The Railway Viaduct

CHAPTER NINE

Robert Colbeck was interested in every aspect of the railways. While he enjoyed travelling on them, he was also very curious about those who brought them into being with the brilliance of their invention or the sweat of their brow. Bridges, aqueducts, tunnels, cuttings, and drainage systems did not burst spontaneously into life. Each and every one had to be designed and built to specification. Colossal earthworks had to be constructed. Timber had to be felled and cut to size. Marshes had to be drained. Stone had to be quarried. Untold millions of bricks had to be made on site before being used to line tunnels, create ventilation shafts, solidify bridges and aqueducts, or stabilise steep embankments. A railway was a declaration of war against a contour map of the area where it was being built. Continuous and unremitting attack was needed.

When he inspected the site with Aubrey Filton that morning, Colbeck was impressed by the amount of work that had been done since the day he had first arrived there with Victor Leeming. Nobody was slacking. Everywhere he looked, men were putting their hearts and souls into their job. Brendan Mulryne, he noticed, was now helping to dig a new cutting, shovelling methodically and building up a vast mound of earth to be taken away to the wagons. Colbeck could hear his distinctive voice above the din.

'You're making headway, Mr Filton,' he observed.

'Not enough of it, Inspector.'

'Where did you expect to be at this stage?'

'At least a quarter of a mile farther on,' said the engineer. 'The French government are slave-drivers. We have targets to meet at the end of every month.'

'Everything seems to be going well now. And we've not had any incidents for the last couple of days.'

'It's the calm before the storm.'

'I don't think so,' said Colbeck. 'I believe it may have something to do with the fact that Mr Brassey took my advice about security. In addition to nightwatchmen, he now has a handful of guard dogs.'

'Yes, they're vicious-looking brutes.'

'That's the intention.'

'I'm glad that they're kept on a leash.'

'They won't be if there's any trouble, Mr Filton. The dogs will be released. The simple fact that you've got them will make any villains think twice before committing a crime. They might be able to outrun a nightwatchman,' said Colbeck, 'but not if he has four legs.'

They strolled on until they reached the forward end of the strenuous activity. Ground rose steadily ahead of them and would need to be levelled before the track could be laid. There would be more digging for Mulryne and the others. Colbeck thought about all the maps and charts he had seen in Brassey's office.

'How good an engineer was Gaston Chabal?' he asked.

'He was outstanding.'

'I'm sure that you are as well, Mr Filton, or you'd not be employed on such a major project. Was Chabal taken on because he was French or because he had remarkable skills?'

'For both reasons, Inspector.'

'But you can manage without him?'

'We have to,' said Filton. 'Fortunately, we have all the drawings and calculations he did for us, but it's not the same as having the man himself here. Gaston was a delightful fellow.'

'Everyone seems agreed on that.'

'Except his killer.'

'Yes,' said Colbeck, thoughtfully, 'I've been trying to put myself in his position – the killer, that is, not Chabal. Why did he choose the Frenchman as his target? If you wanted to halt the construction of this railway, whom would you murder?'

Filton was offended. 'I have no homicidal urges, I assure you.'

'The obvious person would be Mr Brassey.'

'Yes, that would be a calamity.'

'Who would come next?'

'One of his partners, I suppose.'

'And then it would be the leading engineer, Gaston Chabal.'

'Actually,' said Filton with a rare flash of pride, 'I was slightly senior to Gaston. I've been with Mr Brassey much longer and he always rewards loyalty.'

'In other words, Chabal's death was not a fatal blow to the building of this railway.'

'No, Inspector. It was a bitter blow but not a fatal one.'

'Then he must have been killed for symbolic reasons.'

'Symbolic?'

'He was French,' said Colbeck. 'That was the conclusive factor. A Frenchman thrown from the Sankey Viaduct – I believe that act has a weird symbolism to it.'

'What exactly is it?'

'I've yet to establish that, Mr Filton.'

'Do you still think his killer was an Englishman?'

'I'm as certain as I can be.'

'I wish I had your confidence.'

'Everything points that way, sir.'

'Not to my eyes. What possible connection is there between a crime near the Sankey Viaduct and the ones that have afflicted us here? The two railways involved have nothing whatsoever to do with each other.'

