The Railway Viaduct

'No, I didn't.'

'Well, there are. Mr Brassey showed me the contract.'

'Did he give you the name of the traitor?'

'No, but I still think he was called Pierce Shannon. You opened your mouth once too often.'

'Everybody knew that something was afoot tonight,' said Shannon, 'but only those who were coming knew the fucking time and place. Somehow, Mr Brassey got hold of those details.'

'God works in mysterious ways.'

'This was nothing to do with God. We've got a spy in our ranks.'

'Then you should thank him – he saved your jobs.'

'And what if these bloody raids go on, Father? What if we get another explosion or some more damage in the tunnel? What if someone starts a real fire next time? What would happen to our fucking jobs then? Answer me that.' Shannon was breathing heavily. 'And while you're at it,' he continued, angrily, 'you can answer another bloody question as well.'

'If you could phrase it more sweetly, maybe I will.'

'Since you didn't betray us, who, in the bowels of Christ, did?'

Victor Leeming had never spent such an uncomfortable night before. He was, by turns, appalled by what he saw, nauseated by what he smelt and disgusted that human beings could live in such a way. The Irish camp consisted of ragged tents, rickety wooden huts and ramshackle cottages built out of stone, timber, thatch and clods of earth. In such dwellings, there was no trace of mortar to hold things together. Gaps in the roof and walls would, in due course, let in wind, rain and snow. Vermin could enter freely. It was grim and cheerless. Leeming had seen farmyard animals with better accommodation.

When he had been invited to go to the flimsy shack where Liam Kilfoyle slept, he did not realise that he would be sleeping on flagstones and sharing a room with five other people. Two of them were women, and Leeming was shocked when the men beside them each mounted their so-called wives and took their pleasure to the accompaniment of raucous female laughter. It was worlds away from the kind of tender union that Leeming and Estelle enjoyed. Simply being in the same room as the noisy, public, unrestrained rutting made him feel tainted. Kilfoyle, by contrast, was amused by it all. As he lay beside Leeming, he whispered a secret.

'The fat one is called Bridget,' he said, grinning inanely. 'I have her sometimes when Fergal goes to sleep. You can fuck her as well, if you want to.'

Leeming was sickened by the thought. 'No, thank you.'

'It's quite safe. Fergal never wakes up.'

'I'm too tired, Liam.'

'Please yourself. I'll have Bridget later on.'

Leeming wondered how many more nights he would have to endure such horror. During his days in uniform, he had raided brothels in some of the most insalubrious areas of London but he had seen nothing to equal this. He could not understand how anyone could bear to live in such conditions. What he did admire about the navvies was their brute strength. After one day, his hands were badly blistered and he was aching all over, yet the others made light of the exhausting work. Navvies had incredible stamina. Leeming could not match it for long. To take his mind off his immediate discomfort, he tried to probe for information.

'Liam?'

'Yes?'

'What if we were wrong?'

'Wrong about what?'

'The French,' said Leeming, quietly. 'Suppose that it wasn't them who set off that explosion?'

'It had to be them, Victor.'

'Yes, but suppose – only suppose, mind you – that it wasn't? If it was someone from this camp, for instance, who'd be the most likely person to have done it?'

'What a stupid question!'

'Think it through,' advised Leeming.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, it has to be someone who knows how to handle gunpowder, for a start. It's very easy to blow yourself up with that stuff. Is there anyone here who's had any experience of blasting rock before? I heard that the gunpowder was stolen from near here.'

'It was.'

'Who could have taken it?'

'Some bleeding Frenchie.'

'It's a long way to come from their camp.'

'Yes,' said Kilfoyle slowly, as if the idea had never occurred to him. 'You're fucking right, Victor.'

'So who, in this camp, knows how to handle gunpowder?'

'Not me, I can tell you that.'

'Somebody must have had experience.'

'So?'

'I just wondered who it might be, that's all.'

'He needs catching, whoever the bastard is.'

'Have you any idea at all who it could be?'

'No.'

'Think hard, Liam.'

'Don't ask me.' He fell silent and cupped a hand to his ear so that he could hear more clearly. A loud snore came from the other side of the room. 'That's Fergal,' he said with snigger. 'Fast asleep. I'm off to shag his wife.' He sat up. 'Shall I tell Bridget you'll be over to take your turn after me?'

Leeming's blushes went unseen in the dark.

Caleb Andrews was late getting home that night. When he came off duty at Euston, he went for a drink in a public house frequented by railwaymen and tried to bolster his confidence by beating his fireman at several games of draughts. His winnings were all spent on beer. As he rolled home to Camden, therefore, he was in a cheerful mood. His supremacy on the draughts board had been restored and several pints of beer had given him a sense of well-being. He let himself into his house and found his daughter working by the light of an oil lamp.

'Still up, Maddy?' he asked.

'Yes, Father,' she replied. 'I just wanted to finish this.'

He looked over her shoulder. 'What is it – a portrait of me?'

'No, it's the Sankey Viaduct.'

'Is it? Bless my soul!'

Since his vision was impaired after so much alcohol, he needed to put his face very close to the paper in order to see the drawing. Even then he had difficulty picking out some of the pencil lines.

'It's good, Maddy.'

'You've been drinking,' she said. 'I can smell it on your breath.'

'I was celebrating.'

'Celebrating what?'

'I won ten games of draughts in a row.'

'Are you ready for another game with me?'

'No, no,' he said, backing away. 'I'll not let you take advantage of your poor father when he can't even see straight. But why are you drawing the Sankey Viaduct? You've never even seen it.'

'Robert described it to me.'

'I could have done that. I've been over it.'

'Yes, Father, but you were driving an engine at the time. You've never seen the viaduct from below as Robert has. According to him, it was a painting rather like this that will help to solve the murder.'

'I don't see how.'

Madeleine put her pencil aside and got up from her chair. She explained how Ambrose Hooper had witnessed the body being hurled over the viaduct, and how he had duly recorded the moment in his watercolour of the scene. She felt privileged that Colbeck had confided the information to her. What both she and the inspector knew was that the murder victim had been on his way to an assignation, but it was something she would not confide to her father. Caleb Andrews would have been alarmed to hear that she had been involved in a police investigation. More worrying from Madeleine's point of view was that fact that he was likely to pass on the information over a drink with his railway colleagues. Discretion was unknown to him.

'Why do you want to draw the Sankey Viaduct?' he wondered.

'I was just passing an idle hour.'

'You're never idle, Maddy. You take after me.'

'Robert told me so much about it that I wanted to put it down on paper. It's not something I'd ever expect to sell. I was just trying to do what Mr Hooper did and reconstruct the crime.'

'The real crime was committed by the guard on that train,' said Andrews with passion. 'He should have kept his eyes open. If he'd seen that body being thrown from the train, he could have jumped on to the platform at the next stop and caught the killer before he could sneak away.'