The Railway Viaduct

'Chabal was an engineer with an important role in the project.'

'According to father, lots of engineers work on a new railway.'

'Quite true. Mr Brassey has a whole team of them.'

'Why was this particular man murdered?'

'He had the wrong nationality – he was French.'

'Did he have to be thrown from the Sankey Viaduct?'

'I think so.'

'You're going to tell me that that was symbolic as well, aren't you?' she said. 'It's something to do with whatever you called it a few moments ago.'

'A metaphorical viaduct. I'm only guessing,' he went on, 'and I could be wrong. There are just too many coincidences here. Someone is so horrified at the prospect of that railway being built that he will go to any lengths to stop it.'

'What sort of a man is he, Robert?'

'One who has an implacable hatred of the French.'

'Why?'

'He probably fought against them.'

Nobody else was allowed in the room. It was on the first floor of the mansion and it overlooked the rear garden. It was kept locked so that none of the servants could get into it. The first thing that Sir Marcus Hetherington did when he let himself in was to lock the door behind him. He gazed around the room and felt the familiar upsurge of pride and patriotism. What he had created was a shrine to England's military glory. Banners, uniforms and weapons stood everywhere. Memorabilia of a more gruesome kind were contained in a glass case. Its prime exhibit, a human skull, was something that he cherished. It had belonged to a nameless French soldier who had fallen at the battle of Waterloo. Sir Marcus had killed him.

He wandered around the room, examining various items and luxuriating in the memories that they kindled. Then he crossed to the window. It was a fine day and sunlight was dappling the back lawn, but he was not looking at the garden. His gaze went up to the flag that was fluttering in the breeze at the top of its pole. He gave it a salute. Turning back, he surveyed his collection once more, drawing strength from it, finding consolation, recapturing younger days. On the wall above the mantelpiece was a portrait of himself in uniform. It never failed to lift his heart.

Crossing to a rosewood cabinet, he opened the top drawer and took out a wooden case that he set down on the table. When he lifted the lid of the case, Sir Marcus looked down fondly at a pair of percussion duelling pistols with plated turnoff barrels and walnut stocks inlaid with silver. The weapons gleamed. Packed neatly around them was a small supply of ammunition. He removed the pistols from the case and held one in each hand. The sensation of power was thrilling. It coursed through him for minutes. When it finally began to ease, Sir Marcus started to load the pistols.

Now that he was involved in the investigation once more, Victor Leeming was eager to take on more work. He spent the morning on the hoof, tracking down some of the people who had attended the lecture given by Gaston Chabal. It had been a largely fruitless exercise but it made him feel useful again. Instead of meeting the inspector at the Lamb and Flag, he agreed to visit Colbeck's house in John Islip Street so that they could have more privacy. Robert Colbeck's father and grandfather had been cabinetmakers with a string of wealthy clients. When he inherited the house, he also inherited examples of their work. In the drawing room where he and Leeming sat, a large cupboard, two matching cabinets and a beautiful mahogany secretaire bore the Colbeck name.

'How are you feeling today, Victor?' asked the inspector.

'Tired but happy to be so, sir.'

'You must not overdo it.'

'Knocking on a few doors is no effort,' said Leeming. 'I just wish that I had more to report. None of the four people I called on could possibly have hired Luke Rogan. You can cross them off the list.'

'That saves me the trouble of bothering with them.'

'How many names are left?'

'Less than twenty. We are slowly whittling them down.'

'Why are you so sure that the man we want actually attended that lecture? If he detested the idea of that railway being built in France, wouldn't he avoid a man who was talking about it?'

'On the contrary,' said Colbeck. 'He'd want to find out as much about it as he could. Also, of course, he'd be keen to take a closer look at Gaston Chabal. The man represented everything that he loathed and feared. No, he and Rogan were there together, I'm certain of it. They may not have sat beside each other – they probably took care to stay apart in order to conceal their relationship – but they were both at that lecture.'

'Then we are bound to find him in the end.'

'Oh, yes.'

Colbeck stirred his tea before tasting it. Leeming had already finished one cup and was halfway through the second. He chewed on the slice of cake that he had been offered.

'What did Mr Tallis have to say about it all?'

'He was pleased, Victor. Or, to put it another way, he smoked no cigars, had no tantrums and was almost disarmingly civil. All that he craves is a little success,' said Colbeck. 'It stops him from being pilloried in the newspapers.'

'Talking of the newspapers, sir, I saw that notice you put in this morning's edition. It's sure to get a response.'

'Not all of it entirely reliable, alas.'

'No,' said Leeming, wearily. 'The promise of a reward does things to some people. They invent all sorts of stories to try to get their hands on the money. But they won't all be fraudulent. There may be some wheat among the chaff, sir.'

'I'm counting on it.'

'You gave a good description of Rogan. It tallied with the one I had from Horace Eames.'

'I also relied on what Madame Hennebeau told me. She was clearly very fond of the man but, then, so were a number of women.'

'Luke Rogan will be on the run by now. You'll have flushed him out of his hiding place good and proper.'

'That was the idea behind using the press,' said Colbeck. 'I wanted to scare Rogan and drive a wedge between him and his employer. When he realises that we've identified his hired killer, the man who set everything in motion will want to distance himself from Rogan. My guess is that he'll go to ground immediately.'

'Here in London?'

'Well, it won't be in France, we may be certain of that.'

While his visitor drained his teacup, Colbeck told him about the conversation he had had earlier with Madeleine Andrews regarding her sketch of the Sankey Viaduct. Leeming was almost as confused by his talk of symbols and metaphors as she had been, but he trusted the inspector to know what he was talking about. What interested him was Colbeck's theory that the man who had engaged Rogan had probably served in the army at one time.

'I wish you'd told me that before, Inspector,' he said.

'Why?'

'I could have asked the people I interviewed this morning if they knew anyone who'd been at that lecture with a military background. It's a small world – engineers and such like. They all seem to know each other.'

'That's in our favour.'

'Do you have any more names for me?'

'Haven't you done enough work for one day?'

'No,' said Leeming, ignoring the stab of pain in his ribs. 'I'm only just starting to warm up, sir. Use me as much as you wish.'

'Mr Tallis would admonish me, if he knew.'

'You employed Brendan Mulryne behind his back and got away with it. Unlike him, I do work at the Detective Department.'

'But you're supposed to be on sick leave, Victor.'

'I'm sick of sick leave. Give me some more names.'

'As you wish,' said Colbeck, taking a slip of paper from his pocket and handing it over. 'There are four more people for you to chase down. Be sure to find out if any of them bore arms against the French at one time. That would make them fifty or more at least.'

'I'll remember that.'

'And take a cab. You don't have to go all over London on foot. Keep a record of your cab fares and I'll reimburse you.'

'You can save your money with this chap, sir,' said Leeming as he saw the first address on the list. 'He lives in Pimlico. That's well within walking distance of here.'