‘The victim was a director of the Midland Railway.’
‘That proves my point. The killer was probably a discontented customer and there are plenty of those, believe me.’
Madeleine Colbeck was so struck by the absurdity of her father’s claim that she burst out laughing. It only encouraged Andrews to repeat his claim. Having retired after a lifetime’s service on the railway, the former engine driver had contempt for all the companies except the one for whom he’d worked. In the past, he’d reserved his bitterest criticism for the Great Western Railway but, Madeleine now discovered, he was ready to pour even more scorn on the Midland.
‘It’s a complete hotchpotch, Maddy,’ he said. ‘It’s made up of three companies who should have been strangled at birth — North Midland, Midland Counties, Birmingham and Derby Junction. Not one of them could provide a decent service. When they joined together to form the Midland Railway, they fell into the hands of a money-grubbing monster named George Hudson.’
‘Yes, I know. Robert has told me all about the so-called Railway King. He was forced to resign in the end, wasn’t he?’
‘He should have been lashed to the buffers of one of his own engines.’
‘But he was hailed as a hero at one time.’
‘Not by me, he wasn’t. From the very start I thought he was a crook.’
Madeleine let him rant on. When her father was in such a mood, he was like a locomotive with a full head of steam and had to be allowed to let some of it off. They were in the house in John Islip Street that she shared with her husband and was always pleased when her father came to visit, especially as he’d finally become accustomed to the notion of her having servants at her beck and call. Andrews was a short, wiry man with a fringe beard now salted with white hairs. Rocked by the death of his wife years earlier, he’d been helped through the period of mourning by his daughter who’d had to accommodate her own anguish at the same time. It had drawn them closer, though there were moments when Madeleine reminded him so much of his beautiful wife that Andrews could only marvel at her.
She had undergone a remarkable transformation, moving from a small house in Camden Town to a much larger one in Westminster and leaving a crotchety father to live with an indulgent husband. What united all three of them was a mutual passion for railways. There was only one disadvantage to that. With a son-in-law dedicated to solving crimes connected with railways, Andrews kept trying to appoint himself as an unpaid assistant.
‘Robert should have come to me before he left,’ he asserted. ‘I’d have told him all that he needed to know about the Midland Railway.’
‘Valuable as it would have been,’ she said, tactfully, ‘he didn’t have time to listen to your advice. When the summons came, he dashed off to Derby without even coming home first. Robert sent word of where he’d gone.’
‘When you hear more about this murder, let me know.’
‘I will.’
‘I may be able to help in some way.’
‘You’re not a detective, Father.’
‘I’ve got a sixth sense where railways are concerned, Maddy. Look at that threat to the royal family. I was the first person to realise the danger.’
‘That’s true,’ she conceded.
‘I made a big difference in that case,’ he boasted, ‘and I may be able to do exactly the same again with this one. Be sure you tell me all the details. I could be useful.’
Madeleine wondered why it sounded more like a threat than a kind offer.
Augustus Hadlow was a sharp-featured, stooping man in his forties with a low voice and a pleasant manner. The son of a country doctor, he’d followed his father into the medical profession and had worked in Spondon for well over a decade. When they called at his house, a fine Georgian edifice with classical proportions, the detectives were given a cordial welcome before being conducted to the room in which the cadaver of Vivian Quayle was being kept. Herbs had been used to combat the smell of death. Quayle lay naked beneath a shroud and Colbeck noted how carefully his clothing had been folded before being draped over a chair. After checking the label, he examined the frock coat briefly. Though soiled by its contact with bare earth, it was not torn and the buttons were intact. Quayle’s shoes stood beside the garments but something was missing.
‘Where is his hat?’ asked Colbeck.
‘He didn’t have one, Inspector,’ replied the doctor.
‘A gentleman like Mr Quayle would never travel without a hat.’
‘Then it must have been stolen by the killer,’ surmised Leeming. ‘Why take a hat yet leave a wallet and a watch behind?’
‘That’s one more mystery for us to unravel, Sergeant. Tell me, Doctor,’ he went on, turning to Hadlow, ‘what made you decide that he’d been poisoned?’
‘I couldn’t think of any other possible explanation for his death,’ said Hadlow. ‘When I got him back here and was able to examine him properly, I saw puncture marks on his arm.’ He pulled back the shroud to reveal the corpse. Hadlow indicated a mark on one arm. ‘Something lethal was injected into the vein.’
‘Have you any idea what it could be?’
‘No, Inspector, I’m not an expert on poisons, I’m afraid.’
‘What struck you when you first saw the body?’
‘Well, I couldn’t believe that I was looking at a murder victim. It’s a strange thing to say about him but … it was almost as if he looked at peace.’
Wigg fell prey to light sarcasm. ‘Are you suggesting that he climbed into the grave of his own volition then met his Maker by injecting himself with poison?’
‘Of course not, Superintendent — there was no syringe.’
‘And there was no reason to take his own life,’ said Colbeck. ‘Didn’t you say that Mr Quayle was in line to be the next chairman of the Midland Railway?’
‘It was a foregone conclusion,’ said Wigg. ‘Mr Quayle was an ambitious man with a lot to live for. He’d never commit suicide. His death allows Mr Haygarth to collect the spoils. In the emergency, during the interregnum caused by the resignation of the previous chairman, he’d appointed himself as the acting chairman.’
Colbeck remembered that, in the telegraph sent to Scotland Yard, Haygarth was described as the chairman. Before the board approved of his appointment, he had already promoted himself. Both detectives had been studying the corpse and trying to work out what Quayle must have looked like when alive. Though he was reportedly in his late fifties, he seemed much younger and was passably handsome with dark, curly hair and a well-trimmed moustache. Even in that undignified position, he somehow looked a more imposing figure than Donald Haygarth.
Responding to a nod from Colbeck, the doctor covered the body up again.
‘Can I ask you a question, Dr Hadlow?’ said Leeming. ‘You were involved when Enoch Stone was killed, weren’t you?’
‘Do we have to drag that case up again?’ protested Wigg.
‘You told us that the investigation was ongoing, Superintendent.’
‘Yes, but you’re not here to meddle in it. One murder is enough to keep you occupied, I fancy. Please confine yourself to that.’
‘We’re bound to wonder if there’s any link between the two killings.’
‘None at all,’ said Wigg. ‘Don’t you agree, Doctor Hadlow?’
‘On the face of it,’ replied the other, ‘I’d have to endorse your opinion. Stone was the victim of a brutal assault while Mr Quayle seems to have escaped violence. Then, of course, their stations in life were far apart. One came from humble stock while the other was extremely wealthy, if his attire is anything to judge by. I see no connection between the two crimes, Sergeant.’
‘Except the obvious one,’ added Colbeck. ‘Both men were killed in Spondon. Was that a bizarre coincidence?’
‘I don’t know, Inspector.’
‘I do,’ said Wigg, firmly. ‘Yes, it was a coincidence, so can we please forget Enoch Stone and concentrate our efforts on finding out who killed Mr Quayle?’