‘Impossible,’ said Colbeck, dismissing the notion at once. ‘There was a ticket in the dead man’s pocket showing that he was travelling from Paddock Wood to Maidstone. Since he didn’t get off here, he must have been killed during the journey.’
‘So where did the murderer get off?’
‘Somewhere on the other side of Yalding station.’
Leeming blinked. ‘While the train was still moving?’
‘Yes, Victor. It’s only three miles or so between Paddock Wood and Yalding. The chaplain must have been dispatched shortly after the train left so that the pair of them had time to make their escape.’
‘The pair of them?’
‘I’m fairly certain that he had an accomplice.’
‘You mean that woman?’
‘Let’s be off,’ said Colbeck, using a hand to ease him into a walk. ‘I’ll give you all the details on the way there.’
‘Where are we going, sir?’
‘To prison, Victor.’
Henry Ferriday was more apprehensive than ever. Unable to sit still, he paced nervously up and down his office in the vain hope that movement would ease the tension that he felt. A rap on the door startled him and he called for the visitor to identify himself before he allowed him in. It was one of the men on duty at the prison gate, bringing news that two detectives from Scotland Yard were waiting to see him. Minutes later, Robert Colbeck and Victor Leeming were escorted to the governor’s office. When the Sergeant was introduced to Ferriday, he was given a clammy handshake. All three men sat down.
‘This is an appalling business,’ said Ferriday, still reeling from the shock. ‘Quite appalling.’
‘You have my deepest sympathy,’ said Colbeck, softly. ‘I know how much you relied on the chaplain.’
‘Narcissus was vital to the running of this prison, Inspector. He exerted such influence over the inmates. I don’t know how we’ll manage without him. He’s irreplaceable.’
‘Is it true that he had a death threat some weeks ago?’
Ferriday was taken aback. ‘How on earth do you know that?’
‘That’s immaterial. It was in connection with the execution of Nathan Hawkshaw, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘Did you happen to see the note?’
‘Of course. Narcissus and I had no secrets between us.’
‘Can you recall what it said?’
‘Very little, Inspector. Something to the effect of “We’ll kill you for this, you Welsh bastard” – only the spelling was dreadful. It was clearly written by an ignorant man.’
‘Ignorant men can still nurture a passion for revenge.’
‘Did you take the threat seriously?’ asked Leeming.
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘And what about the chaplain?’
‘Narcissus shrugged it off,’ said Ferriday, ‘and threw the note away. He refused to be frightened by anything. That was his downfall.’
‘Did he take no precautions outside the prison?’ said Colbeck.
‘He didn’t need to, Inspector. Well, you’ve met him. He was a big man, strong enough to look after himself. And having worked with villains for so long, he had a second sense where danger was concerned.’
‘Not in this case,’ observed Leeming.
‘Do we have any idea what actually happened?’ said Ferriday, looking from one to the other. ‘All I know is that his body was discovered in a railway carriage this morning. How was he murdered?’
Colbeck gave him a brief account of his examination of the murder scene and told him that the body had now been removed from the train. The governor flinched when he heard about the Bible being placed under the head of the dead man and the verse that had been picked out.
‘What kind of vile heathen are we dealing with here?’ he shouted.
‘A very clever one,’ admitted Colbeck. ‘This is the second murder that he’s committed on a train and he’s escaped on both occasions.’
‘He must be caught, Inspector!’
‘He will be.’
‘This is one execution in which I’ll take some pleasure,’ said the governor, bunching his fists. ‘He deserves to hang until every last breath is squeezed out of his miserable body.’ He collected himself. ‘Narcissus Jones was a great man. The whole prison will mourn him. It’s not given to many chaplains to possess such extraordinary gifts.’
‘He was a striking individual,’ agreed Colbeck.
The governor looked over his shoulder. ‘This prison is a sewer,’ he said, contemptuously. ‘We have the scum of the earth in here.’
