November, 1858

A heavy mist lay over the city of Tannerbridge as the last rays of the winter sun vanished reluctantly below the horizon. Such weather was becoming more and more frequent for that time of year, especially around those regions closest to the sea.
Near the city train station, a few travellers alighted from the last trains and made their separate ways to many locations around the city. One such traveller hailed a closed carriage and instructed the driver to make his way to Tannerbridge Cathedral, but to take his time. The driver, having been over the city more times that day than he cared to consider, asked no questions and proceeded to obey his passenger's orders.
The driver, concentrating on the road ahead, never saw the lamps inside the carriage extinguished. The fog swam before the driver's eyes and it was all he could do to avoid running down the few unfortunate souls who journeyed abroad in the foul weather.
At last, after some time, the carriage pulled up outside the cathedral. Out of the mist the tall, needle-like spire rose sharply to the heavens. Nothing more could be made out of the majestic building that had withstood the test of time better than any other structure in the city. As soon as the carriage drew to a halt, a young couple rushed up and demanded that the driver take them to the station.
"Certainly," answered the driver, "If you'll just allow my current passenger to dismount first, then I'll take you on your way."
He knocked on the small window behind his seat. Inside, though all was in shadow, he could make out the form of his passenger sitting perfectly still. Thinking that, perhaps, the man had fallen asleep, the driver leapt down from his seat, apologising to the couple for the delay, and opened the door.
The woman screamed as the lifeless body of the man fell out onto the pavement. The driver immediately began to call out for someone to fetch a doctor, then, beginning to think clearly, bundled the corpse back into his carriage and set off as fast as he dared for the nearest hospital.
However, it was a futile gesture. The man had been dead for some time. The driver, one Hugo Jenkins, sat alone in a small, sparsely furnished room decorated in battleship grey. Presently, a surgeon and a stranger in plain clothes entered and began to ask questions:
What time had the driver picked up his passenger from the station?
Had he stopped anywhere along the route?
Was there ever another passenger inside the carriage at anytime?
Had the driver known the lamps had been extinguished?
The answer to the final three questions was a collective ‘no'. Before any further questions were asked, the man in plain clothes was introduced as Constable Harold Burton from the seaside town of Bridewell.
"Hugo Jenkins," he announced in a deep monotone, "I am hereby placing you under arrest on the charge of murder. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be used in evidence in a court of law."
Jenkins, had he anything to say, was so wrapped up in shock and despair that he could only nod dumbly as he was led away.
"'The victim was apparently strangled by a piece of thin wire'," Sir Arthur Truscott-Smith was reading from the morning addition of the Tannerbridge Times.
"Do they note any specific details as to marking on the body?" asked Mordecai Andrews, his usual attention to detail focusing, as always, on the obvious before the unobvious.
Sir Arthur scanned rapidly through the article before finding the passage he sought, "They say that there was a thin red line corresponding to the usual marks left by such an action as strangulation. I must say it all seems so unbelievable, does it not?" he asked, looking up from his paper.
Andrews and Sir Arthur were sat in the drawing room of the latter's Tannerbridge mansion located less than a mile from the cathedral itself. Dressed in a burgundy waistcoat and black trousers, Andrews was pacing to and fro before the fireplace, pausing once or twice to stare into the glare of the merry blaze that was struggling to keep out the chill. The morning had dawned grey and dreary, the city still in the grip of the fog. Wisps of it coiled through the cold streets like the tentacles of some great beast. Few dared to venture out into its foul embrace and only one or two felt brave enough to take a carriage or handsome cab.
"Most unusual, I would say," Andrews mused half to himself, "The driver stated that he never stopped, did he not?" Sir Arthur replied in the affirmative.
"What reason could he have for such a despicable act?" asked the rotund host.
"Reason," chuckled Andrews, "Reason is a precious and fickle commodity. Those who look for it, find it not. Those who seek it not, find it where they least expect it to be. It is by not seeking it, that many of the most complex mysteries and anomalies can be solved by even the simplest members of our race."
Sir Arthur frowned, "I merely used the term as it was the ready one to hand; I could quite easily have said ‘motive' or ‘justification'. Though I expect you have lectures on those words and their relation to your chosen profession?"
