The Stationmaster's farewell irc-9 Read online

  ‘It could be worse, Victor.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘Think what Superintendent Tallis would say if he saw you in that apron.’

  Edward Tallis sat behind his desk in a cloud of cigar smoke. Whenever he was under real pressure, he reached for a cigar in the mistaken belief that it helped his thought processes. In fact, it dulled his mind, shortened his breath, darkened his teeth and left him with an unpleasant taste in his mouth. Notwithstanding that, he enjoyed the act of smoking. It was one of the few luxuries that he allowed himself. Picking up the letter that lay on his desk, he read it for the fifth time. Each word was a sharp pinprick and the cumulative effect was painful. Tallis did not take criticism easily. When it was serious criticism, he was even less inclined to accept it and was adept at unloading it on to somebody else. Inhaling deeply, he then blew out more smoke to thicken the fug and ground his cigar into the ashtray with a vengeance. Tallis stood up, brushed the ash from his waistcoat and came to a decision. Minutes later, he left Scotland Yard.

  ‘Were you aware that Mr Heygate kept a diary?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘No,’ she admitted, ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘Did you know where he kept his money?’

  ‘It was none of my business, Inspector.’

  ‘Did he ever mention an owl to you?’

  ‘I don’t believe that he did.’

  ‘Mrs Rossiter,’ he said, gently, ‘you keep telling me how close you and he were but it’s hardly borne out by the facts. You were never once invited into his house, were you?’

  ‘That means nothing. We had an understanding.’

  Colbeck was sympathetic. She was evidently under immense strain. To cope with the loss of someone for whom she had deep, if unrequited, feelings she’d convinced herself that their relationship was far closer than it had been. He was therefore handling her with tact. They were in the stationmaster’s office and Agnes Rossiter was sitting beside the desk in Heygate’s old seat. Encouraged by Colbeck, she talked about her life at the railway station. She’d taken over the position of manageress after the untimely death from cholera of her husband over a decade earlier. They had no children and it was an eternal regret of hers. To stave off despair, she’d eventually moved in with her unmarried sister but she clearly missed the company of a man.

  ‘Mr Heygate knew my circumstances,’ she recalled, ‘and he showed me the greatest kindness. I never thought that I would get over the death of my husband but I did — thanks to him.’ Her jaw tightened. ‘The upsetting thing was that, when he lost his wife and daughter, Mr Heygate didn’t let me offer the support I got from him.’

  ‘He was doubtless grateful for the offer, Mrs Rossiter.’

  ‘He just never talked about it. Don’t you find that odd?’

  ‘Each of us has his or her own way of dealing with setbacks,’ said Colbeck, ‘and there’s no bigger setback than the loss of a loved one.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, taking out a black-edged handkerchief to dab at her eyes. ‘It’s happened to me twice now and the anguish is unbearable.’

  ‘That’s all the more reason why you should take some time off. It’s wrong for you to force yourself to work when you have so much on your mind. There’s a clash here,’ he pointed out. ‘Mourning is a private matter while serving refreshments is a public one. You can’t do both simultaneously.’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘Mr Woodford was quite right. Mourning dress is out of place.’

  She was waspish. ‘A fat lot he knows about mourning!’ she said. ‘He’s a cold-hearted man, Inspector, and he showed Mr Heygate little compassion during his time of suffering. I dislike him intensely.’

  ‘All the same, he is the acting stationmaster, so it’s best not to antagonise him.’

  ‘I won’t be ordered out of my own refreshment room.’

  ‘Then you should do as he advises,’ said Colbeck, ‘and wear something more appropriate. You don’t want to get tea stains on that lovely dress, do you?’

  She softened. ‘It belonged to my mother. I inherited it.’

  ‘Then save it for the funeral, Mrs Rossiter. It doesn’t belong here.’

  Mrs Rossiter studied him for a moment. He was quite unlike any policeman she’d met before and had a gentleness of manner that seemed at variance with the brutal world in which he was obliged to operate. Because Woodford had ordered her to change her apparel, she resolved not to do so. Colbeck had been more persuasive, arguing that she could not grieve properly while stuck behind a counter serving tea. She came to see how bizarre she must have looked.