'Yes, they do.'

'What?'

'Mr Alexander Marklew, for a start. He's a director of the London and North-West Railway and a major investor in this one. And there are lots of other hidden links between the two, I feel, if only we could dig them out.'

'All that troubles me is what happens on this project, Inspector. We've had setback after setback. Unless they are checked, they could in time bring us to a dead halt.'

'That's his intention.'

'Who?'

'The man I'm after,' explained Colbeck. 'The one responsible for all the crimes that have occurred. He's very elusive. All I know about him so far is that he's conceived a hatred of this particular railway and a passion for symbols. Oh, yes,' he added. 'One more thing.'

'What's that?'

'The fellow is utterly ruthless.'

Sir Marcus Hetherington left the shareholders' meeting and called a cab with a snap of his fingers. He was a tall, slim, dignified man in his seventies with white hair curling from under his top hat and a red rose in the lapel of his frock coat. His short, white moustache was neatly trimmed. After telling the cab driver to take him to the Pall Mall, he clambered into the vehicle and settled back. Alone at last, he was able to let his mask of imperturbability drop. His face was contorted with fury and he released a few silent expletives.

It had been a disappointing meeting. Unlike many landowners, he had not seen the advent of railways as a gross intrusion of his privacy or a precursor of the destruction of the England he knew and loved. He was keenly aware of their practical value. Since he was paid a great deal of money by way of compensation, he was happy for a line to be built across his estates. The proximity of the railway station enabled him to reach London much more quickly from Essex than by travelling in a coach. That was a bonus.

Sir Marcus had always considered himself a forward-thinking man. Railways were set to revolutionise the whole country and he wanted to be part of that revolution. As a result, he took some of the capital he had received in compensation from one railway company and invested it in a couple of others. When the market was buoyant, dividends were high and he congratulated himself on his acumen. Once the bubble had burst so spectacularly, however, he had been one of the many victims. At the meeting he had just left, the chairman had informed the assembled throng that no dividends at all would be payable to shareholders for the foreseeable future. It was infuriating.

When he reached the Reform Club, the first thing he did was to order a stiff whisky. Reclining in his high-backed leather chair, he sipped it gratefully and bestowed a patrician smile on all who passed. In the sedate surroundings of the club, he could not let his seething rage show. He had to simmer inwardly. One of the uniformed stewards came across to him and inclined his head with deference.

'There's a gentleman asking for you, Sir Marcus,' he said.

'Did he give a name?'

'He sent his card.'

The steward handed it over and the old man glanced at it.

'Send him in, Jellings,' he said, crisply, 'and bring him a glass of whisky. Put it on my account, there's a good chap.'

Minutes later, Sir Marcus was sitting beside Luke Rogan, a thickset man in his forties with long, wavy black hair tinged with grey and a flat, but not unpleasant, face. Though well-dressed, Rogan looked decidedly out of place in a palatial club that was a home for Whig politicians and their like. There was a flashy quality about the newcomer that made him look rather incongruous beside such a distinguished figure as Sir Marcus Hetherington. When set against the educated drawl of the grandee, his voice sounded rough and plebeian.

'You've more work for me, Sir Marcus?' he inquired.

'I think so, Rogan.'

'Tell me what it is. I've never let you down yet.'

'I wouldn't employ you if you had,' said Sir Marcus, 'and you would certainly not be sitting here now. Tell me, do you read the newspapers on a regular basis?'

'Of course,' replied the other with a complacent grin. 'In my line of business, I have to, Sir Marcus. Newspapers is how I gets most of my work. Well, it's how you and me got together, ain't it? You saw my advertisement and got in touch.'

'What have you noticed in the course of your reading?'

'That the police still have no idea how a certain person was thrown out of a moving railway carriage – and they never will.'

'Their failure is gratifying,' said Sir Marcus, 'I grant you that. But we must never underestimate this fellow, Colbeck. He seems to have an uncanny knack of picking up a trail where none exists.'

'Not this time. Inspector Colbeck is like the rest of them over at Scotland Yard – he's floundering, Sir Marcus.'