Andrews smiled, "Perhaps, but now is not the time. I'm afraid I shall have to venture forth into this diabolical weather and call on Burton at the police station. Indeed, it is fortunate that he is here, for I should like someone of his ability around."
Sir Arthur tried not to look angered by the slight, "May I come, or shall I be in the way?"
"Not at all," answered Andrews, "Your presence would be most welcome. I meant neither insult nor disrespect to you, my friend; it is merely that I have glimpsed in Burton the raw talent that so few in our country's police force possess in abundance. I wish to attempt some cultivation of that talent so that I might have someone else who may take the cases I cannot."
And so it was that they found themselves at Tannerbridge police station, almost an exact copy of the one in Bridewell, in the temporary office of Constable Burton.
"Well, I must say it seems an open and shut case," Burton was saying, "Though something about it just does not fit the facts."
Andrews leaned forward keenly in his seat, "What is that, pray?" he asked.
"Only that I cannot see how or why the driver should kill his passenger. No doubt, we will find that there was a third party involved, as usual, and Jenkins is innocent. I've spoken with him and he's agreed to stay here with us. Were we to release him, I suspect that he would immediately fall prey to those leeches who write the daily newspapers."
Sir Arthur stood, "If there was a third party, how did they mount the carriage without the driver knowing?"
Andrews raised an eyebrow, "You have hit the proverbial nail," he said, "Jenkins did not murder his passenger; I take it we have a name for the deceased?"
Burton flicked through his own notes, "Mr Reginald Troughton. I've been investigating him recently after an anonymous informant suggested that he was involved in smuggling; that was why I had come to Tannerbridge."
"Had you found any evidence?" asked Sir Arthur, "If he was guilty, then perhaps justice has prevailed."
"We had nothing to prove Troughton innocent or guilty," answered Burton, "And perhaps we never shall."
Andrews shook his head knowingly and looked out of the window into the fog-bound street. Taking his watch from his waistcoat pocket, he noted the time and stood.
"Might I be allowed to question Jenkins, and then examine the body? Unless, of course, it has already been taken for burial."
Burton at once agreed to both suggestions and led them down to the cells. Inside one sat the dejected form of Hugo Jenkins. He was terribly thin and had obviously been greatly distressed by the whole affair. Burton opened the door, there being no need to lock it as the man had volunteered to be kept there.
"Mr Jenkins, my name is Mordecai Andrews, and this is my associate, Sir Arthur Truscott-Smith."
At the sound of the voice, Jenkins stood and offered his hand weakly,
"Glad to meet you, sirs," he half-whispered, "I am familiar with your exploits, Mr Andrews. I must say how pleased I am to have you working on this case."
Andrews took the compliment lightly, his business-like mind choosing, as usual, to focus on the chief matter at hand.
"Now, please be seated Mr Jenkins," he began, "I'm afraid I must ask you to recount the events as you perceived them yourself. Please take as long as you need."
Jenkins repeated the sequence of events up to his taking the body to the hospital.
"And you had absolutely no notion that the lamps had been extinguished?" asked Andrews, his chin resting on his hands.
"None whatsoever," answered Jenkins, "I admit I took no notice at first, I was more concerned with doing what I could for the poor man."
"Did your passenger give any reason for wanting to travel so slowly?" Sir Arthur put in.
"No. I thought he wanted me to take care because of the fog."
"How long did it take you to reach the cathedral from the station?" Andrews queried.
"I'm not sure, perhaps twenty or thirty minutes. I can't be certain."
Andrews closed his eyes for a few moments whilst thinking, "I think that will be all," he opened his eyes again, "My apologies for having had to interrogate you in such a fashion, I will do my utmost to solve this as quickly as I can."
So saying, Andrews stood, shook Jenkins' hand and departed, followed by Sir Arthur. Burton remained briefly to ensure that Jenkins had everything he needed and then joined his associates in his office, somewhat tidier than the one he possessed in Bridewell and decorated in white and green.
"Well, Burton, what do you surmise?" asked Andrews as a professor might ask a favourite pupil.
"I surmise nothing as of yet," said Burton, "There isn't enough information. Jenkins seems truthful enough, but I won't pronounce judgment yet."
