‘God is my mentor. I merely follow his direction.’
Tarleton did not stay long enough to reply. Swivelling on his heel, he went out and slammed the door behind him with such force that the sound reverberated throughout the whole house. Stunned by the violence of his godson’s departure, Skelton took refuge in prayer.
By prior agreement, they met early that evening at the Waggon and Horses, a large establishment in Northallerton with a convivial atmosphere. It gave them the opportunity to review their findings over a quiet drink. Colbeck had been the more assiduous. After his visit to the lawyer’s office, he’d done his best to find out as much as he could about Michael Bruntcliffe. It had been a journey of discovery and it began with the parents. They were deeply embarrassed by the antics of their younger son and almost relieved that he’d disappeared on his release from custody. Their other three children had been a credit to them but Michael was the archetypal black sheep of the family. His father couldn’t understand why he felt compelled to cause so much mischief and he believed that the person to blame was Adam Tarleton. It was when the two young men became close friends that Michael Bruntcliffe’s life took a decisive turn in the wrong direction. What grieved the parents most was that their son was always the one to be put behind bars while Tarleton invariably escaped with a fine.
Since he couldn’t pick up Bruntcliffe’s trail, Colbeck had taken the trouble to call at the prison to ask the governor how he’d fared while serving his time.
‘What did he tell you?’ asked Leeming.
‘That he was sullen and withdrawn,’ replied Colbeck. ‘He seemed to be brooding on what he saw as the injustice of his sentence. Bruntcliffe couldn’t wait to get out. His father offered to collect him on his release but the son refused even to see him. He preferred to go his own way.’
Leeming was puzzled. ‘How can someone from such a good family end up like that? It’s perverse. Bruntcliffe had everything.’
‘So did Adam Tarleton – until the money ran out.’
‘Yes, sir, I’d like to know exactly what happened to it but Mrs Reader was as discreet as her husband. The truth is bound to come out in the end when the estate is valued.’
‘We can’t wait until then, Victor. The information being kept from us could be useful in the investigation. That’s why I went back to the bank earlier on. Mr Reader was too busy to see me but suggested that we meet him here. Over a pleasant drink,’ said Colbeck, sipping his whisky, ‘he may be a little forthcoming.’
Leeming rhapsodised about the china cabinet and the delicate ornaments in the Reader household, wishing that his wife had been able to see something so fine and so beautifully displayed. Colbeck had noticed the items on their previous visit.
‘Which would you rather have?’ he asked. ‘Your home in London with a loving family to share it with you or that rambling edifice you saw again today?’
‘Oh, I’d choose my home every time, sir. The other house is much bigger but it feels empty without children. They make all the difference. But then,’ he added with a knowing smile, ‘you’ll find that out in due course when you have children of your own.’
‘Hold on,’ said Colbeck, stopping him with a gesture. ‘Let’s not rush things. I’m not even married yet. Confiding that to the superintendent is going to be challenging enough. What sort of a response would I get if I told him that I was about to become a father?’
‘I hope I’m not in the building when you do so.’
Bertram Reader noted their laughter as he entered the bar.
‘Is there a cause for celebration?’ he asked, coming over.
‘It’s a private matter, sir,’ said Colbeck, ‘and unconnected with the case. Thank you for joining us. May I get you a drink?’
Reader sat down, the drink was ordered and the three of them were soon talking about the investigation. The banker was able to supply some more detail about Michael Bruntcliffe.
‘He came into some money on his twenty-first birthday,’ he said. ‘Any hopes that it might make him more responsible were soon dashed. He started to fritter it away on gambling. In that respect, he and Adam were partners in crime. When they weren’t gambling or seeking female company of a dubious kind, they went out shooting together.’
‘Oh?’ Colbeck was surprised. ‘Young Mr Tarleton told me that his stepfather didn’t allow him access to any firearms. The colonel didn’t trust him.’
‘That’s why Adam borrowed a shotgun from Bruntcliffe. It was another way of defying the colonel. The pair of them went off shooting game birds. When they’d had too much to drink, they sometimes shot out people’s windows for the sheer fun of it.’
