The excursion train irc-2

by Edward Marston

  'Yes.' Winifred bit her lip. 'We can't get the best meat any more. Mr Hockaday refused to supply us when your father got arrested.'

  'So did Bybrook Farm. We have to pay a higher price now for meat that's only half as good. It's killing our trade.' He heard footsteps over his head and looked up. 'How is she now?'

  'Much the same.'

  'Has she started to talk again yet?'

  'No, Adam,' she replied, sorrowfully. 'Emily has hardly spoken more than a few words to me since this all began. She spends most of her time up there in her room, frightened to come out.'

  'She never was one for saying much.'

  'Emily needs time to recover – just like the rest of us. We could all do with a period of peace and quiet.'

  'How can we get that when some Inspector from London turns up to cause trouble?' he snarled. 'You were wrong to talk to him like that.'

  'Why?'

  'Policemen are all the same, even fancy ones like that. You never know what they really want.'

  'I know what Inspector Colbeck is after.'

  'What?'

  'He wants to find out who killed the public hangman.'

  'So do I,' said Adam, eyes glinting, 'because I'd like to shake his hand. Guttridge being murdered was the one good thing to come out of all this. I hope he died in torment.'

  'That's a vile thing to say!' she chided.

  'He killed my father.'

  'I lost a husband that day, Adam,' she told him, 'but I don't want vengeance against those involved. I just want the stain to be wiped away from our name so that we can hold up our heads in this town again.'

  'We may not be staying long enough for that.'

  'We have to, Adam. We can't crawl away in disgrace.'

  'The shop is the only thing that keeps us here,' he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, 'and most people walk straight past it. I'm not a butcher any more. I'm Nathan Hawkshaw's son – a killer's whelp.'

  It was remarkable how much information they had garnered between them in the course of one day. When the two detectives met over a meal at the Saracen's Head that evening, Robert Colbeck and Victor Leeming compared notes and discussed what their next move ought to be. Though no firm conclusions could yet be reached, the Inspector felt that the visit to Ashford had already proved worthwhile.

  'He's here, Victor,' he announced. 'I feel it.'

  'Who is?'

  'The killer.'

  'Which one, sir?'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'The man who murdered Joseph Dykes or the one who finished off Jacob Guttridge in that excursion train?'

  'The second of the two. That's what brought us here, after all. Until we've solved that particular crime, Mr Tallis will hound us from morn till night – and he's quite right to do so.'

  'That's the only advantage of being here,' said Leeming, rubbing a buttock as he felt another twinge. 'We're out of the Superintendent's earshot. We can breathe freely.'

  'Not with that smell from the river.'

  'Going back to Nathan Hawkshaw for a minute.'

  'Yes?'

  'Before we came here, you had a few doubts about his guilt.'

  'More than a few, Victor.'

  'And now?'

  'Those doubts remain,' said Colbeck, spearing a piece of sausage with his fork. 'I spent the afternoon talking to people in the town who knew the butcher well – his friends, his doctor, even the priest at St Mary's Church. They all agreed that it was so out of character for Hawkshaw to commit murder that they couldn't believe he was culpable.'

  'I've come round to the opposite view, sir.'

  'Why?'

  'According to George Butterkiss, there was another side to the butcher. He liked an argument for its own sake. When he used to be a tailor – Butterkiss, that is, not Hawkshaw – he made a suit for him and got a mouthful of abuse for his pains. It was as if Hawkshaw was finding fault on purpose so that he could have a good quarrel with the tailor.'

  'Did he buy the suit in the end?'

  'Only when Butterkiss had made a few slight changes.'

  'Maybe there were some things wrong with it.'

  'I don't think so,' said Leeming, munching his food. 'Butterkiss reckons that he only started the argument so that he could get something off the price. The tailor was browbeaten into taking less for his work. That's criminal.'

  'It's business, Victor.'

  'Well, it sums up Hawkshaw for me. He was no saint.'

  'Nobody claims that he was,' said Colbeck, 'and I know that he could be argumentative. Gregory Newman told me that Hawkshaw and his son were always gnawing at some bone of contention. It's the reason that Adam Hawkshaw moved out of the house. Nothing you've said so far inclines me to believe that Hawkshaw was a killer.'

