideally dressed for a fight. His tight-fitting frock coat did not allow him much flexibility. His adversary, by contrast, had much more freedom of movement. He used it to push Colbeck against the wall then hit him with a relay of punches. Before the detective could fight back, he was kicked in the shin then tripped up. As he fell to the ground, Colbeck heard the ominous sound of torn cloth but he had no time to worry about his coat. The man dived on him and went for his throat, getting both thumbs on his windpipe and pressing hard.

It was the first moment when Colbeck had a proper look at his face. Breathing heavily, the man bared his teeth in a grin of triumph and applied more pressure. Colbeck knew that it must be Luke Rogan. The man was intent on murder. Desperation gave him an extra surge of strength and he rolled suddenly to the left, toppling Rogan and weakening his grip. Colbeck punched him hard in the face until he put up both hands to defend himself. The searing pain in Colbeck's throat had gone but he still had to contend with a powerful adversary. What brought the fight to an end was the arrival of several onlookers. Hearing the commotion, a small crowd began to gather around them. They were witnesses. Rogan had to get away.

Smashing a fist into Colbeck's face, he struggled to his feet and pushed his way past the spectators before running off down the lane. Colbeck was still dazed. By the time he was helped to his feet by two men, he saw that Luke Rogan had vanished. One of the bystanders looked at his torn coat and blood-covered face.

'You all right, guv'nor?' he asked.

'Yes, thank you,' said Colbeck, dusting off his coat.

'Like me to call a policeman, sir?'

Colbeck gave a hollow laugh.

The superintendent had never seen him looking dishevelled before. In all the years they had known each other, Robert Colbeck had striven for a stylishness that Edward Tallis felt was out of place in the Detective Department. Smartness was always encouraged but not to the point of ostentation. Colbeck did not look quite so elegant now. His frock coat was torn, his trousers were scuffed and his face was cut and bruised. Looking into the mirror, he was using a handkerchief to wipe away the blood from his cheek when Tallis burst into his office.

'They told me you were back,' he said, staring in amazement at the unkempt figure before him. 'Whatever happened to you, man?'

'I tried to arrest Luke Rogan, sir.'

'You found him?'

'No, sir,' replied Colbeck. 'He found me.'

'How do you know that it was him?'

'Because he attempted to kill me.' He pointed to the knife that lay on his desk. 'In the same way that he murdered Gaston Chabal.'

Colbeck told him what had happened and how he had been face to face with the wanted man described that morning in the newspapers. When he heard that Rogan had escaped, Tallis wanted him apprehended immediately.

'I'll send out men to scour the area,' he said.

'Too late, Superintendent. I've already done that.'

'I'll not have anyone assaulting my men.'

'He'll be long gone by now,' said Colbeck. 'He ran off as if the hounds of hell were on his tail.'

'And so they will be,' vowed Tallis. 'Dear God! What is the world coming to when a detective inspector can be the victim of a murderous attack only a few blocks from his own doorstep?'

'It's not exactly a daily event, sir.'

'Once is enough.'

'I agree.'

'We knew that Rogan was a villain but it never crossed my mind that he'd be capable of this audacity. Why did he strike at you?'

'Because he identifies me as his nemesis,' said Colbeck. 'Rogan thought he'd committed the perfect murder until we began to breathe down his neck. If he read a newspaper this morning, he'd have seen my appeal for information that would lead to his capture. That could make a man feel vengeful.'

'He's not the only one, Inspector. When I look at you in that state, I feel vengeful as well. Rogan will pay for this.'

'It's a pity I can't send him a bill from my tailor.' Colbeck examined the long tear under his arm. 'This will need to be repaired and the coat will have to be cleaned. I can't wear it like this.'

'This must not be allowed to happen again.'

'It won't, sir.'

'From now on, you'll have a bodyguard.'

'But it's not necessary.'

'Someone is determined to kill you.'

'Luckily, he failed.'

'He's sure to try again.'

'I think that's the last thing he'll do.'

'Why?'

'Because he knows that I'll be on my guard now,' said Colbeck. 'He'd never have a chance to get that close again.'

'We'll look under every stone in London for him.'

'That could be a wasted exercise, Inspector.'

'Why?'

'Because I don't think he'll stay in the city.'

'He must, if he wants to ambush you again,' said Tallis.

'No, sir. It's too dangerous. Luke Rogan won't show his face here again. He's probably on his way out of London right now.'

