Edward Marston - Inspector Colbeck's Casebook

‘Good evening, Mr Proudfoot.’

‘I need to be at Reading station by eight o’clock,’ said the other, curtly. ‘I expect the ride to be swift but comfortable.’

‘But we’re not supposed to stop, sir,’ explained Barrett, glancing at his fireman. ‘The engine is being taken out of service so that repairs can be made at Swindon.’

‘On her way there, she can oblige me.’

‘I have to follow orders, Mr Proudfoot.’

‘I’ve just given them. Take me to Reading.’

‘But I need permission, sir.’

‘You’ve got permission, man,’ said Proudfoot, testily. ‘I’ve spoken to your superiors. That’s why the first-class carriage was added to the train. It’s the only way I’d deign to travel.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Remember that you have a director of the company aboard.’

‘Oh, I will,’ promised Barrett.

‘I’ll be keeping an eye on the performance of the train.’

‘You’ll have no reason for complaint, sir.’

‘I hope not,’ warned Proudfoot.

And he turned on his heel so that he could stalk off and accost the guard at the rear of the train. Barrett and Neale watched him go. The driver was a wiry man in his thirties with years of service on the Great Western Railway. He took a pride in his job. His fireman, Alfred Neale, short, thin, angular, still in his twenties, was also an experienced railway man. Unlike his workmate, he showed open resentment.

‘He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that, Jim,’ he said.

‘I take no notice.’

‘But you’re one of the best drivers we’ve got. Mr Proudfoot should have shown you some respect. Who does he think he is — God Bloody Almighty?’

‘Forget him, Alf,’ suggested Barrett. ‘We’ve got a job to do even if it don’t get the recognition it deserves. Is he on board yet?’

‘Yes,’ replied Neale, sourly, looking back down the platform. ‘His Majesty’s just climbing into his first-class carriage. Anyone would think that he owned the train. Stop at Reading, he tells us! I think we should go all the way to Swindon and to hell with him.’

Barrett gave a weary smile. ‘Orders is orders, Alf.’

‘I’ve half a mind to ignore ’em.’

‘Well, I haven’t,’ said the other, consulting a battered watch that he took from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Mr Proudfoot wants to be there by eight, does he? Fair enough.’ He put the watch away. ‘Let’s deliver him bang on time.’

Fifteen minutes later, the train steamed out of Paddington.

When he first heard the details of the crime, Robert Colbeck was baffled. As an inspector in the Detective Department at Scotland Yard, he had dealt with many strange cases but none that had made him blink in astonishment before. He rehearsed the facts.

‘When the train left London,’ he said, ‘Matthew Proudfoot was the only passenger in a first-class carriage. The guard was travelling in the brake van, the driver and fireman on the footplate.’

‘That’s correct,’ agreed Edward Tallis.

‘None of those three men left his post throughout the entire journey yet, when the train stopped at Reading station, Mr Proudfoot was dead.’

‘Stabbed through the heart.’

‘By whom?’

‘That’s for you to find out,’ said Tallis, crisply. ‘As you know, the Great Western Railway has its own police but their work is largely supervisory. They watch over the track and act as signalmen. A murder investigation is well beyond them. That’s why we’ve been called in.’

Robert Colbeck pondered. Tall, slim and well favoured, he wore a light brown frock coat, with rounded edges and a high neck, dark trousers and an ascot cravat. Though he had the appearance of a dandy, Colbeck was essentially a man of action who never shirked danger. He pressed for more detail.

‘What was the average speed of the train?’ he asked.

‘Thirty-five miles per hour.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because that’s the approximate distance between Paddington and Reading, and it took almost exactly an hour to reach the station. So you can rule out the obvious explanation,’ said Tallis, briskly. ‘Nobody jumped onto the train while it was in motion — not unless he wanted to kill himself, that is. It was going too fast.’

‘Too fast to jump onto , perhaps,’ decided Colbeck. ‘But a brave man could jump off the train at that speed — especially if he chose the right place and rolled down a grassy embankment. That might be the answer, Superintendent,’ he speculated. ‘Suppose that Mr Proudfoot was not the sole occupant of that carriage. Someone may already have concealed himself in one of the other compartments.’

‘That’s one of the avenues you’ll have to explore.’

Superintendent Edward Tallis was a stout, steely man in his fifties with a military background that had left him with a scar on his cheek. He had a shock of grey hair and a well-trimmed moustache that he was fond of caressing. With a lifetime shaped by the habit of command, he expected obedience from his subordinates and, because Colbeck did not always obey in the way that was required of him, there was a lot of tension between them. Whatever his reservations about the elegant inspector, however, Tallis recognised his abilities and invariably assigned the most difficult cases to him. Colbeck had a habit of getting results.

The two of them were in the superintendent’s office in Scotland Yard. It was early in the morning after the murder and the scant information available was on the sheet of paper that Tallis handed to Colbeck. When he studied the paper, the inspector’s handsome face puckered with disappointment.

‘There’s not much to go on, I’m afraid,’ said Tallis with a sigh. ‘Beyond the fact that Matthew Proudfoot got into a train alive and was dead on arrival at his destination, that is. You have to feel sorry for the company. It’s not exactly a good advertisement for passenger travel.’

‘Did the train go on to Swindon?’

‘No, it’s been held at Reading, pending our investigation.’

‘Good.’

‘The driver, fireman and guard were also detained there overnight. You’ll find their names on that sheet of paper.’ Rising from his desk, he walked around it to confront Colbeck. ‘There’s no need for me to tell you how crucial it is that this murder is solved as quickly as possible.’

‘No, Superintendent.’

‘Mr Proudfoot was a director of the Great Western Railway. That means they are putting immense pressure on me for action.’

‘I’ll catch the next through-train to Reading.’

‘Take Sergeant Leeming with you.’

‘No,’ said Colbeck, thoughtfully. ‘Victor can travel independently. I need the fastest train that I can get, but I want him to stop at every station along the way to make enquiries. This is high summer. There was good light between seven and eight yesterday evening. Someone may have seen something when Mr Proudfoot’s train went past.’

‘A phantom killer stabbing him to death?’

‘I doubt if we’ll be that fortunate.’

‘Keep me informed.’

‘I always do, Superintendent.’

‘Only when you are under orders to do so,’ Tallis reminded him. ‘I want none of your usual eccentric methods, Inspector. I expect you to conduct this investigation properly. Bear one thing in mind at all times. Our reputation is at stake.’

Colbeck smiled. ‘Then I’ll do nothing to tarnish it, sir.’

There were eight stations between Paddington and Reading and, thanks to his copy of Churton’s Rail Road Book of England, Robert Colbeck knew the exact distance between each of them. Travelling in the compartment of a first-class carriage with two uniformed Metropolitan policemen, he tried to reconstruct the final journey by Matthew Proudfoot. When, how and why was the man killed? Was it conceivable that the murder victim had, in fact, had a travelling companion who had turned upon him for some reason? If that were the case, was the other person male or female? And at what point did the killer depart from the train? Colbeck had much to occupy his mind.