After a series of stops along the way, the train eventually reached its final destination and groaned to a halt in Plymouth station. Telling herself that she had to make the best of her new situation, she gathered up her belongings and stepped on to the station with a sense of purpose. Then she saw police uniforms converging on her.
Questioning Bagsy Browne was like trying to hold a bar of wet soap in hands already covered in oil. He was slippery and adroit. Colbeck had never met anyone so skilled in the art of evasion and barefaced dishonesty. Leeming had the urge to knock some truth out of Browne and regretted that raw violence was not a permissible means of interrogation. Steel had crossed swords with the man on many previous occasions and had never got the better of him. Every time he asked a question, it was hit back hard at him like a cricket ball that was impossible to catch. All that he got for his trouble were burning palms and mounting frustration. In the end, he let Colbeck do all the talking and simply watched from the boundary.
‘Let’s turn to the murder of Joel Heygate,’ said Colbeck.
Browne sniggered. ‘I was in favour of it.’
‘Did it give you any satisfaction?’
‘I enjoyed reading the details of it.’
‘Yet you told us earlier that you never read the newspapers.’
‘I made an exception for Heygate. I loathed the man.’
‘Why is that?’
‘We had a disagreement at the station.’
‘You were roaring drunk, from what I’ve heard.’
‘A man is entitled to his pleasures, Inspector. What are yours?’
‘My chief pleasure,’ said Colbeck, easily, ‘is catching malefactors and making them pay the full price for their crimes. In the case of murder that invariably means a walk to the gallows.’ He stared deep into Browne’s eyes. ‘Do you fear that walk?’
‘No,’ replied Browne, cheekily. ‘Why should I?’
‘It’s a walk you’re destined to make,’ said Leeming.
‘You can’t hang me for bashing a peeler on the head. Nor for drawing a little blood from a detective’s arm. I know the law, Sergeant. Rescuing a friend from a police cell is naughty but it won’t put my head in a noose.’
‘You killed the stationmaster.’
Browne was offended. ‘Who told you that?’
‘All the evidence picks out you as the culprit,’ said Colbeck, ‘and your subsequent crimes identify you as a dangerous and aggressive man.’
‘I didn’t kill Heygate!’ shouted Browne, squirming on the chair. ‘I’d like to have done, I’ll admit that. There’s lots of other people I’d like to have wiped off the face of this earth as well. But wanting to do something and doing it are two separate things. In the case of Heygate, someone got there before me.’
‘What were you doing on the night of November 4th?’
‘Mind your own bleeding business!’
‘We believe that you met and killed Joel Heygate.’
‘That’s a lie!’ howled Browne.
‘Then tell us what you were doing at that time.’
‘It’s private.’
‘You don’t have privacy any more,’ interjected Steel.
‘Look, I never went near Heygate, I swear it.’
‘You vowed to get even with him some day.’
‘And I would’ve done, if I’d had the chance. I detested him.’
‘In other words,’ said Colbeck, ‘you admit you’re capable of murder.’
‘Every man is capable of murder, Inspector, and most women. Steal a baby off a parent and you’ll see what I mean.’
‘Take your mind back to November 4th.’
‘Why? That’s history now. It’s so much piss down the sewer.’
‘You laid in wait to ambush the stationmaster.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Browne.
‘You battered him to death with a blunt instrument, then — with or without the aid of an accomplice — you carried his body to the cathedral precinct and concealed it beneath the bonfire.’ Browne bellowed a protest, fiercely indignant at the charges levelled against him. ‘Why don’t you break the habit of a wasted lifetime and tell the truth for once? You killed Joel Heygate and you can’t deny it.’
Colbeck’s accusation had Browne seething with denial and ready to express it in the most forceful way. Sticking his head down, he suddenly dived off his chair and tried to smash the inspector’s nose. Because of his sharp reflexes, Colbeck moved his head out of the way just in time but he was knocked from his chair and fell to the ground. Leeming, meanwhile, grappled with the prisoner and subdued him with some heavy punches to the body and head. Dumping him back in his chair, he stood behind Browne and held him firmly by the shoulders. Resuming his own chair, Colbeck spoke with equanimity.
‘That’s one more charge to add to the list, Mr Browne,’ he said, ‘but it pales beside the main one.’ He narrowed his lids. ‘Why did you kill Mr Heygate?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘We don’t believe you.’
‘Then here’s something you can believe.’
With a surge of anger, Browne tried to spit in his face but Colbeck dodged the phlegm by shifting his head smartly to the side. The inspector remained cool.
‘Let’s start all over again, shall we?’ he suggested.
It had been a day of mixed emotions for Dorcas Hope. Pounced on by Woodford, she’d felt a sensation of naked fear that was alleviated by Colbeck’s intervention. Leeming had soothed her, then she’d experienced alarm and excitement when, with her nose pressed to the window of the refreshment room, she’d seen the detectives confront an armed man on the platform and send him haring off along the railway track. On hearing that Joel Heygate’s killer had been caught, she was overcome with joy and relief at the turn of events. Every time Woodford popped his head into the room, however, Dorcas felt a lurching unease, but he never actually spoke to her or repeated his earlier threat. He merely regarded her with malevolence.