'Where do you think he will go?'

'There's one obvious place.'

'Is there?'

'Yes, Superintendent,' said Colbeck. 'He'll want a refuge. He'll scurry back to the man who dragged him into this in the first place. They have a common bond, after all. When we catch them, both will face the prospect of a death sentence.'

Sir Marcus Hetherington was livid when he was told that he had a visitor by the name of Luke Rogan. Storming out of the library, he went to the front door of his mansion and saw the sorry figure waiting in the porch. Rogan was still wearing the old coat and dungarees. Since he was holding his cap in his hands, the bruises on his forehead and the black eye were clearly visible. Sir Marcus spluttered.

'Whatever brought you here?' he asked.

'We need to settle our account, Sir Marcus.'

'This house is sacrosanct. You're not allowed anywhere near it.'

'I think I am,' said Rogan, pugnaciously.

'And how did you get those bruises?'

'Invite me in and I'll tell you.'

'You're not coming in here.'

Fearing that his wife might see the man, Sir Marcus took him past the stable block at the rear of the house. They went into an outbuilding some distance away so that they could talk without being seen. Rogan told him about the failed attempt on Colbeck's life. The old man was incensed.

'Can't you do anything you're told?' he yelled.

'I got rid of that Frenchman for you,' retorted the other.

'Yes, but you didn't bring that railway to a halt, did you? Nor did you stop the police from finding out your identity, thus putting both our lives in danger. And now – this!'

'Colbeck saw me coming.'

'You swore to me that you'd kill him.'

'I tried, Sir Marcus. How do you think I got these bruises?'

'The worst thing of all is that you come running here, like a snivelling child who's been beaten at school.'

Rogan became truculent. 'I didn't come for sympathy,' he said. 'I came for what's owed to me. Now that I have to get out of London, I need every penny.'

'I'm not paying you for something you didn't do.'

'You have to, Sir Marcus. You gave me your word.'

'I've paid you enough already,' said the old man, 'and the money was not well spent. You blundered. And to cap it all, you have the temerity to disturb me in my own home. That's unpardonable.'

'We're in this together.'

'Our association is ended forthwith.'

'You don't get off the hook that easily, Sir Marcus,' said Rogan, squaring up to him. 'If you don't pay me what's due, I'll write a note to Inspector Colbeck and tell him whose idea it was to kill Gaston Chabal and toss him off that viaduct.'

'You wouldn't dare!' howled Sir Marcus.

'What do I have to lose?'

'You're the man they're after, not me. There's a description of you in the newspapers this morning. If you were so careful, how did the police track you down to your office?'

'Give me the money!'

'No!'

'If I go down, Sir Marcus, you'll come with me.'

There was a silent battle of wills. Sir Marcus glowered at him but Rogan met his gaze with unflinching steadiness. The old man was enraged by the lack of respect he was being shown. Hitherto, Rogan had always been deferential. He was now scornful of their social differences. He would not be cowed. Sir Marcus reached a decision. When he had first employed him, Rogan had been an asset to him. He had now become a liability.

'Who knows that you came here?' he asked.

'Nobody.'

'Are you sure?'

'Quite sure, Sir Marcus.'

'Someone must have brought you from the railway station.'

'I walked.'

Sir Marcus was duly impressed. It was almost two miles to the house. If Rogan had walked all the way, it showed how eager he was to get there. Since the house was in an isolated position, the chances that anyone had seen him coming there were very slim. The only other person who had set eyes on the visitor was one of the servants. Feigning repentance, Sir Marcus nodded his head.

'I am indebted to you,' he conceded. 'There's no denying that.'

'I need my money,' said Rogan.

'You'll get it – on the understanding that you'll go far away from here and never return. Is that agreed?'

'You'll never see me again, Sir Marcus.'

'Do I have your word on that?'

'I won't even stay in the country.'

'In that case,' said the old man, 'I'll get what I owe you and I'll add something more. Wait here until I get back.'

Victor Leeming arrived at the Lamb and Flag to find a tankard of beer waiting for him. Colbeck was sitting at a table. When he saw the inspector's face, Leeming was shocked.

'You look worse than me, sir!' he said.

'I feel it, Victor.'

'What on earth happened?'

'I had a chance meeting with Luke Rogan.'

Leeming sat down in the other chair and listened to the story. He was annoyed that he had left Colbeck alone after their meeting in John Islip Street. He felt guilty.

'I should have made sure you caught a cab,' he said.

