The Stationmaster's Farewell E-Book

Edward Marston

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Railway Detective
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 484

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

1857. Joel Heygate is the popular stationmaster at Exeter St David's railway station. So when the charred remains of a body are discovered in the embers of the town's annual Bonfire Night celebration, everyone is horrified to discover that they belong to Mr Heygate. Inspector Robert Colbeck and his assistant Victor Leeming are dispatched to Exeter with all due haste, and quickly unearth a number of suspects. But as Colbeck closes in on the killer, he finds himself in mortal danger. Can justice prevail, or will his beloved Madeleine be robbed of a husband on the very eve of their marriage?

Leseprobe

THE STATIONMASTER’S FAREWELL

EDWARD MARSTON

With love and thanks to Dr Janet Cutler, former President of the Railway and Canal Historical Society, who provided me with a base in Dawlish from which to explore South Devon and whose knowledge of its railway history was an invaluable source.

Contents

Title PageDedicationCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENAbout the AuthorBy Edward MarstonCopyright

CHAPTER ONE

November 4th 1857

Joel Heygate was not only a highly efficient stationmaster, he was immensely popular in the community. He was a stout man of middle height with a flabby face decorated by bushy eyebrows and a walrus moustache. In his frock coat and top hat, he was a striking figure and seemed to be a permanent fixture at Exeter St David’s railway station. Those who met him for the first time were impressed by his cheerful disposition and his readiness to offer help. None of them would have guessed that tragedy had entered his life in dramatic fashion. A few years earlier, Heygate’s wife and daughter had been killed in a freak accident on the track outside Plymouth station. Other men might have been embittered by the event and blamed the railway for the death of their loved ones. Heygate steadfastly refused to do that. If anything, his passion for the railway system was intensified and he described himself as having the best job in the world.

Because he had such a legion of friends, he was never lonely. Living in the house provided by the South Devon Railway, he shared it with a canary called Peter and with his warm memories of a happy marriage. When he was not tending his little garden, he spent his spare time birdwatching, making constant use of a telescope bequeathed to him by an old sailor. It was not the only gift that came his way. Local landowners would often drop off a brace of pheasant, and an obliging fishmonger would sometimes slip sole or mackerel into his hand. The railway station was his kingdom. During working hours, he would stride up and down the long single platform with an air of supreme contentment. Heygate would make regular visits to the refreshment room.

‘Good morning, Mrs Rossiter,’ he said.

‘Good morning, Mr Heygate,’ she replied.

‘Good morning, Dorcas,’ he went on, turning to the waitress who was wiping the tables with a cloth. ‘How are you today?’

‘Very well, thank you, Mr Heygate,’ she said.

He checked his pocket watch. ‘The next train will be here in twenty minutes.’

‘We’ll be ready for it,’ said Mrs Rossiter, sweetly. As she looked at Dorcas, her voice hardened. ‘You always forget that table in the corner, Miss Hope.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Dorcas, moving across to it.

Mrs Rossiter rolled her eyes. ‘I have to watch her all the time.’

Railway companies employed a large number of women but the vast majority were invisible as they toiled away in laundries, washing the never-ending stream of towels, tablecloths, sheets and antimacassars that were cleaned on a weekly basis. Mountains of sacks had to be made or repaired by an army of seamstresses. Female employees were more in evidence in railway hotels but Exeter St David’s was unusual in having two of them on duty in the refreshment room. Pretty waitresses like Dorcas Hope were in a vulnerable position, likely to be ogled or groped by lecherous male passengers. She escaped both these fates, thanks to the protection offered by Heygate and, even more so, by the basilisk stare of Agnes Rossiter.

The manageress was a widow in her forties, a thin sharp-featured martinet who made even the bravest and most inebriated of men shudder at the thought of ogling or groping her. Mrs Rossiter’s fearsome reputation was enough in itself to keep men on their best behaviour and restrict them to sly, wistful glances at Dorcas, a shapely young woman whose patent lack of education was outweighed by her willingness to learn. It irked Mrs Rossiter that the stationmaster showed the waitress an almost paternal affection, using her Christian name while keeping the manageress herself on surname status. This was especially demeaning to a woman who had a secret fondness for Heygate and who nursed the faint hope that she might one day be able to arouse his interest in her. For the moment, however, their relationship was one of polite formality.

‘Will you be going to the bonfire tomorrow, Mr Heygate?’ she asked.