  'You're forgetting the daughter, sir.'

  'Emily?'

  'When she told her stepfather she'd been assaulted by Dykes, he grabbed a meat cleaver and went out looking for him. That doesn't sound like an innocent man to me.'

  'What it sounds like is someone who acted purely on impulse. He may have brandished a weapon but that doesn't mean he would have used it – especially in a public place where there'd be witnesses. In those circumstances,' said Colbeck, 'most fathers would respond with blind rage. You have a daughter of your own, Victor. What would you do if some drunken oaf molested Alice?'

  'I'd be after him with a pair of shears!' said Leeming.

  'I rest my case.'

  'Only because you didn't meet the lad who saw Hawkshaw near the place where the murder occurred. I did, Inspector. He gave evidence in court that, when he walked home through the woods, Hawkshaw was trying to hide behind some bushes. He was furtive,' insisted Leeming, 'like he'd done something wrong.'

  'Did the youth speak to him?'

  'He tried to but Hawkshaw scurried off into the undergrowth. Why did he do that if he had nothing to hide?'

  'I don't know,' admitted Colbeck.

  'It was because he'd just hacked Joseph Dykes to death.'

  'Maybe, maybe not.'

  'I'll stick with maybe, sir. The victim was castrated, remember. Only a father who wanted revenge for an attempted rape of his daughter would do that. It has to be Hawkshaw.'

  'Did you talk to the landlord of the Red Lion?'

  'Yes,' said Leeming. 'He gave evidence in court as well. He told me that Dykes went in there that day, drank a lot of beer and made a lot of noise, then rolled out as if he didn't have a care in the world.'

  'What was he doing in that wood?'

  'I can't work that out, sir. You'd only go that way if you wanted to get to the farm beyond. It was where that lad worked, you see. My theory is that Dykes may have made himself a den in there.'

  'Take care, Victor!' said Colbeck with a laugh. 'We can't have you succumbing to theories as well. In any case, this one doesn't hold water. If there had been a den there, it would have been found when the police made a thorough search of the area.'

  'Dykes slept rough from time to time. We know that for certain.'

  'But even he wouldn't bed down in the middle of the afternoon when there was a fair to enjoy and several hours more drinking to get through. What took him there at that specific time?'

  'Hawkshaw must have lured him there somehow.'

  'I think that highly unlikely.'

  'How else could it have happened?'

  'I intend to find out, Victor,' said Colbeck. 'But only after we've caught the man who stalked Jake Guttridge on that excursion train.'

  'We know so little about him, sir.'

  'On the contrary, we know a great deal.'

  'Do we?' asked Leeming, drinking his beer to wash down his food. 'The only thing we can be sure of is that he's almost illiterate.'

  'Why do you say that?'

  'Because of that warning note you found at Guttridge's house.'

  'Go on.'

  'It was nothing but a scrawl. Half the words weren't even spelt properly. The person we want is obviously uneducated.'

&n
bsp; 'I wonder,' said Colbeck. 'People who can't write usually get someone to do it for them. The man who sent that message to the hangman may have wanted to appear unlettered by way of disguise. But there's another factor to weigh in the balance here.'

  'Is there, sir?'

  'The man who killed Jake Guttridge may not be the one who sent him that note. He could well be someone else altogether.'

  'That makes him even more difficult to track down,' said Leeming, popping a potato into his mouth. 'We're looking for a needle in a very large haystack, Inspector.'

  'A small haystack, perhaps,' said Colbeck, sipping his wine, 'but that should not deter us. We know that we're looking for a local man with some connection to Nathan Hawkshaw. Someone so outraged at what happened to his friend that he'd go in search of the hangman to wreak his revenge. The killer was strong, determined and cunning.'

  'Have you met anyone who fits that description, sir?'

  'Two people at least.'

  'Who are they?'

  'The son is the first,' Colbeck told him. 'From the little I saw of him, I'd say he had the strength and determination. Whether he'd have the cunning is another matter.'

  'Who's the other suspect?'