'I can look after myself.'

'But you might have been killed, sir.'

'A little shaken up, that's all,' said Colbeck. 'What really upset me was that I tore my coat and muddied my trousers. Luckily, I keep a change of clothing in my office. I'd never have ventured in here otherwise.' He drank some whisky. 'What did you learn?'

'You can cross three of the names off that list, sir.'

'Excellent – that takes us down to single figures. Some of the other men working on the case have been busy as well. They managed to eliminate another eight suspects between them.'

'You may be able to get rid of even more.'

'Why?'

'Because I think I struck gold at the first address.'

'The one in Pimlico?'

'Yes, Inspector,' said Leeming before taking a long drink of beer. 'It's a town house owned by Sir Marcus Hetherington. He's gone back to his estates in Essex so I wasn't able to speak to the gentleman himself, but I talked to a servant.'

'And?'

'Sir Marcus had a long and distinguished career in the army.'

'How old would he be?'

'Well into his seventies, apparently.'

'Then he could be our man.'

'I'm fairly certain of it,' said Leeming. 'When I mentioned the name of Luke Rogan, the servant claimed that he had never heard of him. But I had a strong suspicion that he was lying. He's obviously very loyal to his master.'

'Did you press him in the matter?'

'No, sir. I went away. When I'd visited the other three addresses, I took a cab back to Pimlico and spoke to the same man. This time I showed him that description of Luke Rogan in the newspaper and reminded him that it was a crime to hold back evidence from the police. That rattled him, I could see.'

'Did he buckle?'

'Eventually,' said Leeming. 'He remembered something that had slipped his mind. It seems that a man who called himself Rogan had called at the house only yesterday. That settles it for me, sir.'

'And me,' said Colbeck. 'How quickly can you drink that beer?'

'Why, sir?'

'We're going to catch a train to Essex.'

It was some while before Sir Marcus Hetherington returned and Rogan began to worry. When he stepped outside, however, he saw the old man coming towards him with a small bag in his hand. The sight made him relax. Sir Marcus ushered him back inside and closed the door behind them. Then he held out the bag.

'This is all you get, mind,' he warned. 'Your final payment.'

'Thank you,' said Rogan, snatching the bag.

'Count it out to make sure that it's all there.'

'I will, Sir Marcus.'

There was a little table in the corner. Luke Rogan sat beside it and tipped out the bundle of notes and coins. He began to count the money but did not get far. Taking out a pistol from inside his coat, Sir Marcus shot him in the head from close range. Blood spurted everywhere and stained the banknotes on the table. Rogan slumped forward. Sir Marcus was relieved, convinced that he had just rid himself of the one person who could connect the series of crimes to him. Rogan had deserved what he got. The old man had no sympathy.

Putting the gun aside, he took down an empty sack that was hanging from a nail and used it to cover Rogan's head. Then he opened the door, checked that nobody was about and took hold of the body under the armpits. Rogan was a solid man but Sir Marcus was still strong enough to drag him to the disused well nearby. The corpse plummeted down the shaft and disappeared under the water. The money was soon thrown after Rogan. When he had strewn handfuls of straw down the well, Sir Marcus reclaimed his pistol and went off to change for dinner.

An hour later, he and Lady Hetherington were at either end of the long oak table in the dining room, eating their meal and engaging in desultory conversation. Sir Marcus was chastened by the turn of events. In being forced to kill Rogan, he felt that a chapter in his life had just been concluded. He had to accept that his plan to destroy the railway in France had failed. But at least he was safe. He could now resume his accepted routine, going through the social rounds in Essex with his wife and making regular trips to his club in London. Nobody would ever know that he had once been associated with a private detective named Luke Rogan.

When the servant entered the room, and apologised for the interruption, he shattered his master's sense of security.

'There's an Inspector Colbeck to see you, Sir Marcus.'

'Who?' The old man almost choked.

'Inspector Colbeck. He's a detective from Scotland Yard and he has a Sergeant Leeming with him. They request a few moments of your time. What shall I tell them, Sir Marcus?'

'Show them into the library,' said the other, getting to his feet and dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. 'Nothing to be alarmed about, my dear,' he added to his wife. 'It's probably something to do with those poachers who've been bothering us. Do excuse me.'

