Murder in Transit, page 5
‘Whatever are you doing here, John?’ he asked. ‘That’s not to say you’re not very welcome, but you were the last person I expected to come through my door.’
‘Perhaps I should have warned you,’ said Forrest. ‘I stayed in London last night because I have an appointment this morning with the Home Secretary.’
‘Really? Has Mr Walpole sent for you?’
‘No, Edward. He acceded to my request for a meeting. That’s more than his predecessor ever did. All I got from him was a polite refusal. As I told you, I am celebrating ten years as the Chief Constable of Hampshire and the problems I inherited a decade ago are still largely with us.’
‘That’s horribly true of us as well.’
‘What I will tell the Home Secretary is what any chief constable would tell him. Keeping crime under control is an expensive undertaking. We are hopelessly underfunded. In essence, we need more detectives and even more constables. It can only happen if we offer them more pay.’
‘I couldn’t agree more, John. I wish you good luck when you meet the Home Secretary.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m so glad that you’re here,’ said Tallis, glancing down at his newspaper, ‘because I was just reading an article about that murder on the train to Portsmouth.’
‘Thanks to you, the right man is in charge. I was very impressed with Inspector Colbeck.’
‘Good.’
‘But less so with Sergeant Leeming,’ added Forrest. ‘The man was slovenly.’
‘He has his virtues, I assure you.’
‘They are certainly not visible.’
‘I’ve taxed him about his appearance many times.’
‘Any soldier who failed to dress properly would be severely reprimanded.’
‘Quite so,’ sighed Tallis. ‘Unfortunately, we are no longer in the army.’
‘We should maintain the same levels of discipline, Edward.’
‘Inspector Colbeck’s success is not solely based on his abilities. Some of the credit must go to Sergeant Leeming. He’s fearless, hard-working and has the true instincts of a detective. Yes, he has his shortcomings,’ conceded Tallis, ‘but I choose to overlook them.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘I don’t have a more dedicated officer. The sergeant will never let you down.’
As he picked his way through his breakfast, Leeming kept wincing at the steady throb inside his head. Colbeck was sympathetic. On the previous night, he had stayed up to wait for the sergeant’s return. As soon as he saw him stagger into the Hope and Anchor, he realised that Leeming was in no fit state to give a coherent account of his visit to Chichester. He therefore sent him off to bed and told him that his news could wait until morning. Leeming was certainly in a better condition when they met at breakfast next day, but he kept apologising for what had happened.
‘It was all in a good cause, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘Because you and Mr Collier enjoyed some fine malt whisky, you got exactly what I hoped you would get – confirmation that Mr Blanchard was unfaithful to his wife.’
‘It took me a long time to draw it out of Collier. His own wife had died years earlier. He not only took pleasure from his friend’s behaviour, he was eager to help him.’
Colbeck was shocked. ‘Mr Collier was a party to Blanchard’s adultery?’
‘He has a large house with two or three empty bedrooms. Blanchard had a key to let himself in after dark with … whichever woman he brought. Collier never met any of them. When he got up in the morning, his visitors had both left the house.’
‘Did he tell you anything about these women?’
‘Only that they were always younger than Blanchard. His friend must have had some sort of charm.’ Leeming sighed. ‘How can a married man behave like that?’
‘There’s one factor that may have been significant,’ said Colbeck. ‘Paul Blanchard told me that his parents slept in separate rooms.’
‘That’s no excuse, sir.’
‘I agree.’
‘I was disgusted. When I first met Douglas Collier, I was sorry for him. He’s old, weary, uses a walking stick and is almost blind. Then I slowly dragged the truth out of him and realised that he was nothing but a—’
‘You did well, Victor. You not only discovered something important about Blanchard, you might also have found a motive for his murder.’
‘Yes – he was strangled by a jealous husband.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Colbeck, pondering, ‘but I fancy that a woman might have been involved somehow.’ He watched as Leeming had a long drink of coffee. ‘How do you feel now?’
‘I’m slowly coming alive.’