What helped her to withstand the new stationmaster’s mute hostility was the reassuring friendship of Timothy Vesey. He was kind and supportive and she found his slight stutter endearing. It only seemed to affect two letters of the alphabet.
‘You’ve worked very well t-t-t-today, Miss Hope.’
‘Thank you, Mr Vesey.’
‘I daresay you’re still worried about Mrs R-R-R-Rossiter.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think about her a lot.’
‘I can never be as efficient as her in this r-r-r-refreshment r-r-r-room. You’ll have t-t-t-to make allowances for me.’
‘There’s no need for me to do that. You’re so experienced.’
‘I hoped I’d r-r-r-retired from this job.’
‘It was very good of you to take over from Mrs Rossiter.’
‘How is she?’ he asked. ‘Have you heard any news?’
‘No, Mr Vesey, I haven’t.’
‘I had a friend who went into the asylum. It was years before they let him out.’
‘What was wrong with him?’
‘He kept seeing strange visions all the t-t-t-time.’
‘That’s not what Mrs Rossiter does,’ said Dorcas. ‘Father says that she was shocked by Mr Heygate’s death and it turned her brain. He thinks she’s in the right place now. They’ll know how to look after her.’
‘I spent a long time with Agnes Rossiter,’ said Canon Smalley. ‘It’s a sad case.’
‘They’re all sad cases in here,’ remarked Swift. ‘But it’s no part of my job to feel sorry for them. I leave that to you.’
‘Christian love can sometimes do what medicine is unable to do.’
‘Between us, we can offer both, Canon Smalley.’
‘Mrs Rossiter talked endlessly about the stationmaster.’
‘I know. I heard the tale from her myself. What she fails to understand is that the stationmaster would never have talked in the same way about her. In his view, she was merely someone with whom he worked. It’s only in the febrile recesses of her mi
nd that she decided she is effectively his widow.’
Dr Morton Swift enjoyed his occasional meetings with Canon Smalley. While he retained complete control over the treatment of those confined in the asylum, Swift was always ready to listen to the man who had dedicated his life to providing pastoral care. They’d both had successes in the past. Thanks to him, some of Swift’s patients had been nursed back to health to a point where it was safe to release them. Canon Smalley’s triumphs could not be measured in terms of numbers who left the asylum. His achievements were related to the relief of anguish and the building of trust. Of the canon’s many skills, none was valued more highly by Swift than his ability to quell the fire inside violent patients. It was a skill that was in constant demand.
‘Another new case is being admitted today,’ said Swift, opening a file on his desk. ‘The young lady’s name is Esther Leete.’
‘I’ll make a point of talking to her before the day is out.’
‘That’s not possible, I’m afraid. Miss Leete is deaf and dumb. She’s been subject to fits of violence, so has come into our hands. Treat her with care.’
‘I’ll do so, Dr Swift.’
‘Thank you.’
‘First, however, I promised to call on Mrs Rossiter again.’
‘Don’t mention Mr Heygate’s funeral,’ advised Swift. ‘It’s best that she knows nothing of what’s happening in the outside world.’
Agnes Rossiter had no idea where she was or what she was doing there. She missed her sister, her friends and her job. Most of all, she missed the freedom to do what she wanted. She needed to mourn the man she adored, to attend his funeral and to place flowers on his grave. Yet she couldn’t even leave her room until it was unlocked. She couldn’t eat, drink, wash or relieve herself until she was told. Her own clothing had been taken from her and she had been put into a coarse shift and a rough woollen dressing gown. They’d stolen her identity and turned her into something she neither liked nor recognised as herself. It was demeaning. But there was one thing they could never take from her and that was the memory of Joel Heygate. As long as she held on to that, she had a bulwark against the multiple indignities of the asylum. He was her comfort and salvation. She would tell that to Canon Smalley.
Although he’d joked about putting them in adjoining cells, Colbeck made sure that Bagsy Browne and Adeline Goss never even saw each other. While the former was locked up, the latter was interviewed by Colbeck and Steel. There was no need for handcuffs and Leeming was not required to stand in front of the door. He’d been sent by the inspector on another errand. Unaware that Browne was in custody, Adeline was careful to say nothing to incriminate him.
‘We believe that you were harbouring a man named Bernard Browne,’ said Colbeck. ‘How long did he stay with you in Rockfield Place?’
‘He didn’t stay with me,’ she replied.
‘Then why did he feel the need to rescue you from a police cell?’
‘It’s the sort of thing Bagsy would do for an old friend.’
‘So, until then, you’d spent no time together?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What about the last couple of days? Where did you spend those?’
‘I was on my own.’
‘You’re lying, Adeline,’ said Steel, ‘as you always do when we haul you in here. You haven’t got an honest bone in your body. Don’t take us for fools. Even Bagsy wouldn’t go to all the trouble of getting you out of here, only to abandon you to your own devices.’
‘Yet that’s what he did.’
‘We don’t believe you.’
‘After you left here, then,’ resumed Colbeck, ‘you and Browne parted company. Have you seen him since?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him.’
