The Stationmaster's Farewell Read online

  THE STATIONMASTER’S FAREWELL

  EDWARD MARSTON

  With love and thanks to Dr Janet Cutler, former President of the Railway and Canal Historical Society, who provided me with a base in Dawlish from which to explore South Devon and whose knowledge of its railway history was an invaluable source.

  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

  About the Author

  By Edward Marston

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  November 4th 1857

  Joel Heygate was not only a highly efficient stationmaster, he was immensely popular in the community. He was a stout man of middle height with a flabby face decorated by bushy eyebrows and a walrus moustache. In his frock coat and top hat, he was a striking figure and seemed to be a permanent fixture at Exeter St David’s railway station. Those who met him for the first time were impressed by his cheerful disposition and his readiness to offer help. None of them would have guessed that tragedy had entered his life in dramatic fashion. A few years earlier, Heygate’s wife and daughter had been killed in a freak accident on the track outside Plymouth station. Other men might have been embittered by the event and blamed the railway for the death of their loved ones. Heygate steadfastly refused to do that. If anything, his passion for the railway system was intensified and he described himself as having the best job in the world.

  Because he had such a legion of friends, he was never lonely. Living in the house provided by the South Devon Railway, he shared it with a canary called Peter and with his warm memories of a happy marriage. When he was not tending his little garden, he spent his spare time birdwatching, making constant use of a telescope bequeathed to him by an old sailor. It was not the only gift that came his way. Local landowners would often drop off a brace of pheasant, and an obliging fishmonger would sometimes slip sole or mackerel into his hand. The railway station was his kingdom. During working hours, he would stride up and down the long single platform with an air of supreme contentment. Heygate would make regular visits to the refreshment room.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Rossiter,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Heygate,’ she replied.

  ‘Good morning, Dorcas,’ he went on, turning to the waitress who was wiping the tables with a cloth. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Very well, thank you, Mr Heygate,’ she said.

  He checked his pocket watch. ‘The next train will be here in twenty minutes.’

  ‘We’ll be ready for it,’ said Mrs Rossiter, sweetly. As she looked at Dorcas, her voice hardened. ‘You always forget that table in the corner, Miss Hope.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Dorcas, moving across to it.

  Mrs Rossiter rolled her eyes. ‘I have to watch her all the time.’

  Railway companies employed a large number of women but the vast majority were invisible as they toiled away in laundries, washing the never-ending stream of towels, tablecloths, sheets and antimacassars that were cleaned on a weekly basis. Mountains of sacks had to be made or repaired by an army of seamstresses. Female employees were more in evidence in railway hotels but Exeter St David’s was unusual in having two of them on duty in the refreshment room. Pretty waitresses like Dorcas Hope were in a vulnerable position, likely to be ogled or groped by lecherous male passengers. She escaped both these fates, thanks to the protection offered by Heygate and, even more so, by the basilisk stare of Agnes Rossiter.

  The manageress was a widow in her forties, a thin sharp-featured martinet who made even the bravest and most inebriated of men shudder at the thought of ogling or groping her. Mrs Rossiter’s fearsome reputation was enough in itself to keep men on their best behaviour and restrict them to sly, wistful glances at Dorcas, a shapely young woman whose patent lack of education was outweighed by her willingness to learn. It irked Mrs Rossiter that the stationmaster showed the waitress an almost paternal affection, using her Christian name while keeping the manageress herself on surname status. This was especially demeaning to a woman who had a secret fondness for Heygate and who nursed the faint hope that she might one day be able to arouse his interest in her. For the moment, however, their relationship was one of polite formality.

  ‘Will you be going to the bonfire tomorrow, Mr Heygate?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course, Mrs Rossiter,’ he said, affably. ‘It’s an event I’ve been enjoying for over forty years now. What about you?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be there,’ she said, beaming as if a tryst had just been arranged. ‘I’ll look out for you.’

  ‘I may be difficult to find in the crowd.’

  ‘Father’s taking me,’ announced Dorcas. ‘He won’t let me go alone.’

  ‘Quite right too,’ said Mrs Rossiter with a sniff. ‘Passions can run disgustingly high on Guy Fawkes Night. No decent woman is safe on her own.’ She smiled at Heygate. ‘That’s why I’ll be grateful for your company.’

  ‘Don’t bank on it,’ he said. ‘The world and his wife will be there.’

  ‘I’ll find you nevertheless,’ she warned.

  Heygate winced inwardly. While he had the greatest respect for Agnes Rossiter, he had no wish to spend any leisure time with the woman. Her brittle voice grated on his ear and he took care to keep his distance because of her abiding aroma of lavender and mothballs. She was not unattractive. Indeed, some might account her handsome until they saw her in combative mode, when her eyes glinted madly, her teeth were bared and her whole body bristled like a wildcat about to attack.