  'Gregory Newman. He was Hawkshaw's best friend and he led the campaign on his behalf. My guess is that he even tried to rescue him from Maidstone prison and he'd have to be really committed to attempt something as impossible as that.'

  'If he was a blacksmith, then he'd certainly be strong enough.'

  'Yes,' said Colbeck, 'but he didn't strike me as a potential killer. Newman is something of a gentle giant. Since the execution, all his efforts have been directed at consoling the widow. He's a kind man and a loyal friend. The priest at St Mary's spoke very highly of him. Gregory Newman, it transpires, has a bedridden wife whom he looks after lovingly, even to the point of carrying her to church every Sunday.'

  'That is devotion,' agreed Leeming.

  'A devoted husband is unlikely to be a brutal murderer.'

  'So we come back to Adam Hawkshaw.'

  'He'd certainly conform to your notion that an uneducated man sent that note,' explained Colbeck, using a napkin to wipe his lips. 'When I left the shop yesterday, he was lowering the prices on the board outside. He'd chalked up the different items on offer. Considering that he must have sold pheasant many times, he'd made a very poor shot at spelling it correctly.'

  Leeming grinned. 'He's lucky he didn't have to spell asphyxiation.'

  'He's certainly capable of inflicting it on someone.'

  'It's that warning note that worries me, sir.'

  'Why?'

  'Guttridge had one and he ended up dead.'

  'So?'

  'According to George Butterkiss,' said Leeming, pushing his empty plate aside, 'someone else had a death threat as well. Sergeant Lugg, that policeman from Maidstone, told him about it. The note that was sent sounds very much like the one that went to the hangman. The difference is that the man who received it just laughed and tore it up.'

  'Who was he, Victor?'

  'The prison chaplain, sir – the Reverend Narcissus Jones.'

  Though his job at Maidstone prison was onerous and wide-ranging, Narcissus Jones nevertheless found time for activities outside its high stone walls. He gave regular lectures at various churches and large audiences usually flocked to hear how he had conceived it as his mission to work among prisoners. He always emphasised that he had converted some of the most hardened criminals to Christianity and sent them out into society as reformed characters. With his Welsh ancestry, he had a real passion for choral singing and he talked lovingly about the prison choir that he conducted. Jones was a good speaker, fluent, dramatic and so steeped in biblical knowledge that he could quote from Old and New Testaments at will.

  He had been on good form at Paddock Wood that night, rousing the congregation to such a pitch that they had burst into spontaneous applause at the end of his talk. Everyone wanted to congratulate him afterwards and what touched him was that one of those most effusive in his praise was a former inmate at the prison who said that, in bringing him to God, the chaplain had saved his life. When he headed for the railway station, Jones was still beaming with satisfaction.

  He did not have long to wait for the train that would take him back to Maidstone. Selecting an empty carriage, he sat down and tried to read his Bible in the fading light. A young woman then got into the carriage and sat opposite him, gaining a nod of welcome from the chaplain. He decided that she had chosen to join him because the sight of his clerical collar was a guarantee of her safety. She was short, attractive and dark-haired but she was holding a handkerchief to her face as if to dab away tears. At a signal from the stationmaster, the train began to move but, at the very last moment, a man jumped into the carriage and slammed the door behind him.

  'Just made it!' he said, sitting down at the opposite end from the others. 'I hope that I didn't disturb you.'

  'Not at all,' replied Jones, 'though I'd never care to do anything as dangerous as that. Are you going as far as Maidstone?'

  'Yes.'

  'And what about you, my dear?' asked the chaplain, turning to the woman. 'Where's your destination?'

  But she did not even hear him. Unable to contain her sorrow, she began to sob loudly and press the handkerchief to her eyes. Jones put his Bible aside and rose to his feet so that he could bend solicitously over her. It was a fatal error. As soon as the chaplain's back was turned to him, the other man got up, produced a length of wire from his pocket and slipped it around the neck of Narcissus Jones, pulling it tight with such vicious force that the victim barely had time to pray for deliverance. When the train stopped at the next station, the only occupant of the carriage was a dead prison chaplain.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Robert Colbeck had always been a light sleeper. Hearing the footsteps coming up the oak staircase with some urgency, he opened his eyes and sat up quickly in bed. There was a loud knock on his door.