"Excellent!" cried Andrews, "You are indeed learning, Burton. Now, I believe we should examine the body and thence onto the coach station."
The body had been wrapped in a sheet and kept in a darkened room at the hospital. As the sheet was folded back, Andrews and Sir Arthur could see the bruising on the neck where the wire had been drawn tight across the victim's throat. The body remained virtually untouched and Andrews immediately set to examining the cadaver. The line had apparently gone almost completely round the man's neck. At one place there was a slight widening of the line, evidently where the garrotte had rubbed into the skin. The face was a pallid grey touched here and there with blue, a sign of the lack of oxygen to the head and the brain.
"You notice this widening of the bruise?" remarked Andrews to Burton and Sir Arthur.
"Evidently Troughton struggled against his assailant," suggested Sir Arthur, "The garrotte rubbed sharply enough to leave a larger bruise."
"Perhaps," mused Andrews.
He then bent very close to the face, as though inspecting the neck even closer, and finally removed the sheet altogether and examined the rest of the body.
"It is interesting to note that rigor mortis has not set in," announced Andrews, lifting an arm and letting it drop again, "Most interesting."
Sir Arthur looked up, "Interesting? It's astounding!" he cried.
"Never have I ever seen a corpse like it," added Burton.
Andrews nodded in agreement, "It is, indeed, a curious item and one that I believe we should take note of for future use." He very rapidly searched through the pockets of the dead man's clothes. All that could be found was an unremarkable tin box, empty.
"It is not what I had hoped," murmured Andrews, "But it is more than I could have expected."
He opened the box, looked closely with his eye glass, closed it again and placed it on the table next to the feet of the corpse.
"I believe we can learn nothing more from our unfortunate companion here, at least for the present," Andrews announced and, leading the way himself, he departed from the chilly room and its tragic occupant.
After leaving the hospital, the three men took a coach to the very yard where Jenkins had been employed. The yard was a hive of activity, despite the inclement weather. Men and boys ran about on a variety of errands so that the three men had often to move out of the way or be knocked down.
The coach had been left in one corner of the yard far from the others. The traces lowered to the ground to prevent it rolling down the slight slope of the ground. Andrews, Sir Arthur and Burton commenced examining it thoroughly. After mere moments, Andrews called his companions' attention to the seat upon which Troughton had evidently sat.
"You see, gentlemen," he said, "The single indentation in the seat?"
The others nodded.
"The seat seems to have been replaced recently, this leather is nearly new. Obviously Jenkins has not had many passengers since then and therefore the seat still bears the imprint of Troughton as he sat there on his fateful journey."
"So there was never another person inside with him?" asked Sir Arthur, "Then Jenkins did kill him."
"Not at all," said Andrews quietly, "I believe that the murderer was inside the carriage all along and that Jenkins is entirely innocent."
"Then how on earth did he meet his end?" asked Burton, "Unless he somehow became caught up in one of the hand straps?"
"Too thick," said Andrews, "The bruising on Troughton's neck is very thin, save for that one place where it widens slightly. He was certainly strangled with something very thin, perhaps a piece of wire, or even twine, it has been known," he chuckled to himself.
"Well, we can be certain Troughton didn't strangle himself, and if Jenkins didn't, then how on earth was the murder committed?" Burton was becoming exasperated at what had at first seemed so simple a case, and also a little unnerved at the way Andrews repeatedly found some form of humour in the matter.
Andrews took his watch from his pocket and, noting the time, announced that they should return post haste to the hospital.
It was to be the most startling event in all the years Sir Arthur and Mordecai Andrews had known each other. Upon arriving at the hospital, they marched into the same room they had visited earlier that day to find the corpse gone.
"My god, we're too late!" cried Andrews, throwing up his hands in dismay, "Damn it, the whole affair may yet be saved from disaster!"
So crying, he dashed out of the hospital in time to see a handsome cab pull away at terrific speed. Sir Arthur and Burton had moments to leap into their own coach as it, too, began to set off in frenzied pursuit.
Through the streets of Tannerbridge they raced, Andrews constantly urging his driver to drive his horses harder. It was not out of a lack of care for the animals, but from a painful desire to set his own blunders to rights.
