Murder in Transit, page 2
‘I’ve no idea who the poor devil was,’ he said.
‘I can tell you that, sir. According to the chief constable, his name was Giles Blanchard and he lived on the Isle of Wight.’
‘I could see he was a toff. A suit like the one he was wearing must have cost a pretty penny.’
‘Tell me exactly what happened when you entered the compartment,’ said Colbeck, taking out his notebook. ‘Every detail is important.’
‘Ah, right …’
Burns needed a few moments to gather his thoughts. He cleared his throat.
‘If you’re on the late shift,’ he said, ‘you sometimes get nasty surprises. People leave all kinds of messes in the carriages and there are always those who forget to take their luggage with them. It’s not so bad in first class, mind. People who can afford to travel there usually behave themselves.’
‘Get to the moment of discovery,’ prompted Colbeck.
‘When I saw him through the window, he looked as if he was asleep. That’s quite normal. If they’ve drunk too much, passengers often nod off. I opened the door and reached in to prod him. He didn’t move so I got into the compartment and took him by the shoulders to give him a proper shake. When I did that,’ said Burns, ‘he just fell sideways. I saw these ugly, red marks around his neck. That frightened me so I called the stationmaster. We could both see he wasn’t breathing.’
Colbeck waited patiently as the recitation went on, recording only the salient details. When the porter finally ended his tale, he was visibly shaken.
‘Had you ever seen the gentleman before?’ asked Colbeck.
‘It’s funny you should ask that, Inspector. At the time, I didn’t recognise him. I was so shocked by what I’d found that I couldn’t think straight. When I got back here, however, the shock had worn off. I thought about that face of his and them fine clothes.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘It was then I realised I’d seen him before at the station – lots of times.’
‘Was he usually alone?’
‘No, he was often with a woman.’
‘It was probably Mrs Blanchard.’
‘Not every time, it wasn’t.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I saw the same woman twice maybe,’ said Burns, scratching his head. ‘But I must have seen him with one of three or four younger ladies as well …’
The Haven was in a side street in the more affluent part of Chichester. When he got out of the cab, Leeming paid the driver and sent him on his way. The club was in a large, well-maintained building with three storeys. He used the knocker. Almost immediately, the door was opened by a dapper middle-aged man with a practised smile that vanished the moment he saw Leeming’s face. He took a step backwards.
‘May I help you, sir?’ he asked, warily.
‘I hope so,’ said Leeming.
‘Are you interested in becoming a member of the club?’
‘I’m afraid not. I could never afford it or find the time to join. I am Detective Sergeant Leeming from Scotland Yard and I’m investigating the death of one of your members.’
The steward was alarmed. ‘Who is it?’
‘Mr Blanchard.’
‘But he was here yesterday evening and looked perfectly healthy.’
‘It was not a natural death, I’m afraid. Mr Blanchard was murdered.’
‘Heavens!’ exclaimed the steward, bringing both hands to his face. ‘This is dreadful news. What exactly happened?’
‘If you let me inside,’ said Leeming, ‘I’ll be happy to tell you …’
Colbeck moved swiftly. When he left the home of Alfred Burns, he took a cab to the headquarters of the Portsmouth City Police. He received a guarded welcome. The police were clearly upset that a murder that had occurred on their doorstep was being investigated by someone from Scotland Yard. Colbeck could see the muted hostility in their eyes. Superintendent Terence Vernon voiced the general feeling.
‘We are aware of your reputation, Inspector, and give you the respect due to you, but we feel that we can handle this case just as efficiently in conjunction with the Hampshire Constabulary. Our knowledge of the area gives us a distinct advantage over you.’
‘I intend to make use of it, Superintendent,’ said Colbeck, briskly. ‘May I ask how you got on with Alfred Burns?’
‘I’ve never heard of the fellow.’
‘He’s the porter who discovered the body last night. You interviewed him, surely?’
‘One of my officers would have done so when Burns returned to work today.’
‘I couldn’t wait until then,’ said Colbeck. ‘I went to his house and took a statement.’
