Murder in Transit: The bestselling Victorian mystery series

PRAISE FOR EDWARD MARSTON

‘A master storyteller’

Daily Mail

‘Packed with characters Dickens would have been proud of. Wonderful [and] well-written’

Time Out

‘Once again Marston has created a credible atmosphere within an intriguing story’

Sunday Telegraph

‘Filled with period detail, the pace is steady and the plot is thick with suspects, solutions and clues. Marston has a real knack for blending detail, character and story with great skill’

Historical Novels Review

‘The past is brought to life with brilliant colours, combined with a perfect whodunnit. Who needs more?’

The Guardian

MURDER IN TRANSIT

Edward Marston

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BY EDWARD MARSTON

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

Summer, 1866

As she walked along the platform in the gloom, she was aware that she was being followed. She was a handsome, well-dressed woman in her thirties with a strange dignity about her. When she paused outside an empty first-class compartment, she did not look behind her. Entering the compartment, she took a seat beside the window on the far side and held her reticule on her lap. After a few moments, a man opened the door and stepped in. He touched his hat in greeting, but she ignored him. He was a big, broad-shouldered individual in his fifties with an aura of wealth. As he settled into a seat in the middle of the compartment, he was diagonally opposite her with his back to the engine.

He studied her out of the corner of his eye, admiring her poise, her fashionable attire, and her air of independence. He relished the way that her perfume masked the smell of the oil lamps. Though there was little to see in the darkness outside, she stared through the window beside her. It allowed him to run his gaze over her at will. Ten minutes of close observation slipped pleasantly past. It was then shattered by a succession of noises. A loud whistle was blown, voices were raised, and feet were heard running along the platform. The engine added its own contribution to the swelling chorus. As the train burst into life, a man in the uniform of a naval officer flung open the door and stumbled in, shutting the door behind him. He flopped into a seat and struggled to get his breath back. After noticing the others, he gestured an apology then closed his eyes.

‘Wake me when we … get to Portsmouth,’ he said, slurring his words.

The other man was angry at the sudden loss of privacy. Alone with an attractive woman, the last thing he wanted in the compartment was a drunken sailor only feet away from him. He moved closer to the window, away from the newcomer and opposite the woman. When he showed his irritation by clicking his tongue, she was more tolerant.

‘If he has a first-class ticket,’ she said, reasonably, ‘he’s entitled to travel with us.’

‘Why couldn’t he pick another compartment?’

‘I don’t think he’s in a condition to answer that question.’

‘I do apologise,’ he said.

‘There’s nothing to apologise for.’

‘I was hoping that we might … enjoy some conversation.’

‘We can still do that,’ she replied. ‘Our companion is so drunk that he won’t interrupt.’

‘The damn fellow is just so … inhibiting.’

‘He’ll snore all the way to Portsmouth. Pretend that he’s not even here.’

He glanced at their companion. ‘But he is here – and he’s in the way.’

‘Only if we let him be,’ she said, sweetly.

Her manner changed completely. Having ignored him before, she was now meeting his gaze. His interest was kindled immediately. The dozing passenger ceased to exist. Several minutes passed as they stared at each other. It was the woman who eventually broke the silence.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ she invited. ‘When you came into the compartment, you were in a buoyant mood. Where had you been?’

‘I dined at my club in Chichester,’ he said. ‘It was in the nature of a celebration.’

Her eyes widened with interest. ‘Celebration?’

‘A few days ago, I sold a property on the Isle of Wight for a huge profit. I wanted the opportunity to boast about it. As I’d hoped, my friends were green with envy.’

‘What exactly do you mean by a huge profit?’ she asked.

‘If you want to know,’ he said, patting the seat beside him, ‘come a little closer.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘I’ll tell you all about my good fortune.’

She gave him a teasing smile. ‘You could do that if you sat beside me.’

He needed no more invitation. Standing up, he took off his hat and frock coat then lurched at her. She gave him an uninhibited welcome, letting him kiss and grope her at will. Then he forced her down on the seat and pulled up her dress. It was as far as the encounter lasted. Coming to life, the sailor suddenly leapt to her assistance, producing a length of rope to put around the neck of the older man before tightening it with cruel force. All that the man could do was to flail and splutter for a few excruciating minutes while the life was squeezed out of him. He was then dumped face down on the floor of the compartment.

The woman’s nose wrinkled in disgust. She used a handkerchief to wipe her lips.

‘Search him!’ she ordered.

CHAPTER TWO

There was never a chance to rest for any length of time at Scotland Yard. Demands on the detectives were continual. Whenever they tried to get their breath back, something always came up. Robert Colbeck and Victor Leeming were enjoying a brief chat together in the inspector’s office when an urgent summons came from the superintendent.

‘Can’t he find someone else to take charge of a case?’ complained Leeming. ‘The moment we sit down, he finds a reason to make us stand up again.’