‘Of course, Mrs Rossiter,’ he said, affably. ‘It’s an event I’ve been enjoying for over forty years now. What about you?’

‘Oh, I’ll be there,’ she said, beaming as if a tryst had just been arranged. ‘I’ll look out for you.’

‘I may be difficult to find in the crowd.’

‘Father’s taking me,’ announced Dorcas. ‘He won’t let me go alone.’

‘Quite right too,’ said Mrs Rossiter with a sniff. ‘Passions can run disgustingly high on Guy Fawkes Night. No decent woman is safe on her own.’ She smiled at Heygate. ‘That’s why I’ll be grateful for your company.’

‘Don’t bank on it,’ he said. ‘The world and his wife will be there.’

‘I’ll find you nevertheless,’ she warned.

Heygate winced inwardly. While he had the greatest respect for Agnes Rossiter, he had no wish to spend any leisure time with the woman. Her brittle voice grated on his ear and he took care to keep his distance because of her abiding aroma of lavender and mothballs. She was not unattractive. Indeed, some might account her handsome until they saw her in combative mode, when her eyes glinted madly, her teeth were bared and her whole body bristled like a wildcat about to attack.

The refreshment room occupied a long low space that was filled with small tables and an array of chairs. On the counter that ran the length of the room, food and drink were on display and the walls were covered with advertisements. The catering had been leased to a contractor to whom the railway company had guaranteed regular stops at the station by their passenger traffic. In addition to those waiting to board a train or to welcome someone alighting from it, Mrs Rossiter and Dorcas also served the mass of people who surged out of a train making a prolonged stop there to break a lengthy journey. At such times, it was hectic but they coped valiantly.

‘How is your mother, Dorcas?’ asked Heygate, solicitously.

‘She never complains,’ said the waitress, ‘even though she’s in pain.’

‘Is there nothing that can be done for her?’

Dorcas shrugged. ‘There’s nothing we can afford, Mr Heygate.’

‘Do give her my regards.’

‘Yes, I will.’

‘My grandfather was crippled by arthritis, so I know what a trial it can be. Your mother has my sympathy.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I get an occasional twinge myself,’ said Mrs Rossiter, rubbing her hip as she made a plea for attention. ‘It’s agony in cold weather.’

‘Ah,’ said the stationmaster as two customers entered the room, ‘I can see that I’m in the way. I’ll let you get on with serving the travelling public.’

He tipped his hat to the well-dressed couple who’d just come in then shared a farewell smile between Dorcas and Mrs Rossiter before leaving. Straightening her white apron, the waitress went swiftly around to the other side of the counter. The manageress, meanwhile, appraised the two passengers through narrowed lids then took in the whole display of refreshments with a graceful sweep of her arm. She spoke as if bestowing a great favour upon them.

‘What can we get for you?’ she asked.

Exeter was a pleasant cathedral city with a population in excess of thirty-two thousand. In the reign of Elizabeth I, it had been one of the largest and wealthiest provincial communities in England but it was now in decline. The Industrial Revolution that created the huge conurbations in the Midlands and the North had largely passed it by, allowing it to retain a semi-rural atmosphere. County and agricultural interest still held sway. Though its mayor spoke of the city with fierce pride, it was dogged by unemployment, destitution, poor drainage and woefully inadequate public health provisions. Only three years earlier, it had witnessed a bread riot in its streets, a violent outpouring of discontent that resulted in widespread damage and serious injury to citizens and policemen. While it may have died down now, the discontent had not gone away. It was still simmering below the surface and the man most aware of it was the Right Reverend Henry Phillpotts, incumbent Bishop of Exeter. The distant sound of exploding fireworks made him grimace.

‘It’s started already,’ he complained. ‘They can’t even wait a single day.’

‘We must make allowances for the impetuosity of the young,’ said Ralph Barnes, tolerantly. ‘Their excitement is only natural.’

‘You don’t need to remind me. I’ve been the victim of their excitement many times. The year that I was consecrated, they burnt an effigy of me.’

‘It’s traditional to burn effigies of clergymen on Guy Fawkes Night.’

‘This was different, Ralph, as you will recall. It was not undertaken in a spirit of good humour. There was a collective antagonism towards me. It was the reason I summoned the 7th Yeoman Cavalry here as a precaution, and the reason that I always leave the city at this time of the year.’