'I begin to wonder.'

'What do you mean?'

'I've just come from a shareholders' meeting of a railway company,' replied the other. 'The one thing of interest that the chairman told me was that Colbeck helped to prevent a serious crime from taking place on one of their trains earlier this year. The chairman could not speak too highly of him.'

'Colbeck had some luck, that's all.'

'His success can't be dismissed as lightly as that, Rogan. When I pointed out that the Railway Detective was faltering badly with his latest case, the chairman said that he'd heard a rumour to the effect that the inspector had gone to France.'

Rogan was jolted. 'To France?'

'It was not the kind of information I wanted to hear.'

'Nor me, Sir Marcus.'

'What I want to read about is the damage done to a particular railway line on the other side of the Channel, yet the newspapers have been uniformly silent on the subject.'

'You can't expect them to carry foreign items.'

'That's exactly what I do expect, man. Any periodical worthy of the name should have its own foreign correspondents. The Times will always report matters of interest from abroad.'

'This would hardly catch their attention, Sir Marcus.'

'Yes, it would. An Englishman is involved – Thomas Brassey.'

'I'm sure that everything is going to plan.'

'Then why is there no whisper of it in the press? Why is there no report from France about the damage caused to a railway in which they have invested both money and national pride?'

'I can't tell you,' admitted Rogan.

'Then find out.'

'Eh?'

'Go to France, man. Discover the truth.'

'But I'm handling other cases at the moment, Sir Marcus. I can't just drop them to go sailing off across the Channel. Anyway, I've no reason to suspect that the men I engaged will let me down.'

'How much did you pay them?'

'Half the money in advance,' said Rogan, 'just like you told me, the rest to be handed over when the job was done.'

'And has the job been done?' pressed Sir Marcus.

'Not yet.'

'Not at all, I suspect. What was to stop these rogues from pocketing the money you gave them and taking to their heels? If that's the case, Rogan – and I hope, for your sake, that it's not – then I am out of pocket as a consequence of your bad judgement of character.'

'Sir Marcus-'

'Don't interrupt me,' snapped the other, subduing him with a frosty glare. 'There's unfinished business here, sir. If you accept a commission, you should see it through as a matter of honour. What you did for me in this country, I applaud. You obeyed your orders to the letter and were handsomely rewarded. But I begin to fear that you have let me down woefully in France itself.'

'That's not true, Sir Marcus.'

'Prove it.'

'I will, if you'll bear with me for a while.'

'My patience is exhausted.' Taking something from his pocket, he slapped it down on the little table that stood between them. 'Take that and study it carefully.'

'What is it?'

'A list of sailings to France. Choose a boat and be on it today.'

'Today?' spluttered Rogan. 'That's impossible.'

'Not if you put your mind to it, man. Now stop arguing with me and be on your way. And whatever else you do,' he added, spitting the words out like so many bullets, 'don't you dare return from that confounded country with bad news for me. Is that understood?'

Rogan gulped down his whisky then grabbed the piece of paper from the table. After pulling out his watch to check the time, he got to his feet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

'Yes, Sir Marcus,' he said, obsequiously. 'It's understood.'

'I don't think we've met before, have we?' said Father Slattery, offering his hand. 'Welcome to France, my friend.'

'The name is Mulryne,' said the other, extending his vast palm for the handshake. 'Brendan Mulryne.'

'I thought it might be. I've heard the stories.'

'Don't believe a word of them, Father. You know what terrible liars the Irish are. I'm just an ordinary lad who likes to keep his head down and get on with his work.'

'Is that why you weren't at church on Sunday?'

Mulryne feigned ignorance. 'I didn't know there was a church.'

'Then it's blind you must be, Brendan Mulryne, for everyone in the camp knows where we hold our services. We've no building as such and the altar is an old table with a piece of white cloth over it, but we can still worship the Almighty with the respect He deserves.'

'I'm glad to hear it.'

'I would have thought that sheer curiosity would have brought you along. You must have heard us singing the hymns.'

'No,' said Mulryne. 'I was too far away. The truth is, Father, that I was attending a service in the village church.'

