lychgate. Members of the Gilzean family had been buried there for generations, and it was their money that had kept the church in a state of good repair. When the carriage drew up outside the lychgate, Gilzean got out and tossed a curt command over his shoulder.
‘Wait here,’ he said to the coachman. ‘I may be some time.’
During an investigation, leisure did not exist for Robert Colbeck. Having worked until late, he was back at his desk early the following morning so that he could collate all the evidence that had so far been gathered and address his mind to it when there was little chance of interruption. He had been at Scotland Yard for almost two hours before he was disturbed by the arrival of a clerk.
‘Excuse me, Inspector,’ said the man, putting his head around the door. ‘There’s a young lady to see you.’
‘Miss Andrews?’ asked Colbeck, hoping that it might be her.
‘No, sir. She gave her name as Miss Woodhead.’
‘Then you had better shown her in.’
When his visitor came into the room, Colbeck got to his feet for the introductions. Nobody could have been less like Madeleine Andrews than the shy, hesitant creature who stood before him in a state of such obvious distress. Bella Woodhead was a short, plump and decidedly plain young woman in nondescript clothing and a faded straw hat. Offered a chair, she sat on the very edge of it. Colbeck could see that her hands were trembling.
‘You wished to see me, Miss Woodhead?’ he inquired.
‘Yes, Inspector. I have something to tell you.’
‘May I know what it concerns?’
She swallowed hard. ‘Mr Ings,’ she murmured.
‘William Ings?’
‘We read the newspaper this morning and saw the report of his death.’ She gave a shudder. ‘We could not believe it at first. When we saw that William — Mr Ings, that is — might actually be connected with this train robbery, we were shocked. It was like a blow in the face.’
‘How did you come to know Mr Ings?’ asked Colbeck.
‘I work at the Post Office.’
‘I see.’
‘Only in a minor capacity, of course,’ she said with a self-effacing smile. ‘I am merely a clerk there. He was far more senior. Mr Ings was well-respected. The Post Office held him in high regard.’
Colbeck could tell from the way that she said the man’s name that she had enjoyed a closer relationship with Ings than any of his other colleagues. Bella Woodhead was too honest and unschooled to disguise her feelings. Stunned by the news of his murder, she had come to make a confession that was clearly causing her intense pain. Colbeck tried to make it easier for her by anticipating what she was going to say.
‘I believe that you were very fond of Mr Ings,’ he suggested.
‘Oh, I was, I was.’
‘And he, in turn, was drawn to you.’
‘That’s what he told me,’ she said, proudly, ‘and it changed my life. No man had taken the slightest interest in me before. For a time, it was like living in a dream.’ Her face crumpled. ‘Now I see that he did not mean a word of it.’ She looked up at Colbeck. ‘Is it true that he was found dead in the Devil’s Acre?’
‘Yes, Miss Woodhead.’
‘In the company of a woman?’
Colbeck nodded and she promptly burst into tears. He came across to put a consoling arm around her shoulders but it was minutes before she was able to speak again.
‘Mr Ings betrayed me,’ she said, finally controlling her sobs and dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘He swore that he loved me. He told me that he would leave his wife and that we would be together. Yet all the time…’
She put both hands to her mouth to stifle another fit of crying. Colbeck could well understand how the relationship with William Ings had developed. His position at the Post Office would have impressed Bella Woodhead and made her vulnerable to any favour that was shown to her. Patently, Ings had exploited her but the detective could not understand why. Since the man’s taste ran to women like Polly Roach and Kate Piercey, why had he turned to someone as virginal and inexperienced as Bella Woodhead?
‘Did he offer to marry you?’ he wondered, softly.
‘Of course,’ she replied with a touch of indignation. ‘Do you think that I would have become involved with him on any other basis? Mr Ings was a decent man — or so I thought at the time. He told me that he would arrange a divorce somehow. All that happened between us, Inspector, was an exchange of vows. I must ask you to believe that.’
‘I accept your word without reservation, Miss Woodhead.’
‘Mr Ings wanted everything to be done properly.’
‘Properly?’
‘He wanted to make me his wife so that we could, in time, live together openly. That was why he insisted on meeting my parents.’
‘Oh?’
‘He knew how protective they were of me — especially my father. At first he was very unhappy about my friendship, but Mr Ings persuaded him in the end. Father and he got on well. In fact,’ she said, ‘when he came to the house, he spent more time talking to my father than he did to me.’ She blew her nose into the handkerchief. ‘Now I know why.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes. Mr Ings only wanted to hear about Father’s job.’
‘Why?’ asked Colbeck. ‘Where does your father work?’
‘At the Royal Mint.’
It was a warm day but there was nevertheless a fire in the grate. Sir Humphrey Gilzean tossed another bundle of envelopes on to it and, putting one hand on the marble mantelpiece to steady himself, stirred the blaze with a poker. Wisps of black paper went up the chimney.
‘That’s the last of them, Thomas,’ he observed.
‘Good,’ said the other. ‘Such a dreary business, reading through other people’s correspondence.’
‘Dreary but rewarding. How much did Lord Holcroft give us?’
‘Five hundred pounds.’
‘This mistress of his must be a remarkable lady if she is deemed to be worth five hundred pounds. Lord Holcroft would rather lose the money than surrender the charms of Miss Anna Grayle.’
‘All that money for two pieces of stationery.’
‘And not a blow given or a risk taken,’ noted Gilzean. ‘Blackmail is a much easier way to make a living than by robbing trains. Secrecy is a valuable commodity, Thomas. I wish that we had more of it to sell.’
‘So do I, Humphrey.’
They were in the library at Gilzean’s house, an extensive property that overlooked a formal garden of almost three acres. Thomas Sholto was the bearded individual who had accosted Lord Holcroft in Hyde Park with a copy of the compromising letter. Like his friend, he was a man of impressive demeanour and military bearing. Sholto was pleased at their record of success.
‘Mr Blower was a more difficult target,’ he recalled.
‘Remind me who he was.’
‘The financier who was fishing in murky waters.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Gilzean. ‘Mr Jeremiah Blower. His letter disclosed confidential information about a forthcoming merger. Had his company known how treacherous he was being, they would have dismissed him on the spot. What value did we set on his ill-judged letter?’
‘Three hundred pounds.’
‘Yet he refused to pay up.’
‘Initially,’ said Sholto. ‘He made all kinds of wild threats and was even foolish enough to strike out at me. He soon regretted that. I knocked him flat. And because he had the gall to haggle with me, I put up the price. He ended up paying twice as much as we asked.’
