The Iron Horse

however, it was different. Lord Hendry strongly resented the recipients of his wife’s benevolence. On those occasions when he had heavy gambling debts to settle, he would have liked to turn to her for help but felt unable to do so. Someone who owned a splendid mansion at the heart of a large estate in Surrey could hardly claim to be one of the deserving poor.

‘How much do you propose to give this time?’ he asked.

‘Five hundred pounds.’

He felt a pang of envy, thinking of how he could spend that amount of money. The familiar bitterness rose up within him but he concealed it behind another bland smile.

‘You could donate even more than that, Caroline.’

‘We felt that was the appropriate amount.’

‘There’s a very simple way to increase it.’

‘Is there?’

‘Of course,’ he said, turning back to the painting. ‘Invest the money in Odysseus and let him double or treble it. I own the horse so you’ll be supporting the family into the bargain. After all,’ he went on with a chortle, ‘charity begins at home. Even the archdeacon would accept that, I dare venture.’

Victor Leeming was more lugubrious than ever. The past twenty-four hours had been something of a nightmare. Forced to endure a long train journey, he had spent an uncomfortable night in the company of a severed head before having to suffer another four hours or more on the railway. Though he was allowed a brief respite to see his wife and children, all the pleasure from the encounter had been dissipated by his visit to the morgue where he had had to listen to details of the decapitation that had made his stomach heave. No sooner had he taken the medical report back to Scotland Yard than he was grabbed by Robert Colbeck and taken off to another railway station. As the train rumbled south with ear-splitting assurance, Leeming retreated into a moody silence.

Colbeck had no difficulty in reading his mind.

‘You’ll thank me for bringing you on this trip, Victor.’

‘I doubt it, sir.’

‘You are about to meet an interesting gentlemen.’

‘What is interesting about buying your wife a hat?’

‘You obviously don’t know who Lord George Hendry is.’

‘I rarely rub shoulders with the aristocracy.’

‘You might enjoy doing so on this occasion.’

‘Why?’

‘Lord Hendry is a devotee of the Turf.’

‘So are thousands of other people, Inspector.’

‘Very few of them own racehorses,’ said Colbeck. ‘Lord Hendry has a whole string of them. One horse is due to run in the Derby.’

‘Really?’ Leeming’s curiosity made his face glow. ‘It’s the only race I always place a bet on.’

‘Have you ever picked a winner?’

‘Not so far – I was born unlucky.’

‘Judgement is just as important as luck, Victor. The more you know about a particular horse, the better able you are to assess its chances of success. If you simply pick a name out of a newspaper, then you are making a blind choice.’

‘Do you think Lord Hendry will give us any advice?’

‘I’m sure that he will.’

‘Then I must ask a favour,’ said Leeming.

‘Favour?’

‘Could you please let me get the information about the Derby from Lord Hendry before you arrest him?’

‘I’ve no intention of making an arrest.’

‘But the severed head was in his wife’s hatbox.’

‘That doesn’t mean he or she are guilty of putting it there. Neither are possible suspects, in my view. Who would be rash enough to place a head in a hatbox that they must have known could be traced to the person who sold it to them in the first place? My guess is that Lord and Lady Hendry are victims of this crime rather than the perpetrators. Our visit to Reigate is only the first stop on what may turn out to be a very long journey.’

Leeming shuddered. ‘Does it all have to be by train?’

‘Unless you can provide us with a magic carpet.’

They were travelling on the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway, a network that enjoyed a virtual monopoly in the area that it covered. Colbeck was impressed with their carriage but less impressed by the engine driver, who seemed unable to bring the train to a halt at the various stations without jolting the passengers from their seats. When they eventually alighted at Reigate, the detectives needed a cab to take them out to the Hendry estate. Leeming was contented at last.

‘This is more like it,’ he observed, settling back.

‘You were born in the wrong age, Victor. The future will be forged by railway engineers, not by those who design coach and cab.’

‘That’s a pity in my opinion.’

‘Lord Hendry would beg to differ.’

‘Why – is he another train fancier like you?’

‘No,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I’m sure he’s a practical man. When you move thoroughbred horses between racecourses, you have to do so with great care. If Lord Hendry wanted to enter one of his horses in some of the major meetings in Yorkshire, it would take him at least two weeks to get it there by road. In a train, horses can be carried from one end of the country to another in a matter of hours.’

‘Then they have my sympathy.’

‘You’re a Luddite, fighting a losing battle against the inevitable.’

‘And I’ll go on fighting,’ Leeming resolved.

‘What presents did your children have for Christmas?’

‘Not very many on my wage, sir.’

‘You gave them lots of things. I remember you telling me about them. And what was it that they liked best? Of all the gifts, which was the most popular?’ Leeming looked shifty. ‘Come on, admit it – what did your children get most pleasure from last Christmas?’

‘Something that you kindly bought for them.’

‘And what was that, Victor?’

Leeming spoke through gritted teeth. ‘A toy train.’

‘I rest my case,’ said Colbeck with a smile.

Lord Hendry was surprised to hear that two detectives had travelled down from Scotland Yard to see him and he had them shown into the library for the interview. After introductions had been made, they all sat down. Victor Leeming was mesmerised by the painting of Odysseus over the mantelpiece but Colbeck was more interested in the library itself. Lord Hendry had catholic tastes. Greek and Latin texts nestled beside novels by Richardson, Fielding and Smollett. Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire occupied a whole shelf in its handsome calf-bound volumes. Books of sporting prints abounded and there were learned works devoted to almost every subject under the sun.

‘You’re a reading man, I see,’ said Colbeck with approval.

‘When I have the time, Inspector,’ replied Lord Hendry.

‘What do you think of our present-day novelists?’

‘I’m bound to say that I’ve little enthusiasm for them. Dickens is too earnest and Mrs Gaskell too dreary. Why will they persist in writing about what they view as the downtrodden classes? Novels should be about people who matter. However,’ he continued, ‘I refuse to believe that you and Sergeant Leeming came all the way here in order simply to discuss my literary interests.’

‘Quite so, Lord Hendry,’ said Colbeck. ‘My superintendent would never have condoned that. We’re here in connection with a distressing incident that occurred yesterday at Crewe.’

He gave a brief description of what had happened and explained that they had traced the hatbox to him.