They both knew that it was a lie but Slattery did not challenge him. He had stopped to speak to Mulryne during a break when the navvy was wolfing down some bread and cheese and glistening with sweat. He was not pleased to be cornered by the priest.

'You're a Dublin man, I hear,' said Slattery.

'So I am.'

'And your father was a navvy before you.'

'Are you planning to write my life story?' asked Mulryne. 'You know more about me than I do myself.'

'Would you call yourself a Christian?'

'That I would.'

'And are you a loyal Catholic?'

'Since the day I was born, Father.'

'Then we'll look forward to the time when you join us for worship on a Sunday. They tell me that you've a good voice, Brendan.'

'I can carry a tune,' said Mulryne through a mouthful of bread and cheese. 'I've always been musical.'

'Then maybe you can favour us with a solo some time.'

'Oh, I don't think that the songs I know would be altogether suitable for a church service, Father Slattery. They're Irish ditties to amuse my friends. Nothing more.'

'We'll see, we'll see.'

Slattery gave him a valedictory pat on the arm before moving off. Liam Kilfoyle scrambled down the embankment to speak to Mulryne. He looked after the priest.

'What did he want, Brendan?'

'The chance to preach at me next Sunday.'

'Did you tell him you're not a church-going man?'

'But I am, Liam,' said Mulryne, taking another bite of his lunch. 'I'm a devout churchgoer. As soon as I see a church, I go – as fast as I bleeding can.' They laughed. 'It's not God I have the argument with, you see. I believe in Him and try to live my life by His rules. No, it's that army of creeping priests who get between us. They're in the way. I prefer to talk to God directly. Man to man, as you might say. What about you?'

'I'm too afraid of what God would say to me, Brendan.'

'Confess your sins and cleanse your soul.'

Kilfoyle was uneasy. 'I'll think about it,' he said. 'One day.'

'Make it one day soon.'

'You're starting to sound like a bastard priest now!'

'Sorry, Liam,' said Mulryne, jovially. 'What can I do for you?'

'It's the other way round. I may be able to do you a turn.'

'How?'

'Are you still looking to earn some extra money?'

'I'm desperate.'

'And you don't mind what you have to do to get it?'

'I draw the line at nothing,' Mulryne told him. 'As long as I get paid, I'll do whatever I'm asked. And there's another thing you ought to know about me.'

'What's that?'

'When it's needed, I can keep my big mouth shut.'

'Good,' said Kilfoyle. 'I'll pass the word on.'

The letter came as a complete surprise. Written in an elegant hand, it was addressed to Colbeck and had been sent to Thomas Brassey's office. It was passed on to the inspector as a matter of urgency. He did not at first recognise the name of Hortense Rivet. As soon as he read the letter, however, he realised that he had met the woman when he called at Gaston Chabal's house in Paris. Madame Rivet had been the engineer's mother-in-law. Since she requested a visit from Colbeck, he did not hesitate. He caught the next available train from Mantes and arrived in Paris with his curiosity whetted. As she was so anxious to see him again, Colbeck hoped that Madame Rivet might have valuable information to pass on to him.

A cab took him to the Marais and he rang the bell once again. On his previous visit to the house, Chabal's wife had opened the door with a glow of anticipatory pleasure on her face. This time, he was admitted by an old, black-clad servant with sorrow etched deeply into her face. She conducted him into the drawing room. Madame Chabal was still prostrate with grief in her bedchamber, but her mother came at once when she heard that Colbeck was there. Hortense Rivet was genuinely touched that he had responded so swiftly to her letter. As she spoke little English, they conversed in French.

'I was not sure that you were still here,' she began.

'I still have many enquiries to make in France, Madame.'

'Do you know the name of the man who killed Gaston?'

'Not yet,' he confessed, 'but we will. I'll not rest until he's caught and punished.'

She looked into his eyes for a full minute as if searching for something. Then she indicated a chair and sat opposite him. Hortense Rivet had impressed him at their first meeting. When he had told Chabal's young wife that her husband had been murdered, she had been quite inconsolable but her mother had shown remarkable self-control, knowing that she had to find the strength to help them both through the harrowing experience. Madame Rivet's beauty had been somehow enhanced by sadness. Wearing mourning dress, she was a slim and shapely woman in her early forties. The resemblance to her daughter was evident. Colbeck could see exactly what the young widow would look like in twenty years' time. It made him wonder yet again how Gaston Chabal could have betrayed such a lovely wife.