‘Then how to do you explain the fact that he saw you off on the train this morning? It’s how we caught you, Miss Goss. We learnt that Browne bought you a single ticket to Plymouth. I sent a telegraph there.’
‘Well?’ pressed Steel as she fell silent. ‘Are you going to deny it? Or are you going to claim that it was Bagsy’s twin brother?’
She looked anxious. ‘Where is he?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘You’re trying to trick me,’ she said with an accusatory glare.
‘We’re trying to discover to what extent you were his accomplice,’ said Colbeck, taking over once again. ‘As things stand, it looks as if you’ve been hand in glove with him from the time he first came to Exeter. That may be a very unfair judgement on you. For your sake, Miss Goss, I sincerely hope that it is. Cast your mind back, if you will, to the night of November 4th. Did you spend it with Browne?’
‘No!’ she affirmed.
‘Did you see him at all that day?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘You seem very sure of that.’
‘I know who I sleep with, Inspector.’
‘In other words,’ he said, ‘you can’t provide him with an alibi.’
She grinned slyly. ‘You’re trying to trick me again, aren’t you?’
‘It was a simple question,’ said Colbeck. ‘All we wish to know is whether or not you spent the night before Guy Fawkes Day with your old friend, Browne.’
‘I’ve told you,’ she snapped, ‘I bleeding well didn’t.’
‘Do you have any idea where he was that night?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Would you swear to that in court?’ asked Steel.
‘I’ll yell it from the bleeding rooftops, if you like.’
‘That won’t be necessary, Adeline.’
‘We believe you,’ said Colbeck. ‘It’s the only thing you’ve said so far that we do believe, mind you, and it may save your neck.’
Adeline was disturbed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘How long have you known Mr Browne?’
‘Tell me what you mean about my neck,’ she demanded.
‘Calm down, Miss Goss.’
‘You can’t make threats like that against me. I’m a whore, that’s all I am. My mother was a whore and I was brought up in the trade. I’m good at it, though I say so myself. Arrest me for that, if you like,’ she said, spiritedly, ‘but don’t start accusing me of anything else.’ She stood up. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Sit down, Adeline,’ said Steel.
‘I won’t be blamed for something I didn’t do.’
‘Sit down or you’ll have to be restrained.’
After a silent battle of wills, she eventually gave in and resumed her seat.
‘Let me tell you why we have such an interest in you,’ said Colbeck, ‘and I advise you to listen carefully. Bernard Browne is in custody, charged with a number of offences, some related to you. He has also been charged with the murder of Joel Heygate and we wish to know if you were party to it.’
Adeline paled. ‘No, I wasn’t,’ she said, genuinely scared for the first time. ‘I had nothing to do with it and neither did Bagsy.’
‘Then what was he doing at Mr Heygate’s funeral?’
‘I didn’t know he was there.’
‘The only reason he’d take such a risk is that he wanted to gloat over the burial of the man he’d battered to death.’
‘It couldn’t have been Bagsy,’ she argued. ‘It just couldn’t.’
‘He has no alibi for the night before Guy Fawkes Day.’
‘He wasn’t even in Exeter.’
‘Then why didn’t he say that?’
‘You’ve got the wrong man, Inspector. Bagsy is no saint, I admit, but there are some things he’d never do. Murder is one of them.’
‘He’s going to hang, Adeline,’ said Steel. ‘Why don’t you save your own skin and confess that you know he killed the stationmaster? You don’t want us to think that you were an accessory, do you?’
Adeline quailed. She was trapped.
Bagsy Browne paced up and down the tiny cell like a caged animal. When a policeman came to taunt him, he was driven back by a torrent of
bad language. Browne’s predicament was frightening. He’d been arrested for a whole host of crimes, some of which carried long prison sentences. But it was the charge of murder that rattled him. There was no prison sentence for that — only an appointment with the hangman. What really rankled was the fact that Adeline might be inveigled into giving evidence against him. If she talked about his burning hatred for Joel Heygate and his determination to attend the funeral, she would be inadvertently helping to condemn him. He needed to school her, to rehearse all the answers she was to give to the police. But he had no chance to get anywhere near her. They would be working on Adeline in another part of the building. In any other circumstances, Browne would be fearless. When a meeting with the public executioner was a likely outcome, however, he discovered that he was only human, after all.
On his second trip to Dawlish, Leeming was struck afresh by its enchantment. Even on a dull autumn afternoon, its beach, its brook and its encircling hills were things of wonder. Far less appealing were the people on whom he’d come to call. Michael and Lavinia Heygate were even less welcoming than on his first visit but they invited him in and offered him refreshment. Ensconced in front of their fire, he drank a cup of tea and nibbled at a biscuit as he listened to Heygate’s description of the funeral.
‘It was an ordeal,’ said Heygate. ‘Frankly, I don’t know how I got through it. I kept remembering all the good times that Joel and I had shared — before we came to a parting of the ways.’
‘That’s what I wanted to ask about, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘If you and your brother didn’t speak to each other any more, why did you call at his house on the evening before Guy Fawkes Day?’
The Stationmaster's farewell irc-9 Page 24
