‘Because I’d give you my word.’
‘And I know you’d keep it,’ said Percy Reade, the stationmaster, adopting a gentler tone. ‘I trust you implicitly, Reg, but I still think it better that you stay here until they arrive.’
Hibbert quivered. ‘Am I in trouble, Mr Reade?’
‘Yes!’ affirmed Fagge, folding his arms.
‘No,’ countered the stationmaster. ‘Accidents will happen.’
‘Especially when Hibbert is around.’
‘You’re too harsh on him, Douglas.’
‘And you’re too lenient.’
Percy Reade was a mild-mannered little man in his forties with a huge walrus moustache concealing much of his face. Conscientious and highly efficient, he treated the staff with a paternal care in the belief that it was the way to get the best out of them. Fagge, on the other hand, favoured a more tyrannical approach. Left to him, flogging would have been meted out to anyone who failed to do his job properly and Fagge would happily have wielded the cat o’ nine tails himself. Hibbert was relieved that the stationmaster was there. His kindly presence was an antidote to the venom of the head porter.
The distant sound of an approaching train made all three men turn their heads to the window. Reade consulted his watch and gave a nod of satisfaction at the train’s punctuality. Fagge’s hope was that it would bring the detectives from Scotland Yard and allow him to play a decisive part in a murder investigation. As the train thundered into the station and slowly ground to a halt amid a symphony of hissing and juddering, all that Hibbert could think about was his anxious wife, the threat of unemployment and his rumbling stomach. It was several hours since he had last eaten.
After stopping at major stations on the way, the train had finally arrived at Crewe. Robert Colbeck and Victor Leeming were aboard and the stationmaster went out to greet them. When he brought the visitors back to his office, Reade introduced them to Hibbert and to Fagge. At a glance, Colbeck could see that the porter was trembling and that his superior was revelling in the man’s discomfort.
‘This is the miscreant,’ declared Fagge, pointing at Hibbert. ‘He dropped a trunk onto that hatbox.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Colbeck.
‘He admits it.’
‘But did you actually
‘No – I was on another platform.’
‘Then we have no further use for you. Goodbye.’
‘But I have to be here,’ blustered Fagge. ‘I’m the head porter.’
‘We’re only interested in the porter with the head,’ said Leeming, unable to stop himself from blurting out his joke. He was immediately contrite. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I meant no disrespect to the dead.’
‘I’m sure that you didn’t, Victor,’ said Colbeck easily, turning to the stationmaster. ‘Mr Reade, I assume that you reported the grim discovery to the local police.’
‘Yes, Inspector,’ said Reade. ‘Constable Hubbleday was summoned at once. He took statements from several witnesses.’
‘Then I’ll want to hear what else he did.’ Colbeck swung round to confront Fagge. ‘How far away is the police station?’
‘Not far,’ said the head porter.
‘In that case, perhaps you’ll be good enough to show Sergeant Leeming the way and introduce him when you get there.’ He ushered both men to the door. ‘You know what to ask, Victor.’
‘Yes, Inspector.’
‘Leave your bag here.’
Putting his valise down beside Colbeck’s, the sergeant led the reluctant Fagge out and the door was closed behind them. Colbeck could sense the air of relief in the office. Hibbert was clearly afraid of his hectoring boss and Reade unwilling to challenge him. Now that Fagge had gone, both of them had relaxed.
‘Right,’ said Colbeck, removing his top hat and placing it on the desk, ‘let’s get down to business, shall we, gentlemen? Before you tell me how the severed head was found, perhaps you’d be good enough to show it to me.’
‘Of course,’ said Reade. Crossing to a cupboard, he took out a bunch of keys and inserted one of them into the lock. ‘I had to hide it away in here. When it was standing on the floor, people kept peering in at it through the window. It was so ghoulish.’ Unlocking the door, he opened it and lifted the hatbox out. ‘Here we are, Inspector.’
Hibbert flinched at the sight but Colbeck was fascinated. The leather hatbox was large, beautifully made and very expensive. Tied to the handle was a ticket that told him Euston was the point of departure. The name on the ticket, written in a spidery hand, was Mr D Key. Capital letters had been used for the destination – Crewe.
Since the strap had been broken, Colbeck simply had to pull back the lid to expose the occupant of the hatbox. It was the head of a young man and dark bruising on the forehead suggested that he had been beaten before being killed. Extracting a large handkerchief from his pocket, Colbeck used it to encircle the back of the head so that he could lift it gently out.
Reginald Hibbert emitted a gasp of alarm as it came into view once again. The open eyes seemed to be staring accusingly at him. He stepped back guiltily and collided with a chair, almost knocking it to the floor. Percy Reade admired the detective’s coolness. Simply carrying the hatbox had induced feelings of nausea in the stationmaster and he could not possibly have handled its contents with his bare hands. Colbeck seemed to have no qualms. He was examining the head from all angles as if it were a bronze bust of a Roman emperor rather than part of a human being.
‘You’ve obviously done this before,’ remarked Reade.
‘Not at all,’ said Colbeck, coming to the end of his scrutiny. ‘As a matter of fact, this is my first severed head. I am, however, all too accustomed to looking at dead bodies, many of them, alas, hideously mutilated.’
‘What happens next, Inspector?’
‘We’ll do all we can to unite this fellow with his torso.’
‘How on earth can you do that when you have no clues?’
‘We have two important ones right here,’ said Colbeck, lowering the head carefully back into its box. ‘We know from the ticket that this began its journey at Euston station and we may be able to find the porter who loaded it onto the train. Failing that, we’ll begin our enquiries in Jermyn Street.’
‘Why there?’
‘Clearly, you didn’t study the inside of the hatbox. The name of a milliner is sewn into the silk padding on the underside of the lid.’ He pointed to the gold thread. ‘I should imagine he will be very upset to learn to what use the box has been put.’ He closed the lid. ‘Now, Mr Hibbert,’ he said, straightening up, ‘we come to you.’
‘I didn’t
‘Dropping a trunk onto a hatbox is not a criminal offence.’
‘Mr Fagge said that I ought to be arrested.’
‘Well, Mr Fagge is not here any longer so why don’t you tell me, in your own words, exactly what happened?’
Hibbert was reassured by Colbeck’s friendly tone and courteous manner. Clearing his throat, the porter licked his lips.
‘It all began this morning, when I sprained my wrist…’
It was a slow, long-winded account filled with much extraneous detail but the others heard him out in silence. While he was speaking, his essential character was laid bare and Colbeck saw that the porter was a decent, honest, hard-working young man in terror of losing a job that was a labour of love to him. The inspector was surprised to hear that he had been kept at the station beyond the time when his shift ended and guessed that the wife about whom Hibbert had spoken so fondly would be very distressed at her husband’s lateness. When the narrative at last came to an end, Colbeck’s first concern was for Molly Hibbert.
‘Did you not think to send your wife a message?’ he asked.
‘Mr Fagge refused to let me, Inspector.’
‘That was very high-handed of him. He had no right to deny you and should have been overruled by the stationmaster.’
