The Stationmaster's farewell irc-9 Page 7

  ‘What memorial service?’ asked Lavinia, mystified.

  ‘We never thought about that,’ admitted Heygate.

  ‘That’s because you don’t know how important a person your brother was in Exeter,’ said Quinnell. ‘He was widely admired and had a legion of friends. His popularity went well beyond the city. We’ve had dozens of letters of condolence from visitors from other parts of the county. They all remember the cheerful welcome they got when they stepped on to the platform. A memorial service is a means of letting the wider community express its feelings.’

  Heygate was dubious. ‘Well … if you say so, Mr Quinnell,’ he said, uneasily. ‘Perhaps you can help us with something else,’ he went on. ‘As you may be aware, I’m Joel’s next of kin. There are no other close relatives so he’ll have left everything to me, I daresay.’

  ‘That’s a fair assumption, Mr Heygate.’

  ‘Would it be possible to have some of the contents of the house now?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘But they’ll be coming to us in due course.’

  ‘That makes no difference.’

  Lavinia was piqued. ‘Why do we have to wait?’

  ‘There are legal obligations to observe,’ explained Quinnell. ‘To begin with, I’m not even sure if he made a will. Knowing what a careful man he was, I’m almost certain that he did but, if not, he’ll have died intestate. Complications can arise then.’

  ‘What sort of complications?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask your brother’s solicitor.’

  Heygate was irritated. ‘What’s to stop us taking a few odds and ends now?’

  ‘The house is the property of the South Devon Railway,’ said Quinnell with quiet firmness, ‘and you don’t even have the right to cross the threshold as yet.’

  ‘Why not? What harm can it do?’

  ‘We have to follow the correct procedure.’

  ‘But there are things that Joel promised to us,’ said Lavinia, nudging her husband. ‘Isn’t that so, Michael?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘So, by rights, they already belong to us.’

  ‘You’ll have to be patient, Mrs Heygate,’ warned Quinnell. ‘The law must take its course and it can’t be rushed. Until then, nothing must leave the premises. If it had been my decision, that canary would still be there.’

  ‘Do you mean Peter?’

  ‘Yes, that was his name. I was only persuaded to let him go when I feared that he might starve to death if left alone in the house.’

  ‘He should have come to us,’ said Heygate in annoyance.

  ‘Yes,’ added Lavinia. ‘Peter is ours now.’

  ‘Have you ever looked after the bird before?’ asked Quinnell.

  ‘Well, no, sir — to be honest, we haven’t.’

  ‘But we would have done if Joel had asked us,’ affirmed Heygate.

  ‘The person who did look after him while your brother was away,’ said Quinnell, ‘was the waitress who works in the refreshment room — Miss Hope. I’m assured by Mr Woodford that the canary has gone to a good home.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ said Heygate, hotly. ‘A slip of a waitress is allowed to take something from the house but I’m given nothing even though everything there is mine.’ He took a moment to control his temper. ‘Can’t we at least go into the house?’

  ‘No, Mr Heygate, I’m afraid that you can’t.’

  ‘What’s to stop me?’

  ‘Inspector Colbeck wants everyone to be kept out of it.’

  ‘Is he that detective from London?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Quinnell, ‘I summoned him personally. He believes that the house may hold clues as to where your brother was going on the fatal night. Now that the inquest is over, he and Superintendant Steel will be conducting a thorough search of the property.’

  The first thing that Colbeck noticed about the house was that it was also a shrine to the stationmaster’s wife and daughter. Nothing that they ever had worn or owned had been thrown out. The daughter’s room had been preserved exactly as it had been on the day of her death with toys, books and a doll’s house in their usual place as if the girl was about to return at any moment. It was the same in the main bedroom where a whole wardrobe was given over to the wife’s attire and where her possessions were on display everywhere. Joel Heygate had kept them alive in his heart. Agnes Rossiter’s claim was demonstrably false. The idea that such a loving husband and father would let another woman take the place of a wife and daughter was ludicrous. In the privacy of his home, the stationmaster had all that he wanted.

