He munched disconsolately. ‘What have you been reading?’
‘All sorts of interesting things,’ she said chirpily. ‘Robert lent me some books. He has hundreds of them in his library.’
‘I’m glad you mentioned Inspector Colbeck,’ he said, swallowing a piece of bread and washing it down with a sip of tea. ‘Next time he gets in touch, tell him I need to speak to him.’
‘What about?’
‘That severed head, of course. I’ve been thinking about it a lot and I’ve got an idea of what might have happened.’
‘Why not leave the detection to Robert?’
‘He’s always grateful for help from the public.’
‘Only if it’s useful to him.’
‘Well, this will be, Maddy,’ he argued. ‘I’ve worked it out, see? It was a crime of passion. A married woman who lives in Crewe betrayed her husband with a young man from London. The husband was so angry that he took his wife’s hatbox to London – I may even have been driving the train that took him there – and killed the lover before cutting his head off. Then he took it back to Crewe to give to his wife.’
Madeleine grimaced. ‘That’s a horrible story!’
‘It could also be a true one.’
‘I doubt that very much, Father.’
‘Let the Inspector be the judge of that.’
‘He already has been.’
‘I know I’m right, Maddy. I’ve solved the crime for him.’
‘If that were the case,’ she said, ‘Robert would be grateful. But he has his own notions about the murder. To start with, that hatbox was not going to Crewe at all.’
‘It had to be – that’s where it was unloaded.’
‘Only so that it could be transferred to another train.’
‘You know nothing,’ he said, irritated at the way she dismissed his idea. ‘I’ve put a lot of thought into this. It was a crime of passion.’
‘Robert has discovered who owned that hatbox.’
‘An unfaithful wife in Crewe.’
‘Someone who lives in Surrey,’ she explained. ‘He gave me no details but he’s picked up clues that are sending him off in another direction altogether.’
Andrews was hurt. ‘You’ve discussed the case with him?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Why didn’t you keep him here until I came back? You know how keen I am to help, Maddy. I’m a bit of a detective myself.’
‘Robert didn’t call here,’ she said, ‘but he sent me a short note to say that he’d be away for a few days and would speak to me when he came back.’
‘Where has he gone – back to Crewe?’
‘Yes, Father.’
He clapped his hands. ‘I knew it!’
‘But only to change trains, I’m afraid,’ Madeleine went on. ‘He was planning to spend the night at Holyhead before catching the morning tide tomorrow.’
He was startled. ‘Where, in God’s name, is the man going?’
‘Ireland.’
Robert Colbeck’s passionate interest in railways was not only based on the fact that they could get him from one place to another quicker than any other means of transport. They also gave him a privileged view of town and country that he would never have got from a coach, and he always saw something new to admire even on lines he had used many times. After leaving Euston on the LNWR, he changed trains at Crewe, had a few cheering words with Reginald Hibbert, now restored to his job as a porter at the station, then went along the North Wales coast by courtesy of the Chester and Holyhead Railway, a line built specifically to carry the Irish mail. Some of the panoramas that unfolded before him were stunning – dramatic seascapes, sweeping bays, craggy headland, sandy beaches and long, scenic stretches of unspoilt countryside. The train hugged the coast until it reached Bangor where it gave Colbeck an experience he had been looking forward to since the moment of his departure.
He had read a great deal about the Britannia Tubular Bridge over the Menai Straits and recognised it as one of the most significant advances in railway engineering. With only existing rock for intermediate support, the bridge had to span a gap of over 450 feet that could not be traversed by suspension techniques used elsewhere. Five years in construction, the Britannia Bridge comprised two very stiff rectangular wrought-iron tubes with cellular tops and bottoms to increase rigidity. With a novel application of beam action, the tubes were made to act as continuous girders over five spans. When it was finally opened in 1850, the bridge was daring, innovative and an instant success.
Colbeck was unable to appreciate its finer points as he crossed the bridge but he felt an excitement as they entered the tube and liked the way that the clamour of the train was suddenly amplified. By the time he reached Holyhead, he had travelled 84 miles on the CHR and had relished every moment of it. Having obtained the monopoly to carry mail by land, the company had hoped to extend this to sea and had secured the powers to own and operate steamships. To their utter dismay, however, the CHR failed to win the contract for taking the mail across the Irish Sea.
When he sailed on the following morning, therefore, Colbeck did so on a vessel owned by the City of Dublin Steam Packet Company. The first thing he noticed was that far more passengers poured off the incoming steamer than actually went aboard. Emigration from Ireland had reached its peak in the previous decade when a succession of disastrous harvests had driven hundreds of thousands out of their native land. Though the process had slowed markedly, it still continued as whole families left the poverty and hunger of Ireland in the hope of finding a better life in England or beyond its shores.
The sea was choppy and the crossing uncomfortable. Gulls accompanied them all the way and kept up a mocking chorus as they dived and wheeled incessantly around the vessel. Colbeck was glad when they eventually entered the relative calm of the harbour and when he was able to step onto dry land again. He would have been interested to travel on an Irish railway but it was not possible. The place he was visiting was not accessible by rail and was, in any case, only a twenty-minute ride by cab from Dublin.
Though vast numbers had fled Ireland, not all of those who remained lived in the squalor and penury that had driven the others away. The capital city was full of beautiful Georgian properties and fine civic buildings and there was ample evidence of prosperity at every turn. Ireland had its fair share of wealthy men and, judging by the mansion in which he lived, Brian Dowd was one of them. Set in a hundred acres of parkland, the house was an impressive piece of Regency architecture that stood four-square on a plateau and commanded inspiring views on every side. At its rear was the extensive stable block that Colbeck had come to visit.
He had no difficulty picking out Brian Dowd. Standing in the middle of the yard, the racehorse owner and trainer was a bull-necked man in his fifties with a solid frame and a gnarled face. He wore an old jacket, mud-spattered trousers and a bowler hat. Yelling orders to all and sundry, he had a natural authority that gained him unquestioning obedience. Colbeck ran an eye along the stalls and guessed that at least thirty racehorses were kept there. He walked across to Dowd and introduced himself. The Irishman laughed affably.
‘Have you come to arrest me, then, Inspector?’ he taunted. ‘Since when has there been a law against breeding a Derby winner?’
‘It doesn’t exist, Mr Dowd. Over the years, Parliament has put many absurd pieces of legislation in the statute book but it’s far too fond of racing even to contemplate such a ridiculous law as that.’ He shook hands with Dowd and felt the strength of his grip. ‘No, I come on a different errand.’
‘Pleasant or unpleasant?’
‘Unpleasant, I fear.’
‘Then let’s discuss this over a drink.’
He led Colbeck to an office at the edge of the stable block and took him in. Horses dominated the little room. Every wall was covered with paintings of them and their smell pervaded the whole place. Equine memorabilia covered the desk. While his visitor removed his top hat and looked around, Dowd produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from a cupboard. He poured the liquid out generously.