Edward Marston - Inspector Colbeck's Casebook

‘There you are, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘You’ll still be able to see your children before they go to bed.’

‘I’m sorry that I was so churlish on the way there, sir.’

‘Our interrupted Sunday was redeemed by an important arrest.’

‘I’m glad we don’t have people like Anthony Vine in our congregation,’ said Leeming. ‘He’s got a very twisted view of Christianity.’

‘He’s a devout man with a fatal weakness. He forgot one of the main precepts of the Bible — Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord. Mr Vine took too much upon himself,’ said Colbeck. ‘In trying to play God, he created a disaster for the very church he loved and served. It will be something to reflect upon as he’s waiting to mount the gallows.’

In a sense, Caleb Andrews had never actually retired from the railway. He continued to turn up at Euston on an unpaid, unofficial basis in order to hear the latest gossip and to offer unsought advice to his former colleagues over a pint of beer at the pub they patronised. Andrews was a short, stringy man with a fringe beard decorating a leathery face. Known for his pugnacity, he also had a softer side and it was in evidence that evening as he listened to the harpist. A small crowd had gathered around the old man as he worked his way through his repertoire. Andrews was not the only onlooker who had to hold back a tear when he heard the strains of ‘Home, Sweet Home’. He marvelled at the way that the decrepit figure could pluck such sweet melodies from his strings. Well into his seventies, the harpist wore an ancient, ragged suit and a top hat battered into concertina shape. Beside him on the ground was a cap to collect any money from his transient audiences. Curled up asleep near the cap was a mangy dog of uncertain parentage.

The harpist’s musical taste was catholic, embracing everything from operatic arias to bawdy music hall songs and stretching to stirring marches more suited to a regimental brass band. Passers-by hovered long enough to hear a favourite tune and, in some cases, tossed a coin into the cap. Andrews did the same, then his sharp eye spotted a threat to the money. Lurking on the edge of the crowd was a ragamuffin who could be no more than nine or ten. He sidled towards the cap and was about to snatch it up when Andrews shouted a warning.

‘Watch out!’

His yell was unnecessary because the dog had already come to life to protect its master’s income and bitten the boy’s wrist. Howling in pain, the ragamuffin darted off. As he turned to look after the thief, Andrews bumped into a well-dressed man who muttered an apology then walked swiftly past him. Thinking no more of the incident, Andrews listened to the harpist for another few minutes then headed for the pub where he’d spent so many happy times with his friends over the years. They gave him a warm welcome and someone bought him a drink. He revelled in the banter. Dirk Sowerby, his erstwhile fireman, then came in. Andrews insisted on treating him and moved to the bar counter. When he reached inside his coat for his wallet, however, it was not there. He came to an immediate conclusion.

‘I’ve been robbed!’ he protested.

‘It was embarrassing, Maddy.’

‘I can see that.’

‘Instead of buying Dirk Sowerby a drink, I had to borrow money off him to pay my way. I felt such a fool.’

‘Are you absolutely sure that you had the wallet in your coat?’

‘Yes,’ replied Andrews, irritably. ‘Of course, I’m sure.’

‘I’ve known you forget things before,’ Madeleine reminded him.

‘I’ve never forgotten my wallet and my watch, Maddy. I wouldn’t leave the house without them. You know that.’

Madeleine nodded. During all the years she’d lived with her father, she couldn’t remember him forgetting anything of real importance. Andrews had a routine from which he never wavered. The truth had to be faced. Her father was the victim of a pickpocket. She was angry on his behalf but schooled herself to think calmly.

‘Do you have any idea when it might have happened, Father?’

‘I think so. It was when I listened to that harpist.’

‘Go on.’

He recounted the events at Euston station and declared that the man who’d bumped into him was the culprit. Distracted by the music, Andrews felt, he’d been targeted. He was determined to get his money back.

‘I didn’t come here to seek Robert’s help,’ he said. ‘A detective inspector has more important things to worry about than a pickpocket. I just wanted to talk it through with you so that it became clear in my mind. It’s my turn to be a detective now,’ he went on, rubbing his hands. ‘I’ll show my son-in-law that he isn’t the only clever policeman in the family.’

They were in the drawing room of the house that Madeleine shared with her husband, Robert Colbeck. She was an alert, attractive woman who had moved from a modest dwelling in Camden Town to a more luxurious home in John Islip Street in Westminster, slowly settling into the latter. Always pleased to see her father, she was sorry that he’d brought such bad news on this occasion.

‘Would you recognise the man again?’ she asked.

‘I think so. He wore a frock coat and top hat.’

‘Hundreds of men answer to that description, Father.’

‘I may only have seen him for a second but I’m sure I can pick him out.’

She was dubious. ‘Be very careful,’ she said.

‘They’re obviously in this together, Maddy.’

‘Who are?’

‘The harpist and the pickpocket,’ he told her. ‘The one holds your attention while the other moves among the crowd, looking for prey.’

‘I think that’s unlikely,’ she said. ‘An old man with a mangy dog doesn’t sound as if he’d have anything to do with a well-dressed gentleman.’

‘He was no gentleman — he was a thief!’

‘What do you propose to do?’

‘I’ll go back to the station tomorrow to see if the harpist is there. If he is, I’ll watch from a distance to see if the dipper is there with him.’

Madeleine was alarmed. ‘Don’t do anything rash,’ she said. ‘It might be better if I came with you tomorrow.’

‘I can manage on my own,’ he insisted. ‘I don’t need you and I don’t need the famous Railway Detective. This is my case, Maddy, and I mean to solve it.’

Early next morning, Andrews was part of the hustle and bustle of a major railway station once again. People queued for tickets then went in search of the appropriate platforms. There was constant noise and movement. From a vantage point near the main entrance, Andrews kept his eyes peeled. Hours oozed past but there was no sign of the harpist. What he did see were several men who looked vaguely like the one who’d bumped into him the previous evening. Madeleine had been right. His loose description of the supposed pickpocket fitted any number of male passengers. During their brief encounter, Andrews had had no time to register the man’s height, age or colouring. He couldn’t even decide if he’d heard an educated voice or a Cockney twang. Detective work was not as straightforward as he’d imagined.

The musician finally arrived around noon. Covered by a piece of cloth, his Irish harp was small enough to be carried under his arm. The mangy dog trailed after him. He took up a different position this time, squatting down on the ground near a cloakroom where luggage could be deposited. Music soon filled the air. Andrews drifted across so that he could keep the old man under surveillance. Busy people rushed past but there were small groups that loitered for short periods to listen. The first few coins clinked into the cap. The dog fell asleep.

After an hour or so, the harpist stopped for refreshment. From inside his coat, he pulled out a hunk of bread and a piece of cheese. His audience vanished instantly. Once he resumed, however, more and more people moved across to hear him. When the crowd thickened, an impeccably tailored man walked slowly towards the cluster. Andrews watched him like a hawk. As he eased his way to the front of the queue, the man rubbed against several other people with gestures of apology. Andrews recalled the polite gentleman who’d bumped into him. Was he looking at the same man? It was a strong possibility. Indeed, the more he studied the newcomer, the more certain he became that he’d identified a pickpocket.