It is 1852, and England rules Europe when it comes to railways. Not only does the country have its own impressive network of railway lines, Englishmen are making inroads all across the continent too, winning contracts to lay railway lines everywhere. One such man is Thomas Brassey, in charge of creating some of the most important rail routes in France.
But, across the Channel, one day between Liverpool and Manchester, a train crossing the spectacular Sankey Viaduct becomes the scene of a crime: a man is stabbed in the back and flung off, down into the canal below the viaduct. Inspector Robert Colbeck of Scotland Yard, the ‘Railway Detective’, is put on the case and is soon convinced that the murderer chose that particular spot for a very good reason. As the mystery grows deeper, as more secrets about the dead man emerge, Colbeck and his worthy sergeant, Leeming, find themselves travelling to France to get to the root of the problem.
Coincidentally enough, I’d read another novel of an unknown person murdered in a train and flung out from it, just a few weeks back: Agatha Christie’s 4.50 From Paddington. Even as I read The Railway Viaduct, I couldn’t help but notice the difference between the two books. Not, naturally, between the two plots and their themes, but in the way the detective arrives at the conclusion and how the story plays out.
While it’s probably unfair to compare Marston to Christie, the fact is that this story isn’t as seamlessly put together as one would have liked. The plot meanders a bit, and there is, especially in the beginning, some very superfluous stuff about the Liverpudlian policemen. The details about Praine and his hopeless love for his boss’s daughter sounded interesting—and went nowhere. Something similar happened with three important characters who appear in the first scene of the book, and vanish thereafter. The mystery of where the dead man’s shoes and jacket went, too, got resolved so quickly that it made little sense to have a mystery surround it in the first place. The middle of the book, with all the plotting and events happening at Brassey’s camp in France, also got a big saggy and draggy.
Where The Railway Viaduct scored, as far as I was concerned, was in its depiction of the railways in the 1850s. There was plenty here I hadn’t known before, so I enjoyed learning about it. And the climax, with its revelation of who was behind the crime and why, was well executed.