The Stationmaster's farewell irc-9

by Edward Marston

  Dorcas looked around in bewilderment. Ordinarily, it was a joy to come to work. The stationmaster looked after her and she enjoyed meeting so many people every day. Any pleasure had now been snatched away from her. Instead of working under a kind friend, she was at the mercy of someone she disliked and distrusted.

  Woodford asserted his authority. ‘Don’t stand there dithering, girl,’ he growled. ‘You have passengers to serve.’

  She scampered off to the refreshment room with tears in her eyes.

  Exeter had learnt from experience that it was wise to clear the streets of horses, carriages and carts on that particular day in autumn. Household pets were locked safely away but there were always stray animals on which the crueller youths could pounce. More than one dog went yelping across the cobbles with a cracker attached to its tail and cats were tempting targets for a lighted squib or two. An afternoon service was held in the cathedral but the main focus of attention was the close. It filled up steadily throughout the day. Children argued, fought, played games or paraded their guys — misshapen creations wearing tatty old coats, corduroy breeches and battered hats on the pumpkins or other vegetables that served as heads. Carrots were pressed into service as comical noses. Suspended from one arm was a lantern while a bundle of matches dangled from the other. The better examples of craftsmanship garnered pennies from passers-by, while the poorer exhibits aroused derision. Owners of rival guys sometimes came to blows.

  Celebrations were not confined to the city. People came in from miles around, many of them arriving by train. There were well over a hundred pubs in Exeter and they were all working at full stretch. When they tumbled out to watch the lighting of the bonfire that evening, their patrons were drunk, rowdy and excitable as they swelled the enormous crowd in the cathedral close. The timbers were fired, the crackle of twigs was heard and smoke began to rise in earnest. There was a concerted cheer from the crowd but it was nothing to the volcanic eruption of delight that later greeted the sight of hungry flames around a guy that bore a distinct resemblance to the bishop. They yelled and hooted until his papier mache mitre was destroyed along with the rest of him. Henry Phillpotts was burnt out of existence.

  Police were on duty but their numbers were ridiculously small. There was no way that they could control any disorder. They just hoped that it would not reach a level where they’d have to call on reinforcements from Topsham Barracks. Ever since police and soldiers had engaged in a ferocious brawl over a decade earlier, there had been bad blood between them. The general view taken of the police was unflattering and Guy Fawkes Night was seen by many as an excuse to settle old scores with them. Lest their hats were knocked off or they became embroiled in a fracas, policemen therefore tended to stay in the shadows. Even with the support of watchmen, they were hopelessly outnumbered. Yet the mayor and the justices of the peace had to make a gesture in the direction of law and order, so they occupied the Guildhall ready to offer summary justice to any malefactors dragged in.

  While everyone around her was whooping with joy, Dorcas was strangely detached from the whole event. She was still preoccupied by the fate of Joel Heygate. At first she hadn’t wanted to go to the bonfire celebrations but her father felt that they might stop her from brooding about the stationmaster. Nathaniel Hope had been upset to hear about the man’s disappearance. Since he worked as a guard on the railway, he saw a great deal of Heygate and the two of them were good friends. Hope was a big, solid man with craggy features edged with a beard. In the jostling throng, he kept a protective arm around his daughter. To make sure that she heard him, he had to raise his voice over the cacophony.

  ‘Try not to think about it,’ he advised.

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to do, Father, but I can’t put it out of my mind. I’m afraid that something terrible has happened to Mr Heygate.’

  ‘We don’t know that for certain.’

  ‘I do,’ she said, grimly. ‘He’s disappeared.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he came to grief somewhere, Dorcas. When the police went into his house this morning, there was no sign of anything untoward. Nothing was touched and nothing was taken.’

  ‘That’s no comfort to me.’

  ‘No,’ he sighed, ‘I can see that it isn’t. Joel Heygate is a man in a thousand. I admire him. It was only because he was the stationmaster that I agreed to let you take that job in the refreshment room.’

  ‘He was my friend.’

  ‘He was also someone who could take care of himself,’ he said, sounding more optimistic than he felt. ‘If he did get into a spot of bother last night, I’m sure that he was able to cope with it.’

