‘It feels like the right place, Liza.’
‘Not to me, it doesn’t,’ she said.
‘Look at the way the stepping stones are set.’
‘That’s what I am doing and they’re wrong. There was a very large boulder in the middle of the stream, much bigger than the one here.’
‘Your memory’s playing tricks on you.’
‘When we find the right place,’ she said, firmly, ‘I’ll know it at once.’
Their discussion was interrupted by the sound of an approaching train. It was travelling at full speed. They turned to look up the embankment and watched the train thunder past. From an open window, a top hat suddenly shot out and rolled crazily down the embankment. The door of a compartment was then flung open and a man dived out, hitting solid earth and tumbling helplessly towards them. Gathering pace, he fell on and on until he reached the stream itself, plunging into the water and striking his head against a jagged rock.
By the time they got to him, the blood gushing from the wound was being carried away by the stream. Liza was aghast.
‘He’s dead!’ she cried.
When they eventually got to Sheffield station, they alighted from the train and hired a cab to take them to the outskirts of the town. Victor Leeming was not at all convinced that their journey was necessary.
‘All this fuss over a top hat,’ he moaned. ‘When carriages had no roofs on them, hats were being blown off all the time and there were dozens of cases of people chasing after them. That’s obviously what happened here, sir.’
‘Unlike you,’ said Colbeck, wryly, ‘I’m not gifted with second sight so I can’t make such an authoritative judgement. Neither, it seems, can the railway company that asked us to investigate. They want an answer to a simple question — did he jump out of the train or was he pushed?’
‘He jumped out after his hat, sir.’
‘When the train was going full pelt?’
‘Some people are very vain about their appearance,’ said Leeming, pointedly. ‘They’d die rather than be seen in public without a hat.’
‘I’m one of them,’ said the other with a laugh, ‘and I freely admit it. But even my vanity doesn’t extend to risking my life in order to retrieve a top hat. Headgear can be easily replaced, albeit at a cost. I’m conceited enough to believe that Detective Inspector Robert Colbeck would not be so easily substituted.’
They lapsed into silence and watched houses, civic buildings and factories slide past. Earlier in the century, Sheffield had been a pretty South Yorkshire town with the most famous cutlery industry in England. The advent of railways had increased its population markedly, pushed out its boundaries and given its burgeoning enterprises an international market. Cutlery remained its main product but steel, carpets and furniture were also produced. The invention of the silver-plating process enabled the town to manufacture Sheffield Plate, another claim to fame. Growth came at a price. Billowing smoke and industrial clamour seemed to be everywhere.
‘Do you know what a hat trick is?’ asked Colbeck, resuming the conversation.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Leeming with a grin. ‘It’s keeping the thing on your head instead of letting it blow off.’
‘I can see that you don’t follow events in the world of cricket.’
‘Tug-of-war is the only sport that I was any good at. When I was a young constable, I was part of a winning team.’
‘To some degree,’ said Colbeck, ‘you still are. We’re engaged in a non-stop tug-of-war against the criminal fraternity. We have to fight hard to retain our footing. However,’ he continued, ‘I ask about a cricketing term because it recently came into being in this very town. Sheffield has a long association with the sport. Does the name H. H. Stephenson mean anything to you?’
Leeming shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard of the man, Inspector.’
‘His remarkable feat has introduced a new phrase into the English language. A mere fortnight ago, Stephenson was playing for the All-England Eleven here in Sheffield. With three consecutive balls, he bowled out three of the opposing batsmen.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘It’s extremely unusual, Victor. I daresay that it’s happened before but it’s never been accorded its full merit. In this instance, a hat was taken round the spectators and they tossed coins into it in appreciation of what they’d seen.’
‘Nobody did that when we won a tug-of-war. The most we got was a free pint of beer and — if we were lucky — a stale pork pie.’
‘Anyway,’ concluded Colbeck, ‘that’s how the notion of a hat trick emerged into the light of day. I fancy that the expression will stick. The fact that it was coined in the very place we’re visiting is a pleasing coincidence.’
‘It doesn’t please me,’ murmured Leeming.
Alaric and Liza Bignall were practical. When they’d got over the initial shock, they established that the man was still alive though knocked unconscious. From the unnatural angle at which he lay, they realised that one of his legs had been broken. They pulled him carefully out of the water. Since the head wound was the major concern, Liza tore a strip off her petticoat to use as a bandage. Leaving his wife to look after the man, Bignall had run off to summon help. He later returned in a horse and cart driven by a farmer. While the two men lifted the patient gently onto the cart, Liza retrieved his top hat and set it down beside him. The farmer had driven them to the home of a doctor who lived on the very edge of Sheffield and it was there that the detectives made the acquaintance of James Scanlan, a portly man in his late fifties with heavy jowls and watery eyes.
‘He’s still in a coma,’ Scanlan explained, ‘and is very unlikely ever to come out of it. To be quite frank, he already has one foot in the grave. I’ve put splints on a broken leg but it’s the internal injuries that are the real threat.’
‘Shouldn’t he be moved to an infirmary?’ said Leeming.
‘There’s no point. He’d probably die on the way there. The journey here all but killed him. I can make his last few hours alive as dignified as possible.’
‘What do we know about him?’ asked Colbeck.
‘This may help you, Inspector.’
Scanlan handed over the injured man’s wallet and Colbeck examined the contents. There were several five-pound notes inside and a first-class return ticket to Sheffield but the most useful item was a business card, identifying him as Rufus Moyle, a solicitor from York.
‘He was brought here by a farmer who’s one of my patients,’ said Scanlan, ‘but he was actually found by a young man and his wife. Their prompt action probably saved his life — for a time at least.’
‘Do you have their names and address?’
‘I do, Inspector. I imagined that you’d wish to speak to them.’
‘Thank you,’ said Colbeck, taking the sheet of paper that was offered to him. After a glance at the address, he handed the paper to Leeming. ‘There you are, Sergeant. Take the cab and see what Mr and Mrs Bignall have to say.’
‘Yes, sir — where shall we meet?’
‘I’ll see you at the police station.’
When Leeming had gone, Colbeck was conducted into a room at the rear of the house. Stripped of most of his clothing, Rufus Moyle lay on a bed with a sheet over his body. Heavy bandaging encircled his head and his face was bruised. He was a tall, slim man in his fifties. His elegant frock coat had been ripped apart, his trousers were covered in dirt and his shoes were badly scuffed. At a glance, Colbeck could see that the top hat, though soiled, was of the finest quality. Clearly, Rufus Moyle was something of a dandy.
Eyes closed tight, the patient hardly seemed to be breathing.
‘He was obviously a successful man,’ decided Colbeck. ‘He can afford an excellent tailor. In the course of my work, I’ve dealt with many solicitors. They are usually sharp-witted gentlemen. They’re highly unlikely to plunge out of a moving train in pursuit of a hat.’
‘Could it have been a suicide attempt, Inspector?’
‘I doubt that very much. Had that been his intention, Mr Moyle would have left nothing to chance and — as you can see — he survived. There are much quicker and more foolproof ways of killing oneself. Also, of course, he’d bought a return ticket. Nobody would spend money on a journey they never intended to make.’