‘There’s no need to tell us that,’ said Leeming with a dry laugh. ‘Our job is to catch the devils and send them on to places like this.’
‘Most of them sneer at authority and go straight back to a life of crime as soon as we let them out. At least,’ Ferriday went on, ‘that’s what used to happen until Narcissus Jones was appointed here. He gave the men a sense of hope and self-respect. He improved them as human beings. That’s what made him so popular among the men.’
Colbeck had doubts on that score. ‘I take it that the chaplain had a room at the prison?’ he said.
‘Yes, Inspector. He more or less lived within these walls.’
‘But he did venture out?’
‘From time to time.’
‘What we need to establish is how the killer knew that he would be travelling on that train from Paddock Wood.’
‘I can tell you that,’ said Ferriday. ‘The chaplain was much in demand as a speaker at churches and Christian gatherings. Most of the invitations he received had, of necessity, to be turned down because of his commitments here but he did like to give a talk or take a service somewhere once or twice a month.’
‘Events that would have been advertised in a parish magazine.’
‘And in the local newspapers, Inspector Colbeck. Our chaplain was a man of some renown. If you go to the church in Paddock Wood where he spoke yesterday, I daresay you’ll find that they had a board outside for weeks in advance with details of his talk. It was St Peter’s, by the way,’ he added. ‘They’ll be horrified to hear the news.’
‘So will everyone else,’ said Leeming. ‘Killing a man of the cloth is about as low as you can sink. I mean, it’s sacrosanct.’
‘Sacrilege,’ corrected Colbeck, gently.
‘I call it diabolical,’ said Ferriday.
While they were talking a distant noise had begun inside the prison, slowly building until it became audible enough for them to become aware of it. All three of them looked at the window. The sound got progressively louder, spreading swiftly from wing to wing of the establishment with gathering force. Raised voices could be heard but the dominating note had a metallic quality to it as if a large number of inmates were using implements to beat on the bars of their cells in celebration. In its menacing rhythm, a concerted message was being sent to the governor by the only means at the prisoners’ disposal. As the noise rose to a climax, Leeming looked across at the governor.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘I’ll have it stopped immediately,’ declared Ferriday, getting up angrily from his seat and going to the door. ‘That’s intolerable.’
‘Someone has heard the news of his death already,’ noted Colbeck as the governor flung open the door to leave. ‘Perhaps the chaplain was not as universally popular as you believed.’
The loss of Emily Hawkshaw’s appetite was almost as worrying to her mother as the long silence into which the girl had lapsed. She refused more meals than she ate and, of those that were actually consumed, the major portion was always left on the plate. Emily was in no mood to eat anything at all that morning.
‘Come on, dear,’ coaxed Winifred. ‘Try some of this bread.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘It’s lovely and fresh. Eat it with a piece of cheese.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Some jam, then.’
‘No.’
‘You must eat something, Em
ily.’
‘Leave me be, Mother.’
‘Please – for my sake.’ The girl shook her head. ‘If you go on like this, you’ll make yourself ill. I can’t remember the last time you had a decent meal. In the past, you always had such a good appetite.’
They were in the room at the rear of the shop, facing each other across the kitchen table. Emily looked paler than ever, her shoulders hunched, her whole body drawn in. She had never been the most lively and outgoing girl but she had seemed very contented in the past. Now she was like a stranger. Winifred no longer knew her daughter. As a last resort, she tried to interest her in local news.