They were in the bishop’s palace at the rear of the cathedral. Both men were in their seventies, yet their vigour and dedication were unimpaired. Bishop Phillpotts considered himself a prince of the church and acted with regal arrogance. He was a strict disciplinarian who ruled the clergy in his diocese with an iron rod. It earned him few friends and many enemies but he felt that seeking popularity was a sure sign of weakness of character. While his hair was silvered and his forehead lined, his eyes maintained their imperious sparkle. He turned his back so that Barnes could help him on with his cloak.

‘Thank you, Ralph,’ he said, adjusting the garment.

‘When will we return?’

‘Only when calm has been restored.’

They were leaving Exeter to avoid the celebrations on the following day, moving instead to the palace that the bishop had had built at Torquay. It was his preferred residence, with extensive gardens that stretched down to the sea. He felt safer there, well away from the hullabaloo of November 5th and the dangers that accompanied it. At an age when retirement might have beckoned, Ralph Barnes had continued to be the secretary to the bishop and clerk to the dean and chapter. A former solicitor in the city, Barnes was a slim, immaculate, well-groomed individual with a cool head and an unobtrusive manner. Beside a man of such arresting eminence as Phillpotts, he was rather insignificant but he played a vital role in the diocese and discharged his duties well.

Putting on his top hat, Barnes followed the bishop through the front door held open by a servant, then clambered into the open carriage beside him. Paradoxically, they were fleeing from an annual event that only existed because of ecclesiastical support. Guy Fawkes Day was a symbol of a Reformation that was held in high regard by the Protestant citizenry. The public were allowed to hold festivities in the cathedral close and the Church contributed funds to the building of a massive bonfire near the west door of the edifice. Essentially an occasion for the youth of the city, it was attended by people of all ages. Having sanctioned the celebrations, the bishop was now being driven well away from them. As the carriage rumbled into the close, they caught sight of the vast pile of timber and other combustible material.

‘That will burn merrily for hours,’ observed Barnes.

‘There’d be even more merriment if I was sitting on top of it,’ said Phillpotts, sourly. ‘Someone who lives by the highest moral principles will never find favour with the common people. That’s why I rise above their mindless disapproval of me.’

‘Yet you still command a great deal of respect.’

‘After over a quarter of a century as their bishop, I deserve it.’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’

‘When I took charge of this diocese, the clergy were despondent and their respective ministries fell well short of desired standards. That is no longer the case. I have brought about a reformation of my own.’ He permitted himself a rare smile. ‘Fortunately, it does not need to be marked by an annual bonfire.’

Barnes grinned. ‘That’s very amusing, Bishop.’

‘You know exactly how much I’ve done to revive the church here.’

‘Nobody could have done more.’

While they were talking, squibs were being let off on all sides by mischievous children, filling the air with a series of pops and flashes. Someone threw a firework at the carriage and it exploded under the hooves of one of the horses. With a loud neigh, it reared up between the shafts. The driver needed time to bring the animal under control again. Meanwhile, other fireworks were being hurled in fun at the carriage and there was a whole salvo of minor explosions. Stamping his foot in exasperation, the bishop looked up at the driver.

‘Hurry up, man!’ he shouted. ‘Get me away from here!’

Dorcas Hope was roused from her slumbers at four o’clock next morning when cannon fire boomed out from various quarters of the city to mark the great day. By the time she set off towards the station, the streets were already busy. Children were hawking rudimentary guys about and youths were carrying more fuel to the bonfire. There was a sense of corporate exhilaration and Dorcas was caught up in it. When a firework went off close to her, she simply laughed and continued on her way. It was her custom to peep into the stationmaster’s house each morning so that she could watch the canary hopping about in its cage. When she reached the relevant window this time, however, the curtains were drawn. That was most unusual. Joel Heygate was an early riser and a stickler for punctuality. She’d expected him to have been at work an hour ago. Could he have overslept for once or – the thought was more disturbing – been taken ill? Dorcas was worried. She went to the front door and used the knocker. Though the sound echoed through the house, it evoked no response. She tried again but it was futile. Heygate was either not there or too unwell to move. When she looked upwards, she saw that the bedroom curtains were also closed.

