Inspector Colbeck's Casebook by Edward Marston Read Free Book Online

out of bed on the Sabbath. He was always up early, lifted by a feeling of importance and filled with pure joy. It was the one day of the week when his bones never ached. During the short walk to church that morning, he went through his usual ritual, reminding himself of what he had to do before the congregation arrived for a service of Holy Communion.
    Gillard had to let himself into the church, unlock the cupboard in the vestry so that the sacristan could prepare the altar, slide the hymn numbers into the wooden display board above the pulpit, open the bible on the lectern at the appropriate page for the readings and set the offertory plate in position. There would be a number of other tasks to complete before the others turned up. Gillard knew the routine off byheart and drew immense solace from the thought that he was doing God’s work and serving the community. As he turned the key in the lock, the door opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges and he stepped inside.
    There were people in Wolverton who sneered at the church of St George the Martyr because it had been built fifteen years earlier by the London to Birmingham Railway Company to supply the spiritual needs of their employees and their families. Critics disliked what they saw as a church built on traditional lines with a decidedly utilitarian air about it. It blended in with the terraces of small, plain, relentlessly uniform railway houses. Some argued that the church had no history, no grandeur, no sense of being on consecrated ground and no right to be there. Gillard disagreed. To him, it was as inspiring as the greatest of medieval cathedrals. Alone in the church of St George the Martyr, he felt that he was in direct communication with the Almighty. Standing in the nave, as he did now, he looked towards heaven and offered up a silent prayer.
    His gaze then alighted on the altar and he froze in horror. Stretched out in front of it was the body of a man. His head had been smashed open and was soaked in blood. He lay there like some grotesque sacrifice. It was too much for Gillard. He gasped, tottered then fell forward into oblivion.
     
    The Sabbath was no day of rest for the detectives at Scotland Yard. If an emergency arose, they had to respond to it. Robert Colbeck and Victor Leeming had each attended services at their respective parish churches, only to return home to an urgent summons from their superintendent. Edward Tallis told them everything that could be gleanedfrom the telegraph he’d received from Wolverton, then he dispatched them there. An unwilling rail traveller on weekdays, Leeming was even gloomier when he was forced to catch a train on a Sunday.
    ‘I’d hoped to spend some time with my children,’ he moaned.
    ‘I, too, had other plans,’ said Colbeck.
    ‘It’s unfair on Estelle. She looks after them during the week. It’s only right that I do my share whenever I can.’
    ‘Police work often occurs at inconvenient hours, Victor. It can be irritating but we must try to see it from the point of view of the victim. He didn’t get himself killed on a Sunday morning specifically to ruin our leisure time with the family.’
    ‘Why bother us?’ asked Leeming. ‘This is a case for the local constabulary.’
    ‘Because they’re aware of our reputation, the LNWR asked for us by name. Doesn’t that make you feel proud?’
    ‘No, sir, it makes me feel annoyed. We’re being imposed upon.’
    ‘This murder has a unique distinction.’
    ‘Yes, it’s made me miss the best meal of the week with the family.’
    ‘Take a less selfish view,’ advised Colbeck. ‘The crime took place in the first church ever built by a railway company.’
    ‘If you ask me,’ grumbled Leeming, ‘the railways are a crime in themselves.’
    Colbeck laughed. ‘That’s precisely why I
don’t
ask you, Victor. Tell me,’ he went on, ‘are your children still playing with the toy train I bought them?’
    ‘That’s different, sir.’
    ‘Are