‘Mr Lewis, the draper, is going to buy the shop next door to his premises,’ she told her. ‘He wants to expand his business. Mr Lewis is very ambitious. I don’t think it will be long before he’s looking for another place to take over as well.’ She gave a sigh. ‘It’s nice to know that someone in Ashford is doing well because we’re not. Things seem to get worse each day. Adam says that hardly anybody came into the shop this morning.’ Her voice brightened. ‘Oh, I saw Gregory earlier on, did I tell you? He was taking his wife for a drive before he went off to the railway works. I know that we have our sorrows,’ she continued, ‘but we should spare a thought for Gregory. His wife has been like that for years and she’ll never get any better. Meg can’t walk and she can’t speak. She has to be fed and seen to in every way by someone else. Think what a burden that must place on Gregory yet somehow he always stays cheerful.’ She bent over the table. ‘Can you hear what I’m saying?’ she asked. ‘We have to go on, Emily. No matter how much we may grieve, we have to go on. I know that you loved your father and miss him dreadfully but so do we all.’ Emily’s lower lip began to tremble. ‘What do you think he’d say if he were here now? He wouldn’t want to see you like this, would he? You have to make an effort.’
‘I’ll go to my room,’ said Emily, trying to get up.
‘No,’ said Winifred, extending a hand to take her by the arm. ‘Stay here and talk to me. Tell me what you feel. I’m your mother – I want to help you through this but I need some help in return. Don’t you understand that?’
Emily nodded sadly. Winifred detached her arm. There was a long, bruised silence then it seemed as if the girl was finally about to say something but she changed her mind at the last moment. After a glance at the food on the table, she turned towards the door. Temper fraying slightly, Winifred adopted a sterner tone.
‘If you won’t eat your meals,’ she warned, ‘then there’s only one thing I can do. I’ll have to call the doctor.’
‘No!’ cried Emily, suddenly afraid. ‘No, no, don’t do that!’
And she fled the room in a flood of tears.
It was early evening before the two detectives finally got back to Ashford, having made extensive inquiries in both Maidstone and Paddock Wood. Both of their notebooks were filled with details relating to the latest crime. On reaching the station, they were greeted by the three defining elements of the town – the grandeur of its church, the smell of its river and the cacophony of its railway works. A steady drizzle was falling and they had no umbrella. Colbeck was still grappling with the problems thrown up by the new investigation but Victor Leeming’s mind was occupied by a more immediate concern. It was the prospect of dinner at the Saracen’s Head that exercised his brain and stimulated his senses. The only refreshment they had been offered all day was at the prison and the environment was hardly conducive to any enjoyment of food. When they turned into the high street, he began to lick his lips.
As they approached the inn, they saw that George Butterkiss was standing outside, his uniform now buttoned up properly and his face aglow with the desire to impress. He stood to attention and touched his helmet with a forefinger. Thoroughly damp, he looked as if he had been there some time.
‘Did you find any clues, Inspector?’ he asked, agog for news.
‘Enough for us to act upon,’ replied Colbeck.
‘You will call upon us in due course, won’t you?’
‘If necessary, Constable.’
‘How was the chaplain killed?’
‘Quickly.’
‘We can’t discuss the details,’ said Leeming, irritated by someone who stood between him and his dinner. ‘Inspector Colbeck was very careful what information he released to the press.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Butterkiss. ‘I understand.’
‘We know where to find you, Constable,’ said Colbeck, walking past him. ‘Thank you for your help this morning.’
‘We appreciated it,’ added Leeming.
‘Thank you!’ said Butterkiss, beaming like a waiter who has received a huge tip. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘By the way,’ advised Leeming, unable to resist a joke at his expense. ‘That uniform is too big for you, Constable. You should see a good tailor.’
He followed Colbeck into the Saracen’s Head and made for the stairs. Before they could climb them, however, they were intercepted. Mary, the plump servant, hurried out of the bar. She subjected Leeming’s face to close scrutiny.
‘Those bruises are still there, Sergeant.’
‘Thank you for telling me,’ he said.
‘Is there nothing you can put on them?’
‘We were caught in the rain,’ explained Colbeck, ‘and we need to get out of these wet clothes. You’ll have to excuse us.’
‘But I haven’t told you my message yet, Inspector.’
‘Oh?’
‘The gentleman said that I was to catch you as soon as you came back from wherever it is you’ve been. He was very insistent.’
‘What gentleman, Mary?’
‘The one who’s taken a room for the night.’
