Death at the terminus, p.1
Death at the Terminus, page 1
PRAISE FOR EDWARD MARSTON
‘A master storyteller’
Daily Mail
‘Packed with characters Dickens would have been proud of. Wonderful [and] well-written’
Time Out
‘Once again Marston has created a credible atmosphere within an intriguing story’
Sunday Telegraph
‘Filled with period detail, the pace is steady and the plot is thick with suspects, solutions and clues. Marston has a real knack for blending detail, character and story with great skill’
Historical Novels Review
‘The past is brought to life with brilliant colours, combined with a perfect whodunnit. Who needs more?’
The Guardian
DEATH AT THE TERMINUS
Edward Marston
To Jane Conway-Gordon, my literary agent, who helped me to bring Robert Colbeck into existence
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BY EDWARD MARSTON
COPYRIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
Spring, 1865
York railway station was a cauldron of noise and activity. Hundreds of passengers were bustling about, many of them accompanied by well-wishers eager to offer a few words of farewell. Porters darted everywhere, sizing up those in need of their services and deciding how much, if anything, they would receive by way of a tip. Children’s voices were raised above the hubbub. The spacious booking office was filled with stragglers, buying tickets to take them to a variety of destinations. Slamming doors augmented the general din. Pigeons flew everywhere, swooping dangerously. A woman screeched in dismay as her dog pulled its lead from her hand, barking joyously as it chased the birds.
It was a scene so familiar to the stationmaster that he ignored it. His ears had long ago become immune to the general clamour of his working day. All that concerned him was doing his job properly. After taking out the watch from his waistcoat pocket, he noted the time, then glanced up at the large clock above his head. Watch and clock were in perfect agreement. He was content.
His peace of mind, however, was soon shattered. Emerging from nowhere, the guard ran quickly along the platform, dodging passengers as he did so. He jumped into the brake van and pulled the door shut behind him. Soon afterwards, there was a loud explosion. An eerie silence followed, broken only by the sound of a violin played by a bearded old man in search of an audience. Everyone stared in horror at the flames licking their way hungrily out of the brake van. Nobody moved. Almost a minute passed before the door finally opened, and the guard staggered out, his clothing alight and his cries piteous. People found their voices again, yelling in alarm as he lurched towards them and backing way in a panic.
The guard never reached the buckets of water lined up against the wall. Yards away from them, he had used up the last of his energy. All that he could do was to collapse in a heap on the platform, curling up to form a human inferno that continued to blaze away until the fire buckets were emptied over him.
CHAPTER TWO
Victor Leeming was so upset by the order that he raised his voice.
‘I can’t go to York, sir,’ he protested.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s my son’s birthday next week. I can’t possibly miss that.’
‘You may have to,’ warned Colbeck. ‘Our duties as detectives always come first. We can’t expect murders to fit themselves neatly into our respective diaries. They happen at random. Our task is to respond to them.’
‘But it’s so far away.’
‘I’m sorry, Victor. As a father myself, I know how important a child’s birthday is. Look,’ he advised, ‘try to take an optimistic view. If we solve this crime quickly, you could be back in London in plenty of time to join in the birthday party.’
‘What chance is there of that happening?’ groaned Leeming.
Their discussion was cut short as the cab in which they’d been speeding along began to slow down. When it came to a halt outside the railway station, Colbeck paid the driver then led the way to the ticket office. It was only when they were walking towards their platform that they were able to resume the conversation.
‘Whose birthday is it?’ asked Colbeck. ‘David or Albert?’
‘Albert.’
‘Ah, I see the problem. He’s your younger son.’
‘It’s no fun being in that position,’ said Leeming. ‘I was a younger son myself. You spend your entire life being overshadowed by a brother who is older, bigger and whose clothes are passed on to you. I can’t ever remember getting something to wear that was new,’ he wailed. ‘The one day of the year when you feel important is on your birthday. It’s a time when you get noticed at last. That’s why I’ve always made such an effort to be there for Albert every year.’
‘You must do so again, Victor.’
‘A crime on this scale could take weeks to solve.’
‘Don’t be so defeatist.’
‘I’m being realistic, sir. This is no minor infringement of the law. A brake van was blown up in a crowded railway station. That’s serious.’
Colbeck smiled. ‘So is Albert’s birthday.’
Gregory Maynard walked up and down the platform to relieve his tension. He was a big, heavy, pale-faced man in his sixties and the exercise was soon making him pant. The charred remains of the brake van had been towed into a siding. As he glanced across at it, his heart missed a beat. It was a calamity for the North Eastern Railway. Since he was the Chairman of the Board, he was suddenly thrust into the crisis, forced to make instant decisions, and having to confront a small army of newspaper reporters. York railway station was no longer a busy, noisy, overcrowded place that met the needs of thousands of passengers. Largely deserted, it now had the air of a cemetery.