‘Weren’t they ever prosecuted?’
‘No, Inspector – nothing could ever be proved.’
‘Where could I find Bruntcliffe? He seems to have vanished.’
‘Oh, I don’t think he’ll be too far away,’ said Reader. ‘He’s probably living in sin with a loose woman, if I know him. He always did have a certain raffish charm.’
‘Should he be considered as a murder suspect?’
‘He’s not an obvious one, I must confess, because he’s never been guilty of real violence. But he did make dire threats when he was sentenced. I remember the colonel telling me about them.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Leeming. ‘Surely, the threats were against the colonel and not Mrs Tarleton.’
‘I suppose that the way to hurt him most would be to kill his wife,’ said Reader. ‘The colonel would then be left behind in torment until he could bear it no longer.’
‘You seem to have known him better than anyone, Mr Reader,’ said Colbeck. ‘Perhaps you can tell us why he used to make regular visits to Doncaster?’
Reader shrugged. ‘I wasn’t aware that he did so.’
‘Didn’t he confide in you?’
‘Well, yes, but there were certain areas of his life that he never talked about. His army service was a case in point. Evidently, he enjoyed that period yet it remained a closed book to me. I could give you other examples of his secretiveness.’
‘This could be another example,’ said Leeming. ‘Your wife had no idea why he might choose to go to Doncaster, sir. Do you?’
‘No, I don’t,’ replied Reader. ‘I’m as intrigued as you are.’
‘What really intrigues us,’ said Colbeck, ‘is the abrupt change in the family’s fortunes. How did they come to lose so much money?’
Reader was brisk. ‘That will be revealed in the fullness of time. Even the children are unaware of the full details so I’m not able to divulge them to you. After all, they have no bearing on the murder.’
‘They might have a bearing on the suicide,’ argued Colbeck.
‘I’m sorry. My lips are sealed, Inspector. I have a professional duty here. The colonel and his wife were clients of mine for many years. I don’t feel able to discuss their affairs with you.’
‘So be it.’
‘I daresay that you’ve tried to wheedle the information out of Mr Everett as well. I can see that you failed.’
‘He was as reticent as you, sir,’ said Colbeck, ‘so we’ll bide our time. The priority now is to find and question Michael Bruntcliffe. I’m surprised that his name hasn’t come into consideration before.’
‘It didn’t need to,’ suggested Leeming. ‘When Mrs Tarleton went missing, everyone here seemed to think her husband had killed her.’
‘We didn’t think so,’ stressed Reader, ‘but you’re quite right, Sergeant. The colonel was the prime suspect and, to most people, he still is. There have even been broadsides published to that effect.’
‘Yes,’ said Colbeck. ‘I read one of them. It was almost as vicious as this.’ He took an envelope from his pocket. ‘This is a poison-pen letter sent to taunt the colonel. Do you recognise the hand, sir?’
Reader studied it. ‘I can’t say that I do.’
‘Take the letter out, if you wish.’
‘There’s no need, Inspector. Looking at the name and add
ress is enough. It’s a distinctive calligraphy. I’d remember it.’ As Colbeck put the envelope away, Reader tasted his drink then ran his tongue over his lips. ‘A malt whisky at the end of a working day is an excellent tonic. So,’ he went on, becoming serious, ‘have you made any progress in the investigation?’
‘We believe so, Mr Reader.’
‘The person we’re after is used to handling a shotgun,’ said Leeming, ‘and you’ve just told us that Bruntcliffe comes into that category. We need to track him down quickly. But what about the people with whom the colonel went out shooting? You were one of them, I presume.’
‘Oh, I was hopeless with a weapon in my hands,’ said Reader, modestly, ‘so I rarely joined a shooting party. I love eating game but take no pleasure from killing it. I could name several people who often made up a shooting party but there was only one person who went out alone with the colonel.’
‘Oh?’ said Colbeck. ‘Who was that?’
