Inspector Colbeck's Casebook Page 18

  ‘Oh – what do you think happened?’

  As his scissors clicked away, Wyatt gave him a range of theories about the crime and told him the names of the people who held those opinions. What he was careful not to do was to commit himself to a point of view. Leeming tried to prod him into voicing his own opinion.

  ‘You must have thought some of those comments ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m in business, sir. I never argue with customers.’

  ‘Has anything like this ever happened in Ravenglass before?’

  Wyatt was crisp. ‘Never, sir – and we don’t want it to happen again. It leaves a bad feeling in the town. People start to suspect each other and arguments break out. That’s not good for us. It could well be that nobody from Ravenglass is involved.’

  ‘No, that’s right. He might have come from somewhere else.’

  ‘And he might be a she, sir.’

  Leeming was startled. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Women know how to light a fire.’

  Wyatt finished cutting the hair and looked at Leeming from both sides before he was satisfied that his work was done. He removed the white cloak and used a brush on his customer’s shoulders. After examining his haircut, Leeming got up, thanked him and paid the barber.

  ‘I’ll be on my way then,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll notice that the barman at the King’s Arms has also had a haircut,’ said Wyatt, impassively. ‘He were talking to manager when you went in to book rooms. Then he came in here and told me who you were.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Leeming, uneasily. ‘I see.’

  ‘I hope you enjoy your stay, Sergeant Leeming. They’re decent people in Ravenglass. They like honesty.’ He held the door open. ‘So do I, sir. Goodbye.’

  After a visit to the undertaker, Colbeck returned to the crime scene. He borrowed a rake from the stationmaster and used it to sift through the debris, taking excessive care not to soil his well-polished shoes. Nothing had survived the fire intact. What few possessions the victim had owned had been eaten up by the flames. He was still raking through the embers when Victor Leeming came towards him.

  ‘They told me at the hotel that you’d be here, sir.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘now that the body has been removed, I wanted a closer look at the scene.’ He appraised the sergeant. ‘Take your hat off.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to see what the barber did.’

  ‘He almost turned my cheeks crimson,’ admitted Leeming. ‘There was I, talking as if I was on holiday there, and he knew all the time that I was lying. The barman from the hotel had seen me arrive and told him who I was.’

  ‘Then I owe you an apology, Victor. But I’d still like to see his handiwork.’ When Leeming removed his hat, Colbeck had to hide a smile. ‘I’m not sure that I altogether approve,’ he said, tactfully. ‘To tell you the truth, it looked better before.’

  ‘I know,’ said Leeming, putting the hat back on again. ‘But I did get what you sent me to get, including another possible name for the victim. Everyone who went into the shop has been talking about the murder. Mr Wyatt saved us a lot of wasted time knocking on doors.’

  ‘Did he suggest who the killer might be?’

  ‘He didn’t, sir, but other people did. Unlike the manager, most of them are convinced that it was Maggie Hobday in that carriage. I’ve got the names of three people from Ravenglass we ought to take a close look at and one from a hamlet called Holmrook.’

  ‘Well done, Victor. Your visit to the barber was fruitful.’

  ‘It was very embarrassing.’

  ‘You gleaned useful information and had a memorable haircut.’

  ‘What about you, sir?’ asked Leeming, looking at the wreckage. ‘Have you found anything of interest?’

  ‘I found nothing here,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I learnt two things when I called in on the undertaker. First, our instincts were sound. The victim was murdered before the carriage was set alight. On closer inspection than we were able to give, the undertaker discovered that her throat had been cut from ear to ear.’

  ‘If she was dead, why did the killer need to burn the body?’

  ‘He wanted to destroy any evidence of her identity and thus make our task much more difficult. But there was something that was not completely destroyed,’ Colbeck went on, taking a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘I said that I learnt two things from the undertaker. This is the second discovery.’

  Unfolding the handkerchief, he revealed a tiny, twisted, nickel object that glinted in the evening sun. Leeming peered closely at it then shook his head.

  ‘What is it, sir?’

  ‘It used to be a wedding ring, Victor. It was clutched in the woman’s hand.’