The irony was that she had a key to the house. It had been entrusted to her so that she could feed Peter on the few occasions when Heygate took time off to visit friends in Cornwall. Dorcas kept it hidden at home. It never occurred to her that the key might have been useful. There was no time to retrieve it now. If she was only minutes late, she would suffer a stinging reprimand from Mrs Rossiter and she wanted to avoid that at all costs. She was about to leave when she noticed that there was a chink in the curtains that concealed the parlour from view. If she stood on her toes, she might just be able to get a glimpse of the interior. Raising herself up to her full height, she peered through the tiny gap. The room was in shadow but she was able to see something that turned her concern into alarm. There was a cloth over the birdcage. The first thing that the stationmaster did every morning was to remove the cloth and welcome Peter into the light of day. The bird was still in darkness. It was ominous.

Dorcas hurried to the station as fast as she could, determined to report what she’d discovered. When she arrived, she found everyone in a state of agitation. Clerks and porters were asking each other what could possibly have happened to Heygate and Mrs Rossiter was weeping quietly into a handkerchief. Before Dorcas could speak, a stern voice interrupted the anguished debate.

‘That’s enough of that!’ declared Lawrence Woodford. ‘You all have jobs to do. I suggest that you get on and do them.’ When they paused to gape at him, he wagged an admonitory finger. ‘I’m in charge now,’ he decreed. ‘If you don’t do as you’re told, there’ll be dire consequences.’

Obeying the order, they all dispersed. Only Dorcas remained.

‘I just passed Mr Heygate’s house,’ she explained. ‘The curtains were drawn.’

‘We know that, Miss Hope,’ said Woodford, irritably.

‘What’s happened to him?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘He’s never late for work, Mr Woodford.’

‘There’s always a first time,’ he said, ‘and this – evidently – is it. That’s why it’s fallen to me to take over as stationmaster.’

It was a role that he’d coveted for many years. Woodford was the chief clerk, a tall, stooping man of middle years with a mobile face and darting eyes. Dorcas had never liked him. He was officious, self-important and inclined to shoot her lewd glances whenever he caught her alone. Since he made no secret of the fact that he felt he could do the job better than Heygate, he was now glorying in the opportunity to prove it. He smirked triumphantly.

‘You answer to me henceforth, Miss Hope.’

‘I understand, Mr Woodford.’

‘This station will be run properly from now on.’

‘Mr Heygate ran it very well,’ she said, defensively.

‘Then where is he?’ he demanded. ‘A captain does not desert his ship.’

‘He may have been taken ill.’

‘Joel Heygate is never ill.’

‘There’s no other explanation.’

‘I can think of two or three,’ he said, darkly. ‘The most obvious one is that he’s absconded. He has the keys to the safe, remember, and could easily have emptied it before making his escape.’

Dorcas was horrified. ‘He wouldn’t do a thing like that!’

‘You’re too young and trusting, Miss Hope. I know the ways of the world.’

‘And I know Mr Heygate,’ she said with a hint of defiance. ‘He was a good man and it’s wrong to think bad things about him.’

‘Get off to the refreshment room,’ he snapped.

She held her ground. ‘I want to know the truth, Mr Woodford.’

‘You’ll hear it at the same time as the rest of us. I’ve sent word to the police and asked them to collect Mrs Penhallurick on their way here. She cleans the house so is bound to have a key. Don’t be misled by false loyalty,’ he said, looming over her. ‘There’s something sinister in his disappearance. It’s just as well that you have me to step into the breach.’

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 mâché 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 members 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.’

‘And I represent the South Devon Railway. We want this crime solved.’

‘Then let us get on with solving it.’

‘With all due respect,’ said Quinnell with disdain, ‘it’s way beyond the competence of your force.’

‘I dispute that, sir.’

‘I showed initiative and made contact with Scotland Yard.’

‘It was an insult to me and I am bound to say that I resent it bitterly.’

‘We need the best man for the job.’

‘The murder occurred on our territory and it’s our job to investigate it.’

Unaware of Woodford, they continued to bicker. Gervase Quinnell was the managing director of the South Devon Railway, a plump, pompous man in his fifties, with bulging eyes and mutton chop whiskers peppered with grey. Superintendent David Steel, by contrast, tall and square-shouldered, cut a fine figure in his police uniform. His handsome face was puckered by barely concealed rage. Appointed when he was in his late twenties, he’d run the Exeter police force for a decade and felt that his sterling work deserved more recognition.

‘Inspector Colbeck is the person to take on this case,’ said Quinnell, briskly. ‘He comes with the highest credentials.’