‘Oh, I see,’ muttered Vernon, trying to hide his embarrassment. ‘Did he have anything of value to say?’
‘Yes, he did. It took me some time to get it out of him because he was still dazed by the experience. His mind eventually cleared. Apart from anything else, he remembered seeing the victim at the station before. Mr Blanchard travelled by train to and from Chichester on a regular basis, it seems.’
Vernon was peeved. ‘How may we help you, Inspector?’ he asked through gritted teeth.
‘The first thing I’d like to do is to view the body.’
‘I’ll take you to the morgue myself,’ said Vernon, moving to the door.
‘Thank you,’ said Colbeck, following him. ‘I daresay that there’s a lot of press interest.’
‘Newspaper reporters have been hounding me all morning. When we finally identified the murder victim, I hoped that they would stop pestering us, but the opposite has happened.’
‘It will get worse,’ warned Colbeck. ‘Mr Blanchard was clearly an important figure in these parts. His death will arouse considerable interest …’
Leeming was in the office that belonged to Martin Searle, the club steward. Having told him what had happened, Leeming had to wait while the other man absorbed the information. The news had clearly shaken him to the core.
‘This is dreadful,’ said Searle at length. ‘Mr Blanchard was often at the club. On some occasions, he even spent the night here. He’ll be sorely missed.’
‘What sort of person was he?’
‘He was a delightful man, sir, and very popular with the other members. They all respected him. When he dined here with friends last night, there was a lot of laughter. Mr Blanchard had an endless supply of anecdotes.’
‘What time did he leave?’
‘It must have been close to ten o’clock. I showed him to the door. There was a cab waiting for him. He’d ordered it earlier. That’s the kind of man he was. He planned everything in advance.’
‘What sort of mood was he in when he left?’
‘He was in good spirits,’ said Searle, ‘and that was quite normal. When I showed him to the door, he gave me a handsome tip.’
‘Would you say that he was drunk and off guard?’
‘Oh, no, Sergeant. Gentlemen like Mr Blanchard never get drunk. No matter how much they have, they can hold their wine and spirits. It’s a gift.’
‘Then he wouldn’t have been … unstable when he boarded his train?’
‘He would have looked as sober as a judge.’
‘I see.’ He remembered something. ‘When you invited me in, I heard a lot of voices. Are some of your members here?’
‘A handful of the older ones are in the bar. They’ve retired from work, but they’ll never retire from The Haven. It’s their second home.’
‘Is there anyone here who was a close friend of Mr Blanchard’s?’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied the steward. ‘Mr Collier is here almost every day. He’s close to eighty but is still very spry. He proposed Mr Blanchard as a member many years ago. Mr Collier will be the best person to talk to. Feel free to use my office.’ He moved to the door. ‘I’ll send him in.’ He paused. ‘Do you want me to tell him about the murder or would you rather do so?’
‘I’d prefer it if you left it to me,’ said Leeming, ‘but you’re welcome to spread the news among the other members. Oh, and you might warn Mr Collier that I don’t look my best. My face is likely to scare him. When I look in a mirror, it frightens me.’
‘Very good, sir.’
When the steward left the room, Leeming checked the notes he had made then looked around the office. It was large, well-appointed, and excessively clean. Photographs of former members adorned the walls. Leeming could see that it was an exclusive establishment for wealthy men. He felt completely out of place there. After a couple of minutes, he heard a walking stick tapping on the hall floor. The door then opened, and Douglas Collier hobbled in. There was no danger of the old man being horrified by Leeming’s face. He was virtually blind. Thin, withered, and with a white mane of hair, he looked around the room.
‘Is there someone here who wants Douglas Collier?’ he croaked.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘Why don’t you take a seat? I have distressing news for you.’
‘Really? They’re not going to raise the membership fees again, are they?’
‘Not as far as I know, Mr Collier.’
He held a seat so that it did not move when the old man dropped into it. Collier took a small magnifying glass from his pocket and peered through it at Leeming.
‘Do I know you?’ he said.
