The Stationmaster's farewell irc-9

by Edward Marston

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Well, it’s not all that common a name.’

  ‘He was just one customer of many when we had such things,’ said Heygate, evasively. ‘If my wife hadn’t remembered his name, I wouldn’t have done so.’

  ‘I’m very glad that Mrs Heygate did so.’

  Tallis gave her a nod of congratulation but she was squirming with discomfort. A link had been made between two of the murder suspects. That fact alone made Tallis feel that his journey hadn’t been in vain. He began to wonder if Heygate had either employed Browne to commit the crime, or assisted him in doing so. It could be a fruitful area to explore. He tried to dispel their obvious disquiet.

  ‘There’s no guarantee that Browne is guilty,’ he stressed. ‘He just happened to be in the vicinity and has a long criminal record. We suspect that he was there on the night of November 4th — but, then, so were you.’

  ‘That’s right, Superintendent,’ said Heygate.

  ‘My sergeant thought it odd that you didn’t bring your children.’

  ‘They preferred to stay here with school friends.’

  ‘Yet the celebrations in Exeter would have been much more spectacular.’

  Heygate was stony-faced. ‘It was their choice.’

  ‘So you must also have stayed with friends.’

  ‘Yes, we did.’

  ‘Was it for the one night or for two?’

  ‘It was just for the one night, Superintendent. My wife and I stayed for most of the celebrations, then caught a late train back here. Little did we know at that time, mind you, what they would find when the bonfire burnt itself out.’

  ‘Quite so, quite so — you have my deepest sympathy.’

  ‘It came like a thunderbolt,’ said Lavinia, finding her voice at last and contriving a look of grief. ‘Michael and I are still stunned.’

  ‘Yes,’ added her husband. ‘We’ve been very grateful to Mr Quinnell. He’s been immensely helpful. In fact, we received a letter from him this morning to say that the funeral will be next Monday. The railway company will bear the cost.’

  ‘That’s very noble of them.’

  ‘All the arrangements will be taken care of. Mr Quinnell was anxious to relieve us of that and he’s also talking about a memorial service — though I feel that might be going too far.’ A sly look came into his eye. ‘How soon after the funeral will my brother’s will be read, do you think?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t say, Mr Heygate. Legal wheels grind very slowly.’

  ‘Will it be a matter of weeks?’

  ‘You’d have to ask the solicitor concerned.’

  ‘Is there any means of speeding up the process?’

  ‘I wish that there were,’ said Tallis with a chuckle. ‘Solicitors are like snails. They never rush. But you’ll get your inheritance in the fullness of time,’ he went on. ‘I hear that you’re the only close relative. My advice is to forget about the will for the time being. You have to brace yourself for the funeral before that. It’s going to be a harrowing experience for both of you.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ they said in unison.

  Victor Leeming paced himself. He worked on the theory that the stationmaster would have walked more slowly in the dark. Even so, he reasoned, Heygate might have gone a fair distance. He strode in a westerly direction, taking note of all the buildings he passed. There was no shortage of sheds. In fact, he counted over a dozen before he’d gone more than a couple of hundred yards. Housing then began to thin out, separated by patches of open ground. Trees abounded. It was a natural habitat for birds. When he stopped to check his watch, Leeming saw that he’d been walking for the best part of a quarter of an hour. He was at the fullest extent of his range. Yet he could see a cottage in the middle distance and there was an old shed at the bottom of its garden. Perhaps the stationmaster had moved faster than he thought. The shed was clearly worth investigation.

  Lengthening his stride, he pressed on, pausing from time to time to peer into a clump of bushes. But there was no trace of the missing lamp. The closer he got to the shed, the more dilapidated it looked, with holes in the roof large enough for birds to get in easily. Leeming’s hopes rose. If it was the old shed mentioned by the stationmaster, then — in all probability — it was the place where Heygate had been ambushed and killed. He walked around it and searched the ground but there were no bloodstains visible and no sign of a struggle having taken place. Leeming was undaunted. He somehow felt that he’d found the murder scene. The shed was unlocked. Pulling the door open, he fully expected to see some clue relating to the crime. Instead he was forced back in alarm as a large black cat came out of the shadows to snarl angrily at him before darting off between his legs.