  Colbeck and Steel were systematic. They went from room to room, sifting through various items and comparing notes as they did so. There were a number of books about birds and some old copies of the Railway Times and of Herapath’s Railway Journal. Of most interest was a series of letters, tied with a ribbon and kept in the drawer of a sideboard. As he read through them, Colbeck came to one that was signed by Michael Heygate. It had been dashed off when he was seething with anger and disappointment. Heygate was blaming his elder brother for not coming to his rescue when his business venture in Dawlish got into serious financial trouble.

  ‘This confirms what we heard from the coroner,’ said Colbeck, passing the letter to Steel. ‘The two brothers were not exactly good friends.’

  Steel read the missive. ‘The language is rather intemperate,’ he noted. ‘I’m not sure that I’d remain friends with someone who hurled abuse at me like this.’

  ‘Look at the date, Superintendent.’

  ‘It was last May,’ noted the other.

  ‘That’s six months ago,’ said Colbeck. ‘It may well be that they haven’t even seen each other since then. Michael Heygate’s letter comes close to breaking off all relations with his brother.’

  ‘He gave a very different impression at the inquest.’

  ‘I was watching his wife. She gave him a broad smile at one point. Her brother-in-law had been battered to death then burnt in a bonfire. What possible reason could she have to smile?’

  Steel handed the letter back. ‘That’s very revealing, Inspector,’ he said. ‘It may be that Bagsy Browne is not a lone suspect, after all. Someone else had a strong motive as well. We know that Michael Heygate was in Exeter on the night that his brother was murdered. And we know — because he admitted it — that he actually met the stationmaster.’

  ‘That puzzled me,’ recalled Colbeck. ‘He said that he and his wife had come to see the bonfire. Why come on the eve of Guy Fawkes Day instead of on the day itself? It’s only a short train ride from Dawlish, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a mere four stops away — Exeter St Thomas, Exminster, Starcross and then Dawlish. There was no reason to be here a day earlier.’

  ‘Do you stay with family members when you’re in their neck of the woods?’

  ‘It’s usually the main reason for the visit, Inspector.’

  ‘So why didn’t they spend the night under this roof?’

  ‘The letter explains that.’

  ‘It also makes it clear that Michael Heygate and his wife were very short of money. Did they stay with friends in Exeter or at an inn? If it’s the latter, it raises the question of how they could afford it. Talking of money,’ he went on, ‘have you noticed anything about our search?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Steel, ‘there’s no cash whatsoever in the house — unless it’s been carefully hidden, that is.’

  ‘Presumably Mr Heygate would have had access to the station safe. Even so,’ said Colbeck, thoughtfully, ‘he’d need money for running expenses. You’d expect to find some ready cash on the premises.’

  ‘Unless it was stolen,’ conjectured Steel. ‘Stolen to pay for a night or two at an inn, perhaps? Michael Heygate could afford it if he’d robbed his brother.’

  Colbeck advised caution. ‘We’re getting ahead of ourselves, Superintendent. I think we need to question him — and his wife, for that matter — before we jump to any conclusions. What our search has
uncovered is a rift between the two brothers. That, in itself, is enough to designate Michael Heygate as a possible suspect. But,’ he added, ‘we have to remember that there is another one.’

  ‘Bagsy Browne remains the most likely culprit.’

  ‘I was thinking of Lawrence Woodford,’ said Colbeck. ‘That’s why I’ve asked Sergeant Leeming to take a closer look at the new stationmaster. Ambition can sometimes drive a man as hard as brotherly hatred — even harder in some cases.’

  ‘I agree. It can gnaw at a man’s soul.’

  ‘Indeed, it can. By the way, I need to ask a favour of you.’

  ‘What’s that, Inspector?’

  ‘Can you spare a man to stand guard on this house?’

  ‘Is that necessary? Nobody is likely to come here.’

  ‘You’re overlooking something,’ said Colbeck. ‘According to the coroner, no effects were found on or near the deceased. When he went out that evening, Mr Heygate must have been carrying his key. Where is it?’

  ‘The killer must have it,’ said Steel.

  ‘That’s what I deduced. What if he stole it in order to use it?’