  The refreshment room occupied a long low space that was filled with small tables and an array of chairs. On the counter that ran the length of the room, food and drink were on display and the walls were covered with advertisements. The catering had been leased to a contractor to whom the railway company had guaranteed regular stops at the station by their passenger traffic. In addition to those waiting to board a train or to welcome someone alighting from it, Mrs Rossiter and Dorcas also served the mass of people who surged out of a train making a prolonged stop there to break a lengthy journey. At such times, it was hectic but they coped valiantly.

  ‘How is your mother, Dorcas?’ asked Heygate, solicitously.

  ‘She never complains,’ said the waitress, ‘even though she’s in pain.’

  ‘Is there nothing that can be done for her?’

  Dorcas shrugged. ‘There’s nothing we can afford, Mr Heygate.’

  ‘Do give her my regards.’

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  ‘My grandfather was crippled by arthritis, so I know what a trial it can be. Your mother has my sympathy.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I get an occasional twinge myself,’ said Mrs Rossiter, rubbing her hip as she made a plea for attention. ‘It’s agony in cold weather.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the stationmaster as two customers entered the room, ‘I can see that I’m in the way. I’ll let you get on with serving the travelling public.’

  He tipped his hat to the well-dressed couple who’d just come in then shared a farewell smile between Dorcas and Mrs Rossiter before leaving. Straightening her white apron, the waitress went swiftly around to the other side of the counter. The manageress, meanwhil
e, appraised the two passengers through narrowed lids then took in the whole display of refreshments with a graceful sweep of her arm. She spoke as if bestowing a great favour upon them.

  ‘What can we get for you?’ she asked.

  Exeter was a pleasant cathedral city with a population in excess of thirty-two thousand. In the reign of Elizabeth I, it had been one of the largest and wealthiest provincial communities in England but it was now in decline. The Industrial Revolution that created the huge conurbations in the Midlands and the North had largely passed it by, allowing it to retain a semi-rural atmosphere. County and agricultural interest still held sway. Though its mayor spoke of the city with fierce pride, it was dogged by unemployment, destitution, poor drainage and woefully inadequate public health provisions. Only three years earlier, it had witnessed a bread riot in its streets, a violent outpouring of discontent that resulted in widespread damage and serious injury to citizens and policemen. While it may have died down now, the discontent had not gone away. It was still simmering below the surface and the man most aware of it was the Right Reverend Henry Phillpotts, incumbent Bishop of Exeter. The distant sound of exploding fireworks made him grimace.

  ‘It’s started already,’ he complained. ‘They can’t even wait a single day.’

  ‘We must make allowances for the impetuosity of the young,’ said Ralph Barnes, tolerantly. ‘Their excitement is only natural.’

  ‘You don’t need to remind me. I’ve been the victim of their excitement many times. The year that I was consecrated, they burnt an effigy of me.’

  ‘It’s traditional to burn effigies of clergymen on Guy Fawkes Night.’

  ‘This was different, Ralph, as you will recall. It was not undertaken in a spirit of good humour. There was a collective antagonism towards me. It was the reason I summoned the 7th Yeoman Cavalry here as a precaution, and the reason that I always leave the city at this time of the year.’

  They were in the bishop’s palace at the rear of the cathedral. Both men were in their seventies, yet their vigour and dedication were unimpaired. Bishop Phillpotts considered himself a prince of the church and acted with regal arrogance. He was a strict disciplinarian who ruled the clergy in his diocese with an iron rod. It earned him few friends and many enemies but he felt that seeking popularity was a sure sign of weakness of character. While his hair was silvered and his forehead lined, his eyes maintained their imperious sparkle. He turned his back so that Barnes could help him on with his cloak.

  ‘Thank you, Ralph,’ he said, adjusting the garment.

  ‘When will we return?’

  ‘Only when calm has been restored.’

  They were leaving Exeter to avoid the celebrations on the following day, moving instead to the palace that the bishop had had built at Torquay. It was his preferred residence, with extensive gardens that stretched down to the sea. He felt safer there, well away from the hullabaloo of November 5th and the dangers that accompanied it. At an age when retirement might have beckoned, Ralph Barnes had continued to be the secretary to the bishop and clerk to the dean and chapter. A former solicitor in the city, Barnes was a slim, immaculate, well-groomed individual with a cool head and an unobtrusive manner. Beside a man of such arresting eminence as Phillpotts, he was rather insignificant but he played a vital role in the diocese and discharged his duties well.

  Putting on his top hat, Barnes followed the bishop through the front door held open by a servant, then clambered into the open carriage beside him. Paradoxically, they were fleeing from an annual event that only existed because of ecclesiastical support. Guy Fawkes Day was a symbol of a Reformation that was held in high regard by the Protestant citizenry. The public were allowed to hold festivities in the cathedral close and the Church contributed funds to the building of a massive bonfire near the west door of the edifice. Essentially an occasion for the youth of the city, it was attended by people of all ages. Having sanctioned the celebrations, the bishop was now being driven well away from them. As the carriage rumbled into the close, they caught sight of the vast pile of timber and other combustible material.

  ‘That will burn merrily for hours,’ observed Barnes.

  ‘There’d be even more merriment if I was sitting on top of it,’ said Phillpotts, sourly. ‘Someone who lives by the highest moral principles will never find favour with the common people. That’s why I rise above their mindless disapproval of me.’