  Frances Impey was both amazed and relieved at the difference in her sister. Agnes Rossiter had shaken off her gloom and seemed her old self. But for her black attire, nobody would have known that she was in mourning. Mindful of what had happened at the cathedral, Frances tried to guide her sister away from it but the latter insisted on walking through the precinct. There was no repeat of her earlier outburst. In fact, Mrs Rossiter glanced apologetically towards the cathedral as if keen to make amends. Her sister found that heartening. It was a clear indication of recovery.

  The undertaker’s premises were in the High Street and Frances implored her sister not to go there, arguing that it would upset her too much.

  ‘It’s my duty, Frances,’ she said, calmly. ‘Joel would never forgive me.’

  ‘Mr Heygate was badly burnt. The body will be in a terrible condition.’

  ‘I don’t care. It’s him — that’s all that matters.’

  ‘You don’t belong here,’ said her sister with concern. ‘Let’s go home, Agnes. Please — let me take you home.’

  Mrs Rossiter ignored the plea and turned into the High Street. When she reached the undertaker’s premises, she rang the bell. All that Frances could do was to stand a few yards away in trepidation. The undertaker opened the door, listened to Mrs Rossiter’s request and politely refused to let her in. There was a brief argument but the man was firm. He would not admit her to view the remains of Joel Heygate. Stepping back, he closed the door. Mrs Rossiter gave a shrug of acceptance and rejoined her sister.

  ‘I told you that they wouldn’t let you in,’ said Frances.

  ‘They have to,’ insisted Mrs Rossiter, looking down at the ground. ‘It’s my right. Nobody is going to keep me away from Joel.’

  ‘What are you searching for?’

  ‘I won’t be turned away like that. I’ll fight back.’

  Seeing what she was after, Mrs Rossiter bent down and picked up a large stone. Before her sister could stop her, she hurled it at the window with all force. As the glass shattered, the undertaker’s name painted on it was split into a thousand shards. Mrs Rossiter had not finished. Scrambling through the window and cutting herself in the process, she pushed aside the black drapes and stepped into the building.

  ‘I’m coming, Joel!’ she yelled. ‘I’m coming!’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  By prior arrangement, Colbeck met Leeming at noon at the railway station so that they could exchange information. Since a train had recently left, they were able to sit in the empty waiting room. Colbeck described his interview with Woodford and felt that the man had been shifty. The stationmaster had done nothing to remove his name from the list of suspects. Leeming then took over, explaining that he’d walked in all directions but to no avail.

  ‘I found far too many old sheds, sir,’ he moaned. ‘How do I know which was the one we’re after? It certainly wasn’t the first one I looked in, I know that. There was this vicious black cat in there. He’d frighten away any birds.’

  ‘Black cats are supposed to bring good luck, Victor.’

  ‘This one didn’t. Given the chance, he’d have scratched my eyes out.’

  ‘All we know is that Heygate must have been killed somewhere between here and the place he was going to that night. He could have been ambushed
anywhere along the way.’

  ‘What if he was marched into the city and then murdered?’

  ‘That seems unlikely,’ said Colbeck. ‘The place was teeming with people. Excitement about the event had been building for days. The likelihood is that he was battered to death in some quiet location, then smuggled into the precinct at night and hidden underneath the bonfire. It’s a pity you didn’t find that lamp.’

  ‘The killer must have taken it with him, sir.’

  ‘Not if he had a body to carry. He might have used a cart, of course, but the lamp was the property of the railway. It has the name painted on it, as you can see.’ He gestured towards the large metal lamp beside the door. ‘That might have caught someone’s eye. I know it was dark but there are street lamps aplenty. The killer may have thought it was too risky to be seen with railway property. Any policeman who saw it would assume that it was stolen.’

  ‘Well,’ said Leeming, ‘I didn’t find the lamp and I didn’t see the owl.’