‘No, sir. I don’t believe that you do. My name is Leeming.’
‘Leeming … Leeming … You’re not one of the Dorset Leemings, are you?’
‘I’m a detective sergeant from Scotland Yard.’
‘You came all the way down here from Scotland?’ said Collier in disbelief. ‘Why the devil did you do that? And why on earth did you ask for me?’
Leeming sat down close to him. ‘I’ve got some sad news to pass on to you, Mr Collier,’ he said, gently. ‘It’s about your friend, Mr Blanchard.’
‘Splendid chap, Giles. Generous to a fault. He bought dinner here for five of us yesterday evening. His stories had us roaring with laughter.’
‘He won’t be able to do that again, I’m afraid.’
Collier grinned. ‘You try stopping him!’
‘Mr Blanchard died last night.’ The old man gaped. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that your friend was strangled to death on a train to Portsmouth.’
‘Giles was murdered?’ Collier needed time to absorb the information. ‘Who on earth would do such a thing? He was one of the nicest human beings you could ever wish to meet. There must be some mistake, surely?’
‘I’m afraid not. I can see that it’s been a great shock to you. The steward was the same,’ said Leeming. ‘There were tears in his eyes.’
‘Who exactly are you?’ asked Collier, confused.
‘I’m involved in the search for the man who killed Mr Blanchard,’ said Leeming. ‘Since you were close to him, you may be able to help us. I’m told that he had lots of friends.’
‘Everyone liked him.’
‘He must have had enemies as well.’
‘You didn’t know Giles,’ said the other, angrily. ‘He was kind, generous, and wonderful company. How could anyone dislike him? Unless …’
‘Go on,’ urged Leeming.
‘Unless … it was a jealous husband …’
A wicked smirk suddenly flitted across the old man’s face. Then he burst into tears as the full weight of his loss became clear to him.
When he viewed the body at the morgue, Colbeck noted the size and muscularity of the murder victim. Blanchard had clearly kept himself fit. Only a powerful man with the advantage of surprise would have been able to strangle him. Unsurprisingly, nothing had been found in the pockets of the deceased. He had clearly been robbed. Colbeck was glad to leave the building and get the stink of disinfectant out of his nose. He took a cab to the ferry terminal so that he could cross to the Isle of Wight. No sooner had he stepped onto the waiting vessel than a familiar voice rang out.
‘Bejasus!’ yelled Brendan Mulryne. ‘That’s never Inspector Colbeck!’
‘Yes, it is,’ replied the other, crossing over to him and shaking his hand, ‘and I’m delighted to see you again, Brendan. What the devil are you doing here?’
‘I work on this steamer. Sure, it’s a grand job. I’m out in the fresh air all day and I get to meet lots of interesting people – like you, for instance.’
‘The last time our paths crossed, you were travelling with the Moscardi circus.’
‘It was time for a change. I got fed up with the stink of the animals.’
Mulryne was a big, brawny man with an almost permanent grin on his face. When he had served in the Metropolitan Police Force, he had been a fearless and committed constable. Unfortunately, he had been too committed on occasion. Instead of merely arresting criminals, he had pounded some of them into oblivion. Superintendent Tallis had been badgered by lawyers, trying to claim damages for the police brutality used against their clients. Even though Colbeck had spoken up for him, Mulryne had been summarily dismissed.
‘Ah,’ said the Irishman, realising. ‘It’s the murder that brought you here. That Mr Blanchard was strangled to death on a train last night. Strangled and robbed.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Word travels down here. Secrets don’t stay secret for long.’
‘You mentioned Mr Blanchard’s name as if you knew the man.’
‘Oh, I knew that black-hearted devil, so I did. He often used the steamer and treated those of us who worked on it as if we were ignorant peasants. I caught the lash of his tongue more than once. Don’t ask me to mourn Giles Blanchard.’
‘Other people speak well of him.’
‘Well, I’m not one of them, Inspector,’ said the other, bitterly. ‘When I answered him back one time, he threatened to have me sacked if I did it again. I buttoned my lip after that and suffered in silence. Blanchard was vile. He could never resist the chance to say something nasty about the Irish to me.’
