The Iron Horse

‘I tried to put myself in Mrs Hibbert’s position,’ said Reade, attempting to justify his actions. ‘I felt that she would be very upset if she had a note from Reg to say that he was being held here, pending the arrival of detectives from Scotland Yard.’

‘Why not simply tell her that her husband was working overtime?’ said Colbeck reasonably. ‘That would at least have given her peace of mind.’

‘That never occurred to me, Inspector. To tell you the truth, this incident with the hatbox left me rather jangled. It’s not the sort of thing that happens every day – thank God!’

‘It must have caused a great stir.’

‘It did,’ confirmed Hibbert. ‘There were dozens of people on the platform. They all gathered round for a goggle at the head.’

‘That was unfortunate,’ said Colbeck. ‘In the confusion, the person who would have reclaimed that hatbox slipped away. I don’t suppose you recall any other luggage for a Mr Key?’

‘I never look at the names, Inspector – only the destination. If it says “Crewe” on the ticket, I unload it here.’

‘In that case, he may have reclaimed any other items with which he was travelling and beat a hasty retreat. A severed head is hardly something that anyone would willingly admit to owning.’

‘It gives me the creeps just to look at that hatbox.’

‘Then you don’t have to suffer any more,’ decided Colbeck, taking pity on him. ‘Your statement was very thorough and I’m sure it will be corroborated by the many that Constable Hubbleday took. We’ll be staying the night in Crewe so, if I need to speak to you again, I know where to find you.’

‘Off you go,’ said Reade. ‘Molly will be missing you.’

Hibbert was overjoyed. ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ he said, grinning inanely. ‘Thank you, Mr Reade. Does that mean I’m in the clear?’

‘As far as I’m concerned, that’s always been the case.’

‘Mr Fagge said there’d be repercussions.’

‘Then he was wildly misinformed,’ said Colbeck.

He opened the door to let Hibbert out, only to find a buxom young woman bearing down on them. Molly Hibbert had the look of a wife who has just been told that her husband is in grave danger. She flung herself at him and held him tight.

‘What’s going on, Reg?’ she demanded.

‘Nothing, my love,’ he replied. ‘I was just coming home.’

‘I met Mr Fagge on the way here. He said you were being questioned by a detective from London and that you ought to face charges for what you did.’

‘On the contrary, Mrs Hibbert,’ said Colbeck politely. ‘The only thing your husband will get from me is praise. My name is Inspector Robert Colbeck, by the way, and I’m here because a severed head was found in a hatbox that arrived at this station. Your husband not only showed bravery in coming to work with an injured wrist that must have given him constant pain. He inadvertently rendered us a great service. But for him,’ he went on, patting Hibbert on the shoulder, ‘a heinous crime would have gone unnoticed and therefore unpunished.’

‘That’s true,’ said Reade, feeling obliged to make a comment. ‘In a sense, Reg is something of a hero.’

‘Am I?’ Hibbert was baffled by the news.

‘He’s always a hero to me,’ said Molly, clutching his arm.

‘Take him home, Mrs Hibbert,’ suggested Colbeck. ‘And if you happen to pass Mr Fagge on the way, please warn him that I shall need to speak to him about the unnecessary cruelty he displayed towards your husband. If anyone is due a reprimand, it’s Mr Fagge.’

Hibbert had never laughed so triumphantly in all his life.

Victor Leeming was deeply unhappy. It was bad enough to be exiled for a night from the marital bed but he had additional causes for complaint. The first had come in the burly shape of Constable Royston Hubbleday, a good-hearted but ponderous individual who had insisted on reading out every statement he had taken relating to the discovery at the railway station, however repetitive, hysterical or contradictory they happened to be. Leeming’s second grievance was that he had to share an airless room with Robert Colbeck at a public house. Situated near the station, it was called The Rocket and its inn sign sported a painting of Stephenson’s famous locomotive. To a man who loathed railways as much as the sergeant, it was an ordeal to stay the night in a place that celebrated them.

His major source of unease, however, was only feet away. For reasons the sergeant did not understand, Colbeck had placed the hatbox between the two beds so that each of them would be sleeping cheek by jowl with incontrovertible evidence of foul play. Leeming was by no means squeamish but the proximity of the severed head unnerved him. Yet it seemed to have no effect on the inspector. When they retired to their beds for the night, Leeming voiced his thoughts.

‘Why would anyone do it?’ he wondered.

‘Do what?’

‘Carry a human head in a hatbox.’

‘I can think of a number of reasons,’ said Colbeck.

‘Such as?’

‘It could be a trophy, something which signalled a victory.’

‘Who would want to keep such a grisly item as that?’

‘There’s no accounting for taste, Victor.’

‘What else could it be?’

‘A gift.’

Leeming started. ‘A weird sort of gift, if you ask me.’

‘I agree but we may be dealing with a weird mind. Don’t forget that case we had last year. A young woman was dismembered and pieces of her body were returned one by one to the bereaved family.’

‘I remember it only too well, Inspector. The killer worked at Smithfield – a butcher in every sense.’ He glanced down at the hatbox. ‘Do you have a theory about this crime, sir?’

‘One is slowly forming in my brain, Victor.’

‘Well?’

‘I fancy that it’s a warning,’ said Colbeck. ‘Look how far it’s travelled. Would somebody bring it all that way without a specific purpose? My belief is that it was going to be delivered to someone by way of a dire warning. Think what an appalling shock it would have given as the lid was opened.’

‘I’m scared stiff when the lid is closed.’

‘Only because you know what’s inside the box.’

‘The one consolation is that we’ll soon catch the villain.’

‘I wish that I shared your confidence.’

‘You must do, sir,’ argued Leeming. ‘The man was kind enough to put his name on the ticket – Mr D Key. What does that initial stand for, I wonder – David, Donald, Derek perhaps? We had a census only three years ago so his name will be somewhere in the list of London residents. All we have to do is to work our way through them.’

‘That would be a complete waste of time.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we have no proof that the person we want lives in London. All we know for certain is that the train was boarded there. As for the name, I’ll wager every penny I have that it’s a false one. Who would be stupid enough to attach his real name to a hatbox that contained a human head? Besides,’ Colbeck added, ‘the person who brought it to Crewe might have nothing whatsoever to do with the murder. He might simply have been a delivery boy.’

‘It’s not a job I’d have taken on,’ confessed Leeming with a shudder. ‘Nothing on God’s earth would have persuaded me to get on a train with something like that.’

‘You’ll be doing so tomorrow, Victor.’

‘That’s different, sir. Now it can be classed as evidence.’

‘Vital evidence – that’s why we mustn’t let it out of our sight.’

‘Does it have to spend the night with us?’