  'Inspector Colbeck?' said a voice. 'This is Constable Butterkiss.'

  'One moment.'

  'I have a message for you, sir.'

  Colbeck got out of bed, slipped on his dressing gown and unbolted the door. He opened it to admit George Butterkiss who had come to the Saracen's Head at such speed that he had not even paused to button up his uniform properly.

  'What's the problem, Constable?'

  'I'm sorry for the delay,' gabbled Butterkiss, almost out of breath, 'but they didn't realise that you were in Kent. They sent a telegraph message to London and it was passed on to Scotland Yard. When they found out you were in Ashford, they asked us to get in touch with you straight away.'

  'Calm down,' said Colbeck, putting a hand on his shoulder. 'Just tell me what this is all about.'

  'There's been another murder, sir.'

  'Where?'

  'In a train on its way to Maidstone.'

  'Do you know who the victim was?'

  'The prison chaplain – Narcissus Jones.'

  Colbeck felt a pang of regret. 'Where's the body?'

  'Where it was found, sir,' said Butterkiss, deferentially. 'They thought you'd want to see it before it was moved.'

  'Someone deserves congratulations for that. I hope that the same person had the sense to preserve the scene of the crime so that no clues have been lost. Sergeant Leeming needs to hear all this,' he went on, stepping into the passage to bang on the adjoining door. 'Wake up. Victor! We have to leave at once.'

  Leeming took time to come out of his slumber and to adjust to the fact that someone was pounding on the door. He eventually appeared, bleary-eyed and wearing a flannel nightshirt. Colbeck invited him into his own room then asked Butterkiss to give a succinct account of what he knew. It was a tall order for the former tailor. Overwhelmed at being in the presence of two Scotland Yard detectives, albeit it in night attire, he started to jabber wildly, embroidering the few facts he knew into a long, confused, meandering narrative.

  'That's enough,
' said Colbeck, cutting him off before he had finished. 'We'll find out the rest when we get there.'

  Butterkiss was eager. 'Will you be needing my assistance, sir?'

  'You've already given that.'

  'There must be something that I can do, Inspector.'

  'There is,' said Colbeck, glad to get rid of him. 'Arrange some transport to get us to the station as fast as possible.'

  'Very good, sir.'

  'Only not that cart that stinks of fish,' warned Leeming.

  'I'll find something,' said Butterkiss and he rushed out.

  'Get dressed, Victor. We must be on our way.'

  The Sergeant was hungry. 'What about breakfast?'

  'We'll think about that when we reach Maidstone. Now hurry up, will you? They're all waiting for us.'

  'What's the rush, Inspector? The chaplain isn't going anywhere.' Leeming put an apologetic hand to his mouth. 'Oh dear! I shouldn't have said that, should I?'

  The baker's shop in North Street was among the earliest to open and Winifred Hawkshaw was its first customer that morning. Clutching a loaf of bread still warm from the oven, she was about to cross the high street when she saw two familiar figures coming towards her on a little cart. Gregory Newman gave her a cheery wave and brought the horse to a halt. Seated beside him and swathed in a rug, in spite of the warm weather, was his wife, Meg, a thin, wasted creature in her forties with a vacant stare and an open mouth.

  'Good morning,' said Winifred. 'How is Meg today?'

  'Oh, she's very well,' replied Newman, slipping a fond arm around his wife, 'aren't you, Meg?' She looked blankly at him. 'It's Win. You remember Win Hawkshaw, don't you?' His wife nodded and gave Win a crooked smile of acknowledgement. 'She's not at her best this time of the morning,' explained her husband, 'but the doctor said that she must get plenty of fresh air so I take her for a ride whenever I can.' He looked up as a few dark clouds began to form. 'We went before work today because it may rain later.'

  'You're wonderful with her, Gregory.'

  'You were there when I made my marriage vows before the altar. In sickness and in health means exactly what it says, Win. It's not Meg's fault that she's plagued by illness.'