‘A rather unexpected marksman,’ replied Reader with a smile. ‘To look at him, you’d never believe that he knew one end of a shotgun from the other, but I have it on good authority that he is a dead shot.’
‘What’s his name, sir?’
‘Clifford Everett.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lottie Pearl couldn’t believe the transformation that had taken place during her short time at the house. Having lost both her employers to frightening deaths, she was now forced to minister to the needs of two guests. Worst of all, she had to do so in a badly dyed black dress that hung in folds off her body, gathered dust on its hem and gave off a musty smell. With a thick apron over the dress, she felt as if she were about to suffocate in the heat of the kitchen. After her long service to the family, Mrs Withers might be truly bereaved, but it soon dawned on Lottie that she herself was mourning the imminent loss of her job. Her days there were numbered. Eve Doel had no need of the house and the girl knew that, even if he stayed, she could never work for the brother. Since he’d been there, Adam Tarleton had either glowered at her or, when he’d drunk half a bottle of brandy, appraised her in a way that made her skin crawl. When she complained about it to the housekeeper, she was told to get on with her job and stop letting her fevered imagination run away with her.
In fact, there was little time for her imagination to become fevered. She was expected to get up early, draw water from the well and help in the preparation of breakfast. Whenever she had a respite, it was swiftly curtailed by Mrs Withers who had a genius for inventing new jobs that had to be done instantly. Lottie had been ready for hard work when she took on the post but the intensity of it exceeded all her fears. That evening, however, she was given a small measure of relief. Instead of scrubbing the kitchen floor as usual, she was sent off to a farm to fetch two dozen eggs. She was undeterred by the long walk there and back. Her concern was that she had to do it in her mother’s dress and face certain mockery from the children when she got to the farm. Because she wore black, one of them had called her a witch and asked her why she hadn’t arrived on a broomstick.
In the event, Lottie was spared any ridicule. The children were playing in the field and the dog that had harassed her on her last visit was nowhere to be seen. Although the girl had money to pay for the eggs, the farmer’s wife refused to take it, saying that it was her small contribution to a house in mourning. After a brief chat with her, Lottie took her leave with the basket over her arm. The walk there had been without incident but hazards lurked on her return journey. The first was a half-hidden rabbit hole into which she put an unsuspecting foot, causing her to trip up and fall. While she wasn’t injured, her basket was jolted and a few of the eggs cracked open, emptying their sticky contents. Climbing over a stile also proved perilous. She caught her dress on it and heard an ominous tearing sound.
But it was the third hazard that really upset her because it came in human form. An old pedlar rolled towards her on his cart and eyed her with interest. Tugging his horse to a halt, he leered at the girl and offered her a trinket in exchange for a kiss. When she declined, he hopped off the cart and tried to molest her. Even though she eluded him with ease and ran away at speed, she felt hurt and vulnerable. When she reached a stand of trees, she slipped behind them and sat down to rest, examining the tear in her dress then trying to remove the broken eggs from the basket. Lottie was still trying to wipe her hands clean in the grass when she heard the approach of horses. Fearing that the pedlar had come after her, she leapt to her feet and peered around the trunk of a tree.
There were two riders and, from their carefree laughter, she could tell that they’d been drinking. They reined their horses in only twenty yards from her hiding place. Lottie recognised Adam Tarleton but she’d never seen his young companion before. They were patently happy in each other’s company and loath to part. Lottie watched as Tarleton took something from his pocket and handed it over to the other man. His friend thanked him and made a jocular remark that she couldn’t quite hear. Then they waved farewell and went their separate ways.
The girl was both mystified and excited, bewildered by what had occurred yet feeling that she’d somehow witnessed a moment of real significance. She spent the rest of the journey trying to work out what it could possibly be.