‘Did he give you a name?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, helpfully.
Leeming was impatient. ‘Well,’ he said, as his stomach began to rumble, ‘what was it, girl?’
‘Superintendent Tallis.’
‘What!’
‘He’s going to dine with you here this evening.’
Suddenly, Victor Leeming no longer looked forward to the meal with quite the same relish.
Gregory Newman finished his shift at the railway works and washed his hands in the sink before leaving. Many of the boilermen went straight to the nearest pub to slake their thirst but Newman went home to see to his wife. During working hours, Meg Newman was looked after by a kindly old neighbour, who popped in at intervals to check on her. Since the invalid spent most of her time asleep, she could be left for long periods. When he got back to the house, Newman found that the neighbour, a white-haired woman in her sixties, was just about to leave.
‘How is she, Mrs Sheen?’ he asked.
‘She’s been asleep since lunch,’ replied the other, ‘so I didn’t disturb her.’
‘Did she eat much?’
‘The usual, Mr Newman. And she used the commode.’
‘That’s good. Thank you, Mrs Sheen.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’
‘I’ll take Meg for another ride before I go to work.’
He went into the house and opened the door of the front room where his wife lay in bed. She stirred. Newman gave her a token kiss on the forehead to let her know that he was back then he went off to change out of his working clothes. When he returned, his wife woke up long enough to eat some bread and drink some tea but she soon dozed off again. Newman left her alone. As he ate his own meal in the kitchen, he remembered his promise to Winifred Hawkshaw. After washing the plates and cutlery, he looked in on his wife again, saw that she was deeply asleep and slipped out of the house. The drizzle had stopped.
He knew exactly where he would find Adam Hawkshaw at that time of the evening. A brisk walk soon got him to the high street and he turned into the Fountain Inn, one of the most popular hostelries in the town. The place was quite full but nobody was talking to Hawkshaw, seated alone at a table and staring into his tankard with a quiet smile on his face. Walking jauntily into th
e bar, Newman clapped Hawkshaw on the shoulder by way of greeting. He then bought some beer for both of them and took the two glasses across to the table.
‘I was hoping to catch you, Adam,’ he said, sitting down.
‘Just in time. I’ll have to leave soon.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘That would be telling.’
Adam Hawkshaw grinned wolfishly then finished the dregs of his own drink before picking up the other tankard. He seemed in good spirits. Raising the tankard to Newman in gratitude, he took a long sip.
‘How’s business?’ asked Newman.
‘Bad,’ said the other, ‘though it did pick up this afternoon. Best day we’ve had all week. What about you, Gregory?’
‘Boiler-making is a good trade. I was never apprenticed to it but those years in the forge stood me in good stead. The foreman is amazed how quickly I’ve picked things up.’
‘Do you miss the forge?’
‘I miss chatting to the customers,’ said Newman, ‘and I loved working with horses but the forge had to go. It was unfair on Meg to make so much noise underneath her bedroom. The new house is much quieter and she can sleep downstairs.’
‘How is she?’
‘As well as can be expected.’ Newman leant over the table. ‘But I haven’t told you the news yet,’ he said with a glint. ‘One advantage of working by the railway station is that word travels fast. Our foreman heard it from the guard on a train to Margate. He’s dead, Adam.’
‘Who is?’
‘The prison chaplain.’
‘Never!’
‘Murdered on a train last night,’ said Newman, ‘and I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t pleased to hear it. Narcissus Jones made your father suffer in that prison.’
‘Yes.’
‘And someone called him to account.’
Adam Hawkshaw seemed unsure how to react to the tidings. His face was impassive but his eyes were gleaming. He took a long drink of beer from his tankard then wiped his mouth with a sleeve.
‘That’s great news, Gregory,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
‘I thought you’d be delighted.’
The Railway Detective Collection: The Railway Detective, the Excursion Train, the Railway Viaduct (The Railway Detective Series) Page 42