  ‘Then where is he?’ she wailed.

  Hope had no answer to that. He was still struggling to suppress his own fears. Heygate was a methodical man. Over the years, he’d kept to a strict routine. Until now, he’d never once deviated from it. His absence was thus profoundly unsettling. Closing his eyes, Hope offered up a silent prayer for him.

  The blazing bonfire didn’t merely warm everyone up on a raw evening, it also lit up the whole area and painted the cathedral in garish colours. Flames danced wildly and the roar was deafening. The stench of smoke was everywhere and sparks were carried on the wind, singeing the overhanging branches of nearby trees or lodging harmlessly on roofs until they expired. Bawdy songs were sung, scuffles broke out and youthful exuberance had free rein. The cathedral close was a cauldron of heat, noise and abandon. Policemen stationed on the margins began to get restive.

  Dorcas had seen enough. It was time to go. Before she could ask her father to take her home, however, she spotted someone coming towards them. It was Mrs Rossiter, barging her way through the crowd and looking in all directions as she did so. She was wearing her best coat and a new hat trimmed with ostrich feathers. When she bumped into Dorcas, she spoke with breathless urgency.

  ‘Have you seen Mr Heygate?’ she asked.

  ‘No, Mrs Rossiter,’ replied Dorcas.

  ‘He promised that he’d be here. Well, you’re my witness, Miss Hope. You heard him. He more or less agreed to meet me at the bonfire.’

  ‘He’s not here,’ said Hope, resignedly.

  ‘He must be, Mr Hope. It’s not like him to let me down. It’s not like him at all. Joel — Mr Heygate, that is — is so reliable. He’s in the crowd somewhere.’

  ‘I very much doubt that, Mrs Rossiter.’

  ‘So do I,’ added Dorcas.

  ‘You’re both wrong,’ insisted the older woman. ‘He’s here. I sense it.’

  ‘Then you’re mistaken, Mrs Rossiter.’

  ‘He is — I’d swear it.’

  ‘You may be right,’ said Hope, deciding to humour her. ‘Who knows? He may have turned up out of the blue. Listen,’ he went on, ‘Dorcas and I are about to leave. Would you like to walk home with us?’

  ‘What a terrible thing to suggest!’ said Mrs Rossiter, indignantly. ‘That would be an act of betrayal. I can’t leave when I have to meet Mr Heygate.’

  ‘But he’s not here,’ said Dorcas in despair.

  ‘Yes he is, and I won’t rest until I find him.’

  Lifting her chin, Mrs Rossiter charged off, elbowing her way through the bellowing horde as she continued her search. Dorcas felt sorry for her. She’d never seen the other woman so close to hysteria. Mrs Rossiter had such self-control as a rule that her behaviour was troubling.

  ‘Do you think we should go after her, Father?’ she asked.

  ‘Leave her be.’

  ‘But she’s wasting her time.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, sadly. ‘One thing is certain. Joel Heygate is not here.’

  A rousing cheer went up as the blaze suddenly strengthened and poked tongues of flame at the cathedral in blatant mockery. Smoke thickened and sparks fell in ever-widening showers of radiance. Fireworks exploded like a volley from an infantry regiment. The Bishop of Exeter had perished with the other guys tossed onto the bonfire and the inferno roared on. It would be several hours before it burnt
itself out and exposed the charred body of a human being among the embers. Crazed she might be, but Mrs Rossiter’s instincts had been sound.

  The stationmaster was there, after all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Exeter!’ cried Leeming in dismay.

  ‘It’s in Devon,’ explained Tallis. ‘In fact, it’s the county town.’

  ‘I know where it is, sir, and that’s a very long way away. Why can’t we simply investigate crimes here in London? That’s where we live. Going to Exeter may mean leaving my family for days on end.’