  ‘Yet you still command a great deal of respect.’

  ‘After over a quarter of a century as their bishop, I deserve it.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more.’

  ‘When I took charge of this diocese, the clergy were despondent and their respective ministries fell well short of desired standards. That is no longer the case. I have brought about a reformation of my own.’ He permitted himself a rare smile. ‘Fortunately, it does not need to be marked by an annual bonfire.’

  Barnes grinned. ‘That’s very amusing, Bishop.’

  ‘You know exactly how much I’ve done to revive the church here.’

  ‘Nobody could have done more.’

  While they were talking, squibs were being let off on all sides by mischievous children, filling the air with a series of pops and flashes. Someone threw a firework at the carriage and it exploded under the hooves of one of the horses. With a loud neigh, it reared up between the shafts. The driver needed time to bring the animal under control again. Meanwhile, other fireworks were being hurled in fun at the carriage and there was a whole salvo of minor explosions. Stamping his foot in exasperation, the bishop looked up at the driver.

  ‘Hurry up, man!’ he shouted. ‘Get me away from here!’

  Dorcas Hope was roused from her slumbers at four o’clock next morning when cannon fire boomed out from various quarters of the city to mark the great day. By the time she set off towards the station, the streets were already busy. Children were hawking rudimentary guys about and youths were carrying more fuel to the bonfire. There was a sense of corporate exhilaration and Dorcas was caught up in it. When a firework went off close to her, she simply laughed and continued on her way. It was her custom to peep into the stationmaster’s house each morning so that she could watch the canary hopping about in its cage. When she reached the relevant window this time, however, the curtains were drawn. That was most unusual. Joel Heygate was an early riser and a stickler for punctuality. She’d expected him to have been at work an hour ago. Could he have overslept for once or – the thought was more disturbing – been taken ill? Dorcas was worried. She went to the front door and used the knocker. Though the sound echoed through the house, it evoked no response. She tried again but it was futile. Heygate was either not there or too unwell to move. When she looked upwards, she saw that the bedroom curtains were also closed.

  The irony was that she had a key to the house. It had been entrusted to her so that she could feed Peter on the few occasions when Heygate took time off to visit friends in Cornwall. Dorcas kept it hidden at home. It never occurred to her that the key might have been useful. There was no time to retrieve it now. If she was only minutes late, she would suffer a stinging reprimand from Mrs Rossiter and she wanted to avoid that at all costs. She was about to leave when she noticed that there was a chink in the curtains that concealed the parlour from view. If she stood on her toes, she might just be able to get a glimpse of the interior. Raising herself up to her full height, she peered through the tiny gap. The room was in shadow but she was able to see something that turned her concern into alarm. There was a cloth over the birdcage. The first thing that the stationmaster did every morning was to remove the cloth and welcome Peter into the light of day. The bird was still in darkness. It was ominous.

  Dorcas hurried to the station as fast as she could, determined to report what she’d discovered. When she arrived, she found everyone in a state of agitation. Clerks and porters were asking each other what could possibly have happened to Heygate and Mrs Rossiter was weeping quietly into a handkerchief. Before Dorcas could speak
, a stern voice interrupted the anguished debate.

  ‘That’s enough of that!’ declared Lawrence Woodford. ‘You all have jobs to do. I suggest that you get on and do them.’ When they paused to gape at him, he wagged an admonitory finger. ‘I’m in charge now,’ he decreed. ‘If you don’t do as you’re told, there’ll be dire consequences.’

  Obeying the order, they all dispersed. Only Dorcas remained.

  ‘I just passed Mr Heygate’s house,’ she explained. ‘The curtains were drawn.’

  ‘We know that, Miss Hope,’ said Woodford, irritably.

  ‘What’s happened to him?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘He’s never late for work, Mr Woodford.’

  ‘There’s always a first time,’ he said, ‘and this – evidently – is it. That’s why it’s fallen to me to take over as stationmaster.’

  It was a role that he’d coveted for many years. Woodford was the chief clerk, a tall, stooping man of middle years with a mobile face and darting eyes. Dorcas had never liked him. He was officious, self-important and inclined to shoot her lewd glances whenever he caught her alone. Since he made no secret of the fact that he felt he could do the job better than Heygate, he was now glorying in the opportunity to prove it. He smirked triumphantly.

  ‘You answer to me henceforth, Miss Hope.’

  ‘I understand, Mr Woodford.’

  ‘This station will be run properly from now on.’

  ‘Mr Heygate ran it very well,’ she said, defensively.

  ‘Then where is he?’ he demanded. ‘A captain does not desert his ship.’

  ‘He may have been taken ill.’

  ‘Joel Heygate is never ill.’

  ‘There’s no other explanation.’

  ‘I can think of two or three,’ he said, darkly. ‘The most obvious one is that he’s absconded. He has the keys to the safe, remember, and could easily have emptied it before making his escape.’

  Dorcas was horrified. ‘He wouldn’t do a thing like that!’