‘Try to see it as a reward for our success.’

‘It’s unfair.’

‘I’d rather view it as a challenge,’ said Colbeck, getting up. ‘Each case has its individual character. That’s what makes our work so fascinating.’

‘Every investigation spells danger in one form or another,’ said Leeming, ruefully. ‘As I know to my cost. Also, it usually takes us a long way away from home. Doesn’t the superintendent realise there are such things as wives and children?’

‘Family life is an unknown country to him, Victor. Let’s find out what he wants.’

He led the way to the superintendent’s office and knocked politely before opening the door. Edward Tallis was seated behind his desk, studying a telegraph. He looked up at his visitors. Colbeck was as immaculately dressed as ever but Leeming was in a sorry state. Apart from his routine untidiness, he bore the scars of war. His face was bruised, he sported a black eye and there was a long, livid scratch down one cheek.

Tallis waved the telegraph in the air.

‘This is a cry for help from Captain Forrest,’ he said.

‘I’ve never heard of him,’ said Leeming.

‘Your ignorance comes as no surprise to me, Sergeant. Captain Forrest is the Chief Constable of the Hampshire and the Isle of Wight Constabulary. He is also a friend of mine,’ boasted Tallis. ‘We met at a military reunion. Like me, Forrest saw service in India. He and I talk the same language.’ He handed the telegraph to Colbeck. ‘A man was murdered last night on a train to Portsmouth.’

‘There are few details here, sir,’ said Colbeck, reading the message.

‘Then you must go to Winchester and find out the full story.’

‘Doesn’t the Hampshire Constabulary have its own detectives?’ asked Leeming.

‘The captain wanted the best man for the job,’ said Tallis, drily. ‘That’s why I’m sending Colbeck – and his assistant.’ Leeming squirmed. ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘Nothing, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘We’ll leave immediately.’ He handed the telegraph back to Tallis. ‘Please excuse us.’

He led Leeming out of the room and closed the door behind them. Tallis sat back in his chair with an air of satisfaction. He had been able to help a friend in need and to guarantee that the crime would be solved. Reaching for his pen, he composed a reply to Captain Forrest.

‘Colbeck never fails …’

‘But only because I keep barking at his heels,’ he murmured.

They could not believe their luck. When their victim had been searched, they found rich pickings. The dead man not only had a wallet bulging with money – as well as a pocket watch and a gold wedding ring – he had been carrying an address book that contained the names of several women. Each one of them had a series of stars beside her name. They came to the same conclusion.

‘These are all conquests of his,’ said the man. ‘He’s kept a record of every time he’s shared a bed with them.’ He grinned. ‘You must admire his stamina.’

She grimaced. ‘I loathed the man on sight,’ she said. ‘I could see from the expression on his face that I’d aroused his interest. The moment I left the ticket office, he followed me onto the platform. What he didn’t know, of course, was that you were following him.’

‘I waited until the right moment then dived into the same compartment.’

‘Thank goodness! I’d hate to have been alone with that dreadful man.’

They were seated at the kitchen table in the house they had rented in Portsmouth. Spread out before them were the spoils from the previous night. He picked up the wedding ring.

‘I wonder if he took this off before he got into bed with his mistresses,’ he said.

‘He certainly kept it on when he tried to ravish me. He was like an animal.’

‘That’s why I had to kill him. I’m not having you mauled like that. Our other victims were different. In their cases, all I had to do was to pretend to wake up and they pulled away from you. It never occurred to them that you’d stolen their wallets while they embraced you.’ He laughed. ‘The beauty of it was that they couldn’t report the theft to the police because they would be asked about the circumstances in which they’d been robbed.’

‘They’d also have had to lie to their wives about how their wallets had gone astray.’

‘I don’t feel sorry for Blanchard’s wife,’ he said.

‘Neither do I.’

‘In killing her husband, we’ve done her a favour. She won’t see it that way, of course. Mrs Blanchard probably worships him. She doesn’t know that she was married to a shameless adulterer.’

‘What’s our next step?’ she asked, picking up the watch to examine it.

‘The first thing I must do is to put that naval uniform away for a while. I’m no longer a member of the Royal Navy. Then we must celebrate in some way. Giles Blanchard has been our benefactor. There was well over a hundred pounds in his wallet.’ He picked up the address book. ‘But this is the real treasure. The women who let him do what he wished to them are in for a very nasty surprise. They’ll not only be horrified by his death – they’ll discover that it’s going to cost them a lot of money.’

Captain John Forrest was alone in his office at the headquarters of the Hampshire Constabulary. Tall, slim, and sharp-featured, he looked younger than his sixty years. When there was a tap on his door, it opened to reveal a uniformed constable who led in two visitors before quietly departing. Colbeck introduced himself and Leeming. Though he was impressed by Colbeck’s demeanour, the chief constable’s attention was fixed on Leeming’s facial injuries.

