Blood on the Line

of you against one of him.’

‘In other words,’ said Wakeley, ‘you’re sorry for him.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose that I am.’

‘Don’t be, miss. He deserves to be handcuffed, believe me. In fact, if it was my decision, I’d have him in leg irons as well.’

‘That would be dreadful.’

‘He’s a criminal. He has to be punished.’

‘So you won’t remove the handcuffs?’

‘Not for a second.’

Irene stifled the rejoinder she was about to make and opened her valise instead. Putting a hand inside, she brought out an object that was covered by a piece of cloth. The policemen watched with interest but their curiosity turned to amazement when she whisked the cloth away and was seen to be holding a pistol. Irene’s face hardened and her gentle voice now had some steel in it.

‘You have one last chance to release him.’

‘What are you doing?’ cried Hungerford, shrinking back in fear.

‘She’s only bluffing,’ said Wakeley with a confident chuckle. He extended a palm. ‘Now, give me that gun before somebody gets hurt.’

‘Do as I say!’ she ordered. ‘Release Mr Oxley.’

Hungerford was mystified. ‘You know him?’

‘They’re in this together, Bob,’ decided Wakeley, ‘but they won’t get away with it.’ He gave Irene a challenging glare. ‘I don’t think this lass has the guts to pull that trigger. The weapon is only for show. In any case, she could only kill one of us. Where would that get her?’

Irene was calm. ‘Why don’t we find out?’

Aiming the barrel at Wakeley, she pulled the trigger and there was a loud report. The bullet hit him between the eyes and burrowed into his brain, knocking his head backwards. The prisoner suddenly came to life. Before he could recover from the shock of his friend’s death, Hungerford was under attack. He not only had to grapple with Oxley, there was the woman to contend with as well. Irene did not hold back. Knocking off the policeman’s top hat, she used the butt of the weapon to club him time and again. Hungerford was strong and fought bravely but he was no match for two of them. His head had been split open and blood gushed down over his face and uniform. Oxley was trying to strangle him while his accomplice was delivering more and more blows to his head. It was only a matter of time before Hungerford began to lose consciousness.

The moment the policeman slumped to the floor, Oxley searched Hungerford’s pocket for the key to the handcuffs. He found it, released himself, then stole a quick kiss from his deliverer.

‘Well done, Irene!’ he said, panting.

‘What will we do with these two?’ she asked.

‘I’ll show you.’

Opening the door, he grabbed Wakeley under both arms and dragged him across to it. The train then plunged into a tunnel, its rhythmical clamour taking on a more thunderous note and its smoke thickening in the confined area. With one heave, Oxley hurled the dead man out of the compartment. Since Hungerford was bigger and weightier, it took the two of them to shove him out into the tunnel. Oxley closed the door and gave a laugh of triumph.

‘We did it!’ he shouted, spreading his arms. ‘Come here.’

‘Not until you’ve taken that coat off,’ she said, looking at it with distaste. ‘It’s covered in his blood. You can’t be seen wearing that.’ She opened the valise. ‘It’s just as well that I thought to bring you another one, isn’t it? I had a feeling that you might need to change.’

When Caleb Andrews brought the train to a halt under the vast iron and glass roof over New Street station in Birmingham, his only interest was in lighting his pipe. He puffed away contentedly, blithely unaware that two of his passengers had been murdered during the journey from Wolverhampton and that the killers had just melted unseen into the crowd.

CHAPTER TWO

Nothing upset Edward Tallis more than the murder of a policeman. As a superintendent at the Detective Department in Scotland Yard, he had devoted himself to law enforcement and felt personal grief whenever one of his officers was killed in the line of duty. Even though the latest victims had not been members of the Metropolitan Police Force, Tallis was consumed by a mingled sadness and fury. He waved the telegraph in the air.

‘I want this villain caught and caught quickly,’ he announced. ‘He has the blood of two policemen on his hands.’

‘We need more details,’ said Victor Leeming.

‘It’s up to you to find them, Sergeant.’

‘What exactly does the telegraph say?’

‘It says enough to get you off your backside and on the next train to Wolverhampton. Apart from anything else,’ said Tallis, ‘your help has been specifically requested by the London and North Western Railway. This has just arrived by messenger.’ He picked up a letter with his other hand. ‘They are mindful of the fact that we served them well in the past.’

‘That was Inspector Colbeck’s doing,’ argued Leeming.

Tallis bristled. ‘It was a joint effort,’ he insisted.

‘The superintendent is correct, Victor,’ said Colbeck, stepping in to rescue the sergeant from the ire of his superior. ‘Whatever we’ve achieved must be ascribed to the efficiency of this whole department. Cooperation is everything. No individual deserves to be singled out.’

Tallis was only partially mollified. It was a source of great irritation to him that he did not get the credit to which he felt he was entitled. Newspaper reports of their triumphs invariably picked out Inspector Robert Colbeck as their unrivalled hero. It was the Railway Detective who claimed all the attention. Tallis could only smoulder impotently in his shadow.

The three men were in the superintendent’s office, blissfully free from cigar smoke for once. Seated behind his desk, Tallis, a former soldier, was seething with outrage at the latest news. He wanted instant retribution. The detectives sat side by side in front of him. Leeming, always uneasy in the presence of the superintendent, wanted to leave at once. Colbeck pressed for more information.

‘Did the telegraph give the name of the escaped prisoner?’ he asked, politely.

‘No,’ snapped Tallis.

‘What about the letter from the LNWR?’

‘I think there was a mention in that – though, shamefully, the two murder victims were not named. The villain takes precedence over them, it seems.’ He put down the telegraph and looked at the letter. ‘Yes, here we are. The killer’s name is Oxley.’

Colbeck was stunned. ‘Would that be Jeremy Oxley, by any chance?’

‘No Christian name is given, Inspector.’

‘But it could be him.’

‘Presumably.’

‘Do you know the man?’ asked Leeming.

‘If it’s Jeremy Oxley, I know him extremely well,’ said Colbeck, ruefully. ‘And this will not be the first time that he’s committed a murder.’ He rose to his feet. ‘We must leave immediately, Victor. I have a copy of Bradshaw in my office. That will tell us which train we can catch.’ As Leeming got up from his chair, Colbeck turned to Tallis. ‘Is there anything else we need to know, Superintendent?’

‘Only that I’ll be watching you every inch of the way,’ said Tallis. ‘And so will the general public. They must not be allowed to think that anyone can kill a representative of law and order with impunity. I want to see Oxley