The servant had already left. Before he followed him, Sir Marcus paused to kiss his wife gently on the cheek and squeeze her shoulder with absent-minded affection. Then he straightened his shoulders and went out. The detectives were waiting for him in the library, a long room that was lined with bookshelves on three walls, the other being covered with paintings of famous battles from the Napoleonic Wars. Many of the volumes there were devoted to military history.

Robert Colbeck introduced himself and his companion. He gave Sir Marcus no opportunity to remark on his facial injuries. His initial question was all the more unsettling for being delivered in a tone of studied politeness.

'Are you acquainted with a man named Luke Rogan?'

'No,' replied Sir Marcus. 'Never heard of him.'

'You've never employed such an individual?'

'Of course not.'

'I notice a copy of The Times on the table over there,' said Colbeck with a nod in that direction. 'If you've read it, you'll have encountered Rogan's name there and know why we've taken such an interest in him. I've a particular reason for wanting to apprehend him, Sir Marcus. Earlier today, he did his best to kill me.'

'Did you instruct him to do that, Sir Marcus?' asked Leeming.

'Don't be so preposterous, man!' shouted the other.

'It's a logical assumption.'

'It's a brazen insult, Sergeant.'

'Not if it's true.'

'Sergeant Leeming speaks with authority,' said Colbeck, taking over again. 'He called at your house in Pimlico this afternoon. According to the servant he met, Luke Rogan visited the house yesterday and spent some time in your company. I think that you are a liar, Sir Marcus.' He gave an inquiring smile. 'Do you regard that as an insult as well?'

The old man would not yield an inch. 'You have no right to browbeat me in my own home,' he said. 'I must ask you to leave.'

'And we must respectfully decline that invitation. We've spent far too long on this investigation to pay any heed to your bluster. The facts are these,' Colbeck went on, brusquely. 'You attended a lecture given by Gaston Chabal, who was working as an engineer on the railway between Mantes and Caen. Because that railway would one day connect Paris with a port that also houses an arsenal, you spied a danger of invasion. To avert that danger, you tried to bring the railway to a halt. That being the case, Chabal's murder took on symbolic significance.' His smile was much colder this time. 'Do I need to go on, Sir Marcus?'

'We are well aware of your military record,' said Leeming. 'You fought against the French for years. You can only ever see them as an enemy, can't you?'

'They are an enemy!' roared Sir Marcus.

'We're at peace with them now.'

'That's only an illusion, Sergeant. I knew the rogues when they held sway over a great part of Europe and plotted to add us to their empire. Thanks to us, Napoleon was stopped. It would be criminal to allow another Napoleon to succeed in his place.'

'That's why you had Chabal killed, isn't it?' said Colbeck. 'He had the misfortune to be a Frenchman.'

Sir Marcus was scathing. 'He embodied all the qualities of the breed,' he said, letting his revulsion show. 'Chabal was clever, arrogant and irredeemably smug. I'll tell you something about him that you didn't know, Inspector.'

'Oh, I doubt that.'

'Not content with building a railway to facilitate the invasion of England, he showed the instincts of a French soldier. Do you know what they do after a victory?' he demanded, arms flailing. 'They rape and pillage. They defile the womenfolk and steal anything they can lay their hands on. That was what Chabal did. His first victim was an Englishwoman. He not only subjected her to his carnal passions, he had the effrontery to inveigle money from her husband for the project in France. Rape and pillage – no more, no less.'

'Considerably less, I'd say,' argued Colbeck. 'I spoke to the lady in question and she told me a very different story. She became Gaston Chabal's lover of her own free will. She mourned his death.'

'I saved her from complete humiliation.'

'I dispute that, Sir Marcus.'

'I did, Inspector. I had him followed, you see,' said the old man, reliving the sequence of events. 'I had him followed on both sides of the Channel until I knew all about him. None of it was to his credit. When he tried to take advantage of the lady during her husband's absence, I had him killed on the way there.'

'And thrown from the Sankey Viaduct.'

'That was intentional. It was a reminder of our superiority – a French civil engineer hurled from a masterpiece of English design.'

'Chabal was dead at the time,' said Leeming, shrugging his shouders, 'so it would have been meaningless to him.'

Sir Marcus scowled. 'It was not meaningless to me.'

'We need take this interview no further,' decided Colbeck. 'I have a warrant for your arrest, Sir Marcus. Before I enforce it, I must ask you if Luke Rogan is here.' The old man seemed to float off into a reverie. His gaze shifted to the battles depicted on the wall. He was miles away. Colbeck prompted him. 'I put a question to you.'

