‘It’s the most awkward place to get to, Inspector.’
‘Yet it’s served by two rival companies — the Midland Railway and the Manchester Sheffield and Lincoln. When they were built, neither of them saw fit to give Sheffield the prominence it patently deserves. It was neglected by the North Midland Railway, as it then was, and had to endure the humiliation of being bypassed. The only way to get there was by a branch line.’
‘What do you think, Inspector?’
‘Oh, I’m certain that Sheffield is going to be a major city one day.’
‘I was asking about this case. Was it an accident or a crime?’
Colbeck pondered. ‘It could be either.’
Rufus Moyle owned a large house in the most desirable part of the city. When the detectives arrived from the station in a cab, they realised that it was possible to see York Minster from the steps leading up to the front door. Leeming rang the bell and the door was opened by a servant. A woman came rushing into the hallway. Her face was a study in anxiety. As soon as Colbeck explained who they were, she gave a visible shudder.
‘Is it about my husband?’ she asked. ‘I expected Rufus home hours ago.’
‘May we come in, please, Mrs Moyle?’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
Beatrice Moyle beckoned them in and took them to the drawing room. She was a tall, slender woman ten years or so younger than her husband. Had she not been so distraught, she would have been strikingly beautiful. Colbeck invited her to sit down before he broke the news to her. He and Leeming also took a seat.
‘I’m afraid that your husband was involved in an accident,’ said Colbeck.
‘I knew it,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘I had a premonition.’
‘What sort of premonition, Mrs Moyle?’
‘I just felt that something terrible was going to happen today. I begged Rufus not to go to work but he brushed aside my fears. What happened, Inspector?’
‘Suffice it to say that he was badly injured in a fall. He’s being cared for by a doctor in Sheffield. The accident has left him in a coma.’
‘Dear God!’ she exclaimed, leaping to her feet. ‘I must go to him.’
‘Sergeant Leeming will accompany you.’
‘I’ll pack some things in case I have to stay there.’
‘Do the rest of the family need to be informed?’
‘We have no children, Inspector, and our parents are all dead.’
‘You might find it comforting to have a close friend with you, Mrs Moyle.’
‘I’ll be all right,’ she said, bravely. ‘Please excuse me.’
When she’d left, they had a chance to appraise their surroundings. They were in a large, well-proportioned room with a high ceiling. It was filled with costly and tasteful furniture from a century earlier. Over the mantelpiece was a full-length portrait of Rufus Moyle, a handsome man with long, wavy dark hair. Colbeck felt a pang of envy when he saw the exquisite apparel he was wearing. Leeming was quick to see a faint resemblance.
‘He looks a bit like you, Inspector,’ he remarked.
‘I always think there’s an element of narcissism in having one’s portrait painted,’ said Colbeck, ‘and, happily, that’s something I lack. I’d be much more likely to commission a portrait of Madeleine. She would adorn our home whereas I would feel embarrassed to see myself glaring down from a portrait.’
‘Like you, Mr Moyle has a lovely wife. I wonder why she isn’t hanging over the mantelpiece — or a portrait of both of them, maybe.’
‘We may never know, Victor.’
‘I noticed that you didn’t tell her what had actually happened to him.’
‘Mrs Moyle was clearly worried before we even got here,’ said Colbeck. ‘I didn’t want to distress her even more by telling her that her husband had jumped out of a train. If she presses you for information, don’t give too much away.’
‘Where will you be, sir?’
‘I intend to call on Mr Welling. When I’ve spoken to him, I’ll catch the next train to Sheffield and join you at Doctor Scanlan’s house. One last thing,’ he added. ‘If you can get her to volunteer the information, see what you can learn about Mrs Moyle and her husband. This room is telling me an interesting story. I’d like to know if my instincts about it are sound.’
Humphrey Welling was an affable man in his early fifties with prematurely white hair and a paunch. When he called at the house, Colbeck was given a cordial welcome and ushered into the library. Welling was surprised that a senior detective from Scotland Yard had been summoned to investigate what was simply an unfortunate accident.
‘They happen all the time on the railways,’ he said. ‘I would have thought that it was too starved a subject for your sword, Inspector.’
‘It may well be,’ said Colbeck, noting the quotation from Shakespeare.
‘Have you been in touch with the man’s family?’
‘We called on his wife earlier, sir. Mrs Moyle is now on her way to Sheffield.’
‘Moyle, is it? The fellow didn’t give me his name. To be honest, he was not the most communicative travelling companion. He spent most of the journey with his head buried in a newspaper.’
Welling described what had happened, telling a story that tallied to the last detail with the statement he’d given at the police station. He expressed sympathy at what he assumed was the death of Rufus Moyle.
‘The gentleman is still alive,’ said Colbeck, ‘though he’s in a coma and his life is hanging by a thread. I didn’t want to alarm his wife by telling her that. Mrs Moyle will learn the full truth when she gets to Sheffield.’ He looked at the well-stocked shelves. ‘You’re a reading man, I see.’
‘I’ve only become one since my wife died,’ explained Welling. ‘That’s when I had this room converted into a library. It helps to stave off loneliness.’ He picked up the book on the table beside him. ‘This is what’s engrossing me at the moment. It’s a history of cricket. Do you take an interest in the game, Inspector?’
‘I try to, sir. In fact, I was telling my colleague about the report I read in The Times about Stephenson’s hat trick. It was achieved at Hyde Park in Sheffield.’
‘Yes and I kicked myself that I wasn’t there to witness the feat. I’ve seen Stephenson bat and bowl many times. He’s a born cricketer.’
Having got him on a subject in which they were both interested, Colbeck let him roll on, feeling that he’d discover far more about the man if he learnt about his passions. When there was a lull in the conversation, he shifted its direction.
‘I gather that you’re a director of the Midland Railway.’
‘That’s right, Inspector.’
‘When it first came into existence, why didn’t the NMR, as it was called then, build a direct line to Sheffield?’
‘Ah,’ said Welling, settling back into his chair, ‘that’s a long story.’
Having taken Beatrice Moyle to the house in a cab, Leeming bided his time. Doctor Scanlan gave his prognosis as gently as he could but it nevertheless had a stunning effect on Beatrice. She staggered backwards and would have fallen to the floor if Leeming had not caught her. He lowered her into a chair. It was several minutes before she recovered. When she did so, she insisted on seeing her husband. The doctor took her off into the room where the patient lay and Leeming heard her cry of horror. He waited for a long time before she emerged. The doctor was more or less supporting her. He helped her into a chair where she sobbed into a handkerchief. Scanlan took Leeming aside.
‘The situation is this,’ he whispered. ‘Mr Moyle is very near his end. His wife wanted to stay with him but feels she’d be unequal to the ordeal. She’s already overwrought. There’s a hotel where she’s stayed before. I suggest that you take her there, Sergeant. If there’s any change in his condition, I’ve promised that word will be sent at once — whatever time it might be.’
‘That’s very good of you.’
‘I’m surprised that he’s held out this long.’