‘There’s no need for him to come at all,’ argued Steel. ‘May I remind you that I, too, served in the Metropolitan Police Force before I came to Devon? When I left to take up a post in Barnstaple, I did so with glowing testimonials.’

‘You do not have Colbeck’s expertise with regard to railways.’

‘Murder is murder, regardless of who the victim might be.’

‘Success is success. That’s why he’s on his way here.’

‘You might have had the courtesy to discuss it with me beforehand.’

‘I’m discussing it with you now, Superintendent,’ said Quinnell, airily. ‘You’re not being excluded from the investigation. You’re simply being demoted to a supportive role. Look and learn, man. Inspector Colbeck can teach you a lot.’

‘But he knows nothing at all about Exeter.’

‘In that case, he’ll turn to you for assistance.’

‘What if the dead man is not the stationmaster, after all?’

Quinnell was testy. ‘It has to be him. There’s no question of that. How else do you explain his disappearance?’

‘When we sought his next of kin, Mr Heygate’s brother was unable to identify him with any confidence. He’d only say that the corpse might be him.’

‘The circumstantial evidence points unmistakably to Heygate. Since he was a model employee of ours, I’m taking a personal interest in the case.’ He inflated his chest and put thumbs inside his waistcoat. ‘I care for the men who work on my railway.’

‘Then why don’t you pay them a decent wage?’ retorted Steel. ‘If the porters got enough to live on, they wouldn’t have to work part-time for me on night patrol.’

Quinnell was scandalised. He was just about to issue a sharp rebuke when he became aware of Woodford, standing self-consciously in the open doorway and listening to the heated exchange. Steel also noticed the new stationmaster for the first time. He treated him to a long and hostile glare.

‘Well,’ he demanded, ‘what do you want?’

Woodford cleared his throat. ‘It’s about the canary …’

When they caught the train in London, Colbeck was in his element. Rail journeys were a constant source of pleasure to him because there was so much of interest to see out of the window. Leeming, on the other hand, disliked the noise, the rattle and the sense of imprisonment he always felt on a train. Though they would be travelling first class for most of the way on the broad gauge of the Great Western Railway, the sergeant was not appeased. Uppermost in his mind was the fact that Exeter was the best part of two hundred miles from the wife and children he adored. Murder cases took time. It might be weeks before he saw them again.

Until they reached Chippenham, the compartment was too full to permit a proper conversation. It suddenly emptied at the Wiltshire station, allowing them to set off on the next stage alone. Colbeck tried to cheer his companion up.

‘What did you do yesterday, Victor?’

Leeming was surly. ‘I can’t remember. It seems like an age ago.’

‘Didn’t you celebrate Guy Fawkes Day with the children?’

‘Oh, yes. I’d forgotten that.’

‘Did you have a bonfire?’

‘Yes,’ said the other, rallying. ‘I’d been building it all week. I made them a guy as well. It looked a bit like Superintendent Tallis, now I come to think of it.’

Colbeck laughed. ‘Did it have a cigar in its mouth?’

‘Yes, it did – a big one. I carved it out of a piece of wood. The children loved it when the guy caught fire. They danced around it and so did Estelle.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘I’m going to miss them, Inspector.’

‘It’s an occupational risk, I’m afraid.’

‘My wife has still never got used to it. What about yours, sir?’

‘I’m not actually married yet,’ corrected Colbeck, ‘but Madeleine has known me long enough to realise that there’ll be sudden absences on my part. Fortunately, it’s a price she’s prepared to pay.’

‘At least she understands what you do. I tell Estelle very little of what we get up to. It would worry her sick if she knew the kinds of dangers we face – best to keep her ignorant.’

‘I can’t do that with Madeleine because she’s actually been involved in some of our assignments. She knows the hazards that confront us.’

‘What if the superintendent finds out that she’s helped us in the past?’

‘I’ll take great care to ensure that he doesn’t find out, Victor. You know his opinion of women. He scorns the whole sex. Mr Tallis would never admit that there are times in an investigation when female assistance is vital. We’ve seen it happen with our own eyes.’

The detectives had first met Madeleine Andrews when her father was badly injured during the robbery of the train that he was driving. What had begun for Colbeck as a chance meeting had developed into a close friendship, then slowly evanesced into a loving partnership. Madeleine had been able to offer crucial help during a number of cases and it had drawn them even closer together.

‘Did you send Miss Andrews a note before we left?’ asked Leeming.