  Tallis was acerbic. ‘I don’t care if it’s months on end, Sergeant. Duty comes first. If you wish to remain a detective, you must be prepared to go where necessity dictates.’ He raised a menacing eyebrow. ‘I take it that you are desirous of retaining your position at Scotland Yard? If not, you can easily wear a uniform instead and pound the streets in all weathers as a humble constable.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Leeming, recalling grim memories of his days on the beat. ‘I’m much happier here, Superintendent. It’s a privilege to work under you. I’ll go where I’m sent — as long as it’s not to America, that is.’

  Colbeck was amused. ‘I thought that you enjoyed our voyage, Victor.’

  ‘Whatever gave you that idea? The only thing I enjoyed was stepping back on to dry land again. Sailing the Atlantic was a torment from start to finish. For days afterwards my legs were wobbly.’

  ‘But it was a successful venture. That’s what counts. We caught them.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Tallis, slapping his desk for emphasis. ‘We sent a clear message to the criminal fraternity. No matter how far they run, they can’t escape us.’

  ‘Yet you opposed the notion at the time,’ Colbeck reminded him.

  ‘That’s not true at all, Inspector.’

  ‘You thought the idea impractical because of the cost involved.’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘You were against it. So was I.’

  Earlier that year, Colbeck and Leeming had pursued two criminals to New York City in order to arrest them and have them extradited. Being apart from his wife and two children for several weeks had been an ordeal for the sergeant and he’d promised his family that he’d never desert them for that length of time again. He was not the only one who found the prospect of a visit to Exeter unappealing. Colbeck had even more reason to stay in the capital. He was due to get married at the end of the month and did not wish the wedding plans to be hampered by a protracted investigation in another part of the country. He pressed for details.

  ‘What can you tell us, Superintendent?’ he asked.

  ‘A man was burnt to death last night in a bonfire in the cathedral close,’ said Tallis. ‘He’s believed to be a stationmaster by the name of Joel Heygate. That’s why the South Devon Railway sought my help.’

  What he omitted to say was that the telegraph he held in his hand specifically requested assistance from Robert Colbeck rather than from him. The inspector had been so effective at solving crimes connected with the railway system that he was routinely known in the press as the Railway Detective. It was one reason for the latent tension between the two men. Edward Tallis both admired and resented Colbeck. While he freely acknowledged his brilliance, he was annoyed that the inspector’s exploits overshadowed his own appreciable efforts. Tallis was senior to Colbeck, yet it was the latter who won all the plaudits. It rankled.

  They were in the superintendent’s office and there was a whiff of stale cigar smoke in the air. Seated behind his desk, Tallis stroked his moustache as he read the telegraph once more. He deliberately kept the detectives standing. As a retired major in the Indian army, he liked to remind those beneath him of their inferior rank.

  ‘You are to leave on the next available train,’ he told them.

  Colbeck nodded. ‘I can check the timetable in my copy of Bradshaw.’

  ‘Won’t I have time to go home first?’ complained Leeming.

  ‘No,’ said Tallis. ‘You keep a change of clothing here for just such a situation as this. Time is of the essence. We can’t have you running back to your wife whenever you have to leave London.’

  ‘Estelle will wonder where I am.’

  ‘Send her a message, man.’

  ‘It’s not the same, sir.’

  ‘I’ll have to take your word for that,’ said Tallis, coldly. ‘Thankfully, I am unfettered by marital obligations. I had the sense to remain single so that I could pursue my career without any distractions. You know my credo. Being a detective is not an occupation — it’s a way of life. Nothing else matters.’

  ‘I could take issue with you on that score,’ said Colbeck, levelly, ‘but this is not the time to do so.’ He extended a hand. ‘Might I see the telegraph, please?’

  ‘There’s no need. I’ve told you everything that it contains.’ Tallis slipped the telegraph into a drawer. ‘I suggest that you make your travel arrangements.’

  ‘Whom do we contact when we arrive?’

  ‘The man who got in touch with me is a Mr Gervase Quinnell of the South Devon Railway. He’ll be awaiting you.’

  ‘What about the local constabulary?’

  ‘Their investigation has probably started.’

  ‘Then why can’t we let them get on with it?’ asked Leeming, peevishly. ‘They know Exeter and its people much better than we do.’

  ‘Mr Quinnell clearly has little faith in them,’ said Tallis, ‘or he wouldn’t have turned to me. He views this as essentially a railway crime and knows my reputation.’