'How is your daughter, Madame?' he asked, solicitously.

'Catherine is suffering badly. The doctor has given her a potion to help her sleep. When she is awake, she simply weeps. Since we heard the news, Catherine has hardly eaten.'

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'I wanted to thank you for the way that you broke the tidings to us, Inspector. It was difficult for you, I know, and I was not able to express my gratitude to you at the time. I do so now.'

'That's very kind of you.'

There was a long pause. She studied his face before speaking.

'You strike me as an honest man, Inspector Colbeck.'

'Thank you.'

'So I will expect an honest answer from you. I would like you to tell me how Gaston was murdered.'

'I've already told you, Madame,' he reminded her. 'He was stabbed to death in a railway carriage.'

'Yes,' she said, 'but you did not tell us where the train was going at the time and what my son-in-law was doing on it in the first place. You spared us details that would only have caused us even more pain. I would like to know some of those details now.'

'The French police were given a full account of the murder.'

'There are reasons why I do not choose to turn to them, Inspector. The main one is that the crime did not occur in France. They only know what they have been told. You, on the other hand,' she went on, 'have been in charge of the investigation from the start. You are aware of every detail. Is that not true?'

'There are still some things we don't know,' he warned her.

'Tell me the things that you do.' She saw his reluctance. 'Do not be afraid that you will hurt my feelings, Inspector. I am not as frail as I may look. I have already buried my husband and seen my only son go to an early grave. They both died of smallpox. I have survived all that and found a new life for myself. What I must do now is to help Catherine through this tragedy.'

'I'm not sure that you'd be helping her by disclosing the full details of her husband's death,' said Colbeck, gently. 'They are rather gruesome, Madame.'

'What I am interested in are the circumstances.'

'Circumstances?'

'I think you know what I mean, Inspector.' She got up to close the door then resumed her seat. 'And whatever you tell me, it will not be passed on to Catherine. That would be too cruel.'

'Madame Rivet,' he said, 'we are still in the middle of this investigation and I can only speculate on what we will discover next. As for what you call the circumstances, I fear that you might find them very distressing. Some things are best left unsaid.'

'I disagree, Inspector Colbeck. I do not believe you can tell me anything that would surprise me.' She took a deep breath before going on. 'When he was working on this new railway, my son-in-law rented a room in Mantes.'

'I know. I visited the house.'

'Did it not seem odd to you that he did not live at home and travel to Mantes every day by train? It is not very far. Why did he have to be so close to the railway?'

'He worked long hours.'

'That was one of his excuses. There were several others.'

'I hear a rather cynical note in your voice, Madame.'

'It's one that I take care to hide from Catherine,' she said, grimly. 'You may as well know that I did not wish my daughter to marry Gaston Chabal. He was a handsome man with a good future ahead of him, but I did not feel that I could ever trust him. Catherine, of course, would hear none of my warnings. She was young, innocent and very much in love. For the last two years, she thought that she had been happily married.' She pulled a piece of paper from the sleeve of her dress. 'This is something you may have seen before, Inspector.'

'What is it?'

'One of the letters that were found at the house where Gaston was staying in Mantes. The police returned his effects to us earlier this week. Fortunately,' she said, unfolding the letter, 'I was able to see them first. I've destroyed the others and will make sure that my daughter does not see this one either.'

Colbeck remembered the billets-doux he had seen at the lodging. Out of consideration to her, he had taken it upon himself to tear up the letters from Hannah Marklew but it had never crossed his mind that he should also get rid of the anonymous correspondence from the young Parisian woman. He felt a stab of guilt as he realised the anguish he had inadvertently caused and he was grateful that Chabal's wife had not been allowed to read the letters from one of her husband's mistresses. He knew how explicit they had been.

'Did you see any letters, Inspector?'

'Yes.'

'Then you must have read them.'

'I glanced at one or two.'

