The Stationmaster's farewell irc-9

by Edward Marston

  ‘No,’ he said, blithely. ‘The peelers are looking for Bagsy Browne, that ugly bugger with the long hair and the beard. When I get rid of the hair and shave off the beard, they won’t know me from Adam. Before that, however,’ he went on, grabbing her and pulling her on to the bed, ‘I’d like to work up an appetite for that pork pie.’ Pulling off her clothes, he tossed them on to the floor. ‘This is my idea of a hearty breakfast.’

  The inquest was held in the coroner’s court and it was packed to capacity. Colbeck was seated between Leeming and Superintendent Steel, who was almost friendly towards the detectives now. He was also more confiding. Colbeck put it down to the fact that he and Steel had together weathered the howling storm that was the Bishop of Exeter. It was a bonding experience. Each man had been impressed by the way that the other had withstood the wild threats and imprecations without blenching. As they tried to solve the crime, they knew that they would forever be hampered and hectored by the Right Reverend Henry Phillpotts.

  When the jury was sworn in, the coroner maintained an expression of professional inscrutability. He was commendably thorough, questioning almost all of Heygate’s staff at the railway station as well as other people who’d claimed to have seen him on the eve of Guy Fawkes Day. Everyone told much the same story. The stationmaster had gone about his duties in the usual way, then returned to his house in the evening. They all praised his unblemished record of service. Colbeck had to give Gervase Quinnell credit for one thing. In order to allow his employees to attend the inquest, he’d brought in staff from other stations under his aegis to cover for them. Quinnell himself sat at the rear, watching with keen interest.

  Most people managed to answer the questions put to them, albeit tentatively, but the effort was too much for Dorcas Hope. Being in front of such a large gathering unnerved her and memories of the stationmaster’s kindness to her kept lapping at her mind. Overcome with emotion, she was unable to get any coherent words out and had to be helped sobbing out of the court. The most confident performance came from Lawrence Woodford. After singing his predecessor’s praises, he gave a clear account of everything that Heygate had done on the fatal day and said that the stationmaster had talked about going to see a bird that evening.

  The coroner was surprised. ‘Going to see a bird in the dark?’

  ‘It was a barn owl. Joel had more or less tamed it by taking it food. And yes,’ he added, ‘it was after nightfall but there was a moon. Besides, Joel would have taken a lantern with him.’

  ‘Is there a lantern missing from the station?’

  ‘Yes, there is.’

  ‘Did he say where he’d find this owl?’

  ‘He said nothing to me.’

  Colbeck was interested by this new piece of information. Unlike the others, Woodford was measured and articulate. In fact, it occurred to Colbeck that he was rather too articulate, like an actor who’d memorised his lines perfectly. The man was not so much giving evidence as auditioning for the post of stationmaster.

  Colbeck nudged Leeming. ‘Find out more about this gentleman, Victor.’

  ‘He’s a cocky devil, sir.’

  ‘He’s also too ambitious for my liking.’

  All the witnesses so far had accepted that the dead man was unquestionably Joel Heygate and the fact that the police search for him had been futile supported this view. The next person to face the coroner contradicted everyone else. Agnes Rossiter had put on her best clothes for the occasion, including the new hat with the ostrich feathers. She went on the attack at once.

  ‘I think it’s dreadful the way that the rest of you want to bury poor Mr Heygate when he’s not yet dead. He’s still very much alive,’ she asserted, looking around defiantly. ‘He’s just gone astray, that’s all.’

  ‘Why do you think that, Mrs Rossiter?’ asked the coroner.

  ‘If anything had happened to him, I would know.’

  ‘On what grounds do you make that claim?’

  ‘Mr Heygate and I were … close friends.’ The announcement caused a buzz of curiosity. ‘We agreed to meet at the bonfire but he never turned up.’

  ‘Isn’t that because he lay dead beneath the blaze?’

  ‘No, no, no!’ she shouted. ‘I don’t believe that. It’s cruel of you to try to make me believe that. I know he’s alive. I sense it.’