  ‘But there’s no proof that the victim is the stationmaster, is there?’ observed Colbeck. ‘If he was found under a bonfire, identification would have been very difficult. His clothing would have been destroyed and his face and body horribly disfigured. There’s another thing,’ he added. ‘You say that he was burnt to death. Is there any evidence of that? A bonfire is a public event. The victim could hardly be hurled alive into the blaze in front of a large crowd. Isn’t it more likely that he was killed beforehand? The body must have already been hidden under the bonfire when it was set alight. It’s the most logical supposition.’

  ‘That’s idle speculation.’

  ‘I think it’s a fair point,’ said Leeming.

  ‘Be quiet, Sergeant. Nobody asked for your opinion.’

  ‘It’s not my opinion, sir, it’s the inspector’s and I agree with it.’

  ‘Shut up, man!’

  ‘What’s the exact wording in the telegraph?’ wondered Colbeck.

  Tallis was impatient. ‘All that need concern you is that our help has been sought. That’s why I’m sending you to Devon, so please stop quibbling. As for you, Sergeant,’ he said, reserving his sarcasm for Leeming, ‘I will put an advertisement in all the national newspapers, requesting any villains intending to commit a crime on the railway to confine their activities to London and its environs. Will that content you?’

  ‘It would certainly make my life a lot easier, sir,’ said Leeming.

  Colbeck took him by the arm. ‘Come on, Victor,’ he said, pulling him gently away. ‘The superintendent is being droll. We are two of a pair. Both of us would like to keep the time we spend away from London to an absolute minimum and there’s one obvious way to do that.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Yes — we must solve this crime as soon as possible.’

  He led the sergeant out and closed the door firmly behind them.

  Exeter St David’s railway station was a place of mourning. Even though there was still some uncertainty as to the identity of the murder victim, almost everyone believed that it had to be Joel Heygate. The one exception was Agnes Rossiter who insisted that he was still alive and who put all her energies into the smooth running of the refreshment room because it was ‘what Mr Heygate would have expected of me’. It was not a view shared by Dorcas Hope. Stunned by what had happened, she walked around in a dream and had to be given a verbal crack of the whip from time to time by the manageress. Other membe
rs of staff were horrified by the news, finding it hard to accept that such a universally popular man had met his death in such a grotesque way. Passengers waiting to depart from the station had all heard the rumour and rushed to pay fulsome tributes to Heygate.

  Rising above the general solemnity, Lawrence Woodford concentrated on the many duties that fell to a stationmaster, supervising his staff, keeping the platform uncluttered, inspecting all the buildings for cleanliness, ensuring the most economical use of stores, stationery, coal, gas and oil, noting the appearance of all passengers, answering their endless questions and — most important of all — taking care that trains left the station on time. Dressed for the occasion in frock coat and top hat, he lacked Heygate’s physical presence but his calm efficiency was undeniable. It was almost as if he’d been rehearsing for this moment of crisis.

  Dorcas discovered an unexpected streak of kindness in the man. Slipping out of the refreshment room, she accosted him on the platform.

  ‘Could I have a word with you, please, sir?’ she asked, nervously.

  ‘What’s the trouble, Miss Hope?’

  ‘I’m worried about Peter — that’s Mr Heygate’s canary. Somebody ought to look after him.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Woodford.

  ‘Peter knows me. I’ve fed him in the past. Can I take care of him?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. We shouldn’t let the bird suffer. The decision is not mine to make, of course,’ he went on with a smile, ‘but I can pass on your generous offer and recommend that we accept it.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Woodford.’

  ‘You get back in there with Mrs Rossiter. Leave it to me.’

  As Dorcas scurried off, Woodford strode along the platform with his head up and his back straight. He was in charge now. The sense of power and influence was almost dizzying. He savoured it to the full. When he got to the stationmaster’s office, he entered it as of right and was in time to witness a raging argument.

  ‘I should have been consulted, Mr Quinnell.’

  ‘There was no point, Superintendent.’

  ‘I’m in charge of the police force here.’