‘No, they stayed the night in Crewe – all three of them.’
‘All three?’
‘Yes,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Inspector Colbeck, Sergeant Leeming and that absent-minded fellow who mislaid his body somewhere.’
‘Father!’ Madeleine was shocked. ‘It’s cruel to make a joke out of something like that. The man has a family somewhere. They’ll be distraught when they learn what’s happened to him. How can you be so callous about it? This is an appalling crime.’
‘I know, Maddy,’ he said penitently. ‘You’re right. Please forgive me.’ Andrews rallied immediately. ‘But there’s one consolation.’
‘Is there?’
‘The Railway Detective is in charge of the case.’
As soon as he got back to Scotland Yard that morning, Robert Colbeck went to the superintendent’s office to deliver a verbal report of the visit to Crewe. Wreathed in cigar smoke, Edward Tallis listened intently, irritated that he was unable to find fault with the inspector’s methods or his thoroughness. Colbeck’s account was crisp, comprehensive and lucid. Tallis invented a reason to offer some criticism.
‘The station should have been guarded by more men,’ he said.
‘Constable Hubbleday volunteered for night duty, sir.’
‘Two other officers should have been there with him. In your place, I’d have added Sergeant Leeming as well.’
‘Four people would have frightened away the intruder,’ argued Colbeck, ‘whereas he might have been tempted to make his move if he saw only one person on patrol. That, indeed, proved to be the case. I’m sorry that the constable was attacked in the process. Fortunately, he seems to have recovered well. And the main thing is that the thief left the station empty-handed.’
‘It was sensible of you to take the severed head with you.’
‘Victor didn’t think so.’
‘Where is it now?’
‘Being examined at the morgue by an expert.’
‘And where is the sergeant?’
‘I told him to wait there in case the doctor was able to glean any information that might be of use to us. It would, for instance, be interesting to hear his opinion on exactly how the head was separated from the body. When he has the report, Victor will return here.’
It was not strictly correct. Since the sergeant had been parted from his wife overnight, Colbeck had shown his usual compassion and allowed him to go home as soon as they reached Euston, instructing him to call at the morgue for the report on his way back to work. Tallis would not have approved.
‘No luck at Euston, then?’ asked the superintendent.
‘None whatsoever,’ replied Colbeck. ‘We spoke to all the porters who helped to load that particular train but not one of them recalled a hatbox or the person carrying it. They stow so much luggage aboard in the course of an average morning that it’s impossible to remember individual items.’ He raised the hatbox. ‘It was only by complete chance that we learnt what was in this.’
‘Let me take a look at it,’ said Tallis.
Putting his cigar down in the tray, he stood up and took the hatbox from Colbeck, noting the broken strap and the dent in the shiny leather where it had been struck by the heavy trunk. Tallis opened it slowly, as if still expecting to find a severed head inside. As it was, he was still surprised by what he saw. A pleasing aroma drifted into his nostrils and countered the smell of tobacco smoke.
‘Herbs,’ explained Colbeck. ‘The interior of the box was scented and, as you see, packed with wool.’
‘What was the purpose of that?’
‘It was not for the comfort of its occupant, sir, that much is certain. My guess is that the wool was used to prevent the head from rolling around and the herbs were there to kill any unpleasant odour. The care taken also suggests that the hatbox was going on a lengthy journey which may not have ended at Crewe.’
‘But that’s where it was unloaded.’
‘It’s the hub of the LNWR. Trains go off in all directions. The passenger carrying that hatbox might have been travelling on to another destination.’
Tallis lowered the lid. ‘How do you intend to find him?’
‘By starting with the hatmaker, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘What you failed to notice was that his name is on the underside of the lid.’
‘I assumed that it would be,’ claimed the superintendent gruffly. ‘It’s standard practice in the trade.’
Colbeck was amused. ‘I didn’t know that you were so well informed about the running of ladies’ hat shops,’ he said wryly. ‘They are the last places in London where I’d expect to find you.’
‘This is no time for drollery, Inspector.’
‘I was merely making an observation, sir.’
‘One that’s entirely uncalled for,’ said Tallis.
‘Yes, sir.’
Tallis looked at the ticket attached to the hatbox. ‘Mr D Key. I don’t suppose that particular key will open any doors for us. It’s sure to be a false name.’
‘Elijah Swinnerton, however, is certainly not.’
‘Who the devil is he?’
‘The milliner,’ said Colbeck with a disarming smile. ‘The one whose name you rightly assumed would be inside the hatbox.’
Tallis bristled. ‘Do I detect a note of sarcasm?’
‘Mistakenly, sir.’
‘I’ll brook no mockery, Inspector.’
‘None is intended,’ said Colbeck, stretching out his hands. ‘If I may have the box back, Superintendent, then I propose to go and meet Elijah Swinnerton right now. I have every confidence that he will be able to point us in the right direction.’
Jermyn Street had been a fashionable address ever since the reign of Charles II when it was first built and when it numbered luminaries such as the future Duke of Marlborough among its residents. It still boasted many fine houses but had also acquired a reputation for its hotels and its many shops. Gentlemen’s outfitters had started to appear alongside specialist shirtmakers, shoemakers and hatters. The bow-fronted establishment owned by Elijah Swinnerton was the only one that sold quality millinery and its popularity among wealthy ladies had grown steadily during the five years of its existence.
Though the staff was entirely female, it was presided over by Swinnerton himself, a vigilant man who watched his employees with care and reserved for himself the privilege of serving any titled customers. Tall, slim, beak-nosed, dark-haired, of middle height and years, Swinnerton was immaculately attired in a frock coat and striped trousers with a red cravat bursting out from under his chin like a giant rose. Seasoned in all the arts of flattery, he was much liked by his customers for his fastidiousness, his delicate hand gestures and his confiding manner. Most men felt less at ease in his presence, finding him altogether too foppish to suit their taste.
It was very busy in the shop that day and every member of staff was serving an individual customer. Elijah Swinnerton adopted a purely supervisory role until a tall, well-favoured, elegant man came through the door, carrying a hatbox. Struck by his appearance, the owner ran an appreciative eye over him before crossing to greet him.
‘Good day to you, good sir,’ he said, glancing at the hatbox. ‘I hope that you’re not here to return one of our hats.’
‘Am I speaking to Mr Swinnerton?’ asked Colbeck.
‘The very same.’
‘Then perhaps I could have a word with you in private, sir.’
‘To what does it pertain?’
‘I’ll tell you when we’re alone, Mr Swinnerton.’
‘And who might you be, may I ask?’
‘Inspector Robert Colbeck from Scotland Yard.’