‘Let’s move on to the passenger who responded to the appeal.’
Leeming groaned. ‘I feel so ashamed about that,’ he admitted. ‘He was telling me something important, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. However, I did at least do something right. I made a note of his address. He lives in Portsmouth and will be at home today so I can call on him and apologise for the state I was in last night.’
‘I’ll come with you, Victor. What he has to say might be important.’
Wearing full mourning attire, Paul Blanchard knocked on the door of his mother’s bedroom then opened it. He was pleased to see that she was propped up in bed in her dressing gown with pillows to support her. Catherine Blanchard gave him a tired smile of welcome. She was a short, thin, grey-haired woman in her late fifties but looked much older. Grief had robbed her of what little beauty she had possessed and replaced it with a pale, anxious, haggard face. Her eyes were pools of sadness.
‘How do you feel?’ asked Blanchard.
‘I feel dreadful. How else can I feel?’
‘At least you were able to have some breakfast today.’
‘I hardly tasted it, Paul,’ she said. ‘I just keep thinking about what happened to your father. Have the police caught the man who …’
‘Not yet,’ he said, ‘but they are working hard to do so. Inspector Colbeck of Scotland Yard has been brought in to lead the investigation. I met him yesterday. He’s very experienced. We can both put our faith in him.’
‘What faith?’ she whispered. ‘After what happened, I have none.’
‘You heard what the doctor said. Rest is your priority. You must try to stop dwelling on what happened and console yourself with happy memories of the life you shared with Father. Would you like me to bring some photograph albums for you to look at?’
‘No, no,’ she cried. ‘I couldn’t bear to do that.’
‘Calm down, Mother,’ he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.
‘Then don’t make me look at old photographs. They will only remind me of what I’ve lost.’
Plucking a handkerchief from the sleeve of her dressing gown, she dabbed at the tears trickling down her face.
‘Verity will be coming to sit with you very soon,’ he told her.
‘That will be nice.’
‘We haven’t told the children yet. They’re far too young to understand. They loved their grandfather so much. They’ll miss him. But they still have their grandmother to love,’ he reminded her. ‘That will be a consolation to them.’
She heaved a sigh. ‘I don’t feel very lovable, Paul.’
‘You will do – in time.’
‘Who could do such a thing?’ she wailed. ‘Your father was a wonderful man. He didn’t deserve … what happened to him. It’s so cruel.’
‘His killer will be caught and punished, have no fear.’
‘That won’t bring my husband back.’
‘No,’ he said, softly. ‘We’ll all have to adjust to that.’ He heard a knock on the front door. ‘That will be Verity. I’ll bring her straight up …’
The detectives took a cab to an address on the western side of Portsmouth. William Phelps, it transpired, was close to retirement as a lawyer. Now in his sixties, he was a short, stooping man who wore spectacles and had side whiskers. There was an endearing fussiness about him. When they arrived at his house, Colbeck performed introductions and saved Leeming the embarrassment of having to apologise by saying that the sergeant had been unwell on the previous evening. Phelps accepted the explanation without questioning it.
‘Where had you been yesterday?’ asked Colbeck.
‘I’d been to see a client in Havant. In fact, I spent two long days with him. It’s a complex case and requires a lot of preparation. On each occasion, my client pressed me to stay for dinner and, having enjoyed the remarkable skills of his cook before, I was glad to accept.’
‘Then you caught the last train back to Portsmouth twice in a row?’
‘Yes, Inspector.’
‘May I ask if wine was consumed during the meals?’
‘Not by me,’ said Phelps, firmly. ‘I am a teetotaller. Neither wine nor spirits touches my lips.’
‘I wish I was like that,’ murmured Leeming.
‘On the first of the two nights,’ said Colbeck, ‘what did you see at Portsmouth station?’
‘I didn’t see anything at all there, Inspector. It was at Havant station. At the time,’ he went on, ‘I dismissed it as something unusual, that’s all. I’d forgotten all about it until I saw that appeal on the platform here in Portsmouth.’
