The Railway Viaduct (13 page)

‘When did this happen?’ asked Thomas Brassey.

‘In the night, sir. They chose a shaft that was furthest away from the camp so that nobody heard the noise. When they’d unloaded the wagon that carried the bricks, they smashed it to pieces. There’s no sign of the horse that pulled it.’

Brassey did his best to remain calm, but exasperation showed in his eyes. He was in his office with Filton. On its walls were the maps and charts drawn as a result of various surveys. Had work proceeded at the stipulated pace, they would have been ahead of schedule and Brassey could have marked their progress on one of the charts. Instead, they were hamstrung by the sequence of interruptions. The latest of them was particularly irksome.

‘We needed those bricks for today,’ said Brassey.

‘I’ve sent word to the brickyard to increase production.’

‘It’s security that we need to increase, Aubrey. How was anybody able to steal so many bricks without being seen?’

‘I wish I knew, sir,’ answered Filton, trembling all over. ‘How were they able to light that fire, or damage the track in the tunnel, or steal that gunpowder or blow up the wagons? We’re dealing with phantoms here, Mr Brassey.’

‘No,’ affirmed the other. ‘Inspector Colbeck correctly identified our enemy. We’re dealing with navvies. Nobody else would have had the strength to drop all those bricks down a ventilation shaft. It would take me all night to do such a thing.’

‘It would take me a week.’

‘What they probably did was to unload a fair number by hand then undo the harness on the horse so that they could tip the whole cart over.’

‘I suppose that the horrible truth is that we’ll never know.’

‘Not until the inspector returns, anyway.’

‘Do you really think that he can catch these men?’ said Filton, sceptically. ‘He hasn’t managed to do so thus far and we both saw what happened to Sergeant Leeming.’

‘That incident will only make Inspector Colbeck redouble his efforts. Introducing a man into the Irish camp did have advantages. He was able to warn us about that planned attack on the French.’

‘What if there’s another?’

‘That’s very unlikely,’ said Brassey. ‘I think we scared the Irish by telling them that they’d lose their jobs. Work is scarce back in England. They all know that.’

‘It didn’t stop some of them from stealing those bricks last night and there’ll be more outrages to come. I feel it in my
bones.’

‘Don’t be so pessimistic, Aubrey.’

‘There’s a curse on this railway.’

‘Balderdash!’

‘There is, Mr Brassey. I begin to think that it’s doomed.’

‘Then you must change that attitude immediately,’ scolded the other. ‘We must show no hint of weakness. The villains are bound to slip up sooner or later. We need another spy in their camp.’

‘We already have one, sir.’

‘Do we?’

‘Of course,’ said Filton. ‘Father Slattery. He knows everything that goes on in the Irish community. It’s his duty to assist us.’

‘His main duty is a pastoral one and nothing must interfere with that. If we asked Father Slattery to act as an informer, he’d lose all credibility. What use would he be then? Besides,’ he continued, ‘he obviously has no idea who the miscreants are or he’d tackle them himself. A priest would never condone what’s been going on.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘Wait until the inspector gets back with this new man.’

‘New man?’

‘Yes, Aubrey. I’m assured that he will be ideal for the job.’

‘Ah,’ said Brendan Mulryne, swallowing his brandy in a gulp as if it was his last drink on earth, ‘this is the life, Inspector. And to think I might be heaving cargo at the docks all day long.’

‘You were working in the Devil’s Acre last time we met.’

‘I had to leave The Black Dog.’

‘Why?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Because I had a disagreement with the landlord. He had the gall to hit me when I wasn’t looking and I take violence from no man. Apart from anything else, he did it at the most inconvenient time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I was teaching his darling wife a few tricks in bed.’

Brendan Mulryne roared with laughter. He was an affable giant with a massive frame and a face that seemed to have been hewn out of solid teak by a blind man with a blunt axe. Though he was roughly the same age as Colbeck, he looked years older. There was an irrepressible twinkle in his eye and he had a ready grin that revealed a number of missing teeth. Mulryne had once been a constable in the Metropolitan Police Force but his over-enthusiasm during arrests led to his expulsion. Having caught a criminal, he had somehow seen it as a duty to pound him into unconsciousness before hauling him off to the police station. He had always been grateful to Colbeck for trying to save him from being discharged.