‘How did you feel when you heard about his death?’
Mulryne chuckled. ‘It made me feel that there was a God, after all.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Victor Leeming had arranged to meet Colbeck at Portsmouth railway station that afternoon. On the train journey there from Chichester, he consulted his notebook. Over a dozen pages had been filled by his spidery handwriting. After speaking to Douglas Collier, he had been questioned by the other members of The Haven who happened to be there. They were desperate to hear full details of the untimely death of their friend. Leeming had talked to them, one at a time, building up a detailed picture of the murder victim.
In the eyes of his fellow club members, Giles Blanchard had been a paragon. Yet what stayed in the sergeant’s mind when he left the building was the momentary smirk on the face of Douglas Collier. According to him, Blanchard did not have an enemy in the world – except, perhaps, for a jealous husband. Had the old man been serious? Everything that Leeming had heard from the other members pointed to the fact that Blanchard was a man’s man, happiest in male company. He often referred fondly to his wife when at the club, yet he seemed to spend little time at home with her. Evidently, The Haven provided something that she was unable to supply. Leeming wondered if it was a place to hide from a vengeful husband.
Colbeck was delighted to see Mulryne again. The Irishman was clearly doing work he enjoyed in a part of the country he loved. Now that summer had come, he was helping to take large numbers of holidaymakers to and from the Isle of Wight. Mulryne loved to see the excitement of the children who boarded the steamer on their way to one of the island’s beaches. There was a secondary reason why Colbeck was pleased to bump into Mulryne. In an emergency, the Irishman would be there to lend a helping hand. Even though he was no longer a policeman, he would do anything for Colbeck. Unbeknown to Edward Tallis, he had already been used by the inspector on more than one occasion and he had always proved his worth.
One eye on the approaching land, Mulryne asked what Leeming was doing.
‘He’s gone to visit a club in Chichester. We’ve been told that Mr Blanchard spent the evening there before his fatal journey on the train to Portsmouth.’
‘How are Victor’s children?’
‘They’re growing up fast. David is working as a cleaner for the LNWR – much to the delight of my father-in-law. And Albert, who is still in school, has decided that he wants to be a policeman like his father. Do you have any family, Brendan?’
‘I might do,’ said the other with a laugh, ‘but, then again, I might not. Even though I love the company of women, I’m just not the marrying kind.’ He saw how close they were to the pier. ‘Have to go. Good to meet you again.’
‘I fancy that we’ll be around for some time so I might well see you again.’
But his words went unheard. Mulryne had already moved to the position he always took up when the steamer was about to dock in Ryde. When the vessel made its first contact with the wharf, Mulryne tossed a rope ashore. Colbeck was soon part of an eager crowd of passengers who surged off the steamer in delight. Unbeknown to him, he was about to walk along the first proper seaside passenger pier in England. Built for the benefit of travellers over fifty years earlier, it took them safely over the mud and sand that previous visitors had had to tramp through.
While the others dispersed in various directions, Colbeck stepped into a cab and asked to be taken to an address just outside Ryde. He was driven through narrow streets filled with quaint houses and clusters of shops. There was a decided elegance about the larger buildings. Ryde had a curious charm, but he was not in a mood to enjoy it. His focus was on the home of the murder victim. Myrtle House, it transpired, was half a mile away from the town. Set in the middle of five acres of land, it was an impressive property that was reached by means of a long winding road. Everywhere he looked, Colbeck saw well-tended lawns and trees. The house itself glowed in the sun. Giles Blanchard had done well for himself.
When they reached the main gate, they were stopped by a tall, strapping young man who was holding a shotgun. He eyed the cab with suspicion. When Colbeck got out to confront him, he was given a gruff welcome.
‘This is private property.’
‘Who are you?’ demanded Colbeck.
‘Never you mind that,’ said the other with a menacing wave of his shotgun. ‘My orders are to keep prying reporters away from here.’
