Railway to the Grave

by Edward Marston

  She gave a lopsided grin and nodded her head in agreement.

  In order to get everything ready in the event of guests returning to the house from church, Mrs Withers and Lottie had got up an hour earlier than usual. They had toiled away before and after the service and were unable to rest until the four visitors had finally departed. Eve and Lawrence Doel had eaten the refreshments in lieu of luncheon, leaving Adam Tarleton to have a full meal on his own in the dining room. While his sister and her husband stayed in the drawing room, he went off to the library to read for an hour. The servants were able to contemplate a short period when they, too, could rest. Lottie chose to sit on a chair and put her aching feet up on a stool. Mrs Withers preferred to withdraw to her room.

  Once inside, she locked the door and crossed to the bed. Lifting up the mattress, she felt under it for something she’d hidden there earlier. It was the first chance she’d had to scrutinise it. She sat in the chair by the window so that she caught the best of the light then she undid the pink ribbon around the little bundle. Unfolding the first letter, she began to read it. The housekeeper did not get far. Within the first paragraph there were enough surprises to make her heart beat at a furious rate and to make her whole body burn with embarrassment. Unable to read on, she clutched the letter to her chest and began to sob. Mrs Withers wished that she’d never seen such disturbing words. They pressed down on her brain like so many hot bricks, making her feel as if her head was about to burst into flames. After all the years of devoted service she’d given, she now felt utterly betrayed. It was unnerving. The concept of loyalty suddenly took on a whole new meaning for her.

  For their meeting with Hepworth, the detectives withdrew to a private room at the rear of the Black Bull. Colbeck placed pen, ink and paper on the table. Leeming was puzzled.

  ‘What are they for, Inspector?’

  ‘I want to give Hepworth a fright.’

  ‘How will you do that?’

  ‘I’ll ask him to write something for us so that we can compare it with the letters received by the colonel.’

  ‘But we don’t have any letters.’

  ‘You know that,’ said Colbeck, ‘but the sergeant doesn’t.’

  Leeming was surprised. ‘Are you going to lie to him?’

  ‘I’m going to use a little fiction to establish some facts. Without any of those letters he wrote, we could never secure a conviction in court. What we can do, however, is to unsettle him so much that he’ll lower his defence when we ask about the murder.’

  ‘Mr Tallis might not approve of your methods,’ said Leeming.

  ‘Mr Tallis wants results,’ said Colbeck, blithely. ‘With a man like Hepworth, this may be the only way to achieve them.’

  They didn’t have to wait long. Only half an hour after their visit to his cottage, the railway policeman entered the pub with his usual swagger. When the landlord pointed to the other room, Hepworth banged on the door before pushing it open.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ he said, closing the door behind him. ‘You sent for me, I hear.’

  ‘Come and sit down, Sergeant,’ invited Colbeck.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He lowered himself into the chair opposite them, grinning broadly like a new confederate admitted to a conspiracy. Rubbing his hands, he waited to be let in on the secret.

  ‘Your daughter can obviously deliver a message,’ said Leeming.

  ‘Ginny is a clever girl.’

  ‘What about your lad?’

  ‘She had most of the brains. Sam had what little was left.’

  ‘We’ve made an arrest,’ Colbeck told him.

  Hepworth cocked an ear. ‘Was it Michael Bruntcliffe?’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘I thought it would be. Where did you find him?’

  ‘He was staying in a cottage the other side of Bedale. He made a complete confession. He’s locked up in Northallerton now.’

  ‘So the murder is solved now, is it, Inspector?’

  ‘Oh, no, we’re still hunting the killer.’

  ‘But you’ve just arrested Bruntcliffe,’ said Hepworth, confused.

  ‘That was on two lesser charges,’ said Colbeck. ‘In the course of last night, he slipped into the churchyard and, with the assistance of his horse, he toppled that large stone cross paid for by the colonel. Luckily, we got there early enough this morning to put it back into place with the help of a farmer.’

  ‘It was like a ton weight,’ recalled Leeming.

