Edward Marston - The railway viaduct

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

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

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

'Albeit unofficially,' Colbeck observed.

'Quite so, sir.'

'Did you learn anything of value?'

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

'Disturbing the peace?'

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

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

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

'Who is he?'

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

'Well done, Victor.'

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

'That's conclusive.'

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

'Yes – Rogan.'

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

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

'A dress shop?'

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

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

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

'That's what Eames told me.'

'Did he give you an address for him?'

'He has an office somewhere in Camden.'

'What about his home address?'

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

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

'What is it, sir?'

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

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

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

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

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

'So what was Rogan doing there?'

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

'A bogus one.'

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

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

'Have we?'

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

'Who's that?'

'A jealous husband.'

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

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

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

'What for?'

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

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

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

'Is there, sir?'

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

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

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

'At this hour? Damnably inconvenient.'

'I showed him into the drawing room.'

'What was his name?'

'Mr Rogan.'

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

'Yes, Sir Marcus.'

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

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

'I needed to see you.'

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

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

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

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

'Impudent scoundrel!'

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

'What are you blathering about?'

'Inspector Colbeck.'

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

'He knows.'

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