The Railway Viaduct (17 page)

‘I gave it to him, sir,’ he said.

‘What was his reply?’

‘He’ll be there.’

‘Good lad.’

After handing over the money, Rogan made his way back to his horse and rode away. When evening came, he was punctual. It seemed an age before Shannon actually turned up at the appointed place. Rogan had been waiting near the derelict farmhouse for an hour.

‘Sorry to keep you, sir,’ said Shannon, tipping his hat.

‘Where’ve you been?’

‘I needed a drink or two first.’

‘I told you to come just as soon as you could,’ said the other, reproachfully. ‘Have you forgotten who’s paying you?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Do you want to stay working in this hell-hole forever?’

‘That I don’t,’ said Shannon. ‘When you give us the rest of the money, I’ll be able to turn my back on this kind of work for good. I’m minded to have a little farm back home in Ireland, you see.’ He looked around at the crumbling walls. ‘A house about this size would suit me down to the ground.’

‘You won’t get another penny until the job is done.’

‘Oh, it will be, sir. I swear it.’

‘Then why has there been no news of any disruption?’

‘News?’

‘It should have reached the English newspapers by now,’ said Rogan, tetchily. ‘Yet there hasn’t been a single word about it.’

‘You can’t blame us for that, sir.’

‘I can if you’re trying to pull the wool over my eyes. Be warned, Shannon. Cross me and you’ll be in deep trouble.’

The Irishman stiffened. ‘Don’t threaten me, sir.’

‘Then do as you were told.’

‘We have done,’ said Shannon with wild-eyed indignation.

‘We’ve done every fucking thing you suggested and much more. Just because it wasn’t in your bleeding newspapers, it doesn’t mean that it never happened. The person to blame is Tom Brassey.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he won’t report anything to the French police.’

‘Maybe that’s because there’s nothing to report.’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ demanded Shannon, raising a fist.

‘Give me a reason not to,’ said Rogan, pulling out his gun and pointing it at him. ‘Otherwise, the only farmhouse you’ll
ever spend time in is this one and you’ll be doing it on your back.’

‘Hey, now wait a minute,’ said the other, backing away and holding up both hands in a gesture of conciliation. ‘Be careful with that thing, sir. You’ve no call to point it at me. Pierce Shannon is an honourable man. I’ve not let you down.’

‘Then tell me what you’ve done.’

‘I will.’

Shannon used his fingers to count off the series of incidents that he had contrived, giving sufficient detail of each one to convince Rogan that he was telling the truth. When he heard about the explosion, he lowered his weapon. Shannon and his accomplices had not been idle. There was a whole catalogue of destruction to report back to Sir Marcus Hetherington.

‘
Now
will you believe me?’ said the Irishman.

‘Yes,’ replied Rogan, putting the gun away. ‘I was wrong to accuse you. And I can see now why Mr Brassey wants to hide his problems from the French police and newspapers. He’d rather try to sort out the trouble for himself.’

‘He even put a spy in the camp. We beat him to a pulp.’

‘But you still haven’t brought the railway to a standstill.’

‘We will, sir. I know exactly how to do it.’

‘How?’

‘That would be telling,’ said Shannon with a grin. ‘Stay in France for a day or two and you’ll find out what we did. They won’t be able to keep our next fucking crime out of the newspapers. It’s one thing that even Mr Brassey won’t be able to hide.’

‘I’ll need certain proof of what you’ve done.’

‘Then use your own eyes.’

‘I’ll not stay in this accursed country a moment longer,’
said Rogan. ‘I’ve got what I came for and there’s too much work awaiting me in England for me to linger here. When it’s all over, you know how to get in touch with me.’

‘I do at that, sir – though I still don’t know your name.’

‘You don’t need to know it.’

‘Why not? You can trust Pierce Shannon.’

‘Finish the task and earn your money,’ said Rogan, firmly. ‘Once I pay you, I never want to set eyes on you again. Go back to Ireland and take up farming. It’s a far healthier life than building a railway in France.’

‘I’ll have no choice,’ said Shannon with a laugh. ‘Very soon, there’ll be no bleeding railway here to build.’

