The Iron Horse

‘There’s nothing wrong with it, I tell you.’

By way of demonstration, he clapped his hands several times together then held up both palms, beaming as he did so. It was only when he had left the house that the agony showed in his face.

Until the arrival of the railway in 1837, Crewe had been a sleepy hamlet in the heart of the Cheshire countryside. Three separate railway companies then moved in and Crewe became the connecting point for their respective lines. The Grand Junction Railway, the largest of the companies, soon bought large tracts of land around Crewe and moved its locomotive and carriage works there. It also built two hundred houses for the employees it attracted to the area. When the GJR was absorbed into the London and North West Railway in 1846, the latter markedly increased the number of dwellings and added churches, chapels, schools, shops, public houses and all the amenities needed by a growing community.

An archetypal railway town had been created.

Reginald Hibbert had been delighted to move there with his wife. He loved the fact that he worked at the hub of the LNWR. Passenger and freight trains came in and out from all directions. The variety was unlimited. No two days were the same. There was always something new, exciting and unscheduled. As a porter, he gave directions to board trains, stowed luggage on the roofs of departing carriages and unloaded it on arrival before carrying it out to waiting cabs and horse-drawn omnibuses. Dealing with the public was what he enjoyed most. His wage might not be high but it was regular and he gained immense satisfaction from his work.

As he approached the station that morning, he gazed at it with pride. Four years earlier, the LNWR had replaced the original building with a larger and much more ornate one. In Hibbert’s eyes, it still had an air of newness about it and he always felt a slight thrill as he went through its doors. He was content with his lot, asking nothing more of life than to be doing a valuable job at an important junction on the railway network. Hibbert entered the station with a spring in his step. In spraining his wrist at home, he had already had his daily accident. That, he hoped, absolved him from any further mishaps.

There was, of course, still the wrath of his boss to be faced.

‘Hibbert!’

‘Good morning, Mr Fagge.’

‘You’re two minutes late.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. I was held up by—’

‘Spare me your excuses,’ snapped Douglas Fagge, interrupting him with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘I’ve heard them all before. You’re working on Platform Two.’

‘Yes, Mr Fagge.’

‘Well, don’t stand there, man. Get across there quickly. The next train is due in five minutes.’

‘Three, actually,’ corrected Hibbert, who knew the timetable by heart. ‘It’s the through train to Carlisle.’

‘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.

CHAPTER TWO

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