"For God's sake man, this is a matter of life and death!" he cried to the driver for the fourth time, "We cannot afford even a modicum of delay!"
The driver could do no more than entreat his horses with whip and rein whilst he did his best not to run down any of the denizens of the city who had ventured out into the still fog-bound streets.
"He's heading towards the station!" cried Sir Arthur, hurriedly withdrawing his head from the window as they passed under a low arch.
"Hurry driver!" called Andrews, "By God, I'll not let him escape if it's the last thing on this deuced earth I do!"
But who this mysterious quarry was, Andrews kept to himself until they finally drew into the station with a clatter of hooves over the cobbles.
Flinging his door open, Andrews sprang from his seat and flew through the thin crowd of travellers who seem to always be present at any train or coaching station. Sir Arthur and Burton jumped out too. In front of their own carriage they could see the handsome standing still and unattended, there being no sign of the driver.
"Quickly Burton!" called Sir Arthur, proving that his lack of height and considerable waistline were no hindrance when speed was called for. He burst forward with such energy and haste that even Burton with his long limbs and powerful build found it hard to match. Through the crowd they ran, Andrews looking keenly forward like a hound that is on the scent. Sir Arthur followed, his own eyes pealed for any sign of the man he guessed they were after; Burton, puffing with the exertion, brought up the rear.
Sir Arthur, much exhausted from his brief dash through the crowd, finally caught up with Andrews. The latter had halted and was looking around for any sign of his quarry.
"There!" he cried suddenly, "There's villain himself!" and so he burst forth again, his coat tails flying out madly in his wake. Sir Arthur saw the man they were after, but could not make out his features. He wore a dark suit and hat and carried a rolled umbrella. Before he boarded the train, their quarry looked round from side to side anxiously, the sign of one who is conscious or suspects the possibility of pursuit. In one last desperate effort, Andrews and Sir Arthur attempted to draw fresh speed from their aching limbs, but to no avail. The strange gentleman boarded the train, closed the door behind him, and even had the impudence to lean out and wave his hat as the train pulled slowly away from the station and the three hunters.
"I think we deserve an explanation," said Burton between breaths as he finally caught up with his two companions.
Andrews, out of breath himself, waited for a time before answering, "What would you know?"
"I would know who that gentleman was?" asked Burton, "And for what purpose you had us race round Tannerbridge like a pack of devils."
Andrews, again pausing whilst he recovered his breath, finally replied, "That gentleman was the man you have been after for some time; Reginald Troughton."
The others gasped in shock and surprise.
"Do you mean to say that the corpse was someone intended to look like Troughton?" asked Burton.
"Not at all," answered Andrews, "That ‘corpse', as you put it, was Troughton. Whilst in the carriage from the station, he applied make-up to his face so as to give that deathly pallor to it. He then paints a thin red line round his neck to give the impression he was strangled. The carriage, though it was going slowly at the time, rolled over a bump or hole in the road and Troughton's arm was jogged. That explains the thickening of the line at one point.
"In the box I could smell feint traces of laudanum. Obviously there was a bottle in there that Troughton discarded during the journey. He took a large enough dose to send him into such a deep state of unconsciousness that anyone who examined the body, even the doctors, would think him dead. I leant close enough to his mouth and nose to detect the slightest of breaths. I estimated, slightly inaccurately, how much time we should have before Troughton should awaken."
Sir Arthur's eyes widened as he took all this in, "But why go to such extraordinary lengths to convince people that he was dead, and where did he hide the make-up?"
"I believe I can answer that," said Burton, "Troughton knew I was investigating him. Evidently he feared that I or one of my colleagues would find something incriminating and thus take away his liberty. He thought this the perfect way to escape justice. As for the make-up, he most likely had it in the tin box and threw it away with the bottle."
Andrews laughed heartily, "Excellent!" he cried, clapping his hands, "My dear Burton, you really are learning your trade remarkably well."
Whilst Burton positively beamed with the praise, Sir Arthur shook his head sternly, "This is all very well, but how are we to catch him?"
As if he had received a blow to the face, Andrews came out of his reverie in an instant.