Robert Colbeck had fulfilled a dream that he had harboured for many years. Dressed as an engine driver, he was standing on the footplate of the locomotive that had recently arrived with twenty wagons filled with ballast from the quarry. His only disappointment was that he was not able to drive the engine. He had only donned the clothing so that he would attract no undue attention. The footplate was the venue for a meeting that he had arranged with Brendan Mulryne. Making sure that he was not seen, the Irishman climbed up beside him.

‘Drive me all the way home to Dublin, Inspector,’ he said.

‘I wish that I could, Brendan, but the line doesn’t go that far.’

‘It won’t go any farther than this, if the buggers have their way.’

‘Do you know what their next step will be?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well?’

‘They want to bring the whole thing to a stop.’

‘And how do they intend to do that?’

Mulryne told him what he had heard. While he knew the place where the attack would be launched, he did not know the precise time. That was a detail that was deliberately kept from him. What was certain was that he would definitely be involved.

‘You obviously passed the test they set you,’ said Colbeck.

‘Tipping over a few wagons? It was child’s play.’

‘Not to the people who had to clear up after you.’

‘Sure, I’d have been happy to do the job myself but that would have given the game away. If they weren’t such hard-hearted villains,’ said Mulryne, ‘I’d have no quarrel with them. They’re fellow Irishmen and that means they’re the salt of the earth.’

‘Do they have no suspicion of you at all?’

‘None, sir, but they might start wondering if I don’t join them for a drink very soon. I’ve made quite a bit of money from them, one way and another.’ His face clouded. ‘I suppose that’d be called the proceeds of crime. I won’t have to hand it back, will I?’

‘No, Brendan. It’s yours to keep.’

‘I never keep money, sir. It burns a hole in my pocket.’

‘Then enjoy a drink with it,’ said Colbeck. ‘And, as soon as you know when they’re going to strike, find a way to let me know.’

‘That I will, Inspector.’

‘Do you know who’s paying them?’

‘I don’t know and I’ve never once tried to find out. I remembered what happened to Sergeant Leeming when he
asked too many questions.’ Mulryne pointed to his head. ‘They think of me as a big man with a tiny brain. I’m stupid old Brendan who’ll do anything for money and not worry where it comes from.’

‘How many of them are there?’

‘Difficult to say, sir. I’ve only met two.’

‘There must be more than that, Brendan.’

‘That’s why you have to catch them in the act. The whole gang is going to be there next time. At least, that’s what Liam told me.’

‘Liam?’

‘I’ll introduce him to you when we meet,’ said Mulryne.

‘You’ll be pleased to make his acquaintance.’

‘Will I?’

‘He’s one of the men who ambushed the sergeant.’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘Liam boasted to me about it. I had a job to hold myself back from knocking his head off there and then. Sergeant Leeming is a friend of mine. When the fighting really starts, Liam is all mine.’

‘Victor will be pleased to hear about it,’ said Colbeck. ‘Now, off you go, Brendan. Join the others before they start to miss you. And thank you again. You’ve done well.’

‘I ought to be thanking you, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘Work with Irishmen all day and drink with them all night – this is heaven for me,’ said Mulryne, happily. ‘Yes, and there’s a barmaid at the inn who’s sweet on me. What more can a man ask?’

Colbeck waved him off then allowed himself a few minutes to inspect the locomotive more closely and to run a possessive
hand over its levers and valves. He had recognised the design at once. It was the work of Thomas Crampton, the Englishmen whose locomotives were so popular in France. As he indulged his fancy, he wished that Caleb Andrews had been there to teach him how to drive it.

Descending at last from the footplate, he walked across the tracks and headed towards Brassey’s office. Instead of his habitual long stride and upright posture, he used a slow amble and kept his shoulders hunched. Engine drivers did not look or move like elegant detectives. When success was so close, he did not wish to make a false move and attract suspicion. His talk with Mulryne had been very heartening and he was delighted that he had brought the Irishman with him. It was only a question of time before the problems at the site would be brought to an abrupt end. Colbeck wanted to pass on the good news to Brassey as soon as possible.

Reaching the office, he knocked on the door and opened it in response to the contractor’s invitation. He had expected Brassey to be alone but someone else was there and it was the last person Colbeck had wanted to see. Superintendent Tallis gaped at him in wonder.

‘Is that
you
, Colbeck?’ he cried, staring in consternation. ‘What are you doing, man? I sent you here to solve a crime, not to play with an engine.’