  ‘That’s not surprising, Victor. Owls are nocturnal.’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to send me out after dark, sir.’

  Colbeck grinned. ‘Wouldn’t you like to go birdwatching at night?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Then I’ll spare you the ordeal.’

  ‘Our job would be so much easier if we found that missing diary.’

  ‘Woodford claimed that he didn’t know it existed, but I had a sneaky feeling that he was lying. And yes, that diary could well be a godsend. Perhaps we should ask Peter where Heygate used to keep it.’

  ‘Who’s Peter?’

  ‘He’s the canary that Miss Hope is looking after.’

  ‘I’d forgotten him.’

  ‘Heygate and Peter were inseparable. The owl and the canary,’ said Colbeck with a smile. ‘It’s like one of Aesop’s fables, isn’t it?’

  ‘I remember learning about those at school.’

  ‘Owls are usually regarded as birds of ill omen.’

  ‘Mr Heygate should have taken heed of that.’

  People were drifting into the waiting room now because the next train was due very shortly. They broke off their conversation and stepped outside on to the platform. Woodford walked past and tipped his hat to them. He was clearly relishing his elevation to a position of power. Leeming looked towards the stationmaster’s house and saw the policeman standing outside it.

  ‘Do we really need to have it guarded day and night, Inspector?’

  ‘I suppose not, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘I was being overcautious in asking for protection. If the killer came in search of the diary — and we don’t even know that he’s aware of its existence — he’s not going to find it there. Superintendent Steel and I looked in every nook and cranny. I’ll tell him to stand his man down.’

  ‘Talking of superintendents,’ said Leeming, ‘how can we convince ours that he’s needed in London?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘I get so nervous when I have him looking over our shoulders.’

  ‘Blame the bishop. It was his letter that brought Mr Tallis here. If he wants to do something really useful,’ said Colbeck, ‘he can persuade Bishop Phillpotts not to call in the army. Their presence would be a hindrance to us.’

  He looked up as a train appeared in the distance, puffing smoke into the air and rattling along at a slowly diminishing speed. It eventually reached the station and drew up to a halt in front of them. Passengers waited to board the train while several people on it alighted. Tallis was amongst them.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, walking over to them, ‘I’m glad that you’re both here.’

  ‘What did you think of Dawlish, sir?’ asked Leeming.

  ‘I found it quite enchanting.’

  ‘Did you remember to look out for those pumping stations?’

  Tallis bared his teeth. ‘Be warned, Leeming. If you so much as mention the atmospheric railway once more in my presence, you’ll be walking the beat in Whitechapel for the rest of your police career. Well,’ he said, ‘do either of you have good news to report?’

  ‘I’m afraid that we don’t, sir,’ said Colbeck, ‘but it’s not for want of trying.’

  ‘No,’ said Leeming, bitterly. ‘I’ve seen enough old sheds to last me a lifetime. And don’t ever tell me that a black cat brings luck.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ demanded Tallis.

  ‘It’s nothing, sir. Tell us your news.’

  ‘I learnt something that you failed to learn, Sergeant. It turns out that Michael Heygate actually knows our chief suspect, Mr Browne. He said that Browne had bought a fishing rod from them but I have doubts about that. The point is,’ said Tallis, beaming in triumph, ‘that I’ve established a link between two of our suspects. In short, they could have been working together.’

  ‘That’s an interesting possibility, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘Michael Heygate might draw back from actually killing his brother but he could have engaged Browne to do so. It’s worth recalling that he knew the stationmaster would be going out that night and could easily have followed him.’

  ‘What about Mrs Heygate?’ asked Leeming. ‘I fancy that she might have a poisonous tongue when upset but I can’t see her involved in a murder.’

  ‘She’d condone anything her husband did. She’s under his thumb.’

  ‘I noticed that, sir.’

  ‘You must also have noticed that she’s far from grief-stricken.’

  ‘That was apparent at the inquest, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘She was far more concerned with her husband’s performance as a witness than with her brother-in-law’s fate. Mrs Heygate can’t wait to reap the benefits from his death.’

