Peril on the Royal Train (11 page)

He thrust out his chest. ‘It’s no more than I deserve.’

‘You’ve always admired Mr Renwick.’

‘He’s a man who knows his job,’ said Andrews with approval. ‘He also has an eye for something that’s rather special – and I’m not only talking about me.’

‘Who else?’

‘A talented young artist named Madeleine Colbeck – except that you were Madeleine Andrews at the time when you painted a picture of an engine named “Cornwall”. It was one of the first I drove for the LNWR. I can still tell you the exact diameter of its driving wheel, its boiler pressure, its coal and water capacity and its traction power.’ He beamed nostalgically. ‘Oh, I had some good times on the footplate of Cornwall.’

‘Why do you pick out that painting?’

‘Because it’s the one that Mr Renwick owns,’ he replied. ‘Yes, my daughter’s work is hanging in his house. Isn’t that wonderful? I only learnt about it today. It was quite by chance. When I showed that letter to some friends earlier on, one of them said he’d actually been to Mr Renwick’s house for some function or other. He told me that our general manager had bought Cornwall – that’s the painting, of course, not the county.’ He glowed with pride. ‘What do you think of that?’

‘I think that I ought to be very cross with you,’ she said, sternly.

Andrews was aghast. ‘When I’ve brought you such good news?’

‘I’d like to have been the
first
to hear about your invitation but you had to boast about it to your friends over a pint of beer, didn’t you? In other words, they were more important than me. However,’ she added, reproach fading from her voice, ‘you did find out something very gratifying. I’m so flattered that Mr Renwick thinks my work is good enough to buy. I loved putting Cornwall on canvas.’

‘It’s one of your best paintings, Maddy.’

‘When you meet him, do thank Mr Renwick on my behalf.’

‘There’s no need. You can do that yourself.’

She blinked. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Read that letter again,’ he suggested. ‘You’ll see that drivers and their
wives
have been invited. Since I don’t have a wife, I’ll take my daughter along instead. Oh, it will be such a night for you, Maddy,’ he went on, rubbing his hands together with glee. ‘You’re not only an artist whose work Mr Renwick loves. When he realises that you’re married to the Railway Detective as well, he’ll insist that you sit right next to him.’

Glasgow was a city of contrasts. Victor Leeming now understood that. Having seen the horror of the Gorbals, he was enjoying accommodation at the other end of the social scale. Standing in an avenue of palatial houses, The Angel Hotel offered a luxury he’d never known before. It made him feel as if he were trespassing, especially as some of the staff kept looking at him with suspicion. Leeming was completely out of his depth. Robert Colbeck, on the other hand, adapted easily to the new surroundings and settled gratefully into them.

‘Mr Craig is feather-bedding us,’ he observed. ‘We’ve never stayed in a hotel as lavish as this.’

‘My room is enormous,’ said Leeming. ‘I won’t be able to sleep in there.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘It just doesn’t feel
right
, sir.’

Colbeck laughed. ‘Oh, I don’t think you’ll have any difficulty dozing off, Victor. It’s been a long day and you’ve worked hard. Make the most of this place while you can. We may never see such opulence again.’

‘I’m glad about that.’

‘Can’t you take
any
enjoyment out of it?’

‘No,’ confessed Leeming. ‘The truth is that I feel so guilty. Why should we have people waiting on us hand and foot while most ordinary people live in the sort of tenements I saw in the Gorbals?’

‘There’s always a huge chasm between the rich and the poor. It’s at its most marked in a city like Glasgow.’

‘It’s so
unfair
, sir.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Colbeck. ‘Unfortunately, we’re not in a position to do anything about it. But you’ve touched on something I meant to ask you about.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Why did Lackey Paterson live in such straitened conditions? Engine drivers are relatively well paid. Look at my father-in-law. You’ve seen the house he was able to buy. Paterson should have had something equivalent to that.’

‘Yet he didn’t – he lived in a slum.’

‘It’s one more question we’ll have to put to him.’

They were in the hotel lounge, relaxing in well-upholstered armchairs. Other guests were chatting over a drink or summoning waiters with a snap of their fingers. They all looked supremely at home. Leeming didn’t envy them. He just wondered what they’d done to deserve a life of such extravagance. Colbeck was practical.

