The Iron Horse

Swinnerton’s unctuous smile vanished immediately and he looked round nervously, hoping that nobody else had heard the name. A visit from a detective was unlikely to bring good news and he did not want his clientele upset by any bad tidings. Escorting his visitor to a storeroom at the back of the premises, he closed the door firmly behind them. Alone with the man in a confined space, Colbeck caught a faint whiff of perfume. One shelf was lined with hatboxes very much like the one that he had brought. He held it up.

‘Do you recognise this, Mr Swinnerton?’

‘Of course,’ replied the other. ‘It was sold here.’

‘Does everyone buy a leather box with their hat?’

‘By no means, Inspector – most of the ladies with whom we deal already have a travelling hatbox. They take home what they purchase in a cardboard box with my name exquisitely emblazoned on its top.’

‘Buying something like this, then,’ said Colbeck, indicating the hatbox, ‘is the exception rather than the rule.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘So there’s a good chance that you might remember to whom this particular item was sold?’

‘It’s not a question of chance, Inspector,’ said Swinnerton, adjusting his cravat. ‘I keep a careful record of each sale. That record, of course, is highly confidential. Before I could even begin to think of providing you with a name, I’d need to know how Scotland Yard came by the item in the first place.’

‘That’s your right, sir, and I’m happy to oblige you. When this hatbox was damaged on Crewe railway station, a human head was found inside it.’

‘Oh, my God!’ cried the other, shying away as if Colbeck had just produced a severed head from the box like a conjuror extracting a rabbit. ‘Please don’t tell me that the silk lining was soaked in blood.’

‘It was not, sir. Whoever put the head in here took great care not to soil it in any way. It was even filled with aromatic herbs.’

‘A head in a hatbox – what a gruesome thought!’

‘I need to find the person who put it there, Mr Swinnerton.’

‘You may rely on my complete cooperation.’

‘Then tell me who bought this from you,’ said Colbeck. ‘That will at least give me a starting point.’

‘Excuse me for one moment, Inspector,’ said the other, opening the door. ‘The record book is kept in the shop.’

‘I apologise for coming at such an awkward time.’

‘Business always picks up when the Derby is in the offing. Every lady wants to look her best on Epsom Downs. It’s been like this for several days now.’

Swinnerton went out and closed the door behind him, leaving Colbeck to take a closer look at the storeroom. As well as the row of leather hatboxes, there were a number of brightly coloured cardboard ones with the name of the milliner painted boldly on the lid. Evidently, it was a thriving enterprise with a constant demand for the hats that Swinnerton designed and sold. Catering for the upper echelons of society, the shop clearly fulfilled its requirements. When he returned with his ledger, the first thing that Swinnerton did was to lift up the hatbox so that he could look at the number on the back. He then referred to his record book, flipping over the pages until he came to the one he sought.

‘Here we are,’ he said, tapping the name with a long finger. ‘The hat and hatbox were sold two months ago. As a matter of fact, I handled the sale myself. Certain customers expect my individual attention, you know, so I have to oblige them. Yes, I remember the hat clearly – a little too flamboyant for most ladies but she carried it off well. It was almost as if it were made for her, Inspector.’

‘Made for whom?’

‘His wife,’ replied Swinnerton. ‘He came in with her and waited patiently while she tried on almost everything in the shop. That’s the hatbox he bought, no question of it. Though I can’t believe for a moment that he would have been responsible for putting a man’s head in it. That’s unthinkable. He would never dream of such a thing.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’m an astute judge of character, Inspector. One has to be in this trade. Dealing with the public sharpens one’s instincts.’

‘What did your instincts tell you about this gentleman?’

‘He’s a pillar of society – decent, upright, wholly incorruptible.’

‘May I know his name, please?’

‘Lord Hendry.’

‘Thank you, Mr Swinnerton.’

‘Shall I furnish you with his address?’

‘There’s no need,’ said Colbeck, picking up the hatbox. ‘I think I know exactly where to find Lord Hendry.’

Hands on hips, Lord George Hendry stood back to admire the painting that had just been hung over the marble fireplace. Every detail intrigued him, every nuance of colour was a delight. He was a stout, distinguished- looking man of medium height with a fleshy, rubicund face that looked much older than his fifty years and large, blue eyes that had a zestful glint. He was still gazing at the portrait when his wife came into the library, leaning heavily on her walking stick.

‘Aren’t you tempting Providence somewhat?’ she enquired.

He turned round. ‘Providence?’

‘I would have thought it much safer to hang the painting after Odysseus had won the Derby, not before the race had even taken place. What happens if your horse loses?’

‘Out of the question, my dear.’

‘You’ve said that on many previous occasions.’

‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘and my confidence has often proved to be without foundation. Not this time, Caroline. I have the best trainer and the best jockey. More to the point,’ he went on, indicating the racehorse in the oil painting, ‘I have the finest three-year old ever to enter the race. Look at a true thoroughbred, my dear, look at that conformation, look at that imperious quality the artist has caught so brilliantly. Every bookmaker in London has made Odysseus the favourite. I account him a certainty.’

‘Then I hope, for your sake, that he is, George,’ she said, coming forward to take a closer look at the animal. ‘It’s a superb piece of work – quite inspiring, in its own way.’

Lady Caroline Hendry did not share her husband’s passion for the Turf but she tolerated all of his sporting interests. If a painting had to be given pride of place in the library, she would rather it be of a champion racehorse than of one of the battle-scarred pugilists whom he chose to patronise. She was a short, full-bodied woman with a beauty that had slowly given way to a startling pallor savagely criss-crossed by age. Rheumatism and its attendant pain had put many of the lines in her face and hampered her movement. It did not, however, diminish her spirit or her Christian impulse.

‘Did you speak with the archdeacon?’ asked her husband.

‘I’ve just returned from the meeting.’

‘Well?’

‘He agreed that the charity was eminently worthwhile.’

‘You have to draw the line somewhere, my dear. You already give to far too many people. Why add to the burden?’

‘I only give to the deserving poor, George,’ she said.

‘But how do you know they are deserving?’

‘I take the archdeacon’s advice.’

‘Not in every instance,’ he recalled. ‘He had severe reservations about your donation to the lunatic asylum.’

‘I visited the place – he did not. The conditions there are quite revolting. I simply had to do what I could for those benighted souls.’

He forced a smile. ‘As always, my dear, you were right.’

Lady Hendry was a woman of independent means. Her private wealth had been an agreeable irrelevance when her husband had first met and fallen in love with her. He had been ensnared by her beauty, grace and sophistication. The fact that she took an interest in various charitable institutions only added to her appeal. Now,