‘You told me you’d seen something strange,’ said Leeming. ‘That much I do remember.’
‘When the train stopped at Havant station,’ resumed Phelps, ‘I walked along the platform in the hope of finding an empty first-class compartment. As I did so, two people got out of their compartment, walked a dozen yards, then stepped into another. Why? It was strange behaviour.’
‘Perhaps the compartment they were in was crowded,’ said Colbeck.
‘On the contrary, it had only one other person in it. I glanced at him as I passed. He was a middle-aged gentleman, and he was fast asleep. Not wishing to disturb him, I walked on until I found what I was after.’
‘Had the couple found another compartment?’
‘Yes, and it had two other passengers in it – a gentleman and a lady.’
‘Could you describe the two people who stepped out of the train?’
‘I only got the merest glimpse of the lady, Inspector, so I’ve no idea of her age. It just puzzled me that they’d sought company. Given what the man was, I felt certain that he’d wish to travel alone with his companion.’ He smiled shyly. ‘They do have a reputation, after all.’
‘I don’t follow, Mr Phelps.’
‘Sailors. The man was an officer in the Royal Navy.’
Instead of working at her easel, Madeleine Colbeck was in the nursery, admiring a painting by her daughter and seeing a distinct sign of talent. Helena Rose was now a boisterous six-year-old, but she did have her quieter moments. Under the direction of Nanny Hopkins, the girl had first drawn a picture of her favourite animals – a dog, a cat, and a horse – then reached for her paint brushes. Madeleine showered her daughter with praise and thanked the nanny, a motherly woman in her fifties with the gift of extraordinary patience. When she heard someone being admitted into the house, Madeleine gave her daughter a congratulatory kiss then went downstairs.
She was delighted to see that Estelle Leeming had called. After ordering a pot of tea, Madeleine took her visitor into the drawing room, and they sat down.
‘I know why you’re here,’ said Madeleine, ‘and you’ve come at a perfect time.’
‘I was wondering if you had any news?’
‘A letter came from Portsmouth this morning, Estelle.’
‘What did it say?’
‘They had to stay there last night but they are hoping to come home in a day or two.’
‘Will they have made an arrest so soon?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Madeleine. ‘All that we get is the pleasure of having our husbands back home for a night, then off they go.’
Estelle was disappointed. ‘I see.’ She brightened. ‘How is Helena Rose?’
‘She’s decided that she wants to be an artist like her mother. I don’t think she realises that it takes years. I had the first five or six paintings rejected before I sold one. But enough about me,’ she added. ‘How are the boys?’
‘Oh, there’s good news at last. David has finally decided that he likes working on the railway, after all, and Albert is having second thoughts about being a policeman since he saw Victor’s black eye and bruised face. Like his brother, he wants to be an engine driver one day.’
‘That will please my father.’
‘How is Mr Andrews?’
Madeleine grinned. ‘Need you ask?’
‘Our boys love him,’ said Estelle. ‘They still talk about the time when he took them to the engine sheds. It’s the reason David works for the LNWR. I just wish that he didn’t come home so dirty every day.’
‘That’s part of his apprenticeship. Even when he was a driver, Father came home in filthy clothes. I know that because I had to wash them.’
‘Your life is very different now, Madeleine.’
‘Yes, I’m the one who gets dirt all over me now.’ They laughed. ‘Come on up to the nursery to look at Helena Rose’s latest painting. She’s always pleased to see you.’
‘I love to see her as well.’
‘You may not recognise her,’ warned Madeleine. ‘Most of the paint has gone on her face and hands. She looks as if she has measles.’
Having her daughter-in-law seated beside the bed was a tonic for Catherine Blanchard. She revived slightly and stopped thinking obsessively about her husband. Verity Blanchard was a beautiful woman in her late twenties. She had recovered from the effort of bringing twins into the world four years earlier and had got her figure back. If anything, her mourning apparel showed it off to advantage. Her mother-in-law eyed her approvingly.