'Then you appreciate the sort of person who wrote them.'

'I think so.'

'Do you know who Arnaud Poulain is, Inspector?' she asked.

'No, Madame.'

'He is a banker here in Paris, a wealthy and successful man. Gaston convinced him to invest in the railway between Mantes and Caen. My son-in-law was not simply an engineer,' she went on. 'If he could persuade anyone to put money into the project, he earned a large commission. Arnaud Poulain was one of the men he talked into it. As a consequence, others followed Monsieur Poulain's example.'

'Why are you telling me this?' wondered Colbeck, guessing the answer even as he spoke. 'Monsieur Poulain has a daughter.'

'A very beautiful daughter.'

'What's her name?'

'Danielle.'

Colbeck thought of the 'D' at the end of the letters. It seemed as if Chabal had used his guile to ensnare another woman in order to secure some investment for the railway on which he was engaged.

'We may be wrong,' cautioned Madame Rivet. 'I have no proof that Danielle wrote these letters and I will certainly not confront her with them. The girl will have suffered enough as it is. I doubt very much if Gaston mentioned to her that he was married. In a liaison of that kind, a wife must always be invisible.'

'The young lady must have read about his death.'

'The discovery that he was married would have come as a terrible shock to Danielle and, I suspect, to her father. Monsieur Poulain would no doubt have welcomed Gaston into his home. The daughter was used callously as a means of reaching the father. Now, Inspector,' she continued, 'even if Danielle is not the woman who wrote this letter, the fact remains that somebody did and that does not show my son-in-law in a very flattering light.'

'I should have destroyed those letters when I had the chance.'

'You had no right to do so.'

'It would have saved you unnecessary pain.'

'The letters confirmed what I already knew,' she said, tearing the paper into tiny pieces before tossing them into a wastepaper basket. 'So, please, do not hold anything back. What were the exact circumstances of the murder?'

'M. Chabal was on his way to visit a woman in Liverpool,' he said. 'I'm not at liberty to give you her name, but I can tell you that someone close to her was persuaded to invest money in the railway.'

'At least we know what they talked about in bed.' She raised both hands in apology, 'I am sorry, Inspector. That was a very crude remark and I withdraw it. I have been under a lot of strain recently, as you can understand. But,' she added, sitting up and folding her hands in her lap, 'I would still like to hear more about what actually happened that day.'

'Then you shall, Madame Rivet.'

Colbeck was succinct. He gave her a straightforward account of the murder and told her about the clues that had led him to come to France in the first place. What he concealed from her was the series of incidents that had occurred on the new railway that was being built. Hortense Rivet listened with an amalgam of sadness and fortitude.

'Thank you,' she said when he had finished.

'That is all I can tell you.'

'It was more than I expected to hear.'

'Then my visit was not wasted.'

'Catherine is heartbroken now but she will recover in time. She will always nurture fond thoughts of Gaston and I will say nothing to her of the other life that he led. It is over now. He died before his wife could learn the ugly truth about him.' She let out a long sigh. 'Who knows? Perhaps it is better that way.'

Colbeck got up. 'I ought to be going.'

'It was good of you to come, Inspector.'

'Your request could not be ignored, Madame.'

'You will understand now why I wrote to you.'

'I do indeed.'

'Have you learned anything from this conversation?'

'Oh, yes. I feel as if I know your son-in-law a little better now.'

'Does that help?'

'In some ways.'

'Then there is one last thing you should know about him,' she said, rising from her chair. 'The last time I saw Gaston was in this very room. He had come home for the weekend. He did something that he had never done before.'

'And what was that?'

'My son-in-law was a very confident man, Inspector. He had the kind of natural charm and assurance that always appeal to women.' She gave a faint smile. 'You have the same qualities yourself but I do not think you exploit them as he did. But that's beside the point,' she continued, hurriedly. 'When he got back that day, Gaston was upset. He managed to hide it from Catherine but he did not deceive me.' She pointed to the window. 'It was the way that he stood over there and kept looking into the street.'

'What did you deduce from that, Madame?'

'He was frightened,' she said. 'Someone had followed him.'

