The Railway Viaduct

When his nostrils first picked up the potent smell of fresh fish, Leeming inhaled deeply and thankfully. The bracing aroma helped to mask the compound of unpleasant odours that had been attacking his nose and making him retch. Streets were coated with grime and soiled with animal excrement and other refuse. Soap works and a leather tannery gave off the most revolting stench. Unrelenting noise seemed to come from every direction. Leeming saw signs of hideous poverty. He could almost taste the misery in some places. Limehouse was an assault on his sensibilities. He was grateful when he reached the police station and let himself in.

A burly sergeant sat behind a high desk, polishing the brass buttons on his uniform with a handkerchief. A half-eaten sandwich lay before him. He looked at his visitor with disdain until the latter introduced himself.

'Oh, I'm sorry, sir,' he said, putting the sandwich quickly into the desk and brushing crumbs from his thighs. 'I didn't realise that you were from the Detective Department.'

'Who am I speaking to?' asked Leeming.

'Sergeant Ryall, sir. Sergeant Peter Ryall.'

'How long have you been at this station?'

'Nigh on seven years, sir.'

'Then you should be able to help us.'

'We're always ready to help Scotland Yard.'

Ryall gave him a token smile. His face had been pitted by years of police service and his red cheeks and nose revealed where he had sought solace from the cares of his occupation. But his manner was amiable and his deference unfeigned. Leeming did not criticise him for eating food while on duty. Having worked in a police station himself, he knew how such places induced an almost permanent hunger.

'I want to ask about a man you kept in custody here,' he said.

'What was his name?'

'Pierce Shannon.'

Ryall racked his brains. 'Don't remember him,' he said at length. 'Irish, I take it?'

'Very Irish.'

'Hundreds of them pass through our cells.' He lifted the lid of the desk and took out a thick ledger. 'When was he here?'

'A couple of months ago, at a guess,' said Leeming. 'When he left here, he went to France to help build a railway.' Ryall began to flick through the pages of his ledger. 'The person I'm really hoping to find is a man who visited Shannon in his cell while he was here.'

'A lawyer?'

'No – a friend.'

'We don't keep a record of visitors, Sergeant Leeming.'

'I was hoping that someone here might recall him. If he was a stranger, he'd have no authority to interview the prisoner in his cell. You'd not have let him past you.'

'That, I wouldn't,' said Ryall, stoutly.

'So how was he able to get so close to Shannon?'

'One thing at a time, sir. Let me locate the prisoner first.' He ran his finger down a list of names. 'I've a Mike Shannon here. He was arrested for forgery in June.'

'That's not him. This man was involved in a brawl.'

'Pat Shannon?' offered the other, spotting another name. 'We locked him up for starting a fight in the market. What age would your fellow be?'

'In this thirties.'

'Then it's not Pat Shannon. He was much older.' He continued his search. 'It would help if you could be more exact about the date.'

'June at the earliest, I'd say.'

'Let's try the end of May, to be on the safe side.' Ryall found the relevant page and went down the list. 'It was warm weather last May. That always keeps us busy. When it's hot and sweaty, people drink more. We attended plenty of affrays that month.' His finger jabbed a name. 'Ah, here we are!'

'Have you got him?'

'I've got a Pierce Shannon. Gave his age as thirty-five.'

'That could be him. Was he involved in a brawl?'

'Yes, sir – at the Jolly Sailor. It's a tavern by the river. We have a lot of trouble there. Shannon was one of five men arrested that night but we kept him longer than the others, it seems.'

'Why?'

'He refused to pay the fine, so we hung on to him until he could be transferred to prison. Shannon was released when someone else paid up on his behalf. He was released on June 4th.'

'Do you know who paid his fine?'

'No,' said Ryall. 'None of our business. We are just glad to get rid of them. His benefactor's name would be in the court records.'

Leeming was pleased. 'Thank you,' he said. 'You've been very helpful. While he was under lock and key here, Shannon had a visit from a man whose first name was Luke. Does that ring a bell?'

'Afraid not – but, then, it wouldn't. I wasn't on duty during the time that Pierce Shannon was held here. I spent most of May at home, recovering from injuries received during the arrest of some villains.'

'You have my warmest sympathy.'

'Horace Eames would have been in charge of custody here.'

'Then he's the man I need to speak to,' decided Leeming. 'If he let Luke Whatever-His-Name-Is into one of your cells, he would have been doing so as a favour to a friend. Inspector Colbeck thinks that friend might have been a policeman himself at one time.'

Ryall closed the ledger. 'Possible, sir. I couldn't say.'

'I need to speak to Mr Eames. Is he here, by any chance?'

'No, he left the police force in July. Horace said that he wanted a change of scene. But he's not far away from here.'

'Can you give me the address, please?'

'Gladly,' said Ryall. 'You probably walked past the place to get here. It's a boatyard. Horace was apprenticed to a carpenter before he joined the police force. He was always good with his hands. That's where you'll find him – at Forrestt's boatyard.'

The shop was in a dingy street not far from Paddington Station. It sold dresses to women of limited means and haberdashery to anyone in need of it. In a large room at the back of the premises, four women worked long hours as they made new dresses or repaired old ones. The shop was owned and run by Madame Hennebeau, a descendant of one of the many French Huguenot families that had settled in the area in the previous century. Louise Hennebeau was a tall, full-bodied widow in her fifties, with a handsome face and well-groomed hair from which every trace of grey had been hounded by a ruthless black dye. Though she had been born and brought up in England, she affected a strong French accent to remind people of her heritage.

She was very surprised when Robert Colbeck entered her shop. Men seldom came to her establishment and the few who did never achieved the striking elegance of her visitor. Madame Hennebeau gave him a smile of welcome that broadened when he doffed his top hat and allowed her to see his face. Colbeck then introduced himself and she was nonplussed. She could not understand why a detective inspector should visit her shop.

'Would you prefer to talk in English or French, Madame?'

'English will be fine, sir,' she replied.

'French might be more appropriate,' he said, 'because I am investigating the murder of a gentleman called Gaston Chabal. Indeed, I have spent some time in France itself recently.'

'I still do not see why you have come to me, Inspector.'

'While I was abroad, crimes were committed on a railway line that was being built near Mantes. The men responsible have now been arrested but, had they done what they were supposed to do, they would have been richly rewarded. To get the reward,' Colbeck explained, 'the leader of the gang was told to come here.'

'Why?' she asked, gesticulating. 'This is a dress shop.'

'It's also a place where a message could be left, apparently.'

'Really?'

'For whom was that message intended?'

'I have no idea. I think there's been some mistake.'

'I doubt it. The man I questioned was very specific about this address. He even knew your name, Madam Hennebeau.'

'How?'

'That's what I'd like you to tell me.'

Waving her arms excitedly, she went off into a long, breathy defence of herself and her business, assuring him that she had always been very law-abiding and that she had no connection whatsoever with any crimes committed in France. Her righteous indignation was genuine enough but Colbeck still sensed that she was holding something back from him. He stopped her with a raised hand.