‘Not in my opinion.’
‘Have you forgotten what the tailor told me about Daniel Slender?’ asked Colbeck. ‘Here was a man from a modest background in the Midlands, suddenly finding himself in London with money in his pockets. And what pleased him most was that he was about to rub shoulders with what he called a better class of person. In short, with gentlemen.’
‘What’s the second thing we know about this fellow?’
‘He was in the army.’
Leeming was surprised. ‘You sound very certain of that, sir.’
‘I’d put money on it,’ said Colbeck, ‘and, as you know, I am not a betting man. The train robbery was no random attack. It was a military operation that was planned and, I daresay, rehearsed very carefully. Only someone who is used to commanding a body of men like that could have brought it off. So,’ he went on, ‘what do we have so far?’
‘An officer and a gentleman.’
‘Add the most telling thing about him, Victor.’
‘He’s a cold-blooded killer.’
‘Cast your mind back to the robbery itself.’
‘It’s as you say,’ conceded the other. ‘He knew when and how to strike and, as a result, got away with the money and the mail bags.’
‘What other part of his plan was put into action?’
Leeming needed a moment for consideration. ‘The locomotive was deliberately run off the track,’ he remembered.
‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, snapping his fingers. ‘Severe damage was inflicted and Caleb Andrews’s beloved engine was put out of action for a long time. What sort of person would do that, Victor?’
‘Someone who hates trains.’
Sir Humphrey Gilzean sat in an open carriage on the Berkshire Downs and watched his racehorses being put through their paces. Bunched together, they thundered past and left a flurry of dust in their wake. Gilzean’s eyes were on the black colt at the front of the group. As they galloped on, its rider used his whip to coax extra speed out of his mount and the colt surged ahead of the others to establish a lead of several lengths. Gilzean slapped his thigh in delight. He turned to his trainer, a big, sturdy man, who sat astride a chestnut mare beside him.
‘That’s what I want from him,’ he declared.
‘Starlight is a fine horse, Sir Humphrey,’ said the trainer.
‘Good enough to win the Derby?’
‘If he loses, it will not be for want of trying. Starlight has a turn of foot to leave most colts and fillies behind. The secret is to bring him to a peak at just the right time.’
‘I rely on you to do that, Welsby.’
‘Yes, Sir Humphrey.’
‘Starlight was certainly expensive enough to win the Derby,’ said Gilzean, as the horses ended their race and trotted back in his direction. ‘I expect a return on my investment.’
‘Naturally.’
‘Make sure that I get it.’
He was about to give some more instructions to his trainer when the distant sound of a train whistle distracted him. Gilzean’s eyes flashed and his jaw tightened. He dispatched the trainer with a dismissive flick of his hand then spoke to the driver of the carriage.
‘Take me home.’
‘Yes, Sir Humphrey.’
‘By way of the church.’
The coachman cracked his whip and the two horses pulled the carriage in a semicircle before setting off across the Downs at a steady trot. It was a large estate, parts of which were farmed by tenants. Some of the land was arable but most was given over to herds of dairy cattle and flocks of sheep. Gilzean found the sight of so many animals grazing in the fields strangely reassuring. There was a timelessness about the scene that appealed to him, an unspoilt, unhurried, natural quality that he had known and loved since he was a small child. It was the English countryside at its best.
Sitting erect in the carriage, Sir Humphrey Gilzean was a striking figure in his late thirties, tall, slim, swarthy of complexion and with finely chiselled features. Dressed in the most fashionable attire, he had the unmistakable air of an aristocrat, allied to the physique and disposition of a soldier. Even at his most relaxed, he exuded a sense of authority. As he was driven past the labourers in the fields, he collected an endless sequence of servile nods or obsequious salutes.
The Norman church stood at the edge of the village. Built of local stone, it was a small but solid structure that had withstood the unruly elements for centuries. Its square tower was surmounted by a little steeple with a weathervane at its apex. The churchyard was enclosed by a low and irregular stone wall, pierced by a wooden lychgate. Members of the Gilzean family had been buried there for generations, and it was their money that had kept the church in a state of good repair. When the carriage drew up outside the lychgate, Gilzean got out and tossed a curt command over his shoulder.
‘Wait here,’ he said to the coachman. ‘I may be some time.’
During an investigation, leisure did not exist for Robert Colbeck. Having worked until late, he was back at his desk early the following morning so that he could collate all the evidence that had so far been gathered and address his mind to it when there was little chance of interruption. He had been at Scotland Yard for almost two hours before he was disturbed by the arrival of a clerk.
‘Excuse me, Inspector,’ said the man, putting his head around the door. ‘There’s a young lady to see you.’
‘Miss Andrews?’ asked Colbeck, hoping that it might be her.
‘No, sir. She gave her name as Miss Woodhead.’
‘Then you had better shown her in.’
When his visitor came into the room, Colbeck got to his feet for the introductions. Nobody could have been less like Madeleine Andrews than the shy, hesitant creature who stood before him in a state of such obvious distress. Bella Woodhead was a short, plump and decidedly plain young woman in nondescript clothing and a faded straw hat. Offered a chair, she sat on the very edge of it. Colbeck could see that her hands were trembling.
‘You wished to see me, Miss Woodhead?’ he inquired.
‘Yes, Inspector. I have something to tell you.’
‘May I know what it concerns?’
She swallowed hard. ‘Mr Ings,’ she murmured.
‘William Ings?’
‘We read the newspaper this morning and saw the report of his death.’ She gave a shudder. ‘We could not believe it at first. When we saw that William – Mr Ings, that is – might actually be connected with this train robbery, we were shocked. It was like a blow in the face.’
‘How did you come to know Mr Ings?’ asked Colbeck.
‘I work at the Post Office.’
‘I see.’
‘Only in a minor capacity, of course,’ she said with a self-effacing smile. ‘I am merely a clerk there. He was far more senior. Mr Ings was well-respected. The Post Office held him in high regard.’
Colbeck could tell from the way that she said the man’s name that she had enjoyed a closer relationship with Ings than any of his other colleagues. Bella Woodhead was too honest and unschooled to disguise her feelings. Stunned by the news of his murder, she had come to make a confession that was clearly causing her intense pain. Colbeck tried to make it easier for her by anticipating what she was going to say.
‘I believe that you were very fond of Mr Ings,’ he suggested.
‘Oh, I was, I was.’
‘And he, in turn, was drawn to you.’
‘That’s what he told me,’ she said, proudly, ‘and it changed my life. No man had taken the slightest interest in me before. For a time, it was like living in a dream.’ Her face crumpled. ‘Now I see that he did not mean a word of it.’ She looked up at Colbeck. ‘Is it true that he was found dead in the Devil’s Acre?’
‘Yes, Miss Woodhead.’
‘In the company of a woman?’
Colbeck nodded and she promptly burst into tears. He came across to put a consoling arm around her shoulders but it was minutes before she was able to speak again.