  ‘Neither can her husband,’ said Tallis. ‘He asked when the will would be read. It never occurred to him that it might be an indelicate question. The funeral is on Monday, incidentally. Mr Quinnell is responsible for the arrangements.’

  ‘That gives us the weekend to solve the crime,’ said Colbeck. ‘Otherwise the bishop is going to flood the city with troops. Thanks to you, sir,’ he added, ‘we have a new line of enquiry. We must look for further evidence of collusion between Heygate and Bagsy Browne. Your trip to Dawlish has paid dividends.’

  ‘The first step is to apprehend Browne,’ said Tallis, crisply. ‘As soon as we do that, we can end this investigation and return to London.’

  Bagsy Browne spent the morning considering his options. The one thing that never crossed his mind was the idea of vanishing from Exeter altogether. Being hunted gave him a thrill. He loved dodging the police. It would be time to move on before long but he couldn’t do so while Adeline was in custody. She was both friend and lover. Moreover, she’d provided a safe haven for him. When arrested by the police, she hadn’t given him away. Adeline had remained fiercely loyal. The very least that Browne could do was to show his gratitude. He was sitting in the back row of the church as he pondered. They wouldn’t search for him there. In any case, he’d adopted a new disguise. Wearing baggy old clothes and a greasy cap, he’d made himself look much older by hobbling along on a walking stick. In the event that he was recognised, it would be a useful weapon, though he also carried a dagger under his coat.

  When he’d made his decision, Browne looked around to make sure that he was unobserved. Two other people were in the church, both of them knelt in prayer. He sidled across to the exit. Secured to the wall beside the door was a collecting box. It was the work of seconds to prise it open with the dagger and grab its contents. As he walked slowly along the street with the aid of the stick, the coins jingled in his pocket. Two policemen passed him on patrol but neither took any notice of the old man. He carried on until he reached the police station, a building with which he was only too familiar. Propping himself against a wall nearby, he waited patiently and smoked a pipe while doing so. It was over an hour before he saw what he wanted. A policeman was bringing out a prisoner, released after a night in custody. After issuing a stern warning to him, the policeman pushed the man away
and went back inside the building.

  Browne ambled across to intercept the man, who seemed only half-awake.

  ‘Drunk and disorderly?’ he asked.

  The man tottered. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘There’s a woman locked up in there.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘You know there is,’ said Browne. ‘Tell me which cell she’s in and there may be money in it for you.’ The man’s face lit up. ‘There — that jogged your memory, didn’t it? I thought it would. Where is she?’

  Adeline Goss was no stranger to police cells. She’d first been arrested for soliciting when she was only fifteen. After a night behind bars, she’d been let off with a fine. During a spell plying her trade in Totnes, she’d come to an arrangement with the custody sergeant, offering him her professional services in return for being released with no more than a caution. That would never happen in Exeter. Superintendent Steel was a man of integrity and moral probity. He’d stamp on any sign of corruption.

  She felt cold, frightened and alone. Arrest for being a prostitute had happened too many times to hold any fear for her. But she was being held in relation to a vastly more serious offence now. The prospect of the gallows had been raised. It made her wonder if she’d been wise to offer Bagsy Browne refuge. He was an inveterate villain and had done some terrible things but she preferred not to know what they were. It was safer to remain ignorant of what he did. This time, it seemed, he’d gone too far and she was implicated. It was devastating. And yet he’d brought such joy into her life for the last week or so. He’d brought laughter and love and plenty of money into her squalid little room in Rockfield Place. That needed to be remembered.

  When she’d been arrested, Browne had escaped but only because she had a hiding place for him. What would he do now? Would he flee the city? He’d obviously stayed long enough to take his revenge on a man who’d betrayed them to the police. What was his next step? On balance, she felt, he’d take to the road. She had to be realistic. Browne had talked of moving on and given no hint that he might take her with him. He was a free spirit. An ageing prostitute would be a handicap to him. Adeline had been abandoned. Nobody would help. The tears ran down both cheeks in rivulets. She was doomed.