  ‘Most of the congregation were unaware of what had happened. I had a quiet word with the curate afterwards and he promised to get a mason to secure the cross at its base. Incidentally,’ said Colbeck, ‘we met your son in the churchyard. He was playing with toy soldiers.’

  ‘Except that they were actually cartridges,’ said Leeming with a meaningful glance at Hepworth. ‘Sam told us he collects them.’

  ‘That’s right,’ admitted Hepworth, warily. ‘It keeps him occupied. He wants to join the army one day but I doubt if they’d take him.’ When he leant forward, his beard touched the table. ‘Is that all you charged Bruntcliffe with?’

  ‘Causing damage to church property is a serious offence,’ said Colbeck. ‘He’s bought himself a ticket straight back to prison. His sentence will be lengthened when he pleads guilty to a second offence.’

  ‘What’s that, Inspector?’

  ‘Sending anonymous letters to the colonel, full of libellous material and designed to cause him distress. In short, helping to unbalance his mind and drive him to take his own life.’

  ‘I thought you’d already arrested someone for that.’

  ‘We have,’ said Colbeck, ‘but he wasn’t the only correspondent. There were a number of evil-minded people who got pleasure from kicking Colonel Tarleton when he was down, as it were. What’s your opinion of such individuals, Sergeant Hepworth?’

  ‘They’re despicable,’ insisted Leeming, ‘and they should be prosecuted with the full rigour of the law.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Hepworth, half-heartedly, drawing back in his seat. ‘It’s a spiteful thing to do.’

  ‘It’s spiteful and it’s cowardly,’ Colbeck went on. ‘If someone had an accusation to hurl at the colonel, they should have done so to his face. Well, that’s what you did when he dismissed your daughter.’

  ‘I did, Inspector. He deserved it. I didn’t beat about the bush. When I had that argument with him, I came straight to the point.’

  ‘And you did the same in your letters to him, didn’t you?’

  Hepworth tensed. ‘What letters?’

  ‘The letters you never signed.’

  ‘It’s an arrant lie!’ yelled the other. ‘I didn’t send any letters.’

  ‘Then the girl must have been mistaken,’ said Colbeck, making it up as he went along. ‘Lottie Pearl sleeps in an attic room at the top of the house. She swears that she saw your daughter, Ginny, sneak up to the house at night and post a letter through the door.’

  ‘Lottie was seeing things.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to rely on the testimony of Mrs Withers. She knows that secret path from the village to the house. According to her, Ginny emerged from it one night with something in her hand.’

  Hepworth snarled. ‘How could they see anything in the dark?’

  ‘That’s a fair point, Sergeant, so it would be wrong to accuse you on the basis of what they claim. Besides, it’s not necessary. We still have the letters in question. All we have to do,’ he went on, indicating the writing materials, ‘is to ask you to pen a few lines that we can compare with the handwriting on those particular letters.’ He turned to Leeming. ‘How many were there, Victor?’

  ‘Three, sir.’

  ‘Of the people who wrote, this anonymous author was the only one who charged the colonel with having improper conduct with his housekeeper.’ He smiled at Hepworth. ‘Wasn’t that the very claim you made in our hearing, Sergeant?’ He pushed the inkwell in front of him. ‘Write something for us, please.�
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  ‘You can’t make me do this,’ said Hepworth, defiantly.

  ‘It’s true – we can’t force you. But, then, we don’t need to.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We simply have to speak to your employers,’ said Colbeck. ‘You no doubt send in regular reports so there’ll be plenty of examples of your handwriting. When you are sentenced in court, the judge will take into consideration the fact that you refused to cooperate once your subterfuge had been exposed.’

  ‘You didn’t even have the courage to deliver the letters yourself,’ said Leeming with derision. ‘You implicated your own child.’

  ‘Ginny offered,’ said Hepworth, reeling back in horror at his unintended confession. ‘Look,’ he went on with a nervous laugh, ‘why don’t I buy you a drink and we can forget all about this? The colonel is dead. Nothing that anyone wrote about him can hurt him now.’