  Dorcas Hope held the key in the palm of her hand and studied it with mingled pride and regret. She felt honoured that it had been entrusted to her but sad that she’d never be able to use it again. If, as expected, he was confirmed as the new stationmaster, Lawrence Woodford would move into the house in time and Dorcas would have no reason to go there. Her first impulse would be to return the key but that would involve explanations to the police and she wanted to avoid that. She was still jangled by her appearance at the inquest. Having to speak in front of all those people had shredded her nerves and sent her scuttling back home. She could simply not face the ordeal of returning to work that day. She needed time to recover. In the safety of her bedroom, she’d taken the key out from its hiding place under her bedroom carpet. It was a symbol of the friendship between her and Joel Heygate. He could have asked his cleaner, Mrs Penhallurick, to feed the canary when he was away but he’d chosen Dorcas instead. That meant a great deal to her.

  After turning the key over a few times, she replaced it under the carpet and went downstairs. Her mood might have been sombre but Peter was in high spirits, chirping away and hopping nimbly around his cage. From time to time, he’d stop and hold his head to one side as he peered out through the bars. In the short time he’d been in the house, he’d provided Maud Hope with endless amusement. Seated beside the table on which the cage stood, she looked up as her daughter entered the room.

  ‘How are you feeling now, Dorcas?’

  ‘I feel so sad and lonely. I’ll never see Mr Heygate again.’

  Maud sighed. ‘None of us will.’

  ‘Going to work won’t be the same,’ said Dorcas. ‘It was such a pleasure to talk to him every day and I loved to peep through the window of the house to see Peter jumping about.’

  ‘That’s one thing you can still do,’ said Maud. ‘He’s a lovely companion. It’s such a big cage for a tiny bird like that. Your arm must have ached after you carried him all the way from the station.’

  ‘It was rather heavy.’

  ‘Will we be allowed to keep him?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone else would want Peter.’

  ‘What about Mr Heygate’s brother?’

  ‘He wasn’t really interested in pets, Mother. He used to keep a dog but he treated it so badly that it died. Mr Heygate told me about it. He was disgusted.’

  ‘And so he should be. Peter can stay as long as he wishes.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘He knows that he’s among friends.’ She looked at her daughter’s anguished face. ‘Will you be able to go back to work tomorrow?’

  ‘I think I’ll have to,’ said Dorcas without enthusiasm. ‘They only found someone to take over from me for one day. Mrs Rossiter and I will be needed in the refreshment room. If we’re not there, Mr Woodford will want to know why.’

  Lawrence Woodford didn’t stay away from the station any longer than necessary. As soon as the inquest was over, he hurried back there to resume his duties and to relieve the man who’d temporarily replaced him. Within minutes, he was strutting up and down the platform and exuding a sense of ownership. Exeter St David’s was now his.

  Victor Leeming chose his moment. After checking the timetable, he waited until there was a sizeable gap before the arrival of the next train, then he called on Woodford in the stationmaster’s office.

  ‘I thought you spoke very well at the inquest, Mr Woodford,’ he began.

  ‘That’s good of you to say so, Sergeant.’

  ‘And I do admire the way you’ve kept this station running.’

  ‘Someone had to maintain the high standards set by Joel.’

  ‘Had you always yearned to be a stationmaster?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Woodford. ‘It’s an ambition I’ve had for a long time. When the post here was advertised, I applied for it along with Joel Heygate but it was felt that I was too young at the time. The right decision was made,’ he conceded. ‘He was definitely the better man for the job and he proved it.’

  Leeming was not persuaded that he was being entirely honest. Woodford was quick to praise the man whose job he’d taken over but he was not doing that job in the same spirit. Heygate, by all accounts, had won the respect and affection of the staff, whereas the new stationmaster — Leeming had watched him carefully — was much more dictatorial. He liked to exercise authority and he put people’s backs up in the process. Though he kept the station running efficiently, Woodford didn’t endear himself to those below him. Devastated by the death of a beloved stationmaster, they were visibly unhappy about the regime that had now been put into place.

  ‘Tell me about the owl,’ suggested Leeming.

  ‘What owl is that, Sergeant?’

  ‘The one you mentioned at the inquest.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Woodford, coming close to a sneer. ‘Joel was always getting distracted by one bird or another. He had a thing about them. When he found an injured pigeon on the platform here, he nursed it for weeks before it was able to fly again. Then there was that canary of his, of course.’