‘Ah, there you are, Gregory,’ said a man, hurrying up to him. ‘I came as quickly as I could. This is dreadful news.’
‘It’s my worst nightmare, Neville,’ said Maynard, stopping abruptly. ‘The sheer effrontery of it is staggering. The whole place is in chaos.’
‘I know. I’ve seen the queue of trains outside the station.’
‘It’s a terrible shock for the NER.’
‘I sympathise with you,’ said the other, ‘but I see it from a different angle. As lord mayor, I am bound to put the reputation of the city first. What happened here yesterday is a hideous advertisement for York. Think of the repercussions if people start to fear that this is a place of danger.’
Neville Timms was a middle-aged man of medium height whose loud voice, expansive paunch and gesticulations made him seem bigger than he really was. The arrival of the railway some twenty years or more earlier had transformed the city, giving it a greater importance, and increasing its commercial potential. Timms was proud of the way that it had burgeoned.
‘What do the police say?’ he asked.
‘This case is beyond their abilities, Neville. If the railway policemen who work here had been doing their job,’ said Maynard, rancorously, ‘this crime might never have been committed. As for the city police, they’re completely bemused. That’s why I’ve gone above their heads.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I sent a telegraph to Scotland Yard yesterday.’
Timms frowned. ‘Would the Metropolitan Police Force show any interest in a crime committed so far away from London?’
‘Oh, yes. They have a detective who is willing to travel the length and breadth of the whole country, if necessary. His forte is railway crime.’
‘Who is this person?’
‘Inspector Robert Colbeck.’
It was not until they were almost halfway to their destination that their compartment finally shed its other passengers and allowed them the privacy needed to discuss the case. As the train set off north once more, Leeming pressed for detail.
‘What did the telegraph say?’ he asked.
‘It was a study in brevity, Victor. Little detail was given beyond damage to the brake van and the death of the guard. Reading between the lines, however, I sensed a real challenge for us.’
‘How did the superintendent react?’
‘He was reluctant to send us out of London.’
‘For once, I agree with him.’
‘He said we were needed there.’
‘What changed his mind?’
‘I did,’ said Colbeck. ‘York is one of the most beautiful cities in the country. It also has an important connection with the development of our railway system, thanks to a man named George Hudson.’
‘The Railway King,’ said Leeming. ‘Even I have heard of him.’
‘But for an inheritance, he might have remained relatively unknown. Instead, he used his sudden wealth to invest in the railways at a time when a mania developed. Hudson was one of its main beneficiaries. York was duly proud of him. He was its lord mayor at o
‘I thought he was accused of fraud and fled abroad.’
‘That was when the bubble burst and fortunes were no longer so easy to make out of the railways. But he deserves credit for bringing York to life. Thanks to him, it’s grown out of all recognition. The citizens are delighted.’
‘One of them isn’t,’ said Leeming. ‘He struck a blow against railways.’
‘Let’s get the full details before we form a judgement.’
‘It’s happened in other places. People who feel that the railways have ruined their lives – those who used to make stagecoaches, for instance – have caused untold damage. That’s what happened in this case, I fancy. Someone took his revenge.’
‘He didn’t have to kill a guard to do that,’ argued Colbeck.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He could have destroyed the brake van without spilling a drop of blood. If it was simply a case of vandalism, we would have stayed in London. What’s taking us to York, I suspect, is a murder victim.’
‘Why, in God’s name, couldn’t the killer wait until my son had had his birthday?’ demanded Leeming.
‘It’s a question you’ll be able to put to him, Victor.’
‘I’ll wring his neck!’
‘Leave that task to the hangman.’
‘If I miss Albert’s birthday, he’ll never forgive me.’
‘You’ll be there somehow.’
‘And why do people always turn to us in an emergency?’
‘It’s because we have a reputation, Victor. You’re only thinking of your younger son, and so you should. But there’s a very different question fluttering about in my brain.’
‘What is it, sir?’
‘Well,’ said Colbeck, ‘in his prime, George Hudson was seen as a hero by the people of York. He was then despised as a villain. His name will have been removed from that street near the station. I wonder what it’s called now.’
CHAPTER THREE
Estelle Leeming was mending the torn sleeve of her husband’s shirt when she heard the cab pulling up outside her front door. The sound brought her to her feet. Hansom cabs rarely came to any of the houses in that part of the city. Looking through the front window, Estelle saw that she had a visitor. Madeleine Colbeck was getting out of the vehicle to pay the driver. Putting the shirt aside, Estelle rushed to open the front door and welcome her friend, throwing her arms around her. After a warm embrace, she ushered Madeleine into the house.
‘What a lovely surprise!’ she said.
‘I’m sorry that I couldn’t come earlier, Estelle, but I was held up.’