  ‘It can hurt his children,’ Colbeck pointed out. ‘It can disgust his friends, Superintendent Tallis among them. Let’s have the truth, Sergeant Hepworth, or it will be the worse for you. You’ve more or less admitted that you wrote those three letters, didn’t you? That’s what you can write on the paper.’ He put a sheet in front of him. ‘If we have a confession, it will save a great deal of time in court and spare you from further humiliation.’ He held out the pen. ‘Take it. Write something that you’re actually brave enough to sign.’

  Hepworth was in a panic. ‘Don’t take me to court,’ he begged. ‘I’ve got a wife and children to support. Ginny can’t find work and, if you’ve met Sam, you’ll have seen that he’s something of a halfwit. Yes, I confess that I did dash off a few lines to the colonel but only because I was still angry at him. We all write things on impulse that we regret afterwards.’

  ‘Not three times in a row,’ said Leeming.

  ‘I’m a policeman – one of your own.’

  ‘You’d never get into the Metropolitan Police Force.’

  ‘I’ve got a position here,’ said Hepworth. ‘I’m respected.’

  ‘Not by me, Sergeant.’

  ‘Nor by me,’ said Colbeck. ‘Someone who sends poison-pen letters to a bereaved husband doesn’t deserve respect. You’re a disgrace to that uniform.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ bleated Hepworth. ‘I didn’t mean to do it.’

  ‘Think of the searing pain your letters gave to the colonel.’

  ‘It was wrong of me, Inspector. I feel so guilty about it.’

  ‘I haven’t seen any signs of guilt.’

  ‘Give me a chance, I implore you.’

  ‘You’ll have a lot to do to redeem yourself.’

  ‘I’ll do anything you say,’ promised Hepworth, ‘only please don’t ruin me. I couldn’t bear it if you sent me to prison.’

  ‘Your brother’s a warder there, isn’t he?’ said Leeming, enjoying the man’s discomfort. ‘You’ll be able to see him more often.’

  ‘Think of my wife – think of my children.’

  ‘You should have done that, Sergeant.’

  ‘I never imagined anyone would find out,’ howled Hepworth with his head in his hands. ‘I thought it was safe.’

  Having got him thoroughly rattled, Colbeck turned to the subject he really wanted to discuss. He stood up and pointed.

  ‘What were you doing on the day Miriam Tarleton was killed?’ he demanded. ‘Where were you at the time of the murder?’

  Hepworth raised his head in alarm and started to gibber.

  Sunday afternoon tea with her aunt and uncle was always a pleasant occasion for Madeleine Andrews, even more so when her father was there. He often spent the Sabbath at work but not this time. He’d been able to put on his suit, attend church with her and forget all about driving a locomotive. Andrews enjoyed changing out of his working clothes and shedding the abiding smell of the railway. As he and Madeleine strolled back home through Camden, there was a spring in his step and his hat was set at a rakish angle. He was reminded of many long-lost Sunday afternoons when his wife had been on his arm. Nostalgia swelled up inside him.

  ‘I wish your mother was here,’ he said, involuntarily.

  ‘So do I, Father.’

  ‘Your aunt looks so much like her.’

  ‘She ought to,’ said Madeleine. ‘They were sisters.’

  He chuckled. ‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ he confided. ‘She never liked me when I was courting your mother. She thought I was too forward. But I won her over in the end. I charmed her, Maddy.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I believe that.’

  ‘I could do it in those days. I was young once, you know. I wasn’t always so crotchety.’

  ‘I know that, Father.’

  He tipped his hat to a passing woman. ‘She’d have been so proud of you,’ he went on. ‘Your mother, I mean. Who’d have thought that we had a budding artist in the family? The only thing I could ever draw was a fire. You’ve got a talent.’

  ‘Only because Robert encouraged me to develop it,’ she said.

  ‘Your mother would have been impressed by that as well. We both thought you’d marry a railwayman like me, but you’ve done so much better for yourself with Inspector Colbeck. He’s a proper gentleman.’

  ‘I’d be happy with Robert whatever he did. He enjoys his work but the person he envies is you.’

  ‘Me?’ he asked with a laugh.

  ‘Part of him had always wanted to be an engine driver.’