‘It was rather more than a note.’

‘She’ll be upset that you’re going away when the wedding is in sight.’

‘That’s unavoidable,’ said Colbeck, flicking a speck of dirt from the arm of his coat. ‘Madeleine will be too busy to pine, however. She has work of her own to keep her busy and, now that her father has retired, she has company throughout the day. Time will pass quickly.’

‘It seems to be dragging at the moment,’ muttered Leeming.

‘Address your mind to the case in hand.’

Leeming obeyed and sat up. ‘What do you think we’ll find in Exeter?’

‘I daresay we’ll find a lot of commotion. A stationmaster is an important figure in a city like that. His death will have shocked everyone. The other thing we’ll find, of course, is an unwelcoming police force. They’ll object strongly to our barging in on their murder – and rightly so. We’ll have to win them over.’ He winked at Leeming. ‘I’ll leave you to do that, Victor.’

‘My ugly mug will never win friends, sir.’

‘It won the hand of a lovely young woman.’

Leeming smiled nostalgically. ‘That was different.’

‘I think you’re unaware of your charms,’ teased Colbeck.

‘I know what I see when I look in the mirror to shave every morning.’

The sergeant had no illusions about his appearance. He was a sturdy, bull-necked man with the kind of unprepossessing features more suited to a desperate criminal. Though wearing much the same attire as Colbeck, he somehow looked scruffy and disreputable. Beside the inspector, most men would be outshone. He was tall, slim and elegant with exaggerated good looks and a stylishness that marked him out as the dandy of Scotland Yard. He might have been a minor aristocrat sharing a compartment with a bare-knuckle boxer who’d mistaken it for third class.

‘There is something else we can expect,’ predicted Colbeck.

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘We’ll get interference from the Church.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The bonfire was held in the cathedral close, Victor. A cathedral presupposes a bishop. He’ll be mortified that a heinous crime was committed on his doorstep, so to speak. As well as a grudging police force, we’ll be up against an angry bishop who’ll be barking at our heels throughout.’ An image formed in his mind. ‘Try to imagine Superintendent Tallis in a cope and mitre.’

Leeming gurgled.

As soon as the telegraph was received at Torquay railway station, it was sent to the bishop’s palace. Henry Phillpotts was taking tea with his wife and secretary when the telegraph was handed to him. When he read it, he spluttered.

‘What’s wrong, Henry?’ asked his wife.

‘Was there trouble at the bonfire celebrations?’ guessed Barnes.

‘Trouble!’ echoed the bishop. ‘I’ll say there was trouble. Foul murder was committed. The body of the stationmaster was found among the embers.’

‘That’s dreadful!’ said his wife, bringing both hands to her face.

‘It’s an unforgivable stain on the cathedral close, my dear. How dare someone abuse our hospitality in that way! It’s a desecration. And there’s another thing,’ he said, handing the telegraph to his secretary. ‘Why wasn’t I told earlier? Why did Mr Quinnell wait until late afternoon before having the grace to apprise me of these distressing details? He should have been in touch at once. So should the police and so – I regret to say – should someone at the cathedral. Heads need to be knocked together over this outrage.’

‘Calm down, Henry,’ advised his wife.

‘There’ll be dire repercussions. We must return to Exeter immediately.’

‘Is that necessary?’

‘Yes, my dear, it is.’

‘But I do so love having you here.’

Deborah Phillpotts was a gracious lady in her seventies with a poise and refinement that belied the fact that she’d borne eighteen children. She’d married Phillpotts when he was vicar of a parish in County Durham. It was not long before he was appointed chaplain to the bishop and she knew that he was destined for higher things. Married for over half a century, she’d been a devoted wife and mother, supporting her husband at all times and enjoying the fruits of his success. Belonging as they did to the clerical aristocracy, they lived in a style comparable to that of the Devonshire nobility. It gave both of them a patrician air.

Having read it, Ralph Barnes passed the telegraph back to the bishop.

‘Heygate was a decent fellow,’ he said. ‘I liked him. When his wife and child were killed in an accident, he coped with the situation bravely. In some ways, I suppose it’s a relief that they’re not alive to suffer this terrible blow.’

‘I’m more concerned about the terrible blow to us, Ralph,’ said Phillpotts. ‘It’s deliberate. He was killed outside the cathedral for the express purpose of defiling consecrated ground and taunting me.’

‘I’m not sure that you should take this too personally, Bishop.’