  ‘Then the body must be that of Joan Metcalf,’ said Leeming with conviction. ‘It was probably the only souvenir of her husband that she had.’

  ‘Let’s not be too hasty. It may well be that Maggie Hobday was married as well. She wouldn’t be the only widow to turn to prostitution. Think of the ladies of the night you’ve arrested in London,’ said Colbeck. ‘Even if they’re spinsters, some of them wear a wedding ring during the day because it bestows a measure of respectability.’ He wrapped the wedding ring up again and put it in his pocket. ‘It may have belonged to neither, of course. You mentioned that another name for the victim had surfaced. That will give us three potential victims to discuss over dinner.’

  Colbeck returned the rake to Hipwell who locked it away in the shed with the other implements used to tend the flower beds at the station. The detectives walked back towards the town.

  Leeming was worried. ‘Will you give me an honest opinion, sir?’

  ‘I like to think that I always do, Victor.’

  ‘What do you think Estelle will say when she sees my hair?’

  Colbeck’s face was motionless. ‘I think that your wife will say that it makes you look rather … different.’

  Sam Gazey was sweeping the platform when the stationmaster strolled over to him.

  ‘They won’t listen, you know,’ said Hipwell.

  ‘Who are you talking about, Len?’

  ‘It’s them two detectives from London. I tried to help but they ignored me. It were Maggie Hobday in that carriage – I’d wager my pocket watch on it. They didn’t believe me. It’s their own fault if they run round in circles.’

  ‘How long will they be here?’

  ‘One day is long enough. I don’t like policemen.’

  ‘Cliff Baines is no trouble.’

  ‘That’s because Cliff is one of us. Inspector Colbeck and that ugly sergeant of his don’t belong here. They’ll never solve the crime in a month of Sundays.’ Hearing the distant approach of a train, he pulled out his watch and clicked his tongue when he saw the time. ‘It’s late again.’

  Gazey put his broom aside and stood ready to assist anyone with heavy luggage. Thumbs hooked in his waistcoat, Hipwell watched as the locomotive surged towards them, belching out smoke. When they rolled past him, the stationmaster exchanged greetings with the driver and fireman then chided them for being well behind schedule. The train juddered to a halt and a handful of passengers got out. Nobody needed help from Gazey so he picked up his broom again. A woman strode purposefully towards Hipwell.

  He touched his hat. ‘Good morning to you, madam.’

  ‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’

  ‘I’m afraid that I don’t.’ He looked at her more closely then stepped back in alarm. ‘What are you doing here, Maggie?’

  ‘I’ve come to see why everyone in Ravenglass thinks I’m dead. There was a gentleman I met in Barrow last night who happened to call here yesterday and he told me that I’d been burnt to death in a railway carriage.’ She caught sight of the wreckage in the siding. ‘Is that where it happened?’ She prodded Hipwell. ‘Who decided that I were the victim when – as you can see – I’m very much alive?’

  Maggie Hobday was a buxom woman in her late thirties with handsome features rava
ged by the life she’d led. In a smart coat and with a hat pulled down over her face, she was unrecognisable from the powdered harlot known throughout the county. Hipwell was agitated.

  ‘You can’t stay here,’ he pleaded. ‘Catch the next train out of Ravenglass.’

  ‘I’m not leaving until I get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘Just go, Maggie – I’ll pay the fare, if you like.’

  ‘I’m staying, Len. I want to know who’s spreading stories about me.’

  ‘There’s a murder investigation going on. Detectives have come all the way from London. You don’t want to get involved with them.’

  ‘I want to know the truth of what happened,’ she insisted. ‘How would you like it if someone told you they’d heard you were burnt to a frazzle? It upset me, it really did – well, it would upset anyone. Where will I find these detectives?’

  He blocked her path. ‘You don’t need to talk to them.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Why not just go away and forget all about it?’

  ‘Get out of my way, Len.’

  ‘I can’t let you do this,’ he said, grabbing her arm.

  Maggie spoke in a whisper. ‘It costs money to touch me, Len,’ she said, ‘or have you forgotten?’ He released her as if her arm were red hot. ‘That’s better.’

