‘I’ll take Mrs Moyle away for a while.’
Overcome with grief, Beatrice took a last look at her husband before leaving. Their cab had been waiting outside so they were able to go straight to a hotel at the heart of the town. When Leeming tried to reserve a room for her, Beatrice insisted that she could manage that. After thanking him for his help, she went slowly upstairs. Leeming walked across to the reception desk and spoke to the duty manager.
‘Take good care of the lady,’ he said. ‘She’s had to bear some terrible news.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘This is not her first visit here, I believe.’
‘No, sir,’ said the man. ‘They’ve stayed here a few times in the last year.’
‘When did you last have Mr and Mrs Moyle as your guests?’
The duty manager raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
When Colbeck left the train at Sheffield, he went quickly into the waiting room and stayed there until all the passengers had got off. Only when everyone had gone past did he take a cab to Scanlan’s house. Leeming had returned but there was no sign of the doctor. He came into the room with a gesture of helplessness.
‘Mr Moyle has passed away,’ he declared. ‘There was nothing I could do.’
‘You did all that was humanly possible,’ said Colbeck.
‘The astonishing thing is that he survived that fall from the train.’
‘I don’t believe that he was meant to, Doctor.’
‘Well,’ said Leeming, ‘I suppose I’d better go to the hotel where Mrs Moyle is staying and … pass on the sad news.’
‘Please do that.’
‘I discovered a strange thing, sir. She and her husband have stayed there before but she reserved the room under a very different name.’
‘That’s only natural,’ said Colbeck, ‘because the man with whom she stayed there was not her husband. I don’t know what alias he used but I’d wager anything that his real name is Humphrey Welling.’
Leeming was astounded. ‘How did you find that out?’
‘I listened and then I looked. Mr Welling is altogether too plausible. He gave me an account of Mr Moyle’s leap from the train as if he’d been rehearsing it from a prepared text. He pretended to be hearing Moyle’s name for the first time when I mentioned it,’ recalled Colbeck, ‘but I saw a light in his eye when I told him that Mrs Moyle was on her way to Sheffield. As a result, he came here as well. My guess is that he will already have joined Mrs Moyle.’
‘Are you sure he’s here, Inspector?’
‘He caught the same train that I did, making certain that I didn’t see him board it. When we got to the station here, however, I lingered in the waiting room so that I could watch them both go by.’
‘Them?’ echoed Scanlan.
‘It was Mr Welling and a servant of his, a broad-shouldered fellow who admitted me to the house. Welling wouldn’t have the strength to overpower another man. Besides, he has a game leg. His servant, however, has the look of someone who’d do anything for which he was paid. In short,’ said Colbeck, ‘there were three of them in that compartment.’
‘Do you have any proof of that, sir?’ asked Leeming. ‘If you confront them, they’ll simply deny it and Mr Moyle is no longer alive to challenge them.’
‘Yes, he is, Victor.’
‘But I’ve just pronounced him dead,’ said Scanlan, confused.
‘We know that,’ said Colbeck, ‘but they don’t. I think we should bring him back to life like a latter-day Lazarus. The message that the sergeant will take to the hotel is that Mr Moyle has rallied a little and should recover consciousness.’ His smile broadened into a grin. ‘That should produce a result, I fancy.’
It was in the early hours of the morning when a figure crept stealthily around to the rear of the house. There was enough moonlight to help him find his way to a particular window. Since the curtains had been left slightly open, he was able to make out the shape of a body in the bed. Making as little noise as possible, he inserted a knife and flicked the catch on the sash window. He then lifted the window up and stepped cautiously through it, intending to grab the pillow to smother the patient to death. When he approached the bed, however, he found that he’d have a lot more resistance than he’d expected. A man leapt suddenly out of bed, grappled with him then flung him hard against the wall before felling him with a vicious right hook. As he collapsed to the floor, the visitor heard the door open and someone came in with an oil lamp to illumine the scene.
‘Well done, Victor!’ said Colbeck. ‘Put the handcuffs on him.’
Having driven to the police station in the trap borrowed from the doctor, they left their prisoner in custody and went on to the hotel. After explaining the purpose of their visit to the duty manager, they went upstairs and roused the occupants of one room by pounding on the door. It was Beatrice Moyle who opened it a few inches, blinking in bewilderment when she saw the detectives. Colbeck gave Leeming the privilege of arresting both her and Humphrey Welling on a charge of conspiracy to murder. The prisoners were given time to dress then taken off to the police station to join their accomplice. As they left the building, Leeming wanted clarification.
‘However did you link Mr Welling with Mrs Moyle?’ he asked. ‘They just didn’t look like a married couple. Welling was so much older.’
‘So was her real husband, Victor. The lady is obviously drawn to more mature men. Unfortunately, marriage to Rufus Moyle did not live up to her expectations. She was a neglected wife in a house that reflected his personality and not hers.’
‘There was that portrait of him.’
‘It was only one of the indications that told me he was a strutting peacock.’
‘Then there was the fact that they had no children.’
‘I did say that she was a neglected wife and I meant it in the fullest sense. Mr Welling may not have seemed the ideal replacement but he was rich, indulgent and knew how to talk to a woman. How they first met,’ said Colbeck, ‘I don’t know but I believe there was genuine love on both sides. There had to be because that’s what drove them to the extreme of murder.’
‘Welling could have found out from Mrs Moyle when exactly her husband would be travelling to Sheffield,’ said Leeming. ‘He made sure that he shared the same compartment and his servant did the rest.’
‘Oddly enough, I rather liked Welling. He was an engaging companion and his love of cricket almost won me over. But he was also a ladies’ man whereas Moyle — remember the portrait and the attention to his appearance — sought company among his own sex.’
‘I can never understand people like that, sir.’
‘You don’t have to, Victor. You can simply bask in your glory.’
‘What glory?’
‘Don’t be modest,’ said Colbeck, patting him on the back. ‘You made three arrests in succession — Welling, his servant and Mrs Moyle. That’s what I’d call a hat trick.’
HELPING HAND
Having spent so many years in the army, Edward Tallis knew the importance of a disciplined way of life. As far as possible, he kept everything to an unvarying routine, leaving for work at precisely the same time every morning and organising each day in a similar manner. No matter how busy he was, he always found time for a brisk walk around noon to maintain fitness and to disperse the stink of cigar smoke that always clung to him. After leaving Scotland Yard that morning, he walked along Victoria Street. He was a big, straight-backed man with a moustache that he liked to stroke as if it were a favourite cat. His stride was long and his speed impressive. Few people could keep pace with him.
Tallis was about to cross a side street when he became aware of commotion to his left. Farther down the street, people were yelling and jeering at someone. Unable to see the object of their scorn, Tallis walked towards the crowd. They were gathered around the window of a butcher’s shop, howling abuse at a man who’d just emerged from the alley that ran alongside the building. Leading the verbal assault was the butcher himself, a solid man in a long apron that almost touched the floor.