Since his dismissal, Mulryne had drifted into a succession of jobs, some of them firmly on the wrong side of the law but none that offended the Irishman’s strange code of ethics. He would only steal from a thief or commit other crimes against known villains. It was Mulryne’s way of restoring what he called the balance of society. In his heart, he was still a kind of policeman and that was why the present situation had so much appeal for him.

Having crossed the Channel the previous evening, they had spent the night in Le Havre before taking the train to Mantes. Mulryne was a much livelier companion than Victor Leeming.
It was his first visit to France and he was thrilled by everything he saw. When the train rattled over the Barentin Viaduct, he gazed down with awe.

‘Be-Jesus!’ he exclaimed. ‘Will you look at that? It’s almost as if we was flying, Inspector.’

‘Thomas Brassey built the viaduct.’

‘Then I’ll be happy to shake his hand.’

‘Not too hard,’ advised Colbeck. ‘You’ve got the biggest hands I’ve ever seen on a human being. You can crack walnuts with a gentle squeeze. Go easy on Mr Brassey.’

‘I will.’ His face crumpled with sympathy. ‘But I’m sorry to hear about Sergeant Leeming.’

‘Victor was unlucky.’

‘He taught me a lot when we were both in uniform.’

‘You’re a detective now, Brendan, in the Plain Clothes Division.’

‘Well,’ said Mulryne, emitting a peal of laughter, ‘clothes don’t come any plainer than these.’

He was wearing the same moleskin trousers, canvas shirt and tattered coat that had served him in the docks, and his hobnail boots were also suitable for work on the railway. A shapeless hat completed the outfit but he had removed it when they boarded the train. Mulryne was tickled by the fact that he was dressed like a typical navvy while travelling in a first class carriage.

‘I’ll be carrying on the family tradition,’ he said, proudly.

‘Will you?’

‘Yes, sir. My father was a navvy in the old days when the word had its true meaning. Father – God bless him – was a navigator who helped to cut canals. I was born in a navvies’ camp somewhere along the line.’

‘I never knew that, Brendan.’

‘I’m a man with hidden secrets.’

‘You’ll certainly have to hide a few when we get to Mantes.’

‘I’ll soon charm my way in.’

‘That’s what Victor thought but they found him out.’

‘It takes an Irishman to beguile the Irish, so it does.’

‘It’s the reason I chose you. Most of them are decent, honest, hard-working men and they couldn’t have a better priest than Father Slattery.’ He saw Mulryne’s glum expression. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I didn’t know I’d have a priest to worry about.’

‘Father Slattery is a dedicated man.’

‘Yes – dedicated to stopping the rest of us having a bit of fun. It’s the reason I couldn’t stay in Ireland. It’s so priest-ridden. You only had to fart and they’d make you say a novena and three Hail Mary’s. The place for a man of the cloth,’ he declared, soulfully, ‘is in a church and not on a railway.’

‘He does valuable work,’ said Colbeck. ‘More to the point, he knows everyone. That’s why you ought to meet him, Brendan. He can introduce you to the others. Father Slattery is a way in.’

‘And will I be seeing you at the service on Sunday, Liam Kilfoyle?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘You said that last week and the week before.’

‘It slipped my mind,’ said Kilfoyle, evasively.

‘St Peter has been known to let certain things slip
his
mind as well,’ cautioned the priest. ‘How will you feel when you reach the Pearly Gates to find that he’s forgotten all your good
deeds?’

‘I’ll remind him of them.’

‘The best way to do that is to attend Mass.’

‘I worship in my own way, Father Slattery.’

‘That’s wonderful! When you come on Sunday, you can give us all a demonstration of how you do it. We can always learn new ways to pray, Liam.’ He beamed at Kilfoyle. ‘I’ll see you there.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Are you going to let the Lord down yet again?’

Kilfoyle swallowed hard. ‘I’ll try not to, Father.’

‘Spoken like a true Catholic!’

The old man chuckled and went off to speak to a group of men nearby. It was the end of the day’s shift and Slattery was trying to increase the size of the congregation in his makeshift, outdoor church. Kilfoyle was glad to see him go. A wayward Christian, he always felt guilty when he talked to the priest. Memories of sinful nights between the thighs of another man’s wife somehow thrust themselves into his mind. It was almost as if Father Slattery knew about his moments of nocturnal lechery with Bridget.

‘What did that old bastard want?’ said Pierce Shannon, coming over to him. ‘Did he want you to train for the priesthood?’

‘Nothing like that.’

