Edward Marston - The iron horse

'That's immaterial,' said Fagge testily. 'I'm talking about the Birmingham train that terminates here in…' He consulted his watch. '…in less than five minutes. All available porters must be on duty.'

'Of course, Mr Fagge.'

'One small plea.'

'Yes, sir?'

'Try to have a day without any little accidents.'

There was a withering scorn in the head porter's voice. Fagge was a tall, wiry man with all the attributes of a martinet. He subjected Hibbert to verbal persecution but the latter had learnt to live with the discomfort. He saw it as a small price to pay for the privilege of working at Crewe Station. As he made his way to Platform Two, he was relieved that Fagge had not noticed the handkerchief that he had tied around his left wrist. Had he been forced to admit suffering yet another domestic mishap, Hibbert would have provoked more ridicule from the head porter.

It was a busy morning. Passenger trains came and went. Goods trains thundered past in both directions on the through lines in the middle. Traffic was relentless and Reginald Hibbert was kept on his toes along with the other porters. Working with his usual enthusiasm, he tried to ignore the twinges in his left wrist. By the afternoon, he had forgotten all about his injury. Hibbert was emboldened to handle even the heaviest luggage without trepidation. His overconfidence was to prove fatal.

Another train steamed into the station in a riot of noise, vibration and pungent smoke. As soon as the passengers had alighted, Hibbert climbed onto the roof of one of the carriages and began to pass down the luggage to another porter. Stacked on the platform, it was singled out by its owners before being carried away for them. Hibbert had no problems until he tried to handle a large leather trunk. Having manoeuvred it to the edge of the roof, he attempted to lift it in one fluent move but his left wrist suddenly gave way and he let go of the trunk with a cry of anguish.

It plummeted through the air and the porter waiting to take it from him had the presence of mind to step back smartly out of the way. The trunk hit a lady's hatbox with such force that it broke the strap attached to its lid. A small crowd of passengers stood beside the piles of luggage and a collective gasp of horror went up. As the lid of the hatbox flipped open, its contents were tipped roughly out. Reginald Hibbert could not believe his eyes.

Rolling around below him on the platform was a human head.

Seated at the desk in his office, Detective Inspector Robert Colbeck was writing a report on his latest case. Details of a brutal murder in Seven Dials were somehow robbed of their full horror by his elegant hand but they remained fresh and disturbing in his mind. He was nearing the end of his work when the door suddenly opened and Superintendent Edward Tallis burst in without bothering to knock.

'Stop whatever you're doing, Inspector,' he ordered.

Colbeck looked up. 'Is there a problem, sir?'

'There's always a problem at Scotland Yard. Problems arrive on my desk by the dozen every day. Policing a city like London is one long, continuous problem that defies solution.'

'I think you're being unduly pessimistic, Superintendent.'

'Be that as it may, I've a new assignment for you.'

'Here in London?'

'No,' said Tallis. 'In Crewe.'

'That means a railway crime,' said Colbeck with interest, getting to his feet. 'Have the LNWR been in touch with you?'

'They requested you by name.'

'I'm flattered.'

'This is no time to preen yourself,' warned Tallis. 'The London and North West Railway want immediate action. A severed head was found in a hatbox that was unloaded at Crewe station this afternoon.'

'Male or female?'

'What does it matter? A head is a head.'

'Do you have any more details, sir?'

'None beyond the few that were sent by electric telegraph.'

Colbeck opened a drawer in his desk. 'I'll set off at once,' he said, taking out a copy of Bradshaw's Guide. 'Let's find a train that will get me there fast.'

'You'll take Sergeant Leeming with you.'

'Victor will not be happy about that.'

'His job is to obey orders.'

'And he always does so,' said Colbeck, running his finger down a list of departure times. 'Since we won't get to Crewe until well into the evening, it means that we'll have to stay the night. Victor hates to be away from his wife and children.'

Tallis raised a contemptuous eyebrow. 'You know my view of families,' he said. 'They cease to exist when a major crime has been committed. Detection takes precedence over everything. It's the main reason that I never married.'

Colbeck could think of other reasons why the superintendent had not succumbed to holy matrimony, chief among them being the brusque, authoritarian manner that would have little appeal to a member of the opposite sex. Tallis was a solid man in his fifties with grey hair and a neat moustache. Though he had left the army many years ago, he still looked as if he were on the parade ground. He respected Colbeck for his skill as a detective but he could never bring himself to like the undisputed dandy of Scotland Yard. There was a permanent unresolved tension between the two men.

Having selected a train, Colbeck closed his Bradshaw and put it back in the desk drawer. He gave his superior a token smile.

'Your devotion to duty is an inspiration to us all,' he said without a trace of irony, 'but some of us need more than the relentless pursuit of the criminal fraternity to get true fulfilment from life. Victor Leeming is a case in point.'

'A wife and children are unnecessary handicaps.'

'That's a matter of opinion, Superintendent.'

'Mine is based on experience.'

'Mine is tempered by a recognition of basic human needs,' said Colbeck suavely. 'A police force is not a monastic order, sir. I refuse to believe that celibacy in our ranks is to be encouraged.'

'I'm well aware of your eccentric views, Inspector,' said Tallis with exasperation, 'and I'd be grateful if you kept them to yourself. What time is your train?'

'In just under an hour.'

'Then find Sergeant Leeming and get over to Euston Station.'

'At once, sir.'

'And don't presume to rest on your laurels.'

'I'd never dare to do that.'

'This is an entirely new case.'

Colbeck knew what he meant. It was not the first time that the inspector had answered the call of the London and North West Railway. When a mail train was robbed on its way to Birmingham, a succession of other serious crimes had been committed in its wake. Because of the way he had brought the investigation to a satisfactory conclusion, Robert Colbeck had earned the gratitude of the LNWR as well as that of the Post Office and the Royal Mint. Newspapers had unanimously christened him the Railway Detective. It was an honour that he cherished but it also placed a heavy and often uncomfortable burden of expectation on his shoulders.

'Are you sure you've picked the fastest train?' asked Tallis.

'I couldn't have chosen a better one, sir.'

'What do you mean?'

'The engine driver is a good friend of mine.'

Caleb Andrews was a short, thin, sinewy man of middle years with the energy of someone half his age. Though he had spent his entire working life on the railway, he had lost none of his boyish enthusiasm for his job. Having begun as a cleaner, he had eventually become a fireman before reaching the pinnacle of his profession as an engine driver. Andrews considered himself to be one of the aristocrats of the railway world and expected deference from those in lowlier positions. He was on the footplate of his locomotive, checking that everything was in order for departure, when two familiar figures came along the platform to see him.

'Hello, Mr Andrews,' said Robert Colbeck.