Madeleine Andrews had had a profitable time. It was one of the days when a servant came to clean the house and do various chores, thus releasing Madeleine to work on her latest drawing. She was not trying to sketch the Sankey Viaduct now. She was working on another sketch of the
Lord of the Isles
, the locomotive that Colbeck had taken her to see at the Great
Exhibition the previous year. It had a special significance for her. When evening came, she kept glancing up at the clock, hoping that her father would not be too late.

When he went to work, Andrews always bought a morning newspaper at Euston Station. His daughter never got to read it until he came back home, and she was desperate for more news about Colbeck. If he had made any progress in the murder investigation, it would be duly reported. Madeleine was at the window when she saw her father sauntering along the street. He had made a good recovery from the injuries that had almost cost him his life, and he had his old jauntiness back. She opened the door for him and was disappointed that he was not carrying a newspaper.

‘Did you have a good day, Father?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been to Birmingham and back twice. I’ve driven along that line so often, I could do it blindfold.’

‘Well, I hope you don’t even try.’

‘No, Maddy.’ He took off his coat and hung it on a hook. ‘The place looks clean and tidy,’ he said. ‘Mrs Busby obviously came.’

‘Yes. I was able to get on with my own work.’

‘How is she?’

‘Still worried about her husband. He has a bad back.’

‘At his age?’ he said, disdainfully. ‘Jim Busby must be ten or fifteen years younger than me. Bad backs are for old men.’ He sniffed the air. ‘I can smell food.’

‘I’ll get it in a moment, Father. I just wondered what happened to your newspaper today.’

‘What? Oh, I must have forgotten to buy one.’

‘You never forget,’ she said. ‘Reading a paper is an article of faith and you know how much I look forward to seeing it
afterwards.’

‘Then I suppose I mislaid it today. Sorry, Maddy.’

‘Tell me the truth.’

‘That is the truth. I left it somewhere by mistake.’

‘I think that you did it on purpose.’

‘Don’t you believe your old father?’ he asked with a look of injured innocence. ‘I’ve been very busy today, girl. You can’t expect me to remember everything.’

She folded her arms. ‘What did it say?’

‘Nothing of importance.’

‘I know you too well. You’re hiding something from me.’

‘Why should I do that?’

‘Because you’re trying to spare my feelings,’ she said. ‘It’s very kind of you but I don’t need to be protected. They’ve said something nasty about Robert, haven’t they?’

‘I can’t remember,’ he replied, trying to move past her.

She held his arm. ‘You’re lying to me.’

‘There was hardly a mention of him, Maddy.’

‘But what did that mention say?’

She was determined to learn the worst. Caleb Andrews knew how much she loved Colbeck and he wanted to shield her from any adverse criticism of the detective. Having been the victim of a crime himself, he was aware how long it could take to bring the perpetrators to justice. Newspaper reporters had no patience. They needed dramatic headlines to attract their readers. Robert Colbeck had so far failed to provide them. He had paid the penalty.

‘There was an article about him,’ he admitted.

‘Go on.’

‘It was cruel. That’s all you need to know.’

‘What did it say about Robert? Tell me. I’ll not be
baulked.’

‘I think that Inspector Colbeck has an enemy in Scotland Yard,’ said Andrews. ‘Someone who envies him so much that he’s gone behind his back to feed a story to the newspapers.’

‘What story?’ she demanded.

‘A spiteful one, Maddy. According to the article, the inspector has made such a mess of this case that Superintendent Tallis has gone to France to drag him back home in disgrace.’

Tallis spat out the name as if it were a type of venomous poison.

‘Brendan Mulryne!’ he exclaimed.

‘Yes, sir,’ confessed Colbeck.

‘You dared to engage the services of Brendan Mulryne?’

‘He was the ideal person for the task. When I lost Victor, I had to find someone who could blend more easily into the scene.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Tallis, maliciously. ‘Mulryne would blend in. He’s the same as the rest of them – a wild, drunken, unruly Irishman who doesn’t give two hoots for authority.’

‘That’s unduly harsh, Superintendent,’ said Thomas Brassey. ‘Most of my Irish navvies are a godsend to me. They do the sort of soul-destroying job that would kill the average man, yet they still manage to keep up their spirits. When I build a railway, they’re always my first choice.’