Death at the Terminus

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 DEATH AT THE TERMINUS Edward Marston To Jane Conway-Gordon, my literary agent, who helped me to bring Robert Colbeck into existence CONTENTS TITLE PAGE DEDICATION 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 Spring, 1865 York railway station was a cauldron of noise and activity. Hundreds of passengers were bustling about, many of them accompanied by well-wishers eager to offer a few words of farewell. Porters darted everywhere, sizing up those in need of their services and deciding how much, if anything, they would receive by way of a tip. Children’s voices were raised above the hubbub. The spacious booking office was filled with stragglers, buying tickets to take them to a variety of destinations. Slamming doors augmented the general din. Pigeons flew everywhere, swooping dangerously. A woman screeched in dismay as her dog pulled its lead from her hand, barking joyously as it chased the birds. It was a scene so familiar to the stationmaster that he ignored it. His ears had long ago become immune to the general clamour of his working day. All that concerned him was doing his job properly. After taking out the watch from his waistcoat pocket, he noted the time, then glanced up at the large clock above his head. Watch and clock were in perfect agreement. He was content. His peace of mind, however, was soon shattered. Emerging from nowhere, the guard ran quickly along the platform, dodging passengers as he did so. He jumped into the brake van and pulled the door shut behind him. Soon afterwards, there was a loud explosion. An eerie silence followed, broken only by the sound of a violin played by a bearded old man in search of an audience. Everyone stared in horror at the flames licking their way hungrily out of the brake van. Nobody moved. Almost a minute passed before the door finally opened, and the guard staggered out, his clothing alight and his cries piteous. People found their voices again, yelling in alarm as he lurched towards them and backing way in a panic. The guard never reached the buckets of water lined up against the wall. Yards away from them, he had used up the last of his energy. All that he could do was to collapse in a heap on the platform, curling up to form a human inferno that continued to blaze away until the fire buckets were emptied over him. CHAPTER TWO Victor Leeming was so upset by the order that he raised his voice. ‘I can’t go to York, sir,’ he protested. ‘Why not?’ ‘It’s my son’s birthday next week. I can’t possibly miss that.’ ‘You may have to,’ warned Colbeck. ‘Our duties as detectives always come first. We can’t expect murders to fit themselves neatly into our respective diaries. They happen at random. Our task is to respond to them.’ ‘But it’s so far away.’ ‘I’m sorry, Victor. As a father myself, I know how important a child’s birthday is. Look,’ he advised, ‘try to take an optimistic view. If we solve this crime quickly, you could be back in London in plenty of time to join in the birthday party.’ ‘What chance is there of that happening?’ groaned Leeming. Their discussion was cut short as the cab in which they’d been speeding along began to slow down. When it came to a halt outside the railway station, Colbeck paid the driver then led the way to the ticket office. It was only when they were walking towards their platform that they were able to resume the conversation. ‘Whose birthday is it?’ asked Colbeck. ‘David or Albert?’ ‘Albert.’ ‘Ah, I see the problem. He’s your younger son.’ ‘It’s no fun being in that position,’ said Leeming. ‘I was a younger son myself. You spend your entire life being overshadowed by a brother who is older, bigger and whose clothes are passed on to you. I can’t ever remember getting something to wear that was new,’ he wailed. ‘The one day of the year when you feel important is on your birthday. It’s a time when you get noticed at last. That’s why I’ve always made such an effort to be there for Albert every year.’ ‘You must do so again, Victor.’ ‘A crime on this scale could take weeks to solve.’ ‘Don’t be so defeatist.’ ‘I’m being realistic, sir. This is no minor infringement of the law. A brake van was blown up in a crowded railway station. That’s serious.’ Colbeck smiled. ‘So is Albert’s birthday.’ Gregory Maynard walked up and down the platform to relieve his tension. He was a big, heavy, pale-faced man in his sixties and the exercise was soon making him pant. The charred remains of the brake van had been towed into a siding. As he glanced across at it, his heart missed a beat. It was a calamity for the North Eastern Railway. Since he was the Chairman of the Board, he was suddenly thrust into the crisis, forced to make instant decisions, and having to confront a small army of newspaper reporters. York railway station was no longer a busy, noisy, overcrowded place that met the needs of thousands of passengers. Largely deserted, it now