"Of course!" he ejaculated, "Thank you for keeping my mind on the matter at hand. We must find out where that train was bound and wire the police in that area. I doubt Troughton will get very far before he is caught."
With that, he marched straight over to the office of the station master and hammered thunderously on the door. It was opened by a small man of later years with in the uniform of the station master. His wizened face enclosed a pair of gimlet eyes that looked first at Andrews and then widened as they caught site of Constable Burton.
"Can I help you, gentlemen?" he asked in a falsetto voice.
"Yes," answered Andrews in that business-like tone he reserved for important matters, "You can tell us where that last train was bound for and when the next is due."
The station master dashed inside briefly and then reappeared with an old leather bound book.
"That was the train to Bridewell," he said, scanning through the columns and lists of a particular page, "The next one's due in about twenty minutes."
"How long will that last one take to reach its destination?" asked Sir Arthur earnestly.
"About three-quarters of an hour. It stops at all the stations on the way; the next one goes direct to Bridewell."
"By God we have him!" thundered Sir Arthur, the earthquake of a voice causing the station master to jump and nearby travellers to look up in astonishment.
Hurriedly buying tickets for the three of them, Andrews sent Burton down to the nearest post office to send a telegram.
"With any luck," Andrews was telling Sir Arthur, "We shall arrive before or at the same time as Troughton's train. Burton has sent a request to his own colleagues in Bridewell and they shall prevent anyone matching Troughton's description from leaving the station."
"But what if Troughton should merely disguise himself as someone else and slip through your net?" asked Sir Arthur, not wishing to find fault with his friend's methods, but feeling it his duty to point out any potential pit falls.
"Then he shall have the upper hand and Burton shall have to start all over again in his investigations."
"But how on earth can you be so calm about it?" asked Sir Arthur, "It's as though you couldn't care less whether the man escapes or not!"
Andrews did not reply, for Burton had arrived and so had their train.
They boarded it and waited as patiently as they could for it to begin moving. All were tense, especially Andrews. Whilst he had appeared calm on the platform, his eagerness to set right his own mistakes won over his self-control. It was all he could do to resist the temptation to order the passengers to get another train so they might proceed unhindered. His hands clasped and unclasped as though in prayer and Sir Arthur thought he heard a quiet request to whatever deity it was that Andrews worshipped. Perhaps failure was so daunting a prospect, that the amateur detective found it prudent to invoke whatever power guided the affairs of the earth from the heavens.
"What if," Sir Arthur asked suddenly, "Troughton gets out at a station before Bridewell?"
Andrews shook his head, "Though I have said nothing, I do know a thing or two of this man we chase." All listened attentively to this new revelation.
"Indeed, I know that he has property in Bridewell and so will have servants, and perhaps family members ready to help him elude our pursuit. He also is a business-man and will do all he can to ensure he has funds to aid in whatever course he should choose. My instincts tell me he will head straight to Bridewell."
For the remainder of the journey, Andrews said nothing, though Sir Arthur and Burton could discern some deep struggle within his mind as he evidently struggled with the possibility that he was wrong.
Finally, with a lurch and the squealing protestations of the carriage wheels, they were once more in pursuit of the elusive Reginald Troughton. Burton was, himself, verging on the impatient. It appeared that he, too, hated the prospect that his work should be all for nought. Indeed, Sir Arthur was glad that the train would go direct to its destination, rather than stopping along the way. He felt that even a delay of a few seconds would drive his companions over whatever brink it was they clutched to so feverishly. And so it was that they passed, out of the fog-bound city and through the myriad country stations that were dotted irregularly along that stretch of railway line between Tannerbridge and the town of Bridewell where Andrews himself dwelt; and where many of his cases had their origins.
Forthton went by; Dellingbrook was but a passing memory; Collingham was beheld only as a fleeting blur of brown and grey against the backdrop of the glorious countryside.
It as with a sigh of relief that they pulled into Bridewell station and noted that Troughton's train had not yet reached the station. Sir Arthur was the second of the three to leave the carriage, Andrews alighting almost before the train had come to a complete halt.