  ‘I want to hear about the owl.’

  ‘I can’t add anything to what I said earlier. He’d found it somewhere and sort of adopted it. I’m not sure that I would have bothered,’ he went on with a half-laugh. ‘I’ve got better things to do of an evening than go out in the cold looking for an owl.’

  ‘What were you doing that evening?’ asked Leeming, casually.

  ‘I worked late here then called in at a pub for a drink.’

  ‘Which pub would that be, Mr Woodford?’

  The stationmaster became suspicious. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I just wanted to know, that’s all. The inspector and I are staying at the Acland Tavern, where they brew their own beer. I can’t say that it’s to my taste. If you can recommend another pub, I’d be grateful.’

  ‘I always go to the Barnstaple Inn in Lower North Street.’

  ‘Do they serve a good pint?’

  ‘I like it and it’s convenient. I live only a short distance away.’

  Leeming looked around. ‘You’ve got plenty of room here, I must say. My office at Scotland Yard is like a broom cupboard. This is much bigger and Mr Heygate obviously kept it very tidy.’

  ‘That was his way, Sergeant, and it’s mine as well.’

  ‘In due course, I daresay, you’ll take over the stationmaster’s house.’

  ‘There’s no guarantee of that,’ said Woodford. ‘The post will have to be advertised. I’ll apply for it, naturally, but there’s bound to be competition.’

  ‘But if you do get it — and I suspect you have an extremely good chance of doing so — then you’ll be here on the premises, so to speak. What would you do with your other house?’

  ‘Oh, we’d sell that. It’s what Joel did when he took on the job and it’s what my wife thinks we should do. Why pay for
the overheads on one property when you can have another one rent-free? Joel made a tidy profit on his other house when he sold it,’ he recalled. ‘And he was never one to throw his money about. Most of it would have been salted away in a bank.’

  Leeming’s ears pricked up. ‘So someone stands to inherit a fair amount?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Woodford, curling a lip. ‘Unfortunately, that someone will be Michael Heygate. If he was my brother,’ he went on rancorously, ‘I wouldn’t leave the bastard a single penny.’

  As the train chugged south along the coastline, neither of them spared the scenic view a glance. Seated beside each other, Michael and Lavinia Heygate were far too preoccupied. She squeezed his arm in appreciation.

  ‘You were wonderful at the inquest, Michael.’

  ‘I enjoyed it,’ he said, smugly.

  ‘It was so different from the last time we were there.’

  ‘Yes, I actually felt sorry for Joel then. It was horrible for him to lose Marion and young Olivia in that accident. I thought it might draw me and him closer — but it didn’t. That inquest was gruelling.’

  ‘What about this one?’

  He grinned. ‘I didn’t feel sorry for him at all.’

  ‘Neither did I,’ she said. ‘Everybody else was sitting there with sad faces and I was almost laughing inside. We’ve got what we want at last.’

  ‘Yes, Lavinia — we can pay off our debts and have some pleasure out of life again. It’s no more than we deserve,’ he said. ‘Joel should have helped us earlier. We have two children to support, whereas he was all alone. Yet he turned us down flat.’

  She was harsh. ‘I’ll weep no tears for him.’

  ‘All we have to do is to wear the right face at the funeral.’

  ‘What about the memorial service Mr Quinnell talked about?’

  ‘I’d forgotten that,’ he said, ‘and I’m against it. I don’t want to sit there and listen to person after person saying kind things about Joel. He was no brother to me. He was an uncaring swine and I’m glad we got rid of him at last.’

  Though he hadn’t deigned to attend the inquest, Henry Phillpotts made sure that he had a pair of eyes and ears present. A full report of the event was written and handed to him. As he sat behind his desk in the library, he scrutinised the report. It caused him to suck his teeth and issue an occasional grunt of displeasure. As soon as he’d finished it, he set it aside, reached for a sheet of writing paper and took up his pen. His hand moved gracefully for a few minutes then he paused to read the letter before appending his signature. Picking up a little bell, he rang it a couple of times. Almost immediately, Ralph Barnes came in dutifully from the adjoining room.