CHAPTER TWO

When he returned to Scotland Yard that morning, Robert Colbeck found a summons from Superintendent Tallis awaiting him. He walked swiftly to his superior's office with a quiet smile on his face. Anticipating praise for the way that he had brought his latest case to a satisfactory conclusion, he was looking forward to basking in his superior's approval. When he knocked on Tallis's door then opened it to enter the office, however, he could see that the superintendent was in no mood to congratulate him. The older man's face was puckered with concern. Evidently, something very serious had happened.

'You sent for me, sir,' said Colbeck.

'I want you and Sergeant Leeming to go to Lincoln at once,' snapped the other, reaching for a telegraph. 'Read this.'

'Who sent it?' asked Colbeck, taking the telegraph from him.

'Someone called Alexander Courtney.'

'He's the Dean of Lincoln Cathedral.'

Tallis was surprised. 'How on earth do you know that?'

'I remember reading of his appointment, sir.' He studied the telegraph. 'Why is he sending a message to us?'

'Something of great value has been stolen from a train that stopped at Peterborough on its way to Lincoln. As you can see, the man guarding the item was shot dead. We are asked to send you immediately.'

'Sergeant Leeming and I will be on the next train there, sir,' said Colbeck, handing the telegraph back. 'There's an understandable note of outrage in the summons.'

'What could the killer have stolen?'

'Let's not waste time on speculation. When we reach Lincoln, I'll send you full details as soon as possible.'

'Make sure that you do that.'

'I'll send a reply to the Dean from the telegraph station at King's Cross. I'll give him some much-needed reassurance. Please excuse me, sir. We need to be on our way.'

And before Tallis was able to speak, Colbeck left the office at speed. There was no time to waste. A new and intriguing assignment beckoned.

In Lincoln itself, Alexander Courtney was locked in conversation with Bishop John Jackson, a slim, grey-haired man in his mid-fifties who was still shocked by the crime. Dean Courtney, by contrast, was a solid individual with heavy jowls and an air of spirituality. He was quick to defend his action.

'It was important to move swiftly, Bishop,' he explained.

'But why involve Scotland Yard?' asked the other. 'The murder and theft occurred in Cambridgeshire. Is this not a case to hand to their constabulary? And surely the railway police in Peterborough station itself would wish to be involved. The crimes occurred right on their doorstep.'

'I wanted the best man and that is unquestionably Inspector Colbeck.'

'His name is unfamiliar to me.'

'He has been featured in national newspapers many times. Since he has had so many successes linked to the railway system, he is known as the Railway Detective.'

'Will such a remarkable person be available to us?'

'Even as we speak,' said Courtney, 'he is on his way here. Ten minutes ago, we received a telegraph from him, confirming the fact. Take heart. Colbeck is coming.'

'How do we break the terrible news to Gregory Tomkins?' asked the Bishop, hoarse with anxiety.

'Hopefully, we may not need to.'

'Crimes of such magnitude will certainly be reported in the press. He is bound to become aware of the fate of his masterpiece.'

'Tomkins leads a life of almost monastic dedication. I doubt if he even reads a daily newspaper. He only needs to know the full details of what happened when the villains have been arrested and condemned to death.'

'You seem very confident that they will be caught.'

'Were I a betting man - which I am not - I'd place a large wager on Colbeck. His record of success is amazing. That's why I sent that telegraph. Don't forget,' said the Dean, 'that I was on that train in Peterborough station when the explosion went off. Like everyone else, I was confused and frightened. It was only when I left my compartment and went to check on Langston that I realised what had happened. The explosion had been set off to divert everyone's attention. When I got to the guard's van, I saw that Michael Langston had been shot dead and that the precious gift he was bringing to us had been stolen.'

'We must get it back!' insisted Bishop Jackson.

'Colbeck will find it somehow. Do as I do and place your hopes in him.'

'I find it difficult to do so. We can't rely on a detective from London. What we require is someone who can perform miracles.'

The Dean was confident. 'Such a man will be here in due course.'

Victor Leeming was no friend of railways. He resented the fact that he and Colbeck were regularly despatched to solve crimes in faraway places. It meant long, tedious journeys in noisy trains that rocked along so fiercely that he was unable to sleep. What made his suffering worse was that his companion, Robert Colbeck, was so supremely at ease when being hurled along in the compartment of a train. Because they were not alone, conversation about the case was impossible. All that Leeming could do was to examine the few facts that they had and wonder how long it would be before he was able to return to his family in London.

'Take heart, Victor,' whispered Colbeck. 'We'll be there in half an hour.'

Leeming sat up hopefully. 'In Lincoln?'

'No, in Peterborough. That's where the crimes occurred. We'll get off there so that we can find out full details.'

'Will this train wait for us?'

Colbeck shook his head. 'I'm afraid not. We'll have to catch the next one.'

Leeming rolled his eyes in despair.

When the train came to a halt in Peterborough station, the detectives were among the first passengers to alight. Seeing the stationmaster outside his office, they hurried across to him. Leeming put his valise down and took out his notebook in readiness. Colbeck explained who they were and why they needed a description of what had happened at the station earlier. Nathan Powell was delighted to help. He was a short, tubby, middle-aged man with a beard covering the lower half of his face. Powell was clearly distressed.

'Nothing like this has ever happened to us,' he moaned. 'My staff are known for their efficiency. Passengers always feel safe and well looked after here.'

'Where exactly was this explosion?' asked Colbeck.

'It was in a storeroom at the far end,' said Powell, pointing a finger. 'How anyone got inside it is a mystery. It's always kept locked and there's a railway policeman standing outside it.'

'Was he injured in the blast?'

'Yes, Inspector, and so were several passengers. It was bedlam here.'

'I daresay that everyone's attention was focussed on the blaze,' said Colbeck.

'I forced my way through the crowd to get there and joined my porters in throwing buckets of water over the flames. Passengers were screaming and struggling to move away from the fire. Most of them simply fled.'

'Did you hear a gun being fired?'

'No, Inspector. The roar of the fire blocked out everything else.'

The stationmaster was still deeply upset about the incident and tears came into his eyes at one point. He dabbed at them with a handkerchief, then continued his report. Leeming scribbled madly in his notebook. Seeing that the train was now ready to depart, Powell moved away so that he could despatch it before returning to continue his narrative. It was long and detailed. When the stationmaster's account finally ended, the sergeant had a question for him.

'How did the killer know where to find what he was after?'

'I don't follow.'

'Well, the item of luggage he was after could have been anywhere on the train. How did he find it so easily?'

'There's an obvious answer to that,' suggested Colbeck. 'Someone saw the man getting into the guard's van with it at King's Cross. He sent that information to the telegraph station here.' He turned to Powell. 'Do you have a reliable man on duty there?'

'Ralph Bickerton is very reliable,' said the...