After their ill-starred rendezvous in the dark, Wilf Moxey and Lorna Begg had seen very little of each other. Both had chores that kept them working apart and neither deliberately sought out the other. Because he’d raised the alarm about a dead body, Moxey had acquired a spurious celebrity in the eyes of his workmates on the farm. His name had appeared in the newspaper and he’d been praised in print by a detective inspector for what he’d done. Unaccustomed to such fleeting fame, Moxey found it a burden. He was compelled to repeat the lie about going out in search of rabbits and his mouth went dry every time he did so. That evening, therefore, he snatched a moment to speak alone with Lorna. They met behind the cowshed and, though she gave off the unmistakable odour of stale milk, he found her as entrancing as ever.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he began.
‘So have I. It was a mistake.’
‘No, that’s not true. What we did was right. We were unlucky.’
Lorna trembled. ‘I keep feeling the touch of that hand.’
‘Forget it.’
‘I can’t, Wilf. I’ve tried.’
‘What I’ve been thinking is this. There’s an inquest.’
‘It’s nothing to do with us,’ she said, anxiously.
‘I have to go, Lorna.’
‘Why?’
‘I told them what…what we found.’
‘You said you’d pretend you were on your own.’
‘I did. The detectives believed me. This is different. When I go to the inquest, Mr Higginbottom says I’ll be under oath.’ His face was contorted with apology. ‘I can’t tell a lie. That’d be perjury.’
She was terrified. ‘But everyone will know.’
‘Is that such a bad thing?’
‘You swore it’d be a secret, Wilf. You promised me.’
‘That was before.’
‘I trusted you. I don’t want people to know about us.’
He was hurt. ‘Are you ashamed?’
‘You promised me,’ she insisted. ‘It was our secret.’
Moxey was in a quandary. Infatuation with Lorna Begg made him eager to tell any amount of lies on her behalf but he had a conscience. It had reminded him that a lie under oath was a sin as well as a criminal offence. He would be questioned in public by the coroner, a man seasoned in the art of ferreting out the truth from witnesses. Even if he’d wanted to, Moxey wasn’t sure that he could lie convincingly enough. Yet he had to do so if he wanted to retain the milkmaid’s affections.
He reached out for her hand but she pulled it away.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked, nervously.
It was the kind of journey that Victor Leeming preferred. Seated in the trap with Robert Colbeck, he felt perfectly secure and able to enjoy the sight o
f rolling countryside on a summer evening. There was none of the deafening noise and continual juddering of a train. This was by far the more civilised way to travel. When the house was finally conjured into view, his jaw dropped in astonishment.
‘You didn’t tell me it was that big, sir,’ he protested.
‘It’s the old manor house, Victor.’
‘I begin to see the sort of position the colonel held.’
‘People looked up to him,’ said Colbeck. ‘Wealth is always an easy way to impress. It buys respect. He had status in the county.’
‘But it wasn’t only based on money.’
‘No, he earned it in other ways as well. He also earned a good reputation. Our task is to rescue it from oblivion.’
After driving the vehicle to the stables, Colbeck alighted and took the sergeant across to the front door. The housekeeper had seen them through the window so they had no need to ring the bell. The door was opened wide. Colbeck exchanged greetings with Mrs Withers then introduced Leeming.
‘I hope you haven’t come to speak to Mrs Doel,’ she said. ‘She’s asleep at the moment. I’d rather she wasn’t awakened.’
‘It’s her brother we came to see, Mrs Withers, but I’d also like to ask you a few questions as well.’
She stood back so that they could step inside, closing the door after them. Leeming’s unbecoming features troubled her slightly so she kept her eyes fixed on Colbeck.
‘How can I help you, sir?’ she asked.
‘Before he left this house for the last time,’ Colbeck said, ‘the colonel told you he was taking a train to Doncaster.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Had he ever done that before?’
‘I can’t remember him doing so, Inspector.’
‘Did he say why he was travelling to Doncaster?’
‘But he wasn’t,’ she pointed out. ‘That was only an excuse. As we know, he didn’t catch the train at all.’
‘Not on that occasion, I agree. Think of others. When he went somewhere by rail, did he always tell you what his destination was?’
Railway to the Grave Page 15