'Come with me, Inspector. You, too, Sergeant Leeming.'

Walking with great dignity, Sir Marcus Hetherington led them upstairs and along the landing. He unlocked the door of his shrine and conducted them in. Colbeck was astonished to see the range of memorabilia on show. The sight of the skull transfixed Leeming. Sir Marcus turned to the portrait of him in uniform.

'That was painted when I got back from Waterloo,' he said, proudly. 'I lost a lot of friends in that battle and I lost two young sons as well. That broke my heart and destroyed my wife. I'll never forgive the French for what they stole from us that day. They were animals.'

'It was a long time ago,' said Colbeck.

'Not when I come in here. It feels like yesterday then.'

'I asked you about Luke Rogan.'

'Then I'll give you an answer,' said the old man, opening a drawer in the cabinet and taking out the wooden case. He lifted the lid and took out one of the pistols before offering it to Colbeck. 'That's the weapon I used to kill Mr Rogan,' he explained. 'You'll find his body at the bottom of the well.'

Leeming was astounded. 'You shot him?'

'He'd outlived his usefulness, Sergeant.'

'It's beautiful,' said Colbeck, admiring the pistol and noting its finer points. 'It was made by a real craftsman, Sir Marcus.'

'So was this one, Inspector Colbeck.'

Before they realised what he was going to do, he took out the second gun, put it into his mouth and pulled the trigger. In the confined space, the report was deafening. His head seemed to explode. Blood spattered all over the portrait of Sir Marcus Hetherington.

Madeleine Andrews was dismayed. It was two days since the murder investigation had been concluded and she had seen no sign of Robert Colbeck. The newspapers had lauded him with fulsome praise and she had cut out one article about him. Yet he did not appear in person. She wondered if she should call at his house and, if he were not there, leave a message with his servant. In the end, she decided against such a move. She continued to wait and to feel sorely neglected.

It was late afternoon when a cab finally drew up outside the house. She opened the door in time to watch Colbeck paying the driver. When he turned round, she was horrified to see the bruises that still marked his face. There had been no mention of his injuries in the newspaper. Madeleine was so troubled by his appearance that she took scant notice of the object he was carrying. After giving her a kiss, Colbeck followed her into the house.

'Before you ask,' he explained, 'I had a fight with Luke Rogan. Give me a few more days and I'll look more like the man you know. And before you scold me for not coming sooner,' he went on, 'you should know that I went to Liverpool on your behalf.'

'Liverpool?'

'The local constabulary helped us in the first stages of our enquiries. It was only fair to give them an account of what transpired thereafter. I can't say that Inspector Heyford was overjoyed to see me. He still hasn't recovered from the shock of accepting Constable Praine as his future son-in-law.'

Madeleine was bemused. 'Who are these people?'

'I'll tell you later, Madeleine,' he promised. 'The person I really went to see was Ambrose Hooper.'

'The artist?'

'The very same.' He tapped the painting that he was holding. 'I bought this from him as a present for you.'

'A present?' She was thrilled. 'How marvellous!'

'Aren't you going to see what it is?' Madeleine took the painting from him and began to unwrap it. 'Because I was engaged in solving the crime, Mr Hooper gave me first refusal.'

Pulling off the last of the thick brown paper, she revealed the stunning watercolour of the Sankey Viaduct. It made her blink in awe.

'This is amazing, Robert,' she said, relishing every detail. 'It makes my version look like a childish scribble.'

'But that was the one that really helped me,' he said. 'You drew what was in Sir Marcus Hetherington's mind. Two countries joined together by a viaduct – victorious France and defeated England.'

'Is this Gaston Chabal?' she asked, studying the tiny figure.

'Yes, Madeleine.'

'He really does seem to be falling through the air.'

'Mr Hooper has captured the scene perfectly.'

'No wonder you were so grateful to him at the start.'

'He was the perfect witness – in the right place at the right time to record the moment for posterity. That painting is proof of the fact.'

'It's a wonderful piece of work. Father will be so interested to see it. He's driven trains over the viaduct.'

'I didn't buy it for your father, I bought it for you. It was by way of thanks for your assistance. Do you really like the painting?'

'I love it,' she said, putting it aside so that she could fling her arms around his neck. 'Thank you, Robert. You're so kind.' She kissed him. 'It's the nicest thing you've ever given me.'

'Is it?' he asked with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. 'Oh, I think I can do a lot better than that, Madeleine.'