The Railway Viaduct

The first thing he noticed when he reached the railway station was the visible presence of uniformed policemen. Inspector Heyford had obviously taken Colbeck's strictures to heart. Leeming bought a return ticket to Manchester then picked up a copy of the Liverpool Times from a vendor with a stentorian voice. The murder attracted a banner headline on the front page. Colbeck's appeal for information was also given prominence. There was no mention of Inspector Sidney Heyford. The Liverpool constabulary had been eclipsed by the arrival of two detectives from Scotland Yard. Leeming was glad that nobody in the bustling station knew that he was one of the men dispatched from London. In his present somnambulistic state, he was hardly a good advertisement for the Metropolitan Police.

The platform was crowded, the noise of trains was deafening and the billowing steam was an impenetrable fog that seemed to thicken insidiously with every minute and invade his nostrils. In the previous year, Lime Street Station had been considerably enlarged, its majestic iron structure being the first of its kind. Leeming was unable to see this marvel of industrial architecture. His mind was on the harrowing journey ahead. When the train pulled in and shed its passengers, he braced himself and climbed aboard. The newspaper kept him awake long enough for him to read the front page. Then the locomotive exploded into action and the train jerked forward like an angry mastiff pulling on a leash.

Within seconds, Victor Leeming was fast asleep.

Inspector Robert Colbeck also spent time at Lime Street that morning, but he made sure that he saw every inch of it, struck by how much railway stations had improved in the past twenty years. It did not have the classical magnificence of Euston, but it had a reassuring solidity and was supremely functional. Even though it was used by thousands of passengers every week, it still had an air of newness about it. Colbeck was there to meet the train from which the murder victim had been hurled on the previous day, hoping that Sergeant Leeming's visit to Manchester had borne fruit.

Blackboards had been set up along the platform with a question chalked on them in large capitals – DID YOU TRAVEL ON THIS TRAIN YESTERDAY? – and policemen were ready to talk to anyone who came forward. Colbeck watched with approval. Long before the train had even arrived at Lime Street, however, Constable Walter Praine bore down purposefully on the detective.

'Excuse me, Inspector,' he said. 'May I have a word, please?'

'Of course,' replied Colbeck.

'There's someone at the police station who refuses to speak to anyone but you. He saw your name in the newspaper this morning and says that he has important information for the person in charge of the investigation.' Praine rolled his eyes. 'Inspector Heyford was most upset that the fellow would not talk to him.'

'Did this man say nothing at all?'

'Only that you'd got it wrong, sir.'

'Wrong?'

'Your description of the murder victim.'

'Then I look forward to being corrected,' said Colbeck, eagerly. 'Any new facts that can be gleaned are most welcome.'

Praine led the way to a waiting cab and the two of them were soon carried along bumpy streets that were positively swarming with horse-drawn traffic and handcarts. When they reached the police station, the first person they met was an aggrieved Sidney Heyford.

'This is my police station in my town,' he complained, 'and the wretched man spurns me.'

'Did he give you his name?' asked Colbeck.

'Ambrose Hooper. He's an artist.'

Heyford pronounced the word with utter contempt as if it were a heinous crime that had not yet come within the purview of the statute book. In his codex, artists were shameless outcasts, parasites who lived off others and who should, at the very least, be transported to a penal colony to reflect on their sinful existence. Heyford jerked his thumb towards his office.

'He's in there, Inspector.'

'Thank you,' said Colbeck.

Removing his hat, he opened the door and went into the office. A dishevelled Ambrose Hooper rose from his chair to greet him.

'Are you the detective from London?'

'Yes, Mr Hooper. I am Inspector Colbeck.'

'I thought you didn't come from around here,' said Hooper, looking him up and down. 'Liverpool is a philistine place. It has no real appreciation of art and architecture. It idolises conformity. Those of us who cut a dash with our clothing or our way of life could never fit easily into Liverpool. I hate towns of any kind myself. I choose to live in the country and breathe in free air.'

Ambrose Hooper was wearing his crumpled white jacket over a flowery waistcoat and a pair of baggy blue trousers. A fading blue cravat was at his neck. His straw hat lay on the table beside a dog-eared portfolio. Some paint had lodged in his beard. Wisps of grey hair stood up mutinously all over his head. Colbeck could see that he was a man of independent mind.

'I'm told that you believe I am wrong,' said Colbeck.

'I don't believe it, sir – I know it.'

'How?'

'I was there, Inspector.'

'At the Sankey Viaduct?'

'Yes, I saw exactly what happened.'

'Then why didn't you give a statement to the police?'

'Because that would have meant waiting an age until they arrived on the scene,' explained Hooper. 'Besides, there was nothing that I could do. The body was hauled aboard that barge. I felt that it was important to record the event while it was still fresh in my mind.'

Colbeck was delighted. 'You mean that you went home and wrote down an account of all that you'd seen?'

'I'm no wordsmith, sir. Language has such severe limitations. Art, on the other hand, does not. It has an immediacy that no author could match.' He picked up the portfolio. 'Do you want to know what I saw at the Sankey Viaduct yesterday?'

'Very much so, Mr Hooper.'

'Then behold, my friend.'

Untying the ribbon, the artist opened the cover of the portfolio with a flourish to reveal his work. Colbeck was flabbergasted. An unexpected bounty had just fallen into his lap. What he was looking at was nothing less than a detailed photograph of what had actually happened. Having read the statements from the three witnesses on the barge, Colbeck had built up a clear picture of the situation in his mind's eye. Hooper's work enlarged and enlivened that mental image.

'A perfect marriage of artistic merit and factual accuracy,' said Hooper, proudly. 'This is merely a rough version, of course, hastily finished so that I could offer it as evidence. I'll use this as the basis for a much larger and more dramatic painting.'

'It could hardly be more dramatic,' opined Colbeck, scrutinising the work. 'You are a man of talent, sir. I congratulate you.'

'Thank you, Inspector.' He pointed to the three small figures in the foreground. 'I moved the ladies slightly but this is more or less the position they were in. Not that they stayed there for long, mark you. When that poor man suddenly dived over the parapet, Aunt Petronella jumped back as if she'd seen a ghost.'

Colbeck was surprised. 'She was your aunt?'

'Not mine – the boy's. At least, that's what I assumed. They were complete strangers to me but I always like to give people names if I include them in a painting. It lends a sense of familiarity.' He indicated each one in turn. 'This is Hester Lewthwaite – this is her son, Anthony – and here is his maiden aunt, Petronella Snark.' He gave a sly chuckle. 'I suppose that if you've preserved your virginity as long as she had, the sight of a man descending on you from a great height would be quite terrifying.'

Colbeck could not believe his good fortune. Ambrose Hooper had provided the best and most comprehensive piece of evidence he had ever received from a member of the public. It answered so many important questions and saved him so much time. He was pleased to note that Micah Triggs had been so observant. The victim did appear to have been thrown from the last carriage. He remembered his own description of the victim.