  ‘Go home,’ he said, soothingly. ‘I’ll happily take you there in a cab.’

  ‘Perhaps that might be wise,’ she decided.

  ‘Let them find someone else to run the refreshment room. Not that they’ll do it half as well,’ he added. ‘Miss Hope was telling me how efficient you are.’

  ‘Miss Hope is a good girl — a trifle slow, that’s all.’

  He stretched out an arm. ‘Shall we go and find a cab, Mrs Rossiter?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, taking his hand and rising to her feet. ‘Have you ever lost someone you adored, Inspector?’

  ‘I’ve lost several people who’d qualify under that description, alas. There was my mother, father and my younger brother, not to mention four grandparents. I’m no stranger to family funerals.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Not at the moment,’ he replied, ‘but our wedding is arranged for the end of this month. It’s not the ideal time of the year but I’m blessed in having the ideal bride and that’s wonderful compensation.’

  ‘I hope that she never has to suffer what I’ve had to endure,’ she said with sudden acrimony. ‘Fate can be so cruel at times. It’s happened to me twice now. I pray that your wife will be spared such unspeakable horror.’

  It was no use. No matter how hard she tried, Madeleine Andrews could not concentrate on her work. Though she’d been standing at her easel for hours, she’d put very little on the canvas. It was Colbeck who’d spotted her artistic talent and who’d urged her to develop it. His encouragement was all the incentive that she needed. By dint of study and incessant practice, she produced paintings that were eventually good enough to be shown to a dealer and her first sale had been a joyous experience. Building on that early success, she’d managed to make a regular income of sorts from her brush. What had attracted the art dealer was her unusual choice of subject. Instead of painting a pretty landscape or a portrait, she took her inspiration from the railways. Locomotives were conjured on to the canvas with a mixture of love and growing expertise. She knew how to bring them alive. Her success was a source of continuous pleasure for her father, who boasted — correctly at times — that he’d been able to give her the benefit of his professional advice.

  But she could not address her mind to the painting in hand that afternoon. All that she could think about was the wedding and the dress she’d wear to the event. It was years since she’d first met Robert Colbeck and, though their friendship deepened with each passing month, they seemed to get no closer to marriage. Then, when she least expected it, he proposed to her in the middle of the Birmingham Jewellery Quarter, where he’d bought the engagement ring she wore so proudly on her finger. The date was set, the church was booked, the invitations sent out and her wedding dress ordered. With so much to think about, Madeleine was mad even to imagine that she could work properly. Whenever she looked at her painting of a locomotive her father had once driven, the face of Colbeck smiled back at her from the easel. She was alternately aroused and dejected, lifted by the thought of the wedding day ahead and crestfallen at the prospect of some harm befalling her future husband. Danger always lurked in a murder investigation. She had to accept that.

  The sound of approaching footsteps reminded her that she was not the only person in the house. Recognising her father’s distinctive gait, she broke off and used a piece of cloth to wipe her brush dry. Caleb Andrews unlock
ed the door and stepped into the house. It was the day when he’d taken tea at Dirk Sowerby’s. Among the guests was a lady in whom Andrews had taken more than a passing interest. Madeleine searched his face for a hint at the success or otherwise of the occasion but her father was unduly impassive.

  ‘Well,’ she asked, ‘did you enjoy the visit?’

  ‘It was pleasant enough, Maddy.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Dirk’s wife makes a poor cup of tea.’

  ‘Was Mrs Langton there?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The lady you were hoping to meet.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, off-handedly, ‘I think she was there.’

  ‘Can’t you even remember? That was the whole point of going, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I forget, Maddy.’

  She saw the telltale glint in his eye. ‘You’re teasing me, Father.’

  ‘I’d never do that.’

  ‘What happened?’ she demanded. ‘If you’re expecting a meal this evening, you can stop playing games with me. How did you get on with Mrs Langton?’

  His face was split by a grin. ‘I got on very well,’ he said, whisking off his cap. ‘Binnie has invited me to her own home — and promised me a better cup of tea than I had today. Who knows where things will lead from there?’