‘No excuses are needed. It’s just such a pleasure to see you again.’ She eyed her visitor’s hat. ‘That’s new, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I wanted to celebrate spring with a new bonnet.’
‘It suits you, Madeleine,’ said the other. ‘Now sit down and make yourself at home while I brew some tea.’
‘Let me tell you my news first. It concerns Victor.’
Estelle’s face clouded. ‘Nothing’s happened to him, has it?’
‘No,’ said Madeleine. ‘He’s not hurt or anything. It’s just that he’s had to go away at short notice. Earlier on, Robert sent me a letter by hand. He and Victor have gone to York to investigate what might well be a murder.’
‘Oh dear!’
‘I don’t have any details to pass on, but I thought you should know that you mustn’t expect to see your husband for a while.’
Estelle was aghast. ‘But it’s Albert’s birthday next week.’
‘Victor knows that.’
‘How long is he likely to be away?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ admitted Madeleine. ‘Listen, why don’t you make that pot of tea, then we can talk properly?’
Estelle nodded and went off into the kitchen. Madeleine sat down and looked around the little room. It was very cosy and quite spotless, reminding her of the home in which she’d been born and brought up. Though she enjoyed living in a large house in a more affluent part of the city, she still felt more at ease in a humbler dwelling. Madeleine was an attractive, intelligent, well-dressed woman in her thirties who had had the good fortune to meet and marry Robert Colbeck. Her friendship with the sergeant’s wife was one of the benefits. A strong bond had been forged between them.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Estelle, popping into the room. ‘I should have asked about Helena Rose.’
‘She’s a little darling most of the time,’ replied Madeleine, ‘but, every so often, she can be a little devil.’ They shared a laugh. ‘How are the boys?’
‘I’ll tell you when I’ve made the tea.’
Spotting her husband’s shirt, Estelle gathered it up and tucked it away in a drawer. Now in her late thirties, she had kept her youthful prettiness along with her freckles. Her distinctive auburn hair was brushed neatly back into a bun.
‘It never gets any easier, does it?’ she said, pausing at the door.
‘What doesn’t?’
‘Sharing your life with a detective. Once they disappear on a case, you never know when you’re likely to see them again.’
‘It can be vexing,’ conceded Madeleine. ‘Until you get used to it, that is.’
‘I’ve never managed to do that somehow.’
‘There’s one thing to comfort us, Estelle.’
‘What is it?’
‘Well, we may miss our husbands when they go away,’ said Madeleine, ‘but it works both ways. Robert and Victor will certainly be missing us!’
Reaching York had been a relatively straightforward business. Getting to the station, however, was more of a problem. The train bearing the detectives ground to a halt some distance away from it. They soon learnt that they were at the back of a long queue of trains. Leeming fretted but Colbeck was more hopeful, believing that the man who had sent for them would have anticipated the delay and found a means of circumventing it. His instinct was sound. Minutes after their abrupt halt, Colbeck gazed out of the window and saw a man in the uniform of a porter, walking beside the track and holding up a placard.
‘Look,’ said Leeming in delight. ‘It’s got your name on it, sir.’
‘Then it’s time for us to get off the train.’
Colbeck was on his feet at once. The two of them were soon climbing out of the train with their valises and hailing the man with the placard. He welcomed them, then took them to a carriage, parked in the road parallel with the track. Fifteen minutes later, they were being shown into an office at the station. Two men awaited them. As the pair rose to their feet, Gregory Maynard and Neville Timms introduced themselves to the newcomers. In return, Colbeck introduced himself and Leeming.
‘I don’t know who rescued us from that queue,’ he said, ‘but I’m eternally grateful to him.’
‘It was my doing,’ said Maynard.
‘But it was my carriage that brought you here,’ said Timms, pompously.
As the two men took it in turns to explain who they were, Colbeck was able to weigh them up. Maynard seemed the more pleasant of the two, serious, civilised and genuinely grateful that the detectives had come to their rescue. Timms, by contrast, looked like a wily politician who had engineered himself into the position of lord mayor, and who was keen to remind them of his status.
‘What we’d really like to hear,’ said Colbeck, interrupting Timms in full flow, ‘is what happened.’
‘I can tell you that,’ said Maynard.
‘Were you here at the time, sir?’
‘No, Inspector, I was not.’
‘Then I’d prefer to speak to someone who was – like the stationmaster.’
‘Staines has told me everything,’ insisted Maynard.
‘I need to hear it from his own lips, sir.’
‘Besides,’ added Leeming, ‘we would ask the stationmaster questions you would never think of putting to him. Why are you hiding him away?’
‘Staines is busy,’ said Maynard, unimpressed by the sergeant’s appearance and manner. ‘The station is open. He has a job to do.’
‘There must be someone who can act as his deputy,’ said Colbeck, reasonably. ‘We won’t take him away from his duties for long.’
