‘We cleaned him up, sir, as you see.’
‘Just the single wound?’ said Colbeck.
‘One fatal thrust, that was all.’
‘There must have been a struggle of some sort. What state was his clothing in when he was brought in here?’
‘The lapel of his coat was torn,’ said the undertaker, indicating some items in a large wooden box, ‘and his waistcoat was ripped where the knife went through. It was soaked with blood. So was his shirt.’
‘What about his effects?’
‘Everything is in here, Inspector.’
Colbeck sifted through the garments in the box and felt in all the pockets. ‘I don’t find any wallet here,’ he said. ‘Nor a watch. A man like Mr Proudfoot would certainly have owned a watch.’
‘It must have been taken, sir — along with the wallet.’
‘Murder for gain,’ murmured Colbeck. ‘At least we have one possible motive.’
‘I have a request to pass on,’ said the other with an ingratiating smile. ‘You can imagine how shocked his family were by the news. His wife is inconsolable. Mr Proudfoot’s brother has asked if the body can be released as soon as possible.’
‘He’ll have to wait until it’s been examined by a doctor.’
‘But I’ve done that, Inspector. I’ve been examining cadavers for almost forty years. There’s nothing a doctor can tell you that I can’t.’
‘The coroner will want a qualified medical opinion at the inquest.’
‘Of course.’
‘A man in your profession should know that,’ said Colbeck, putting him in his place. ‘Who informed the family of the tragedy?’
‘I did,’ said Quorn, mournfully. ‘Being acquainted with the Proudfoots, I felt that it was my duty to pass on the bad tidings. The railway police agreed that I should do so, though one of them did accompany me to the house. He was so grateful that I did all the talking. It was no effort for me, of course. I deal with the bereaved on a daily basis. It requires tact.’
Colbeck gazed down at the corpse for a few moments before drawing the shroud back over it again. He looked up at the undertaker.
‘How can you be tactful about a murder?’ he said.
When he returned to the railway station, the inspector found the three men waiting to be interviewed in the stationmaster’s office. They were side by side on a wooden bench. None of them looked as if he had slept much during the night. James Barrett seemed deeply upset by what had happened but Alfred Neale had a degree of truculence about him, as if resenting the fact that he was being questioned. The person who interested Colbeck most was George Hawley, the guard, a plump man in his fifties with a florid complexion and darting eyes.
‘What did you do in the course of the journey?’ asked Colbeck.
‘I did my job, Inspector,’ replied Hawley. ‘I kept guard.’
‘Yet you saw and heard nothing untoward?’
‘Nothing at all, sir.’
‘There was a definite struggle. Someone must have called out.’
‘I didn’t hear him.’
‘Are you sure, Mr Hawley?’
‘As God’s my witness,’ said the guard, hand to his heart. ‘The engine was making too much noise and the wheels were clanking over the rails. Couldn’t hear nothing above that.’
‘So you remained in the brake van throughout?’
Hawley shrugged. ‘Where else could I go?’
‘What about you two?’ said Colbeck, turning to the others. ‘You spent the entire journey on the footplate?’
‘Of course,’ retorted Neale.
‘We’re not allowed to leave it, sir,’ added Barrett, quietly. ‘Or, for that matter, to have any unauthorised persons travelling beside us.’
‘Did the train slow down at any point?’ said Colbeck.
‘No, Inspector. We kept up a steady speed. The truth is,’ he went on, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand, ‘we didn’t wish to upset our passenger. Mr Proudfoot wanted a smooth journey.’
‘You look tired, Mr Barrett. Where did you sleep last night?’
‘Here, sir. On this very bench.’
‘I was on the floor,’ complained Neale.
‘So was I,’ moaned Hawley. ‘At my age, I need a proper bed.’
‘Perhaps you should think of the murder victim rather than of yourself, Mr Hawley,’ scolded Colbeck. ‘I don’t believe that Mr Proudfoot deliberately got himself killed so that he could upset your sleeping arrangements.’
‘George meant no harm, sir,’ said Barrett, defensively. ‘He spoke out of turn. This has really upset him — and us, of course. It’s a terrible thing to happen. We feel so sorry for Mr Proudfoot.’
‘That’s right,’ said Hawley. ‘God rest his soul!’
‘I ain’t sorry,’ affirmed Neale, folding his arms.
‘Alf!’ exclaimed Barrett.
‘I ain’t, Jim. No sense in being dishonest about it. I’m like most people who work for this company. I got reason to hate Mr Matthew Proudfoot and you knows why.’
‘Oh?’ said Colbeck, curiosity aroused. ‘Tell me more, Mr Neale.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Inspector,’ advised Barrett, shooting the fireman an admonitory glance. ‘Alfred lets his tongue run away with him sometimes. We may not have admired Mr Proudfoot, but we all respected him for the position he held.’
‘He gave himself airs and graces,’ sneered Neale.
‘Only because he was a director.’
‘Yes, Jim. He never let us forget that, did he?’
‘What do you mean?’ said Colbeck.
‘Mr Proudfoot was not a nice man,’ confided Hawley. ‘Before we set off from Paddington, he said some very nasty things to me.’
‘You’re lucky that’s all he did, George,’ said Neale, before swinging round to face Colbeck. ‘Every time he travelled by rail, Mr Proudfoot had a complaint. He’s had two drivers fined and one dismissed. He had the stationmaster at Slough reprimanded and reported any number of people he felt weren’t bowing down before Mr High and Mighty.’
‘In other words,’ concluded Colbeck, ‘there are those employed by the GWR who might have a grudge against him.’
‘We’ve all got a grudge against him, Inspector.’
‘That’s not true, Alf,’ said Barrett, reproachfully.
‘All except you, then. You’re too soft, Jim.’
‘I never speak ill of the dead.’
Colbeck was interested in the relationship between the three men. As well as being workmates, they were clearly friends. James Barrett was the senior figure, liked and respected by his two colleagues, treating Neale in an almost paternal way. The driver’s main concern was to get his engine to Swindon. All that worried Alfred Neale was the fact that he had spent a night apart from his young wife. The railway police had informed her that his return would be delayed but given her no details. It made the fireman restive. George Hawley was a weak man who sided with anyone who seemed to be in the ascendancy during an argument.
Looking from one to the other, Colbeck put a question to them.
‘Would any of you object to being searched?’ he asked.
‘No,’ replied Barrett, calmly. ‘I wouldn’t, Inspector, though I don’t really see the purpose of it.’
‘Certain items were taken from Mr Proudfoot by the killer.’
The driver stiffened with indignation. ‘You surely don’t think that we had anything to do with it?’
‘No,’ said Colbeck, ‘I don’t. But I want to be absolutely sure.’
‘You’ve no right to search me,’ declared Neale, angrily.
‘That’s why I’m asking you to turn out your pockets yourself.’ He pointed to the burly Metropolitan policeman who stood in the doorway. ‘If you find that too much of an imposition, Mr Neale, I could ask Constable Reynolds to help you.’
Neale was on his feet. ‘Keep him away from me!’
‘Then do as I request. Put your belongings on that table.’
‘Come on, Alf,’ counselled Barrett, resignedly. ‘Do as the inspector says. That goes for you, too, George.’
‘I’m no thief,’ protested Hawley.
Nevertheless, he emptied his pockets and put his few possessions on the table. Barrett followed suit and, after some cajoling, so did Neale. They even submitted to being patted down by Constable Reynolds as he searched for items concealed about their persons. None were found.