  ‘Then he can thank the Lord above he never became one. He’d have had to put up with hard work, long hours and being out in all weathers. I’m not sure that he’d be able to stand it.’

  ‘He stands it already,’ she pointed out. ‘He works hard, has long hours and is out in wind, rain, fog, snow and ice. I know there are accidents on the railway, but Robert faces far greater danger when he comes up against desperate criminals. So does Sergeant Leeming, for that matter – he’s been badly beaten more than once.’

  ‘He lived to tell the tale,’ said Andrews with feeling. ‘When I was attacked, I very nearly died. I was in a coma for a long time.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me that. I was sitting beside you.’

  ‘My suffering was your gain, Maddy.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it that way.’

  ‘I would,’ he said. ‘If the train hadn’t been robbed that day, and if I hadn’t been knocked unconscious, you might never have met Inspector Colbeck. Something good came out of it all.’

  ‘The best thing was that you survived, Father.’

  ‘Well, someone has to give you away at the wedding.’

  She laughed. ‘You sound as if you want to get rid of me.’

  ‘To be honest, I do,’ he said, cheerily. ‘You obviously didn’t see the way that Mrs Hodgkin was smiling at me in church this morning. She’s been widowed for three years now. I knew her husband when he worked for the LNWR. He was always boasting what a wonderful cook his wife was. And she’s still a fine-looking woman.’

  Madeleine didn’t know if he was serious or merely joking. She was also uncertain about her own feelings on the subject. Her father had been so distraught at the death of his wife that Madeleine never thought he’d recover. It had never occurred to her that he might one day think of a second marriage. Yet he’d raised the possibility a number of times recently and she found it oddly worrying. It was almost as if she wasn’t ready to part with him to another woman. Madeleine had looked after him for so long now, she had become possessive. She tried to fight against such emotions. Since she would be starting a new life when she married, there was no reason why her father shouldn’t be allowed to do the same. In fact, on reflection, she felt that it might be a good thing for him. Because he wouldn’t be an easy man to live with, she knew that the secret lay in choosing an understanding wife.

  ‘Do you really mean it, Father?’ she asked.

  ‘Mean what?’

  ‘That remark you made about Mrs Hodgkin. One minute you tell me that you intend to get married, and the next you laugh a
t the idea. Are you simply teasing me?’

  ‘Only up to a point, Maddy,’ he said. ‘When I first mentioned it, I suppose that I was teasing you a little, but I’m starting to like the idea. The house will be very empty when you’ve gone. Maybe it’s time for me to find another wife before I lose my good looks.’ They laughed together, then he became quite solemn. ‘It’s not the same for you and the inspector. You’re young and have a whole lifetime ahead of you. I don’t, Maddy. But, even at my age, I can still love and be loved.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, squeezing his arm.

  ‘It will be a different kind of love, that’s all.’

  Colbeck’s interrogation was so unremitting that he almost reduced Eric Hepworth to tears. Gone was the overweening arrogance of the railway policeman. In its place was a whimpering submission. For all that, the detectives had not caught a murderer. Hepworth had been working on the day that Miriam Tarleton had been killed and could call on several witnesses to prove it. Having decided that Hepworth was the killer, Leeming was depressed. Colbeck was less dismayed because he’d kept an open mind. In his view, the meeting had been of positive value. It had eliminated a suspect. It had also had such a sobering effect on Hepworth that he would behave with more humility in future. There was one flash of his old self.

  ‘If I’d wanted to kill anyone,’ he’d said, rearing up in his chair, ‘then I’d have shot the colonel not his wife. I’d have blown his head off.’ He calmed down and shrugged an apology. ‘That’s all in the past now. I’d rather forget it.’

  ‘Then we’ll forget the impulse that made you write those letters,’ said Colbeck. ‘Guard against such wicked feelings next time.’

  ‘Oh, I will, I will, Inspector.’

  ‘Go to church and cleanse your mind,’ advised Leeming.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ll do that as well.’

  Overcome with gratitude at being – as he perceived it – let off the hook, Hepworth rose to his feet and shook hands with each of them. Then he snatched up his hat and left the room swiftly. Leeming was dejected.