  ‘We need rather more proof than that, Mrs Rossiter.’

  ‘Can’t you take my word for it? I knew him better than anyone.’

  ‘Then where is he?’

  ‘Give him time and he’ll come back.’

  ‘Why did he go away in the first place?’

  ‘Mr Heygate will explain that.’

  ‘Let me ask you this, then. If he was not the murder victim,’ said the coroner, patiently, ‘can you suggest who was?’

  ‘It was someone else.’

  ‘But nobody else has been reported missing. Superintendent Steel will confirm that. When I question him in due course, he will tell you that he has a suspect in mind who swore that he’d kill the stationmaster. In short, there is someone in this city with a motive and means to commit this crime. All that he had to do was to create the opportunity. What do you say to that?’

  Mrs Rossiter was incapable of speech. Puce with rage, she rose to her feet and emitted a high-pitched cry of anguish, pointing to the coroner as if he’d just betrayed her then turning her fury on the superintendent. She was shaking violently all over. As the cry soared to become the sustained screech of a wild animal, she suddenly fell silent, went limp and collapsed on the floor in a heap.

  The inquest was adjourned while she was given medical attention.

  The detectives took the opportunity to go outside for some fresh air. They could hear members of the railway staff talking excitedly about Mrs Rossiter.

  ‘What was your opinion of the lady, Victor?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘I thought she was raving mad, sir.’

  ‘I felt sorry for her. She just can’t acknowledge that her friend is dead. Not that I think their friendship was all that close,’ he went on. ‘When she made that claim, there were gasps of astonishment from people who knew her. From everything we’ve heard today, we have a very clear idea of the sort of person the stationmaster was. When he was not on duty, he liked nothing better than gardening and birdwatching, things that are done on one’s own. Do you think that Mrs Rossiter would have any appeal for a man like that?’

  ‘Frankly,’ said Leeming, ‘she would not. I don’t wish to be unkind but I fancy that she’d scare most men away — me among them.’

  ‘Who else caught your eye?’

  ‘Mr Woodford was the only one who seemed to know what he was talking about, though he was far too full of himself for my money. The others were too tongue-tied for the most part, especially that young girl.’

  ‘They might be more forthcoming if they were questioned in less daunting surroundings. They’re still very shocked by what happened. The girl was Dorcas Hope, who works as a waitress under Mrs Rossiter. I’d like to know what she thinks of the manageress.’

  ‘I think she’d be too frightened to tell you, sir.’

  Steel came over to join them. ‘The inquest is not without its drama, is it?’

  ‘No,’ said Colbeck. ‘Have you been convinced yet that the victim simply has to be Mr Heygate?’

  ‘I’m waiting for the coroner’s verdict.’

  ‘That hasn’t stopped you searching for Bagsy Browne, though.’

  ‘No,’ replied Steel. ‘If we find him and he’s guilty, he’ll be hanged. If he turns out to be innocent, we’ll run him out of Exeter.’

  ‘Is this rogue the only suspect?’ wondered Leeming.

  ‘I suppose that he is at the moment.’

  ‘At times like this, the inspector always asks cuo benny.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Colbeck, ‘it’s cui bono? but I’m sure that the superintendent is familiar with the phrase. Who stands to gain? In the sense that it will assuage his lust for revenge, it will ob
viously advantage Browne. What about other possibilities?’

  Steel pondered. ‘I suppose that Mr Woodford will be a beneficiary,’ he said at length. ‘He’s almost certain to be promoted to the position of stationmaster. Indeed, when he was giving evidence, he was acting as if the job was his already.’

  ‘Do we know how he and Mr Heygate got on?’

  ‘I understand that there’d been some tension between them. Not that you’d have guessed it from the way that Woodford behaved in there. He presented himself as Heygate’s best friend.’

  ‘Then why didn’t he show more grief?’ asked Leeming.

  Colbeck pursed his lips. ‘Why didn’t he show any grief?’

  ‘I still think that Bagsy Browne may be our man,’ said Steel.