  She brushed past him and walked towards the station exit. All that Hipwell could do was to run his tongue over dry lips and watch her go. Gazey had heard enough to rouse his interest. He sidled across to Hipwell.

  ‘Maggie Hobday is still alive,’ he said with a smirk. ‘You bet your pocket watch that she was dead.’ He extended a palm. ‘Hand it over, Len.’

  After enjoying a hearty breakfast, Colbeck and Leeming were just about to get up from the table when they heard sounds of an altercation. The manager was shouting but it was the piercing voice of a woman that they heard most clearly.

  ‘I demand to see the detectives!’ she yelled. ‘They need to be told that I’m still alive and mean to stay like that.’

  ‘You’ve been warned before, Miss Hobday,’ said the manager. ‘You’re not welcome at the King’s Arms.’

  ‘The King’s Arms might not want me but there are plenty of other arms in this town that have welcomed me.’

  ‘Please keep your voice down.’

  ‘Then stop bellowing at me!’

  Colbeck and Leeming came swiftly into the hallway to part the combatants. The inspector introduced himself and Leeming to the visitor then assured the manager that – since she might provide evidence vital to their investigation – Maggie Hobday should be permitted to stay for a while.

  ‘I take full responsibility for the lady’s presence,’ he said, suavely. ‘Her stay here will not be of long duration.’

  After giving his reluctant agreement, the manager withdrew sulkily. Colbeck invited Maggie into the lounge where she sat down opposite the detectives.

  ‘You’ve made our job much easier,’ said Leeming. ‘We were told that you were the person trapped inside that burning carriage. The stationmaster was adamant that it had to be you.’

  ‘Len Hipwell should have known better,’ she said.

  ‘You were seen in the area.’

  ‘This is where I work, Sergeant. I’m bound to be noticed from time to time.’

  ‘What do you know about Joan Metcalf?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Maggie, face clouding. ‘Everyone knows Joan’s story. Whenever I think of her, I want to cry with pity. At the same time,’ she continued, adopting a sharper tone, ‘that sort of thing would never happen to me. If I lost a husband, I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life weeping over him. I’d find another.’ She grinned. ‘I’ve found quite a few in my time. They just happen to be married to someone else.’ She suddenly reeled from the shock of realisation. ‘Are you telling me that …?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Colbeck. ‘The victim, in all likelihood, was Mrs Metcalf.’

  ‘How could anyone want to hurt her, Inspector? Joan was as harmless as a fly. Only a monster would set fire to someone like her.’

  ‘I suspect that mistaken identity may have been involved, Miss Hobday.’ He tried to be diplomatic. ‘I understand that, in the course of your visits here, you may have made one or two enemies in this town.’

  She cackled. ‘Well, I’m never going to be popular with women, am I?’

  ‘Have you received threats?’ asked Leeming.

  ‘I get those wherever I go, Sergeant,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Ravenglass is no worse than anywhere else.’

  ‘It looks as if it could be. The person who burnt that carriage to the ground might have thought that you were inside it.’

  ‘Then he deserves to hang as high as you can string him up!’ she declared.

  ‘We need your help to find the killer,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘For a start, you can tell us who made those threats against you. We are not ruling out the possibility that another woman is the culprit. Thinking it was you in that carriage, the killer first cut Mrs Metcalf’s throat.’

  Maggie’s hand went to her own throat. ‘Thank goodness I wasn’t here!’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who hated you enough to do that?’

  ‘No,’ she said, unsettled by the news. ‘When people make threats, they very rarely carry them out. They just want to scare me away.’

  ‘There must be someone you can suggest,’ said Leeming.

  Maggie Hobday brooded in silence for a couple of minutes. Having met hostility wherever she went, it was difficult to disentangle one battery of threats from another. She eventually spoke.

  ‘There is someone in particular,’ she said.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He called me a witch. He said that I cast spells and ought to be driven away. He said that witchcraft were evil, Inspector, and he meant it.’