The station at Bridewell was, surprisingly, a much grander affair than its counterpart in Tannerbridge. Stout red-brick walls rose sharply and curved over into a great dome. Here and there, windows opened out onto the sea air and allowed some light to filter down to the passengers as they made their way to and from the trains. There were only two platforms, one for trains to and from the north, the other for traffic from Tannerbridge and the capital. In the centre of the station stood the ticket office and a small restaurant providing refreshment for those with a long wait between trains.
Andrews immediately swept through the throng of people going this way and that. He went, as fast as his long stride would allow, towards the end of the platform to have as clear a view of any inbound trains as they appeared above the horizon. He had not long to wait.
In the distance, it was just possible to make out a slight wisp of grey-blue smoke against the clear winter sky. Andrews forced himself to a composed state, though his heart was racing as it had never done before. It was perhaps, as before, his eagerness to show that, though he should at times blunder, Mordecai Andrews was never foiled in his plans.
Minute by minute the smoke grew larger and nearer. Eventually it was possible to make out a black speck that was moving at incredible speed towards them. Then, mere seconds later, there came born on the wind the low murmurings and bellowing as of a great beast from a children's fable.
"Now approaches the moment we have waited for," whispered Burton, his youthful eagerness all too apparent.
Now it was obvious that the approaching monster was indeed a train approaching rapidly, the smoke from its funnel billowing out into a long, trailing grey-blue cloud, slightly darker nearer the locomotive itself. Already some of the sharper-eyed amongst the crowd of onlookers could discern a few passengers seated in their carriages. The rapid rumbling of the pistons and the occasional squeal of a wheel on the metal track heralded its approaching the long straight before the station itself. Andrews was positively quivering with excitement, Burton shifted nervously on his feet, first shifting his weight to one foot, then to the other. Sir Arthur, though he wished to see his friends triumphant, felt only anxiety should the prey elude the hunters.
A change in the sound of the locomotive indicated it was slowing down. Sure enough, it did seem to come at the station at a slacker speed. When it pulled in, the train was barely crawling along. The sound of the steam as the entire contraption drew to a halt seemed like one great sigh of relief at having reached the end of the line and the journey.
"Be ready," advised Andrews, "the instant he shows himself we must be on him like hounds after the fox."
Burton and Sir Arthur moved off to varying positions along the train, pausing every so often to see if they could spot any sign of Troughton. Andrews, content to play his own waiting game, stood patiently at the rear of the train, his hands clasped behind his back, his head angled so as to look up at the heavens. In this apparently distracted posture, he was able to watch as a short, elderly curate with a rolled umbrella and glasses stepped out carrying a brown paper parcel. The instant the priest's attention was diverted to fumbling in his pocket for his ticket, Andrews pounced.
"Good afternoon, sir," he called to the stocky priest, "Might I ask you your name, father?"
The priest looked up and squinted through his glasses at the man who had accosted him.
"My name?" he croaked, "I am the reverend Albert Percival. Do I know you?"
Andrews smiled and took hold of the curate's arm, "You have no need to play that part with me, my dear Troughton."
"What? Who is this Troughton; unhand or I shall call the police."
By this time, seeing Andrews with what they assumed must be some accomplice, Burton and Sir Arthur had returned to join their companion.
"Who is this?" asked Sir Arthur, "A confederate of yours Andrews?"
Andrews shook his head, "Burton, look closely at this man; does ought seem familiar?"
Burton scrutinized the old priest for a moment or two and then nodded.
"Mr Reginald Troughton, I must ask you to come with me."
Troughton, for he it was, snarled at the three men who had cornered him, "So, you have found me at last!" he spat.
"Indeed," said Andrews, "You led us a merry dance, but in the end you were betrayed."
"By who?" gasped Troughton.
"By that mark around your neck," chucked Burton, "You may have washed off the look of a corpse, but you neglected that ‘bruise' around your neck."
Troughton rubbed his fingers over his neck and looked in shock as they came away covered in rouge.
Three days later, Reginald Troughton, after severe interrogation by the police, admitted to being at the head of an enormous gang of smugglers and thieves. On his own evidence, the majority of his subordinates were caught and incarcerated all over England. For Andrews, it was a close shave and would forever be etched indelibly in his memory as the one occasion he came close to failure.