Luke Rogan felt sick. He had endured a rough crossing from England and was now being jiggled about by the movement of the train. Any moment, he feared, he would be spilling the contents of his stomach over the floor of the carriage. He tried to concentrate on what lay ahead. When he had visited France before, he felt that he had left everything in order. A deal had been struck and money had changed hands. He had no reason to suppose that he had been double-crossed. The discussion with Sir Marcus Hetherington, however, had robbed him of his certainty. He was no longer quite so confident that his instructions had been carried out.

If the men had betrayed Rogan, it would cost him a lot of money and he would forfeit Sir Marcus' trust in him. He did not wish to upset his most generous client especially as there was a prospect of further work from that source. Everything had gone smoothly for him in England. Rogan had to ensure the same kind of success in France. Failure was not acceptable. If the people he employed had let him down, he would have to find others to do the work in their stead and pay them out of his own pocket. The very notion was galling.

He had come prepared. Excuses would not be tolerated. Had the men in his pay not taken any action as yet, Rogan would not give them a second chance. In his bag, he carried a pistol and a dagger that had already claimed one victim. Punishment would be meted out swiftly. He had not made such a gruelling journey to be fobbed off.

Thomas Brassey was pleased to see Colbeck return to the site. Inviting him into his office, he poured both of them a glass of wine.

'One of the advantages of working in France,' he said, sampling the drink. 'England has much to recommend it, but the one thing that it does not have is a supply of excellent vineyards.'

Colbeck tasted his wine. 'Very agreeable.'

'Did you enjoy your visit to Paris?'

'One would have to be blind not to do that, Mr Brassey. It's a positive feast for the eye – though some areas of the city do tend to assault the nasal passages with undue violence.'

'We have that problem in London.'

'I'm all too aware of it,' said Colbeck. 'Madame Rivet wanted to know how the investigation was progressing. She seemed to have much more faith in us than in the French police. I suppose that I should blame you for that, Mr Brassey.'

'Me?'

'Yes, sir. You set a bad example.'

'Did I, Inspector?'

'Because a British contractor builds railways for the French, they will soon expect British detectives to solve their murders for them as well. But I'm being facetious,' he said. 'The visit to Paris was very profitable. It allowed me to see that glorious architecture again and I learned a great deal about Gaston Chabal's domestic life.'

'Did you meet his widow?'

'No, only his mother-in-law. What she told me was that he had a role beyond his duties as an engineer. Apparently, he helped to find investors for this project.'

'Gaston had great powers of persuasion.'

'For which he was rewarded, I gather.'

'A labourer is worthy of his hire, Inspector.'

'He was rather more than a labourer.'

'Nobody could dispute that.'

Colbeck went on to describe, in broad outline, his conversation with Hortense Rivet, exercising great discretion as he did so. There was no need for Brassey to know that some of the shares in his railway had been bought as a result of a relationship between his French engineer and the daughter of a Parisian banker.

'How are things here, sir?' asked Colbeck.

'Mysteriously quiet.'

'The noise was as loud as ever when I arrived.'

'I was referring to the problems that have been dogging us of late,' said Brassey. 'We've had almost five days in a row now without any more nasty surprises.'

'That's good to hear.'

'How long it will last, though, is another matter.'

'Yes, it would be foolish to imagine that it was over.'

'I'd never do that, Inspector. What's made the difference is those guard dogs you suggested we might get. There are only four of them but they seem to have had the desired effect.'

'Don't forget the other form of restraint we imposed.'

'What was that?'

'Brendan Mulryne.'

'He's settled in well, from what I hear.'

'They're still not sure of him,' explained Colbeck. 'That's why they've been so well-behaved of late. They're biding their time as they try to work out if Brendan is friend or foe.'

'He's a very different animal from Sergeant Leeming.'

'But he remains suspect, Mr Brassey. Victor joins the camp as a stranger and, within a day, he starts to show too much interest in what's going on.'

'He paid dearly for that.'

'He tried to rush things, sir.'

'What about Mulryne?'

'I told him to be more circumspect. He'll not rush anything. And you must remember that he's still a new man in the camp, so they're bound to have some reservations about him.'

'You mean that they've stayed their hand because of Mulryne?'