‘I don’t know how you keep so slim, Verity,’ she said, wistfully.
‘Looking after two lively boys is part of the answer. Then, of course, I try to go for a swim, especially in lovely weather like this.’
‘Paul was a wonderful swimmer.’
‘He hardly goes near the beach now.’
‘How can he?’ asked Catherine. ‘He’s like his father. He works all day.’
‘I do manage to drag him away from the office now and then. Paul and I play tennis. As I keep telling him, why live in a house with a tennis court unless we use it?’
‘When the boys grow up, I daresay they’ll be out there every day.’
‘Oh, I think Paul has other ideas for them. You know how much he loves cricket. The boys will have cricket bats in their hands before too long. Paul is dying to teach them.’
‘Then he’s like his father,’ said Catherine. ‘My husband would have played cricket all day long if he could have done so. He made me sit through so many matches. I could never get the hang of the game somehow. Whenever he looked towards me, I used to give him an encouraging smile. If he scored a run, I always clapped.’ Her face darkened. ‘Oh, I miss him so much, Verity. This house is empty without him. I still can’t believe that he won’t walk in through the front door again.’
‘You must try to cope without him,’ said Verity, quietly. ‘Everything will change when the man who killed him is caught and hanged. Paul is confident that Inspector Colbeck will track him down, however long it takes.’
Catherine was fearful. ‘I’m dreading the funeral.’
‘But you won’t have to go to it, and neither will I.’
‘That’s not the point, Verity. When the day comes, I’ll be acutely aware that the dear man with whom I shared my life is going to be buried in the ground. I’ll be like Her Majesty, the Queen. I’ll have to spend the rest of my life in mourning for a husband who meant everything to me.’
Queen Victoria, a short, plump lady in black, was seated at her desk. In front of her were over a dozen letters. The one she was now writing was addressed to the eldest of her nine children. When she had finished it, she sat back to read it through. Gwendoline Cardus stepped forward.
‘I don’t know anyone who writes as many letters as you, Your Majesty,’ she said.
‘It’s both a pleasure and a duty, Gwendoline. Apart from anything else, it occupies my mind.’
She glanced at the newspaper in the other woman’s hand. ‘Is that a copy of The Times?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Let me see it,’ said the Queen, holding out a hand.
‘Before you read it, I’m afraid that I must pass on some sad news.’
‘Oh?’
‘Giles Blanchard has died.’
‘Never! He’s far too young and full of life. Whenever he came to Osborne House, he was bristling with vitality. My dear husband always remarked on it.’
‘I’m afraid that Mr Blanchard did not die of natural causes. He was killed.’
‘Killed?’ The Queen’s face blanched. ‘Can this be true?’
‘I can’t give you the full details,’ said Gwendoline, ‘because I was too upset to read the article in full. I realised that we shall never see him again. I know how fond you and Prince Albert were of him. In the circumstances, it might be better if you don’t read the full details of his murder.’
‘Nothing will stop me from doing so.’ She held out an imperious hand and Gwendoline put the newspaper into it. ‘I want to know the truth. When I’m in possession of the facts, I’ll write a letter of condolence to his wife and have it delivered immediately. To lose a treasured husband by natural means is painful enough, but to hear that your partner in life has been murdered … it must be almost unbearable. Don’t you agree, Gwendoline?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said the other. ‘My heart goes out to Mrs Blanchard and her family.’
When he boarded the steamer to take him to the Isle of Wight again, Colbeck was delighted to see that Brendan Mulryne was on duty. The Irishman was ushering passengers on board the vessel. It was only when the steamer set off from the pier that Colbeck was able to talk to his friend.
‘I can see why you love this job, Brendan,’ he said. ‘You get to breathe clean air for a change. There’s precious little of that in London.’
‘The place stank to high heaven sometimes – and so did the circus.’
‘You seemed very much at home there.’
‘It was fine for a long while, but you know me. I’m a rolling stone. Anyway,’ he went on, ‘how is the investigation going? Have you made any headway?’
