The Railway Detective Collection: The Railway Detective, the Excursion Train, the Railway Viaduct (The Railway Detective Series) by Edward Marston Page B

wood.
    ‘It’s not for sale, I fear,’ warned Colbeck with a fond smile. ‘I inherited it with the house. My father was a cabinetmaker. Most of the things in here are examples of his handiwork.’
    ‘He must have been a fine craftsman.’
    ‘He was, Victor, but he never wanted his son to follow in his footsteps. My father had boundless faith in the powers of education. That’s why I was packed off to school at such an early age.’
    The clock on the desk began to strike and Leeming realised how late it was. It was time to go home. He downed the last of the whisky in one gulp then rose to his feet.
    ‘What will you be doing tomorrow, sir?’ he asked.
    ‘Going to Birmingham. I need to speak to the bank manager.’
    ‘Better you than me. I hate long train journeys. They unsettle my stomach. To be honest, I don’t like travelling by rail at all.’
    ‘Really? I love it. Believe it or not, there was a time in my youth when I toyed with the notion of being an engine driver.’
    ‘The life of a cab driver has more attraction for me.’
    ‘You prefer the horse to the steam locomotive?’
    ‘I do, Inspector.’

    ‘Then you’re behind the times, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘The railways are here to stay. In any race between them, a steam train will always beat a horse and carriage.’
    ‘That’s not what happened today, sir.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘The mail train came a poor second,’ argued Leeming. ‘It was put out of action completely while the robbers escaped overland by horse. I think that there’s a message in that.’
    Colbeck pondered. ‘Thank you, Victor,’ he said at length. ‘I do believe that you’re right. There was indeed a message.’

    The fight was over almost as soon as it had begun. After exchanging loud threats and colourful expletives, the two men leapt to their feet and squared up to each other. But before either of them could land a telling blow, they were grabbed by the scruff of their necks, marched to the door and thrown out into the alleyway with such force that they tumbled into accumulated filth on the ground. Rubbing his hands together, the giant Irishman who had ejected them sauntered back to the crowded bar.
    ‘I see that you haven’t lost your touch,’ said a voice in the gloom.
    ‘Who are you?’ growled Brendan Mulryne, turning to the man.
    ‘I was waiting for you to remember.’
    Mulryne blinked. ‘Haven’t I heard that voice before somewhere?’
    ‘You should have. It gave you a roasting often enough.’
    ‘Holy Mary!’ exclaimed the other, moving him closer to one of the oil lamps so that he could see the stranger more clearly. ‘It’s never Mr Colbeck, is it?’

    ‘The very same.’
    Mulryne stared at him in the amazement. The Black Dog was one of the largest and most insalubrious public houses in Devil’s Acre and the last place where the Irishman would have expected to find someone as refined as Robert Colbeck. The detective had taken trouble to blend in. Forsaking his usual attire, he looked like a costermonger down on his luck. His clothes were torn and shabby, his cap pulled down over his forehead. Colbeck had even grimed his face by way of disguise and adopted a slouch. He had been standing next to Mulryne for minutes and evaded recognition. The Irishman was baffled.
    ‘What, in God’s sacred name, are you doing here?’ he said.
    ‘Looking for you, Brendan.’
    ‘I’ve done nothing illegal. Well,’ he added with a chuckle, ‘nothing that I’d own up to in a court of law. The Devil’s Acre is a world apart. We have our own rules here.’
    ‘I’ve just seen one of them being enforced.’
    Colbeck bought his friend a pint of beer then the two of them adjourned to a table in the corner. It was some time since the detective had seen Mulryne but the man had not changed. Standing well over six feet tall, he had the physique of a wrestler and massive hands. His gnarled face looked as if it had been inexpertly carved out of rock but it was