'For the time being.'

'When do you think they will strike again?'

'Soon,' said Colbeck. 'Very soon.'

Brendan Mulryne caroused as usual at the village inn that night and indulged in lively badinage with the others. In a crowd of big, powerful, boisterous, hard-drinking Irishmen, he still managed to stick out. His wild antics and devil-may-care attitude made even the rowdiest of them seem tame by comparison. They had seen him get drunk, watched him fight and heard him sing the most deliciously obscene songs. They had also stood by as he turned his battered charm on the pretty barmaids at the inn. Brendan Mulryne was a vibrant character and they were pleased to have him there.

'Are you coming back to the camp, Brendan?' said someone.

'Hold your hour and have another brandy,' he replied.

'I've no money left.'

'Nor me,' said another man. 'We're off, Brendan.'

Mulryne waved a hand. 'I'll not be far behind you, lads.'

In fact, he was deliberately lagging behind. Liam Kilfoyle had told him to do so because there might be an opportunity for him to make some money. Mulryne jumped at the invitation. When the place finally emptied, he left with Kilfoyle and began the walk back to the camp. It was not long before someone stepped out of the bushes to join them. Pierce Shannon put an arm on Mulryne's shoulder.

'I'm told you're with us, Brendan,' he said.

'I'm with anyone who pays me.'

'And what are you prepared to do for the money?'

'Anything at all,' said Mulryne, expansively, 'as long as it doesn't involve going to church or getting involved in any way with the bleeding priesthood.'

'That goes for me, too,' said Kilfoyle.

'So you don't mind breaking the law, then?' said Shannon.

Mulryne grinned. 'I'll break as many as you like.'

'We'll be in trouble if we're caught.'

'So what, Pierce? Life's far too short to worry about things like that. Just pay me the money and tell me what I have to do.'

'I'll show you.'

They strode on across the fields until the lights of the camp came into view. Lanterns twinkled and a few of the fires that had been lit to cook food were still burning away. When they got closer to the huddle of shacks and houses, Shannon stopped and waited until the last of the navvies had vanished into their temporary homes.

'This way,' he said.

He struck off to the left with Mulryne and Kilfoyle behind him. They reached the railway line and began to walk along the track. When they came to a line of wagons, Shannon called them to a halt. Mulryne gave a knowing chuckle.

'So that's it,' he said. 'It's another bet.'

'Not this time,' Shannon told him.

'I smell a trick when I see one. You're going to challenge me to lift one of those fucking wagons because you know it's filled to the brim with ballast. I'm not that strong,' he said, cheerily, 'and I'm not that stupid either.'

'We don't want you to lift it, Brendan.'

'Then what do you want?'

'You'll see.'

Shannon went off to scrabble around in the dark, then he returned with a long, thick, wooden pole and a length of rope that he had hidden there earlier. Mulryne stared at the pole.

'What's that?' he asked.

'A lever,' replied Shannon.

'Yes, but what's it for?'

'Making money.'

Aubrey Filton had to hold back tears when he escorted the two of them to the scene. Eight wagons had been uncoupled and tipped off the line, spilling their respective cargoes as they did so. The rolling stock had been badly damaged and the mess would take precious time to clear away. Thomas Brassey gave a philosophical shrug, but Robert Colbeck walked around the wagons to look at them from every angle. He bent down to pull out the long wooden pole. Beside it was a length of rope. He held both of them up.

'This is how it was done, I fancy,' he said. 'Someone levered the wagon over while someone else pulled it from the other side with a rope. Those wagons are heavy enough when they're empty. Loaded, they must weigh several tons.'

'It must have taken at least a dozen men.'

Colbeck thought of Mulryne. 'Not necessarily, Mr Filton.'

'Look at the mess they've made!'

'What puzzles me,' said Brassey, staring balefully at the broken wagons, 'is how they contrived to get past the nightwatchmen – not to mention the dogs.'

'That's the other thing I have to report, sir,' said Filton.

'What?'

'It's those guard dogs. Someone fed them poisoned meat.'

Brassey was stunned. 'You mean that they're dead?'

'Dead as a doornail, sir. All four of them.'