It was not strictly correct. Since the sergeant had been parted from his wife overnight, Colbeck had shown his usual compassion and allowed him to go home as soon as they reached Euston, instructing him to call at the morgue for the report on his way back to work. Tallis would not have approved.
‘No luck at Euston, then?’ asked the superintendent.
‘None whatsoever,’ replied Colbeck. ‘We spoke to all the porters who helped to load that particular train but not one of them recalled a hatbox or the person carrying it. They stow so much luggage aboard in the course of an average morning that it’s impossible to remember individual items.’ He raised the hatbox. ‘It was only by complete chance that we learnt what was in this.’
‘Let me take a look at it,’ said Tallis.
Putting his cigar down in the tray, he stood up and took the hatbox from Colbeck, noting the broken strap and the dent in the shiny leather where it had been struck by the heavy trunk. Tallis opened it slowly, as if still expecting to find a severed head inside. As it was, he was still surprised by what he saw. A pleasing aroma drifted into his nostrils and countered the smell of tobacco smoke.
‘Herbs,’ explained Colbeck. ‘The interior of the box was scented and, as you see, packed with wool.’
‘What was the purpose of that?’
‘It was not for the comfort of its occupant, sir, that much is certain. My guess is that the wool was used to prevent the head from rolling around and the herbs were there to kill any unpleasant odour. The care taken also suggests that the hatbox was going on a lengthy journey which may not have ended at Crewe.’
‘But that’s where it was unloaded.’
‘It’s the hub of the LNWR. Trains go off in all directions. The passenger carrying that hatbox might have been travelling on to another destination.’
Tallis lowered the lid. ‘How do you intend to find him?’
‘By starting with the hatmaker, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘What you failed to notice was that his name is on the underside of the lid.’
‘I assumed that it would be,’ claimed the superintendent gruffly. ‘It’s standard practice in the trade.’
Colbeck was amused. ‘I didn’t know that you were so well informed about the running of ladies’ hat shops,’ he said wryly. ‘They are the last places in London where I’d expect to find you.’
‘This is no time for drollery, Inspector.’
‘I was merely making an observation, sir.’
‘One that’s entirely uncalled for,’ said Tallis.
‘Yes, sir.’
Tallis looked at the ticket attached to the hatbox. ‘Mr D Key. I don’t suppose that particular key will open any doors for us. It’s sure to be a false name.’
‘Elijah Swinnerton, however, is certainly not.’
‘Who the devil is he?’
‘The milliner,’ said Colbeck with a disarming smile. ‘The one whose name you rightly assumed would be inside the hatbox.’
Tallis bristled. ‘Do I detect a note of sarcasm?’
‘Mistakenly, sir.’
‘I’ll brook no mockery, Inspector.’
‘None is intended,’ said Colbeck, stretching out his hands. ‘If I may have the box back, Superintendent, then I propose to go and meet Elijah Swinnerton right now. I have every confidence that he will be able to point us in the right direction.’
Jermyn Street had been a fashionable address ever since the reign of Charles II when it was first built and when it numbered luminaries such as the future Duke of Marlborough among its residents. It still boasted many fine houses but had also acquired a reputation for its hotels and its many shops. Gentlemen’s outfitters had started to appear alongside specialist shirtmakers, shoemakers and hatters. The bow-fronted establishment owned by Elijah Swinnerton was the only one that sold quality millinery and its popularity among wealthy ladies had grown steadily during the five years of its existence.
Though the staff was entirely female, it was presided over by Swinnerton himself, a vigilant man who watched his employees with care and reserved for himself the privilege of serving any titled customers. Tall, slim, beak-nosed, dark-haired, of middle height and years, Swinnerton was immaculately attired in a frock coat and striped trousers with a red cravat bursting out from under his chin like a giant rose. Seasoned in all the arts of flattery, he was much liked by his customers for his fastidiousness, his delicate hand gestures and his confiding manner. Most men felt less at ease in his presence, finding him altogether too foppish to suit their taste.
It was very busy in the shop that day and every member of staff was serving an individual customer. Elijah Swinnerton adopted a purely supervisory role until a tall, well-favoured, elegant man came through the door, carrying a hatbox. Struck by his appearance, the owner ran an appreciative eye over him before crossing to greet him.
‘Good day to you, good sir,’ he said, glancing at the hatbox. ‘I hope that you’re not here to return one of our hats.’
‘Am I speaking to Mr Swinnerton?’ asked Colbeck.
‘The very same.’
‘Then perhaps I could have a word with you in private, sir.’
‘To what does it pertain?’
‘I’ll tell you when we’re alone, Mr Swinnerton.’
‘And who might you be, may I ask?’
‘Inspector Robert Colbeck from Scotland Yard.’
Swinnerton’s unctuous smile vanished immediately and he looked round nervously, hoping that nobody else had heard the name. A visit from a detective was unlikely to bring good news and he did not want his clientele upset by any bad tidings. Escorting his visitor to a storeroom at the back of the premises, he closed the door firmly behind them. Alone with the man in a confined space, Colbeck caught a faint whiff of perfume. One shelf was lined with hatboxes very much like the one that he had brought. He held it up.
‘Do you recognise this, Mr Swinnerton?’
‘Of course,’ replied the other. ‘It was sold here.’
‘Does everyone buy a leather box with their hat?’
‘By no means, Inspector – most of the ladies with whom we deal already have a travelling hatbox. They take home what they purchase in a cardboard box with my name exquisitely emblazoned on its top.’
‘Buying something like this, then,’ said Colbeck, indicating the hatbox, ‘is the exception rather than the rule.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘So there’s a good chance that you might remember to whom this particular item was sold?’
‘It’s not a question of chance, Inspector,’ said Swinnerton, adjusting his cravat. ‘I keep a careful record of each sale. That record, of course, is highly confidential. Before I could even begin to think of providing you with a name, I’d need to know how Scotland Yard came by the item in the first place.’
‘That’s your right, sir, and I’m happy to oblige you. When this hatbox was damaged on Crewe railway station, a human head was found inside it.’
‘Oh, my God!’ cried the other, shying away as if Colbeck had just produced a severed head from the box like a conjuror extracting a rabbit. ‘Please don’t tell me that the silk lining was soaked in blood.’
‘It was not, sir. Whoever put the head in here took great care not to soil it in any way. It was even filled with aromatic herbs.’
‘A head in a hatbox – what a gruesome thought!’
‘I need to find the person who put it there, Mr Swinnerton.’
‘You may rely on my complete cooperation.’
‘Then tell me who bought this from you,’ said Colbeck. ‘That will at least give me a starting point.’