  ‘Am I invited to go with you?’

  ‘We don’t need a chaperone at our age, Maddy. That’s the beauty of it. Binnie and I can do exactly as we please with nobody to stop us.’

  Madeline felt a pang of unease. There could be trouble ahead.

  It had been almost an hour before Leeming was rescued from his unsought role as an assistant waitress. In that time, three trains had come into the station and disgorged dozens of passengers in search of refreshment. Leeming had had no time to rest. While Dorcas handled the money and set up the various trays, he had been confined to the tedious job of carrying orders to the different tables. Even when the bulk of the customers departed, others drifted in to kill time over a cup of tea while they waited for a later train. It had seemed an age before Woodford was able to rustle up a young porter to replace the sergeant and assist Dorcas Hope.

  Leeming had torn off his apron and flung it aside.

  ‘It was demeaning, Inspector,’ he said.

  ‘Someone had to save the day, Victor, and you were the chosen man.’

  ‘Why couldn’t you have done it?’

  ‘I was too busy interviewing Miss Hope and, later on, the manageress. In the latter case,’ said Colbeck, ‘I had to take the lady home in a cab because she was too unstable to travel alone. The woman is possessed by a fantasy.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Leeming. ‘My fantasy is that I’m a sergeant in the Detective Department at Scotland Yard. Clearly, I’m not. I’m the lowest of the low, a drudge.’

  ‘I’m serious about Mrs Rossiter. She needs medical help.’

  ‘When the doctor’s finished with her, please send him on to me. I need my head examining as well.’

  Colbeck laughed. They were at the police station, having spent the afternoon dealing with bogus claims by people over-excited by the amount of money being offered for information. Two of them insisted that they’d seen a corpse being dumped on the bonfire the night before it was lit, a third remembered a dead body cunningly disguised as a guy, while a fourth maintained that he’d actually seen Joel Heygate being murdered before being concealed under the heap of timber. Since he said that the victim had been stabbed to death, this last claimant was the easiest to unmask as a blatant liar. Had he read newspaper reports, he would have known that Heygate had, in fact, been bludgeoned. The detectives had quickly exposed the tissue of deceit and, after arresting and charging them, handed all four men over to a magistrate.

  Having moaned about his stint in the refreshment room, Leeming turned his thoughts back to the investigation. His concern was the prime suspect.

  ‘Do you think he’s still in Exeter, sir?’ asked Leeming.

  ‘Are you talking about Bagsy Browne?’

  ‘In his place, I’d make myself scarce.’

  ‘I fancy that he’s here. He doesn’t want to miss the fun of the funeral.’

  Leeming was startled. ‘Fun!’

  ‘That’s how he’ll see it, Victor. It’ll be a celebration to him. If you loathe someone enough to murder them, you might well take pleasure out of seeing their remains lowered into the earth. That,’ said Colbeck, ‘might be our chance to catch the elusive Mr Browne.’

  ‘Do we have to wait until the funeral?’

  ‘We’ll wait a lot longer if called upon to do so. That’s assuming that Browne is our man, of course. I still think that we should keep Michael Heygate and Lawrence Woodford in mind. Patience is our watchword. We bide our time.’

  ‘This case could drag on and on,’ said Leeming, gloomily. ‘I may not get to see my family again for weeks — and what about the wedding?’

  ‘I try not to think about that, Victor.’

  ‘Then you’re very different from me, sir. When I was about to get married, it preyed on my mind for months beforehand. I could think of nothing else.’

  ‘My only concern is to solve this crime.’

  ‘But we’ve made no real progress so far.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Colbeck. ‘We’ve identified three possible suspects and the news about the diary has been in the nature of a breakthrough.’

  ‘Except that we don’t actually have the diary.’

  ‘We know of its existence, that’s the main thing.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you find it when you searched the house?’ asked Leeming. ‘My guess is that it was destroyed by the killer so it’s gone for ever.’

  ‘I remain more sanguine,’ said Colbeck. ‘It’s highly unlikely that the killer knew that Heygate kept such a diary and the stationmaster would hardly carry it with him when he was going off on a nocturnal search for an owl. It’s here somewhere and it may well hold the clue that leads to an arrest.’