‘You must excuse the sergeant’s appearance,’ said Colbeck. ‘During a recent investigation, he arrested two men after a lively tussle with them. The injuries they sustained were far worse than the ones before you.’

‘I commend your bravery, Sergeant Leeming,’ said Forrest.

‘Thank you, sir,’ muttered the other.

‘Not long before you arrived, a telegraph came from Superintendent Tallis. He assures me that, in asking for the pair of you, I have put the investigation in excellent hands.’

‘But why did you choose us?’ asked Colbeck. ‘Are there not able enough detectives in your own ranks?’

‘There are none with your reputation, Inspector. For a heinous crime committed on the railway, I felt that you needed to be involved. Fortunately, Superintendent Tallis and I are friends. I knew that he would answer my plea.’

‘He’s never answered any of mine,’ said Leeming under his breath.

‘What exactly happened?’ asked Colbeck.

Forrest indicated the chairs and his visitors sat down. The chief constable remained on his feet. He was far less intimidating than Edward Tallis. Forrest spoke to them quietly and respectfully.

‘Until an hour ago,’ he said, ‘all I knew was that a man had been strangled to death on the last train to Portsmouth. We had no idea of his name because whoever killed him had emptied his pockets. That seemed to be the motive for the murder.’

‘Have you learnt anything to make you question that assumption?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Judge for yourselves.’ Forrest waited while Leeming took out his notebook and pencil. ‘We now know that the victim was a Mr Giles Blanchard. He was travelling home to the Isle of Wight. When he failed to turn up, his wife became alarmed. She contacted the police early this morning. Mrs Blanchard was, as you can well imagine, panic-stricken.’

‘Where had her husband been?’ asked Leeming, looking up from his notebook.

‘He’d been to his club in Chichester – it’s called The Haven, for some reason. He told his wife that he expected to be home well before midnight. Mrs Blanchard didn’t sleep all night.’

‘That’s understandable,’ said Colbeck. ‘How was the murder discovered?’

‘When the train reached its terminus in Portsmouth,’ replied Forrest, ‘everyone got out and went on their way. Porters were checking the carriages to make sure that nobody was still on board. One of them saw a man fast asleep, as it seemed, in the corner of a first-class compartment. When he entered and tried to rouse the passenger, the fellow keeled over. There were ugly marks on his neck. The porter summoned the stationmaster, who, in turn, called the railway policeman on duty.’

‘What was their response?’

‘They were highly alarmed. We’re accustomed to crime on our trains, but it’s mainly confined to theft, intimidation, wanton damage, and prostitution. Murders are highly unusual. Of the few that have occurred, I can’t remember any that featured strangulation.’

‘How old was Mr Blanchard?’ asked Leeming.

‘He was in his late fifties. His son described him as fit and healthy.’

‘Then it would have needed an even stronger man to overpower him.’

‘A stronger man with an accomplice,’ mused Colbeck. ‘If someone distracted Mr Blanchard, he could have been caught off guard. Well,’ he added, ‘this sounds like an intriguing case. We are grateful to be involved in it, sir. Thank you for asking for us.’

‘You’ll have the full resources of the Hampshire and Isle of Wight Constabulary to call upon.’

‘How big a force is there on the island?’

‘It’s smaller than I would wish – and its record is not exactly inspiring.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Colbeck with concern. ‘Her Majesty is often at Osborne House. I hope that her security is in no way compromised.’

It was a glorious summer day and Queen Victoria was on her private beach, standing beside her easel in one of the black mourning dresses she always wore. After adding a few brush strokes to her landscape painting, she turned to the woman who stood obediently beside her.

‘What do you think of it, Gwendoline?’ she asked.

CHAPTER THREE

When he arrived at Portsmouth railway station, Colbeck went in search of the man who had discovered the corpse. He was told that the porter would not be back on duty until that afternoon. The inspector asked for his address and discovered that Alfred Burns lived within walking distance of the station. He set off briskly. When he reached the little house at the end of a terrace, he saw that it was in a bad state of repair. Having knocked on the front door, Colbeck had to wait a few minutes before it was opened by a bleary-eyed man in pyjamas. Well into his fifties, Burns was short, skinny, and inhospitable.

‘Whatever you’re selling,’ he snarled, ‘we don’t want it.’

‘I am Detective Inspector Colbeck and I’ve been sent from Scotland Yard to investigate the murder that occurred last night on a train. I understand that you found the body.’

‘Yes, I did, sir,’ said Burns, voice becoming more respectful, ‘and it gave me a terrible shock, I can tell you. I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about it. When I finally dropped off, you woke me up by banging on my door.’ He stood back. ‘You’d better come in, Inspector.’

Colbeck went into the house and found that it was dark, cramped, and musty. Burns led him into a living room and indicated a mottled sofa. As the two of them sat down, the porter tried to wipe the sleep out of his eyes.

‘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