any way with the bleeding priesthood.'
'That goes for me, too,' said Kilfoyle.
'So you don't mind breaking the law, then?' said Shannon.
Mulryne grinned. 'I'll break as many as you like.'
'We'll be in trouble if we're caught.'
'So what, Pierce? Life's far too short to worry about things like that. Just pay me the money and tell me what I have to do.'
'I'll show you.'
They strode on across the fields until the lights of the camp came into view. Lanterns twinkled and a few of the fires that had been lit to cook food were still burning away. When they got closer to the huddle of shacks and houses, Shannon stopped and waited until the last of the navvies had vanished into their temporary homes.
'This way,' he said.
He struck off to the left with Mulryne and Kilfoyle behind him. They reached the railway line and began to walk along the track. When they came to a line of wagons, Shannon called them to a halt. Mulryne gave a knowing chuckle.
'So that's it,' he said. 'It's another bet.'
'Not this time,' Shannon told him.
'I smell a trick when I see one. You're going to challenge me to lift one of those fucking wagons because you know it's filled to the brim with ballast. I'm not that strong,' he said, cheerily, 'and I'm not that stupid either.'
'We don't want you to lift it, Brendan.'
'Then what do you want?'
'You'll see.'
Shannon went off to scrabble around in the dark, then he returned with a long, thick, wooden pole and a length of rope that he had hidden there earlier. Mulryne stared at the pole.
'What's that?' he asked.
'A lever,' replied Shannon.
'Yes, but what's it for?'
'Making money.'
Aubrey Filton had to hold back tears when he escorted the two of them to the scene. Eight wagons had been uncoupled and tipped off the line, spilling their respective cargoes as they did so. The rolling stock had been badly damaged and the mess would take precious time to clear away. Thomas Brassey gave a philosophical shrug, but Robert Colbeck walked around the wagons to look at them from every angle. He bent down to pull out the long wooden pole. Beside it was a length of rope. He held both of them up.
'This is how it was done, I fancy,' he said. 'Someone levered the wagon over while someone else pulled it from the other side with a rope. Those wagons are heavy enough when they're empty. Loaded, they must weigh several tons.'
'It must have taken at least a dozen men.'
Colbeck thought of Mulryne. 'Not necessarily, Mr Filton.'
'Look at the mess they've made!'
'What puzzles me,' said Brassey, staring balefully at the broken wagons, 'is how they contrived to get past the nightwatchmen – not to mention the dogs.'
'That's the other thing I have to report, sir,' said Filton.
'What?'
'It's those guard dogs. Someone fed them poisoned meat.'
Brassey was stunned. 'You mean that they're dead?'
'Dead as a doornail, sir. All four of them.'
CHAPTER TEN
Victor Leeming was a hopeless patient. It was not in his nature to sit quietly at home while he recovered from the beating he had taken. It was wonderful to spend so much time with his wife, Estelle, and to be able to play with the children, but the enforced idleness soon began to vex him. The visitors did not help. A number of police colleagues had called at the house out of genuine concern for Leeming and it was reassuring to know that he had so many friends. What irked him was that they invariably talked about the cases on which they were working, emphasising the fact that, while they were still doing their duty, he was missing all the excitement of being employed by the Metropolitan Police Force. Leeming burned with envy. He was desperate to go back.
While his facial injuries were starting to fade, however, his ribs remained sore and he could only sleep in certain positions. Returning to work was still out of the question, but that did not mean he had to be shackled all day to the house. He was anxious to know how Inspector Colbeck was getting on in France. He was interested to hear if there had been any developments in the case on this side of the Channel. He was eager to experience the surge of raw pleasure that he always got when he crossed the threshold of Scotland Yard. Victor Leeming wanted to feel like a detective again.
Superintendent Edward Tallis did not give him a warm welcome.
'Is that you, Leeming?' he said with blunt disapproval.
'Yes, sir.'
'You should be in bed, man.'
'I feel much better now,' insisted Leeming.
'Well, you don't look it. Appearance is everything in our profession,' said Tallis, adjusting his frock coat. 'It conveys a sense of confidence and is a mark of self-respect. It's one of the first things that one learns in the army.'
'But we're not in the army, Superintendent.'
'Of course, we are. We're part of an elite battalion that is fighting a war against crime. Uniforms must be kept spotless at all times. Hair must not be unkempt. Slovenliness is a deadly sin.'
'I don't believe that I am slovenly, sir.'
'No, you're far worse than that. Look at you, man – you're patently disabled. The public should be impressed and reassured by the sight of a policeman. If they see you in that state, they are more likely to take pity.'
They had met in the corridor outside the superintendent's office. Leeming had long ago discovered the futility of reminding his superior that his men were no longer in police uniform. In the considered judgement of Edward Tallis, members of the Detective Department wore a form of uniform and those who departed from it – Colbeck was the most notable offender – had to be cowed back into line. Tallis himself looked particularly spruce. It was almost as if he were on parade. In one hand, he carried his top hat. In the other, was a large, shiny, leather bag that was packed to capacity. He ran his eye over the wounded man and spoke without a trace of sympathy.
'Are you still in pain?' he said.
'Now and again, sir.'
'Then why did you drag your aching body here?'
'I wanted to know what was going on.'
'The same thing that goes on every day, Leeming. We are doing our best to police the capital and apprehend any malefactors.'
'I was thinking about Inspector Colbeck,' said Leeming.
'That makes two of us.'
'Have you heard from him, Superintendent?'
'No,' replied Tallis. 'There's a popular misconception that silence is golden. When it comes to police work, more often than not, it betokens inactivity.'
Leeming was roused. 'That's something you could never accuse the inspector of, sir,' he said, defensively. 'Nobody in this department is more active than him.'
'I agree. My complaint is that his activity is not always fruitful.'