  ‘Then how do you find it?’

  ‘It will turn up somehow.’

  ‘I wish I had your confidence, sir,’ said Leeming, dispiritedly. ‘In every other investigation, I’ve always had the feeling that we’re moving forwards. Here in Exeter, we seem to be treading water. I’m starting to hate the place.’

  ‘Concentrate on its virtues, Victor.’

  ‘I didn’t know that it had any.’

  ‘It has several, believe me, but the one that might recommend itself to you is its geographical position. As long as we’re in this city, we’re almost two hundred miles away from Superintendent Tallis.’

  Leeming brightened. ‘Now that is a bonus,’ he said, chuckling. ‘We don’t have to put up with him yelling at us. The superintendent can’t touch us here.’

  When the train pulled into Exeter St David’s station, the first person to step on to the platform was Edward Tallis. As a porter came towards him, he thrust his valise at the man and barked an order.

  ‘Take me to a cab!’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Most people sought by the police would take refuge somewhere and make sure that they didn’t venture out in daylight. Bagsy Browne was different. He took the view that nothing would keep him off the streets if he had a mind to go for a walk. Being hunted was a normal state of affairs for him. It never troubled his mind. Refusing to go to earth, he’d strolled around Exeter for most of the day, going into a series of pubs as he did so. Newspapers carried a description of him and he was, in any case, well known in the city, but nobody recognised him because he was clean-shaven and wearing smart clothing for once. Feeling immune from arrest, he became bolder. Instead of keeping to the shadows, he marched along High Street early that evening with his usual jauntiness. It proved to be a mistake. There was still enough light in the sky to illumine his features and one passer-by took a close look at him. The man was so certain that he knew him that he followed his quarry through a maze of streets. Unaware that he was being trailed, Browne suddenly
veered off into an alleyway so that he could relieve himself against a wall. When he’d finished, he turned to find that his way was blocked by a thickset man in his fifties with a square chin.

  ‘Hello, Bagsy,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Browne, gruffly, ‘you’ve got the wrong man.’

  ‘I’d know you anywhere.’

  ‘You must be seeing things, my friend.’

  ‘I can tell you by your stink.’

  Bagsy’s fists bunched. ‘Say that again, you turd!’

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because I used to look after you,’ said the man, taking a step closer. ‘I’ve seen Bagsy Browne with his hair and his beard shaved off before — except that you had no name in prison, did you? We gave you a number instead.’

  Bagsy glared at him. ‘It’s Wyatt, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I remember you now. You were one of those cruel bastards who baited me.’

  ‘You only got what you asked for.’

  ‘Get out of my way.’

  ‘But we have so much to talk over, Bagsy,’ said Wyatt, grinning. ‘We shared such happy times in prison, didn’t we?’ He spat on the ground in disgust. ‘If it had been left to me, we’d have locked you up and thrown away the key.’

  ‘I won’t ask you again,’ cautioned Browne.

  ‘Why don’t we take a little walk? I’m sure that Superintendent Steel will be delighted to see an old acquaintance. In fact, he’s so keen to meet you again that he put a notice about you in the newspaper.’

  ‘I saw it.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you heed it?’

  ‘Nobody stops me from doing what I want.’

  ‘So you wanted to get caught — is that it?’

  ‘No,’ said Browne, lunging forward to grab him by the shoulders. ‘I wanted the chance to pay you back for all the hours of torment you gave me in prison.’ He punched Wyatt on the nose and blood spurted. ‘It’s not so easy when you haven’t got those other mangy warders to help you, is it?’

  Wyatt was enraged. Wiping the blood with the back of his hand, he fought back and landed some telling punches. Browne had to give ground for a moment. Gathering his strength, he began to trade blows with the prison warder. The result was a foregone conclusion. Strong and determined he might be, but Wyatt was up against a man seasoned by dozens of brawls. As the two of them grappled, Browne suddenly tripped him up and pushed him to the ground. Kicking him hard in the groin, he then grabbed his head and banged it repeatedly on the paving stone. Only when Wyatt began to beg for mercy did Browne relent.