The Railway Viaduct

CHAPTER NINE

Robert Colbeck was interested in every aspect of the railways. While he enjoyed travelling on them, he was also very curious about those who brought them into being with the brilliance of their invention or the sweat of their brow. Bridges, aqueducts, tunnels, cuttings, and drainage systems did not burst spontaneously into life. Each and every one had to be designed and built to specification. Colossal earthworks had to be constructed. Timber had to be felled and cut to size. Marshes had to be drained. Stone had to be quarried. Untold millions of bricks had to be made on site before being used to line tunnels, create ventilation shafts, solidify bridges and aqueducts, or stabilise steep embankments. A railway was a declaration of war against a contour map of the area where it was being built. Continuous and unremitting attack was needed.

When he inspected the site with Aubrey Filton that morning, Colbeck was impressed by the amount of work that had been done since the day he had first arrived there with Victor Leeming. Nobody was slacking. Everywhere he looked, men were putting their hearts and souls into their job. Brendan Mulryne, he noticed, was now helping to dig a new cutting, shovelling methodically and building up a vast mound of earth to be taken away to the wagons. Colbeck could hear his distinctive voice above the din.

'You're making headway, Mr Filton,' he observed.

'Not enough of it, Inspector.'

'Where did you expect to be at this stage?'

'At least a quarter of a mile farther on,' said the engineer. 'The French government are slave-drivers. We have targets to meet at the end of every month.'

'Everything seems to be going well now. And we've not had any incidents for the last couple of days.'

'It's the calm before the storm.'

'I don't think so,' said Colbeck. 'I believe it may have something to do with the fact that Mr Brassey took my advice about security. In addition to nightwatchmen, he now has a handful of guard dogs.'

'Yes, they're vicious-looking brutes.'

'That's the intention.'

'I'm glad that they're kept on a leash.'

'They won't be if there's any trouble, Mr Filton. The dogs will be released. The simple fact that you've got them will make any villains think twice before committing a crime. They might be able to outrun a nightwatchman,' said Colbeck, 'but not if he has four legs.'

They strolled on until they reached the forward end of the strenuous activity. Ground rose steadily ahead of them and would need to be levelled before the track could be laid. There would be more digging for Mulryne and the others. Colbeck thought about all the maps and charts he had seen in Brassey's office.

'How good an engineer was Gaston Chabal?' he asked.

'He was outstanding.'

'I'm sure that you are as well, Mr Filton, or you'd not be employed on such a major project. Was Chabal taken on because he was French or because he had remarkable skills?'

'For both reasons, Inspector.'

'But you can manage without him?'

'We have to,' said Filton. 'Fortunately, we have all the drawings and calculations he did for us, but it's not the same as having the man himself here. Gaston was a delightful fellow.'

'Everyone seems agreed on that.'

'Except his killer.'

'Yes,' said Colbeck, thoughtfully, 'I've been trying to put myself in his position – the killer, that is, not Chabal. Why did he choose the Frenchman as his target? If you wanted to halt the construction of this railway, whom would you murder?'

Filton was offended. 'I have no homicidal urges, I assure you.'

'The obvious person would be Mr Brassey.'

'Yes, that would be a calamity.'

'Who would come next?'

'One of his partners, I suppose.'

'And then it would be the leading engineer, Gaston Chabal.'

'Actually,' said Filton with a rare flash of pride, 'I was slightly senior to Gaston. I've been with Mr Brassey much longer and he always rewards loyalty.'

'In other words, Chabal's death was not a fatal blow to the building of this railway.'

'No, Inspector. It was a bitter blow but not a fatal one.'

'Then he must have been killed for symbolic reasons.'

'Symbolic?'

'He was French,' said Colbeck. 'That was the conclusive factor. A Frenchman thrown from the Sankey Viaduct – I believe that act has a weird symbolism to it.'

'What exactly is it?'

'I've yet to establish that, Mr Filton.'

'Do you still think his killer was an Englishman?'

'I'm as certain as I can be.'

'I wish I had your confidence.'

'Everything points that way, sir.'

'Not to my eyes. What possible connection is there between a crime near the Sankey Viaduct and the ones that have afflicted us here? The two railways involved have nothing whatsoever to do with each other.'

'Yes, they do.'

'What?'

'Mr Alexander Marklew, for a start. He's a director of the London and North-West Railway and a major investor in this one. And there are lots of other hidden links between the two, I feel, if only we could dig them out.'

'All that troubles me is what happens on this project, Inspector. We've had setback after setback. Unless they are checked, they could in time bring us to a dead halt.'

'That's his intention.'

'Who?'

'The man I'm after,' explained Colbeck. 'The one responsible for all the crimes that have occurred. He's very elusive. All I know about him so far is that he's conceived a hatred of this particular railway and a passion for symbols. Oh, yes,' he added. 'One more thing.'

'What's that?'

'The fellow is utterly ruthless.'

Sir Marcus Hetherington left the shareholders' meeting and called a cab with a snap of his fingers. He was a tall, slim, dignified man in his seventies with white hair curling from under his top hat and a red rose in the lapel of his frock coat. His short, white moustache was neatly trimmed. After telling the cab driver to take him to the Pall Mall, he clambered into the vehicle and settled back. Alone at last, he was able to let his mask of imperturbability drop. His face was contorted with fury and he released a few silent expletives.

It had been a disappointing meeting. Unlike many landowners, he had not seen the advent of railways as a gross intrusion of his privacy or a precursor of the destruction of the England he knew and loved. He was keenly aware of their practical value. Since he was paid a great deal of money by way of compensation, he was happy for a line to be built across his estates. The proximity of the railway station enabled him to reach London much more quickly from Essex than by travelling in a coach. That was a bonus.

Sir Marcus had always considered himself a forward-thinking man. Railways were set to revolutionise the whole country and he wanted to be part of that revolution. As a result, he took some of the capital he had received in compensation from one railway company and invested it in a couple of others. When the market was buoyant, dividends were high and he congratulated himself on his acumen. Once the bubble had burst so spectacularly, however, he had been one of the many victims. At the meeting he had just left, the chairman had informed the assembled throng that no dividends at all would be payable to shareholders for the foreseeable future. It was infuriating.

When he reached the Reform Club, the first thing he did was to order a stiff whisky. Reclining in his high-backed leather chair, he sipped it gratefully and bestowed a patrician smile on all who passed. In the sedate surroundings of the club, he could not let his seething rage show. He had to simmer inwardly. One of the uniformed stewards came across to him and inclined his head with deference.

'There's a gentleman asking for you, Sir Marcus,' he said.

'Did he give a name?'

'He sent his card.'

The steward handed it over and the old man glanced at it.

'Send him in, Jellings,' he said, crisply, 'and bring him a glass of whisky. Put it on my account, there's a good chap.'