‘We could easily have stayed in more modest accommodation,’ he said. ‘The money could have been better spent, not on us but on the families of those three victims of the crash. They’ll be in despair.’

‘Yes,’ said Leeming, sadly. ‘Dougal Murray, I discovered, was engaged to be married. Think how his bride-to-be must be suffering.’

‘I feel sympathy for anyone touched by this disaster. It’s one of the reasons I’m so eager to solve the crime. If Paterson is behind it – and evidence
is
beginning to point that way – he needs to be caught and hanged. However,’ said Colbeck, ‘we must continue to explore other avenues as well. Paterson may be quite innocent.’

‘You wouldn’t think that if you’d seen his wife, sir. He was guilty of beating the poor woman and leaving her to bring up their child alone. In my opinion, they’re appalling crimes. What about his marriage vows? Well, you took them yourself at your wedding and you know how solemn they are.’

‘I do indeed, Victor.’

‘A husband should respect his wife.’

Leeming was about to expand on the theme when he saw someone walking towards them. Inspector Rae had his familiar smile in position. After handing his hat to a passing waiter, he sank into a chair opposite the two detectives.

‘May I join you, gentlemen?’ he asked.

‘Please do,’ rejoined Colbeck.

Rae looked around. ‘Well, this certainly does give lie to the belief that all Scotsmen are skinflints. This hotel is oozing with wealth. Money is being poured away like so much water.’

‘That’s what worries me,’ said Leeming.

Colbeck ordered a drink for the newcomer then told Rae about his visit to the quarry. The latter was interested to hear about the disappearance of Paterson.

‘It may or may not be a coincidence,’ he decided. ‘What else have you learnt?’

Leeming described his visit to the headquarters of the railway company and his subsequent activities. Rae seemed quietly pleased that they had made no apparent progress. At the same time, however, he had to concede that he and his detectives had unearthed no significant new evidence. What he had brought to show them was a letter from the general manager of the North British Railway, categorically denying that the company had anything whatsoever to do with the train crash. Colbeck read the missive before handing it back.

‘I think the gentleman doth protest too much,’ he remarked.

‘I’ll interview him tomorrow,’ said Rae, ‘and question this spirited denial. It’s come far too soon. He’s pleading the NBR’s innocence before it’s been accused.’

‘Suspicion is bound to fall on a close rival, Inspector. He realises that. I daresay you’ll have similar letters from other railway companies before too long.’

‘The NBR remains my main source of interest.’

‘Is that because Superintendent McTurk believes it to be the prime suspect?’

‘No – I came to that conclusion of my own volition. But I’m glad you mentioned McTurk,’ said Rae, smile disappearing. ‘When I left him earlier on, he was behaving strangely.’

‘In what way?’ asked Colbeck.

‘He’d suddenly become rather secretive. Until then, I couldn’t stop the man from talking. He was giving me advice on every aspect of the case. Something has happened to stop him gushing forth.’

‘Have you any idea what it might be, Inspector?’

‘I can only guess,’ said Rae, ‘but there was a smugness about him that I thought indicative. It’s almost as if he knows something that the rest of us don’t. McTurk has picked up a scent that’s eluded our nostrils. We’re not just in competition with each other, Inspector Colbeck. Unless I’m very much mistaken,’ he warned, ‘we have a rival with a black beard and a firm resolve to embarrass the pair of us.’

Convinced that he was on the trail of the culprits, Rory McTurk rode to the nearest inn to enquire if two men had stayed there recently. When he drew a blank, he went on to a tavern near Beattock. That, too, was unable to assist him. Riding further afield on his bay mare, he came to The Jolly Traveller, a wayside inn with a spectacular view of the dale. It was a case of third time lucky. The landlord, a portly man in his sixties with a mane of white hair, was able to supply valuable information.

‘Aye, sir,’ he said. ‘That’s reet. Two men stayed heer on the Saturday afore that terrible crash on the railway.’

‘How old would they be?’

The landlord grinned. ‘Oh, a lot younger than either of us.’

‘Thirty or thereabouts, perhaps?’

‘How did ye know that?’

‘Never ye mind – am I right?’

‘Ye are, sir.’

‘Describe them.’

‘They were tall and well built with long, dark hair. Ye’d no’ call ’em handsome. They were rough-looking and could both have used a razor. In my job, I weigh people up at a glance and I didnae like them one bit. They were no’ people ye’d ever trust.’