  ‘But only if the victim really was the stationmaster. If it’s someone else, Browne is in the clear. In any case,’ continued Colbeck, thinking it through, ‘he would have needed access to Mr Heygate. That was impossible during the day because there were so many people about. After work — if we accept the testimony of Mr Woodford — the stationmaster went in search of an owl. How would Browne have known where he was going?’

  ‘He could have been lurking near the house and followed him.’

  ‘Where would the murder have taken place?’

  ‘At some lonely spot in the woods, I daresay.’

  ‘Why was his head repeatedly battered when one blow would surely have killed him?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Steel, ‘I can answer that. It’s Bagsy’s signature. He does nothing by half-measures. I’m amazed that he left the head on the shoulders.’

  ‘Let’s go back to that cui bono,’ advised Leeming. ‘I’ve just thought of someone else who stands to profit and that’s his brother, Michael Heygate. According to the coroner, he’s the only relative. And there seems to have been no love lost between the two brothers. What sort of man is Michael Heygate, Superintendent?’

  ‘Make up your own mind, Sergeant,’ said the other. ‘The gentleman will be called as a witness when the inquest resumes.’

  When they filed back into the room, there was no sign of Agnes Rossiter. She’d been given smelling salts to revive her, then was examined by a doctor. Although he could find nothing physically wrong with her, she was sent home for the day. The coroner’s court quickly filled up and more evidence was taken. Eventually, it was the turn of Michael Heygate, younger brother of the deceased. He’d been sitting beside his wife throughout the inquest and she squeezed his arm in encouragement when he was called. His appearance caused a little consternation because there was such an obvious likeness to the stationmaster. Indeed, some people found the similarity so close that it stirred up their grief and they had to avert their gaze.

  Heygate had his brother’s bulk and even sported a walrus moustache but he had none of the stationmaster’s good humour. He was terse and rather churlish. After identifying himself, he said that he’d seen his brother alive on 4th November.

  ‘At what time would that be?’ asked the coroner.

  ‘It was early evening,’ said Heygate. ‘We stayed the night so that we could go to the bonfire next day. We made a point of seeing Joel.’

  ‘How did he seem to you?’

  ‘He was much as usual — calm and polite.’

  ‘Did you see him at the station?’

  ‘No — it was at his house.’

  ‘How long were you there?’

  Heygate shrugged. ‘Not long — ten minutes, maybe.’

  ‘Did you often see each other?’

  ‘Of course — Joel was my brother.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going on the evening in question?’

  ‘Not to me, he didn’t.’

  ‘There was no mention of an owl?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He didn’t discuss his hobby with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you never saw him after that evening?’

  ‘Not until I saw the dead body — if it really is him, that is.’

  ‘You’re not sure?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you suggest the name of anyone who may have harboured a grudge against your brother?’

  Heygate shook his head. ‘Everyone liked him.’

  ‘Did he ever talk about threats made against him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tell us about the conversation you had with him that evening.’

  ‘There’s nothing much to tell.’

  Heygate was laconic. As he recalled the meeting with his brother, however, he went out of his way to emphasise how close the two of them were. In view of what the coroner had told them, Colbeck found the claim unconvincing. He also wondered why, having come to Exeter with his wife, they didn’t spend the night at the stationmaster’s house. Michael Heygate concluded his evidence, then returned to his seat. Colbeck noticed the way that his wife immediately seized his hands in a gesture of congratulation. It was as if he’d just come through an important test. Mrs Heygate was a stringy woman in her forties with a face that looked plain in repose but that took on a kind of vulgar attraction when lit by a smile. As the inquest continued, the couple held hands.

  Next to be called was the man who actually discovered the body in the embers of the fire. He freely admitted that the sight had made him vomit on the spot. What he would never forget, he said, was the image of the man’s boots, burnt to a cinder yet still clinging to the bottoms of his feet. He’d signalled to one of the policemen on duty and the alarm was raised. Superintendent Steel was the last person to be questioned, explaining the action he’d taken once the crime had been reported to him and how he’d later had the corpse moved from the cathedral close. There could be no doubt that an unlawful killing had taken place. He explained that they were following various lines of enquiry but that a prime suspect had been identified.