‘Be careful, Liam. You’d have to be celibate.’

‘Then the job’d not suit me. I’ve got too much fire in my loins for the church. Father Slattery will have to look elsewhere.’

‘Well, it had better not be in my direction.’

‘Why not, Pierce? You might end up as a cardinal.’

‘If I’m a cardinal, you’re the Angel bleeding Gabriel.’

They traded a laugh. Shannon stepped in closer.

‘By the way,’ he said, casually, ‘it’s a shame about that friend of yours, Victor Leeming. He could have been useful to us.’

‘Not any more.’

‘I suppose the truth is that he just didn’t fit in here. Pity – he was a good worker.’

‘Victor won’t be doing any work for a while.’

‘I liked the man. He had a good punch.’

‘He was certainly a match for you, Pierce.’

‘Only because he caught me unawares that one time,’ said Shannon, thrusting out his chest. ‘In a proper fight, I reckon that I could kick seven barrels of shit out of him.’

‘Don’t try to do that to Brendan,’ warned Kilfoyle.

‘Who?’

‘Brendan Mulryne. He was helping us to shovel spoil into the wagons today. He’s got muscles bigger than bloody pumpkins. He made me feel puny beside him. Brendan could fill two wagons in the time it took me to fill one.’

‘What sort of man is he?’

‘The best kind – joking all day long.’

‘I prefer a man who keeps his fucking gob shut while he works.’

‘Then stay clear of Brendan. He can’t keep quiet. We got on well together. He feels the same about priests as me. He’d rather roast in Hell than be forced to listen to a sermon.’

‘Where’s he from?’

‘Dublin.’

‘And he’s a real navvy?’

‘With hands like that, he couldn’t be anything else.’ Kilfoyle
saw the giant figure ambling towards him. ‘You can meet him for yourself, Pierce. Here he comes.’

Shannon turned a critical eye on Brendan Mulryne, who was smiling amiably at everyone he passed and making cheerful comments as he did so. When he spotted Kilfoyle, he strolled across to him. Mulryne was introduced to Shannon. As they shook hands, the latter felt the power in the other’s grip.

‘I’m looking for somewhere to sleep tonight,’ said Mulryne. ‘The ganger told me there’d be room at Pat O’Rourke’s. Do you know him?’

‘Yes,’ replied Kilfoyle, pointing. ‘He owns that stone house at the end of the row. Pat will look after you. Built the house himself.’

‘How much does he charge?’

‘Almost nothing.’

‘That’s good because I haven’t got two bleeding pennies to rub together.’ He became conspiratorial. ‘Hey, I don’t suppose that either of you know how I can pick up a little extra money, do you?’

‘In what way?’ asked Shannon.

‘Any way at all, friend.’

‘Such as?’

‘On my last job, I made a tidy sum at cockfighting.’

‘Nobody will want to fight a cock as big as yours,’ said Kilfoyle with a giggle. ‘And, if you’re talking about the kind with feathers and sharp claws, then Mr Brassey won’t allow that kind of thing on any of his sites.’

‘What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t fucking grieve.’

‘I couldn’t have put it better,’ said Shannon, warming to
him at once. ‘How else have you made money in the past, Brendan?’

‘All sorts of ways. Best of all was prize-fighting.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, I’d take on all-comers with one hand strapped behind my back. They not only paid for the chance to take a swing at me,’ said Mulryne, ‘I got my share of the bets that were laid as well.’

‘Very crafty.’

‘I’ve got a devil of a thirst, Pierce. That takes money.’

‘Not here,’ said Kilfoyle. ‘The brandy’s dirt cheap.’

‘I know. I tried some on the way here. Anyway,’ Mulryne went on, ‘I’d best find O’Rourke so that I’ve got somewhere to lay my fucking head tonight. Then it’s off to the nearest inn with me.’

‘We’ll take you there,’ volunteered Shannon.

‘Thank you, friend. I might hold you to that.’ He caught sight of Father Slattery among the crowd and recoiled. ‘Is that the bleeding priest they told me about?’

‘That’s him, large as life.’

‘Then keep the bugger away from me.’

‘Father Slattery is harmless enough,’ said Kilfoyle.

‘Not to me, Liam. There’s a time and place for priests and this is not it. When I’ve worked my balls off all day,’ asserted Mulryne, ‘the last thing I want is a dose of religion. A good drink and a warm woman is all I need and Father Slattery looks as if he’s never tasted either.’