The Railway Viaduct

'How are things here, sir?' asked Colbeck.

'Mysteriously quiet.'

'The noise was as loud as ever when I arrived.'

'I was referring to the problems that have been dogging us of late,' said Brassey. 'We've had almost five days in a row now without any more nasty surprises.'

'That's good to hear.'

'How long it will last, though, is another matter.'

'Yes, it would be foolish to imagine that it was over.'

'I'd never do that, Inspector. What's made the difference is those guard dogs you suggested we might get. There are only four of them but they seem to have had the desired effect.'

'Don't forget the other form of restraint we imposed.'

'What was that?'

'Brendan Mulryne.'

'He's settled in well, from what I hear.'

'They're still not sure of him,' explained Colbeck. 'That's why they've been so well-behaved of late. They're biding their time as they try to work out if Brendan is friend or foe.'

'He's a very different animal from Sergeant Leeming.'

'But he remains suspect, Mr Brassey. Victor joins the camp as a stranger and, within a day, he starts to show too much interest in what's going on.'

'He paid dearly for that.'

'He tried to rush things, sir.'

'What about Mulryne?'

'I told him to be more circumspect. He'll not rush anything. And you must remember that he's still a new man in the camp, so they're bound to have some reservations about him.'

'You mean that they've stayed their hand because of Mulryne?'

'For the time being.'

'When do you think they will strike again?'

'Soon,' said Colbeck. 'Very soon.'

Brendan Mulryne caroused as usual at the village inn that night and indulged in lively badinage with the others. In a crowd of big, powerful, boisterous, hard-drinking Irishmen, he still managed to stick out. His wild antics and devil-may-care attitude made even the rowdiest of them seem tame by comparison. They had seen him get drunk, watched him fight and heard him sing the most deliciously obscene songs. They had also stood by as he turned his battered charm on the pretty barmaids at the inn. Brendan Mulryne was a vibrant character and they were pleased to have him there.

'Are you coming back to the camp, Brendan?' said someone.

'Hold your hour and have another brandy,' he replied.

'I've no money left.'

'Nor me,' said another man. 'We're off, Brendan.'

Mulryne waved a hand. 'I'll not be far behind you, lads.'

In fact, he was deliberately lagging behind. Liam Kilfoyle had told him to do so because there might be an opportunity for him to make some money. Mulryne jumped at the invitation. When the place finally emptied, he left with Kilfoyle and began the walk back to the camp. It was not long before someone stepped out of the bushes to join them. Pierce Shannon put an arm on Mulryne's shoulder.

'I'm told you're with us, Brendan,' he said.

'I'm with anyone who pays me.'

'And what are you prepared to do for the money?'

'Anything at all,' said Mulryne, expansively, 'as long as it doesn't involve going to church or getting involved in any way with the bleeding priesthood.'

'That goes for me, too,' said Kilfoyle.

'So you don't mind breaking the law, then?' said Shannon.

Mulryne grinned. 'I'll break as many as you like.'

'We'll be in trouble if we're caught.'

'So what, Pierce? Life's far too short to worry about things like that. Just pay me the money and tell me what I have to do.'

'I'll show you.'

They strode on across the fields until the lights of the camp came into view. Lanterns twinkled and a few of the fires that had been lit to cook food were still burning away. When they got closer to the huddle of shacks and houses, Shannon stopped and waited until the last of the navvies had vanished into their temporary homes.

'This way,' he said.

He struck off to the left with Mulryne and Kilfoyle behind him. They reached the railway line and began to walk along the track. When they came to a line of wagons, Shannon called them to a halt. Mulryne gave a knowing chuckle.

'So that's it,' he said. 'It's another bet.'

'Not this time,' Shannon told him.

'I smell a trick when I see one. You're going to challenge me to lift one of those fucking wagons because you know it's filled to the brim with ballast. I'm not that strong,' he said, cheerily, 'and I'm not that stupid either.'

'We don't want you to lift it, Brendan.'

'Then what do you want?'

'You'll see.'

Shannon went off to scrabble around in the dark, then he returned with a long, thick, wooden pole and a length of rope that he had hidden there earlier. Mulryne stared at the pole.

'What's that?' he asked.

'A lever,' replied Shannon.

'Yes, but what's it for?'

'Making money.'

Aubrey Filton had to hold back tears when he escorted the two of them to the scene. Eight wagons had been uncoupled and tipped off the line, spilling their respective cargoes as they did so. The rolling stock had been badly damaged and the mess would take precious time to clear away. Thomas Brassey gave a philosophical shrug, but Robert Colbeck walked around the wagons to look at them from every angle. He bent down to pull out the long wooden pole. Beside it was a length of rope. He held both of them up.

'This is how it was done, I fancy,' he said. 'Someone levered the wagon over while someone else pulled it from the other side with a rope. Those wagons are heavy enough when they're empty. Loaded, they must weigh several tons.'

'It must have taken at least a dozen men.'

Colbeck thought of Mulryne. 'Not necessarily, Mr Filton.'

'Look at the mess they've made!'

'What puzzles me,' said Brassey, staring balefully at the broken wagons, 'is how they contrived to get past the nightwatchmen – not to mention the dogs.'

'That's the other thing I have to report, sir,' said Filton.

'What?'

'It's those guard dogs. Someone fed them poisoned meat.'

Brassey was stunned. 'You mean that they're dead?'

'Dead as a doornail, sir. All four of them.'

CHAPTER TEN

Victor Leeming was a hopeless patient. It was not in his nature to sit quietly at home while he recovered from the beating he had taken. It was wonderful to spend so much time with his wife, Estelle, and to be able to play with the children, but the enforced idleness soon began to vex him. The visitors did not help. A number of police colleagues had called at the house out of genuine concern for Leeming and it was reassuring to know that he had so many friends. What irked him was that they invariably talked about the cases on which they were working, emphasising the fact that, while they were still doing their duty, he was missing all the excitement of being employed by the Metropolitan Police Force. Leeming burned with envy. He was desperate to go back.

While his facial injuries were starting to fade, however, his ribs remained sore and he could only sleep in certain positions. Returning to work was still out of the question, but that did not mean he had to be shackled all day to the house. He was anxious to know how Inspector Colbeck was getting on in France. He was interested to hear if there had been any developments in the case on this side of the Channel. He was eager to experience the surge of raw pleasure that he always got when he crossed the threshold of Scotland Yard. Victor Leeming wanted to feel like a detective again.

Superintendent Edward Tallis did not give him a warm welcome.

'Is that you, Leeming?' he said with blunt disapproval.

'Yes, sir.'

'You should be in bed, man.'

'I feel much better now,' insisted Leeming.

'Well, you don't look it. Appearance is everything in our profession,' said Tallis, adjusting his frock coat. 'It conveys a sense of confidence and is a mark of self-respect. It's one of the first things that one learns in the army.'