  Though he seemed a trifle doddery, the coroner had missed no detail of the proceedings. His summing up of the evidence gathered was both lucid and comprehensive. Guided by him, the jury declared that the dead man had to be Joel Heygate and returned a verdict of unnatural death at the hands of one or more persons as yet unknown.

  Colbeck left the room with Leeming and came out into a cold November day.

  ‘What would you do if you’d been the killer, Victor?’

  ‘I’d be hundreds of miles away by now, sir,’ replied Leeming.

  ‘I’m not sure that I would,’ said Colbeck, meditatively. ‘This crime was inspired by hatred. If I’d been the man who committed it, I think that I’d have come to the inquest in order to gloat.’

  As Colbeck was speaking, somebody brushed past his shoulder. Bagsy Browne had emerged from the courthouse wearing a long coat, a greasy cap and a scarf that covered the lower part of his clean-shaven face. He melted into the crowd.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Most people outside the courthouse had started to disperse but Gervase Quinnell held his ground in order to speak to Michael Heygate. He’d never met the stationmaster’s brother before and he’d been struck by the physical resemblance between them. In character, however, there were clearly marked differences. Heygate and his wife had lingered in order to talk to the coroner. When they finally emerged, they saw that most people had now gone. One of the exceptions was Quinnell and he bore down on them with his features composed into a study in bereavement. He introduced himself with an air of condescension. Heygate, in turn, introduced his wife, Lavinia. Realising the man’s position in the South Devon Railway, they were deferential towards him.

  ‘Let me begin by offering my condolences,’ said Quinnell. ‘This is a tragedy, an absolute tragedy. It must have come as an appalling shock to you.’

  ‘It did, sir,’ agreed Heygate.

  ‘Michael and I still haven’t got used to the idea,’ said Lavinia.

  ‘The inquest has at least clarified the situation,’ Quinnell pointed out. ‘There was never a scintilla of doubt in my mind as to the identity of the victim. After all the evidence that was ga
thered today, even Mrs Rossiter must now admit that it was Joel Heygate.’ He lowered his voice. ‘By the way, I always got the impression that your brother preferred his own company. Is it true that he and Mrs Rossiter were close friends?’

  ‘He never mentioned her to us,’ said Heygate.

  ‘Was she ever at the house when you called?’

  ‘No, sir, she wasn’t.’

  ‘Then why should she claim to be rather more than a work colleague?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘I think that the occasion was too much for her. She was overwhelmed. The poor lady was clearly under great stress.’

  ‘My brother-in-law was happily married, sir,’ said Lavinia. ‘He never looked at another woman while his wife was alive and I’m sure he didn’t do so after her death. Joel was … not that sort of man.’

  ‘That was my feeling,’ said Quinnell, extracting his gold watch from a waistcoat pocket and glancing at it. ‘I can’t stay long. I have a meeting to attend fairly soon.’ He put the watch away and buttoned up his coat. ‘I just wanted to ask if you’d made any plans for the funeral.’

  Heygate looked blank. ‘We couldn’t do that until we knew it was Joel.’

  ‘No, of course, you couldn’t.’

  ‘And we don’t know when the body will be released to us.’

  ‘I can expedite that,’ said Quinnell. ‘There’s no point in a post-mortem when the cause of death is so glaringly obvious. I’m sure that you’d like the funeral to be as soon as possible. I suggest that you talk to the undertaker about arrangements.’ The couple exchanged a worried glance. ‘No cost whatsoever will be incurred by you, incidentally. We — the railway company, I mean — will take care of any bills.’

  Lavinia brightened. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir.’

  ‘He was a valued employee. It’s the least we can do.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Heygate, ‘it’s a load off our mind. We have very limited means. My wife and I were anxious about the costs incurred.’

  Quinnell was grandiloquent. ‘There’s no need to be,’ he said, raising a gloved palm. ‘All will be taken care of, Mr Heygate — funeral and memorial service.’