country that he would never have got from a coach, and he always saw something new to admire even on lines he had used many times. After leaving Euston on the LNWR, he changed trains at Crewe, had a few cheering words with Reginald Hibbert, now restored to his job as a porter at the station, then went along the North Wales coast by courtesy of the Chester and Holyhead Railway, a line built specifically to carry the Irish mail. Some of the panoramas that unfolded before him were stunning – dramatic seascapes, sweeping bays, craggy headland, sandy beaches and long, scenic stretches of unspoilt countryside. The train hugged the coast until it reached Bangor where it gave Colbeck an experience he had been looking forward to since the moment of his departure.
He had read a great deal about the Britannia Tubular Bridge over the Menai Straits and recognised it as one of the most significant advances in railway engineering. With only existing rock for intermediate support, the bridge had to span a gap of over 450 feet that could not be traversed by suspension techniques used elsewhere. Five years in construction, the Britannia Bridge comprised two very stiff rectangular wrought-iron tubes with cellular tops and bottoms to increase rigidity. With a novel application of beam action, the tubes were made to act as continuous girders over five spans. When it was finally opened in 1850, the bridge was daring, innovative and an instant success.
Colbeck was unable to appreciate its finer points as he crossed the bridge but he felt an excitement as they entered the tube and liked the way that the clamour of the train was suddenly amplified. By the time he reached Holyhead, he had travelled 84 miles on the CHR and had relished every moment of it. Having obtained the monopoly to carry mail by land, the company had hoped to extend this to sea and had secured the powers to own and operate steamships. To their utter dismay, however, the CHR failed to win the contract for taking the mail across the Irish Sea.
When he sailed on the following morning, therefore, Colbeck did so on a vessel owned by the City of Dublin Steam Packet Company. The first thing he noticed was that far more passengers poured off the incoming steamer than actually went aboard. Emigration from Ireland had reached its peak in the previous decade when a succession of disastrous harvests had driven hundreds of thousands out of their native land. Though the process had slowed markedly, it still continued as whole families left the poverty and hunger of Ireland in the hope of finding a better life in England or beyond its shores.
The sea was choppy and the crossing uncomfortable. Gulls accompanied them all the way and kept up a mocking chorus as they dived and wheeled incessantly around the vessel. Colbeck was glad when they eventually entered the relative calm of the harbour and when he was able to step onto dry land again. He would have been interested to travel on an Irish railway but it was not possible. The place he was visiting was not accessible by rail and was, in any case, only a twenty-minute ride by cab from Dublin.
Though vast numbers had fled Ireland, not all of those who remained lived in the squalor and penury that had driven the others away. The capital city was full of beautiful Georgian properties and fine civic buildings and there was ample evidence of prosperity at every turn. Ireland had its fair share of wealthy men and, judging by the mansion in which he lived, Brian Dowd was one of them. Set in a hundred acres of parkland, the house was an impressive piece of Regency architecture that stood four-square on a plateau and commanded inspiring views on every side. At its rear was the extensive stable block that Colbeck had come to visit.
He had no difficulty picking out Brian Dowd. Standing in the middle of the yard, the racehorse owner and trainer was a bull-necked man in his fifties with a solid frame and a gnarled face. He wore an old jacket, mud- spattered trousers and a bowler hat. Yelling orders to all and sundry, he had a natural authority that gained him unquestioning obedience. Colbeck ran an eye along the stalls and guessed that at least thirty racehorses were kept there. He walked across to Dowd and introduced himself. The Irishman laughed affably.
‘Have you come to arrest me, then, Inspector?’ he taunted. ‘Since when has there been a law against breeding a Derby winner?’
‘It doesn’t exist, Mr Dowd. Over the years, Parliament has put many absurd pieces of legislation in the statute book but it’s far too fond of racing even to contemplate such a ridiculous law as that.’ He shook hands with Dowd and felt the strength of his grip. ‘No, I come on a different errand.’
‘Pleasant or unpleasant?’
‘Unpleasant, I fear.’
‘Then let’s discuss this over a drink.’
He led Colbeck to an office at the edge of the stable block and took him in. Horses dominated the little room. Every wall was covered with paintings of them and their smell pervaded the whole place. Equine memorabilia covered the desk. While his visitor removed his top hat and looked around, Dowd produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from a cupboard. He poured the liquid out generously.
‘Irish whiskey,’ he said bluntly. ‘Never touch any other.’
‘That suits me, Mr Dowd,’ said Colbeck, taking a glass from him with a nod of gratitude. ‘We had a rough crossing. I need something to settle my stomach.’ He sampled his drink. ‘Excellent.’
‘You’ll not find better in the whole of the Emerald Isle.’
‘It was worth the long journey just to taste this.’
‘You’re a good liar.’
Colbeck smiled. ‘Part of my stock-in-trade.’
‘Sit yourself down, Inspector.’
‘Thank you.’
Putting his hat aside, Colbeck lowered himself into a chair and Dowd perched on the edge of his desk. As they sipped their drinks, each weighed the other man up. The Irishman had a friendly grin but his gaze was shrewd and calculating. Nobody as elegant and as quintessentially urban as Colbeck had ever been in the office before and he looked distinctly incongruous. That did not disturb the visitor in any way. He was relaxed and self-assured. Dowd had another sip of whiskey and savoured its taste before speaking.
‘So what’s this all about, Inspector Colbeck?’ he asked.
‘A murder, sir.’
‘Murder? I don’t like the sound of that.’
‘I’m hoping that you may be able to help me solve the crime.’
‘I’d gladly do so, my friend, but I don’t rightly see how. I’m no policeman. This murder happened in England, I take it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And who was the victim?’
‘We’re not certain,’ said Colbeck, putting his glass on the desk so that he could take a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘I got an artist to draw a rough portrait of the young man.’ He unfolded the paper and handed it over. ‘I came here in search of his identity.’
Eyes gleaming and brow corrugated, Brian Dowd looked at the drawing with great concentration. He took a long time to reach a decision and even then he qualified it.
‘I could be wrong, mind you,’ he cautioned.
‘But you think you recognise him?’
‘I might do. It’s like the lad in one way, then again it isn’t.’
‘Make allowances for the fact that the face was distorted in death,’ said Colbeck. ‘When the artist drew this, by the way, he only had the head to work from. The body was hauled out of the Thames long after he’d finished.’
Dowd was aghast. ‘The lad was
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Dear God!’ exclaimed the other. ‘What monster did that?’
Colbeck explained the circumstances in which the head had been found and how the hatbox had been linked to Lord Hendry. The more the inspector spoke, the more convinced Dowd became that he knew the deceased. Folding the paper, he gave it back.
‘His name is John Feeny.’
‘Are you sure?’ pressed Colbeck.
‘Pretty sure – he used to work for me.’
‘As a jockey?’
‘No, Inspector,’ replied Dowd, ‘it was as a groom. That was the reason we fell out. John thought he had the makings of a jockey. I told him straight that he wasn’t good enough.’