  ‘We know what they used to do to witches,’ said Colbeck with a meaningful glance at Leeming. ‘They burnt them at the stake.’

  When he heard the news that Maggie Hobday had been seen in the town, Ned Wyatt was in the act of shaving a customer. His hand jerked involuntarily and he sliced open the man’s cheek. Mouthing apologies and thrusting a towel at him, the barber went quickly into the storeroom and locked the door behind him. With his back against it, he considered the implications of what he’d just heard. The woman whose throat he’d cut in the darkness was not the witch he had detested for so long, after all. He had instead murdered an innocuous creature who roamed the coast in the futile hope of seeing her dead husband. Wyatt felt utterly mortified. Driven by blind hatred, he’d killed someone he actually liked. It was a terrifying revelation and he knew at once that he could never live with the horror of what he’d done.

  The razor was still in his hand. He put it to his throat and, with full force, he inflicted a deep, deadly, searing slit. When the detectives found him, the barber of Ravenglass was beyond help.

  By the time that Colbeck and Leeming finally left Cumberland, the burnt-out carriage had been cleared away from the siding and the sleepy little town had, to some extent, been cleansed of its hideous crime. The barber’s suicide was both a confession of guilt and a self-administered punishment. Inquests would be held into both unnatural deaths but the detectives were spared the ordeal of a long murder trial. Anxious to see his wife and family again, Leeming had been disturbed by facts that had emerged about Ned Wyatt.

  ‘Could he really hate Maggie Hobday that much?’ he asked.

  ‘As the father of two sons, you should be able to answer that question. If you felt that David or Albert had been abused in some way, wouldn’t you have the urge to strike back at the abuser?’

  ‘Well, yes – but I wouldn’t go to those lengths.’

  ‘When the barber’s wife died,’ said Colbeck, ‘she left the upbringing of their only child to him. It appears that Wyatt worshipped his son and did everything that was expected of a father. They lived together contentedly. And then …’<
br />
  ‘Maggie Hobday came on the scene.’

  ‘She wasn’t entirely to blame, Victor. It was the lad’s friends who put him up to it. They got him drunk, clubbed together then handed him over to a prostitute. He was barely seventeen. I doubt if he even knew what was happening.’

  ‘I can see why the barber was furious.’

  ‘He was a strict Methodist and one of the tenets of Methodism is the avoidance of evil. Maggie Hobday embodied evil to him. She cast a spell on his son and led him astray. The lad couldn’t cope with the shame of it all,’ said Colbeck. ‘That’s why he took his own life, it seems. You can see why anger festered inside Wyatt. When he heard the rumour that Maggie was in that carriage, his lust for revenge took over.’

  ‘It was pointless, sir. Killing her wouldn’t bring his son back.’

  ‘He felt that he’d rid the world of a witch. That was his justification.’

  ‘Religion can affect people in strange ways, sir.’

  ‘His mind was warped by what happened to his son.’

  ‘I condemn what he did,’ said Leeming, ‘but as a father, I’m bound to feel some pity for him. It’s made me resolve to bring my boys up properly.’

  ‘You have nothing to reproach yourself with, Victor. They’re good lads.’

  ‘It’s a valuable lesson for me to take away from Ravenglass. A father can never relax his vigilance.’

  ‘Perhaps there’s a second lesson to take away,’ suggested Colbeck, looking at the sergeant’s hair with frank amusement. ‘Choose your barber with the utmost care.’

  PUFFING BILLY

  Though her career as an artist had reached a point where she derived an income from it, Madeleine Colbeck never forgot the debt she owed to the two most important people in her life. Her father, Caleb Andrews, had spent the best part of fifty years as a railwayman and brought her up to appreciate the engineering skills involved in steam locomotion. Whenever she tried to put a locomotive on paper or canvas, he was always ready to give advice and – in many cases – criticism. But it was her husband, Robert, who first realised that she had a flair for painting and who encouraged her to develop her gifts to the full. He urged her to attend art classes and to master the necessary techniques. It served to give her confidence a tremendous boost. Madeleine loved to spend her days working in her studio on her latest project. But there would soon be a pleasing break in her routine.