Edward Marston - The iron horse

'Right,' said Colbeck, removing his top hat and placing it on the desk, 'let's get down to business, shall we, gentlemen? Before you tell me how the severed head was found, perhaps you'd be good enough to show it to me.'

'Of course,' said Reade. Crossing to a cupboard, he took out a bunch of keys and inserted one of them into the lock. 'I had to hide it away in here. When it was standing on the floor, people kept peering in at it through the window. It was so ghoulish.' Unlocking the door, he opened it and lifted the hatbox out. 'Here we are, Inspector.'

Hibbert flinched at the sight but Colbeck was fascinated. The leather hatbox was large, beautifully made and very expensive. Tied to the handle was a ticket that told him Euston was the point of departure. The name on the ticket, written in a spidery hand, was Mr D Key. Capital letters had been used for the destination – Crewe.

Since the strap had been broken, Colbeck simply had to pull back the lid to expose the occupant of the hatbox. It was the head of a young man and dark bruising on the forehead suggested that he had been beaten before being killed. Extracting a large handkerchief from his pocket, Colbeck used it to encircle the back of the head so that he could lift it gently out.

Reginald Hibbert emitted a gasp of alarm as it came into view once again. The open eyes seemed to be staring accusingly at him. He stepped back guiltily and collided with a chair, almost knocking it to the floor. Percy Reade admired the detective's coolness. Simply carrying the hatbox had induced feelings of nausea in the stationmaster and he could not possibly have handled its contents with his bare hands. Colbeck seemed to have no qualms. He was examining the head from all angles as if it were a bronze bust of a Roman emperor rather than part of a human being.

'You've obviously done this before,' remarked Reade.

'Not at all,' said Colbeck, coming to the end of his scrutiny. 'As a matter of fact, this is my first severed head. I am, however, all too accustomed to looking at dead bodies, many of them, alas, hideously mutilated.'

'What happens next, Inspector?'

'We'll do all we can to unite this fellow with his torso.'

'How on earth can you do that when you have no clues?'

'We have two important ones right here,' said Colbeck, lowering the head carefully back into its box. 'We know from the ticket that this began its journey at Euston station and we may be able to find the porter who loaded it onto the train. Failing that, we'll begin our enquiries in Jermyn Street.'

'Why there?'

'Clearly, you didn't study the inside of the hatbox. The name of a milliner is sewn into the silk padding on the underside of the lid.' He pointed to the gold thread. 'I should imagine he will be very upset to learn to what use the box has been put.' He closed the lid. 'Now, Mr Hibbert,' he said, straightening up, 'we come to you.'

'I didn't mean to do it, Inspector,' said the porter defensively.

'Dropping a trunk onto a hatbox is not a criminal offence.'

'Mr Fagge said that I ought to be arrested.'

'Well, Mr Fagge is not here any longer so why don't you tell me, in your own words, exactly what happened?'

Hibbert was reassured by Colbeck's friendly tone and courteous manner. Clearing his throat, the porter licked his lips.

'It all began this morning, when I sprained my wrist…'

It was a slow, long-winded account filled with much extraneous detail but the others heard him out in silence. While he was speaking, his essential character was laid bare and Colbeck saw that the porter was a decent, honest, hard-working young man in terror of losing a job that was a labour of love to him. The inspector was surprised to hear that he had been kept at the station beyond the time when his shift ended and guessed that the wife about whom Hibbert had spoken so fondly would be very distressed at her husband's lateness. When the narrative at last came to an end, Colbeck's first concern was for Molly Hibbert.

'Did you not think to send your wife a message?' he asked.

'Mr Fagge refused to let me, Inspector.'

'That was very high-handed of him. He had no right to deny you and should have been overruled by the stationmaster.'

'I tried to put myself in Mrs Hibbert's position,' said Reade, attempting to justify his actions. 'I felt that she would be very upset if she had a note from Reg to say that he was being held here, pending the arrival of detectives from Scotland Yard.'

'Why not simply tell her that her husband was working overtime?' said Colbeck reasonably. 'That would at least have given her peace of mind.'

'That never occurred to me, Inspector. To tell you the truth, this incident with the hatbox left me rather jangled. It's not the sort of thing that happens every day – thank God!'

'It must have caused a great stir.'

'It did,' confirmed Hibbert. 'There were dozens of people on the platform. They all gathered round for a goggle at the head.'

'That was unfortunate,' said Colbeck. 'In the confusion, the person who would have reclaimed that hatbox slipped away. I don't suppose you recall any other luggage for a Mr Key?'

'I never look at the names, Inspector – only the destination. If it says "Crewe" on the ticket, I unload it here.'

'In that case, he may have reclaimed any other items with which he was travelling and beat a hasty retreat. A severed head is hardly something that anyone would willingly admit to owning.'

'It gives me the creeps just to look at that hatbox.'

'Then you don't have to suffer any more,' decided Colbeck, taking pity on him. 'Your statement was very thorough and I'm sure it will be corroborated by the many that Constable Hubbleday took. We'll be staying the night in Crewe so, if I need to speak to you again, I know where to find you.'

'Off you go,' said Reade. 'Molly will be missing you.'

Hibbert was overjoyed. 'Thank you, Inspector,' he said, grinning inanely. 'Thank you, Mr Reade. Does that mean I'm in the clear?'

'As far as I'm concerned, that's always been the case.'

'Mr Fagge said there'd be repercussions.'

'Then he was wildly misinformed,' said Colbeck.

He opened the door to let Hibbert out, only to find a buxom young woman bearing down on them. Molly Hibbert had the look of a wife who has just been told that her husband is in grave danger. She flung herself at him and held him tight.

'What's going on, Reg?' she demanded.

'Nothing, my love,' he replied. 'I was just coming home.'

'I met Mr Fagge on the way here. He said you were being questioned by a detective from London and that you ought to face charges for what you did.'

'On the contrary, Mrs Hibbert,' said Colbeck politely. 'The only thing your husband will get from me is praise. My name is Inspector Robert Colbeck, by the way, and I'm here because a severed head was found in a hatbox that arrived at this station. Your husband not only showed bravery in coming to work with an injured wrist that must have given him constant pain. He inadvertently rendered us a great service. But for him,' he went on, patting Hibbert on the shoulder, 'a heinous crime would have gone unnoticed and therefore unpunished.'

'That's true,' said Reade, feeling obliged to make a comment. 'In a sense, Reg is something of a hero.'

'Am I?' Hibbert was baffled by the news.

'He's always a hero to me,' said Molly, clutching his arm.

'Take him home, Mrs Hibbert,' suggested Colbeck. 'And if you happen to pass Mr Fagge on the way, please warn him that I shall need to speak to him about the unnecessary cruelty he displayed towards your husband. If anyone is due a reprimand, it's Mr Fagge.'

Hibbert had never laughed so triumphantly in all his life.

Victor Leeming was deeply unhappy. It was bad enough to be exiled for a night from the marital bed but he had additional causes for complaint. The first had come in the burly shape of Constable Royston Hubbleday, a good-hearted but ponderous individual who had insisted on reading out every statement he had taken relating to the discovery at the railway station, however repetitive, hysterical or contradictory they happened to be. Leeming's second grievance was that he had to share an airless room with Robert Colbeck at a public house. Situated near the station, it was called The Rocket and its inn sign sported a painting of Stephenson's famous locomotive. To a man who loathed railways as much as the sergeant, it was an ordeal to stay the night in a place that celebrated them.