death. Come with me for a moment,’ he said, putting a hand on Leeming’s shoulder, ‘I want to show you something.’
They walked out of the waiting room and picked their way through the milling crowd. Colbeck stopped when he reached the first platform. A train had just arrived and passengers were streaming off it. Friends were waiting to greet them. On the other platform, a train was about to depart and dozens of people had come to wave off their friends or family members. Porters were everywhere, moving luggage on their trolleys, and several other railway employees were in evidence. The noise of a locomotive letting off steam rose above the tumult.
Colbeck nudged his colleague. ‘What do you see, Victor?’
‘Bedlam, sir.’
‘No, you see a thriving industry. You are looking at visible proof of the way that the railways have transformed our lives. Euston Station is as busy as this every day of the week — and so is Paddington. Everybody has somewhere to get to,’ said Colbeck, indicating the scene, ‘and they choose to travel by rail in order to get there. Why is that?’
‘Because they think it is quicker.’
‘Demonstrably so.’
‘If they travel second or third class, it is certainly cheaper as well.’
‘You’ve missed out the real attraction of the railway.’
‘Have I?’ said Leeming.
‘It is safe. At times, I grant you, it can also be noisy, smelly and a trifle uncomfortable but it is, as a rule, safe. It gets passengers to their appointed destinations in one piece. Railway companies met with great fear and opposition at first,’ Colbeck reminded him, ‘but the public has now come to trust them. This is the Railway Age.’
‘I still prefer to travel by horse.’
‘Then you are behind the times, Victor.’
‘I am not ashamed of that, Inspector.’
‘Nor should you be,’ said Colbeck. ‘But the point I am trying to make is this. The train robbery is a dangerous precedent. It imperils the safety record of the railway companies. If we do not catch and convict those responsible, then they will surely be emboldened to strike again.’
‘And others might be inspired by their example.’
‘Exactly. We must solve these crimes soon, Victor.’
‘How can we when we have so little to go on?’ asked Leeming with a gesture of despair. ‘We still know nothing whatsoever about the man who organised the train robbery.’
‘But we do,’ said Colbeck. ‘We know three crucial things.’
‘Do we?’
‘First, he is a gentleman.’
‘Gentleman!’ exclaimed Leeming. ‘How can you describe someone who is behind such callous murders as a gentleman?’
‘Think what else he did, Victor. He may have seen fit to have William Ings killed but he made sure that the widow inherited her husband’s money. That was the act of a gentleman.’
‘Not in my opinion.’
‘Have you forgotten what the tailor told me about Daniel Slender?’ asked Colbeck. ‘Here was a man from a modest background in the Midlands, suddenly finding himself in London with money in his pockets. And what pleased him most was that he was about to rub shoulders with what he called a better class of person. In short, with gentlemen.’
‘What’s the second thing we know about this fellow?’
‘He was in the army.’
Leeming was surprised. ‘You sound very certain of that, sir.’
‘I’d put money on it,’ said Colbeck, ‘and, as you know, I am not a betting man. The train robbery was no random attack. It was a military operation that was planned and, I daresay, rehearsed very carefully. Only someone who is used to commanding a body of men like that could have brought it off. So,’ he went on, ‘what do we have so far?’
‘An officer and a gentleman.’
‘Add the most telling thing about him, Victor.’
‘He’s a cold-blooded killer.’
‘Cast your mind back to the robbery itself.’
‘It’s as you say,’ conceded the other. ‘He knew when and how to strike and, as a result, got away with the money and the mail bags.’
‘What other part of his plan was put into action?’
Leeming needed a moment for consideration. ‘The locomotive was deliberately run off the track,’ he remembered.
‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, snapping his fingers. ‘Severe damage was inflicted and Caleb Andrews’s beloved engine was put out of action for a long time. What sort of person would do that, Victor?’
‘Someone who hates trains.’
Sir Humphrey Gilzean sat in an open carriage on the Berkshire Downs and watched his racehorses being put through their paces. Bunched together, they thundered past and left a flurry of dust in their wake. Gilzean’s eyes were on the black colt at the front of the group. As they galloped on, its rider used his whip to coax extra speed out of his mount and the colt surged ahead of the others to establish a lead of several lengths. Gilzean slapped his thigh in delight. He turned to his trainer, a big, sturdy man, who sat astride a chestnut mare beside him.
‘
‘Starlight is a fine horse, Sir Humphrey,’ said the trainer.
‘Good enough to win the Derby?’
‘If he loses, it will not be for want of trying. Starlight has a turn of foot to leave most colts and fillies behind. The secret is to bring him to a peak at just the right time.’
‘I rely on you to do that, Welsby.’
‘Yes, Sir Humphrey.’
‘Starlight was certainly expensive enough to win the Derby,’ said Gilzean, as the horses ended their race and trotted back in his direction. ‘I expect a return on my investment.’
‘Naturally.’
‘Make sure that I get it.’
He was about to give some more instructions to his trainer when the distant sound of a train whistle distracted him. Gilzean’s eyes flashed and his jaw tightened. He dispatched the trainer with a dismissive flick of his hand then spoke to the driver of the carriage.
‘Take me home.’
‘Yes, Sir Humphrey.’
‘By way of the church.’
The coachman cracked his whip and the two horses pulled the carriage in a semicircle before setting off across the Downs at a steady trot. It was a large estate, parts of which were farmed by tenants. Some of the land was arable but most was given over to herds of dairy cattle and flocks of sheep. Gilzean found the sight of so many animals grazing in the fields strangely reassuring. There was a timelessness about the scene that appealed to him, an unspoilt, unhurried, natural quality that he had known and loved since he was a small child. It was the English countryside at its best.
Sitting erect in the carriage, Sir Humphrey Gilzean was a striking figure in his late thirties, tall, slim, swarthy of complexion and with finely chiselled features. Dressed in the most fashionable attire, he had the unmistakable air of an aristocrat, allied to the physique and disposition of a soldier. Even at his most relaxed, he exuded a sense of authority. As he was driven past the labourers in the fields, he collected an endless sequence of servile nods or obsequious salutes.
The Norman church stood at the edge of the village. Built of local stone, it was a small but solid structure that had withstood the unruly elements for centuries. Its square tower was surmounted by a little steeple with a weathervane at its apex. The churchyard was enclosed by a low and irregular stone wall, pierced by a wooden