‘And did they look alike?’

‘Aye,’ replied the landlord, ‘but that’s no’ surprising, is it?’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘They were brothers.’

McTurk’s interest quickened. The landlord was confirming what the shepherd had seen. The two men did exist and they had stayed in the locality prior to the crash.

‘Did they tell you their names?’ he pressed.

‘No,’ said the landlord, ‘they went straight up to their room. We saw neither hide nor hair of them. But ma daughter heerd what they called each other when they’d an early breakfast on the Sunday.’

‘Well?’

‘One of ’em was Ewen and t’other was Duncan.’

‘Ewen and Duncan,’ repeated McTurk, committing the names to memory.

‘That’s all I can tell ye. They paid the bill and I unlocked the stable.’

‘Did they have a cart with them?’

‘Aye, sir, they did and they were very partic’lar aboot it. If I’d not been able to lock it safely away, I doobt if they’d have stayed at The Jolly Traveller.’

‘Why were they so concerned? All they had on the cart was some rope, a pile of sacks and an old tarpaulin.’

‘Who told you that, sir?’

‘Isn’t it true?’

‘No,’ said the landlord, clicking his tongue. ‘They’d quite a cargo on board. It was under the tarpaulin and tied down wi’ the rope. I couldnae see it but it was obviously something worth having. That’s why they were fretting aboot it so much.’

McTurk made him go over the details again then gave him a few coins by way of thanks. He was now certain that he’d identified the men responsible for the crash. All that he had to do was to track them down.

‘When they left here,’ he asked, ‘did they say where they were going?’

‘Not to me, sir, but my daughter overheard them talk about going home.’

‘Where were they heading?’

‘Glasgow.’

McTurk was thrilled. The men lived in a city he knew well. Armed with their Christian names and a description of them that tallied with the one given by the shepherd, he believed that he had enough information to go off in pursuit. He was not going to share the evidence he’d just gathered. It belonged solely to him. He wanted all the glory for himself. Striding out of the inn, he mounted his horse. As he cantered away, he could almost feel the four hundred pounds reward in his hand.

When he took the train to the nation’s capital next morning, Colbeck was able to travel on lines owned by another company. The Edinburgh and Glasgow Railway, connecting Scotland’s two main centres, was a thing of magnificence with impressive viaducts, deep cuttings and three long tunnels. It had easier curves and gentler gradients than the Caledonian. Colbeck marvelled at the genius of its construction. At the invitation of Inspector Rae, he was going to meet the general manager of the North British Railway. Though he didn’t believe that the men they were after were in the pay of the company, he was nevertheless pleased to make the acquaintance of Alastair Weir and to learn more about the politics of running railways in Scotland.

They met in a private room at a small hotel near the station. Weir was a cold, impassive man of middle years who kept fiddling with the watch chain that dangled from the pocket of his waistcoat. After introductions had been made, he went on the attack at once.

‘This meeting is quite unnecessary,’ he said. ‘My letter should have been enough in itself to quash any suspicions you might entertain. Nobody in our employ has any link whatsoever with the unfortunate incident on the Caledonian.’

‘How do you know that, sir?’ asked Rae, levelly.

‘We have no criminals in the NBR.’

‘That’s patently untrue, Mr Weir. Like every other railway company, you suffer at the hands of pilferers. Many of them are your own employees. Instead of sitting in your ivory tower of an office, you should do what I did and study the record of dismissals from the NBR.’

‘Don’t you dare presume to tell me how to do my job,’ growled Weir.

‘Inspector Rae is only pointing out what is the bane of any major enterprise,’ said Colbeck, striking a note of appeasement. ‘When you have a large number of people on your payroll, the law of averages comes into play. It’s inevitable that you’ll have a few bad apples in the barrel – it’s the same for the Caledonian and for the Edinburgh and Glasgow.’

‘Petty crime is very different from engineering a train crash.’

‘I agree.’

‘And so do I,’ said Rae, ‘but that doesn’t absolve the NBR. The simple fact is that you stood to gain from any disruption on a rival line. Now, I’m not for a moment suggesting that you deliberately hatched a plot to disable the Caledonian. You’d never dream of doing that,’ he added, absolving Weir of any personal blame. ‘But someone else might, someone with the interests of the NBR at heart, someone with a financial stake in the company.’