 ‘How else can I take it?’

‘We need to know more details of the case. All that the telegraph gives us are the bare bones, as it were. What have the police discovered and who is this Inspector Colbeck from Scotland Yard?’

‘I don’t know and I’m not sure that I want someone from London coming to lead the investigation. This is a local matter that must be sorted out promptly by local means. We don’t want news of this horrendous crime to be disseminated throughout the whole country.’ He rose to his feet. ‘If only we had a police superintendent in whom I could place more trust.’

‘I thought that the fellow had been doing quite well,’ remarked his wife.

‘He has,’ agreed Barnes. ‘Superintendent Steel has made the most of limited resources and achieved a degree of success.’

‘Then why is Exeter such an unruly city?’ challenged Phillpotts.

‘It’s no worse than many cities of an equivalent size.’

‘It feels worse, Ralph. We have too many ruffians stalking the streets.’

‘And too ready a supply of beer to stir them up.’

Phillpotts flicked a dismissive hand. ‘That’s a separate issue. What concerns me about Steel is that he’s not a true gentleman.’

‘It’s difficult to remain gentlemanly when dealing with the scum of society.’

‘You know what I mean, Ralph – he doesn’t show me due deference.’

‘That is reprehensible,’ Deborah put in.

‘However,’ said Phillpotts, ‘he’s responsible for law and order. It’s down to him to solve this murder.’ He waved the telegraph in the air. ‘Then we can send this Inspector Colbeck back to London where he belongs.’

The first thing that the detectives saw when they alighted at their destination was an attractive young woman walking along the platform with a birdcage covered by a cloth. From inside the cage, a canary was chirping. Their attention was immediately diverted by the sight of a portly man, bearing down upon them with a mixture of gratitude and doubt. While he was pleased that the men he assumed were Scotland Yard detectives had finally arrived, Gervase Quinnell was not reassured by their appearance. One of them was far too polished and urbane while the other looked as if he should be wearing a collar and chain like a performing bear.

‘You must be Mr Quinnell,’ said Colbeck, offering his hand.

‘I am indeed,’ replied the other, receiving a firm handshake. ‘Your telegraph warned me that you’d arrive on this train.’

Colbeck introduced Leeming, who was busy stretching his limbs after the long journey. The sergeant looked around and blinked.

‘There’s only one platform.’

‘It’s long enough to cope with the demands put upon it, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘Careful timetabling is the answer, as Mr Quinnell will attest.’

‘Exeter St David’s is one of our most well-organised stations,’ boasted Quinnell, taking his cue. ‘Until yesterday, it was blessed in having a stationmaster of outstanding ability. However,’ he added, ‘this is not the place to discuss the matter. Since you may be here for some time, I’d like to offer you hospitality in my own home in Starcross. It’s only six miles or so away. I can supply you with all of the relevant details on our way there.’

‘Thank you for your kind invitation,’ said Colbeck, ‘but we have to decline it. Much as I’d like to see Starcross because of its association with the atmospheric railway, I think it would be more sensible for us to stay in the city near the scene of the crime.’

It was not the only reason that Colbeck had rejected the offer. One minute in Quinnell’s company told him that they were dealing with a conceited and overbearing man who’d be forever looking over their shoulder. Freedom of action was imperative. They would not get that if they were under Quinnell’s roof, and the journey to and from Starcross every day would be tiresome.

‘Very well,’ said Quinnell, clearly offended, ‘you must do as you think fit.’

‘The first thing we need to do is to make contact with the superintendent of your police force,’ said Colbeck. ‘It’s a basic courtesy. Also, of course, we need his cooperation. Local knowledge is indispensable and it’s something we lack at the moment. Might we know his name?’

‘It’s Steel,’ replied the other through gritted teeth, ‘Superintendent Steel.’

‘That’s a good name for a policeman,’ noted Leeming.

‘He can be awkward at times and very stubborn. For instance, he’s still claiming that the victim may not be Joel Heygate when everyone else knows that it must be.’

‘He’s simply keeping an open mind,’ said Colbeck, evenly. ‘I applaud that.’ He picked up his valise. ‘The sergeant and I will take a cab to the police station and introduce ourselves.’

‘Perhaps I should come with you.’

‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Quinnell.’

‘But you’re here at my behest.’

‘We’ll keep you fully informed of any developments, sir,’ said Colbeck, anxious to shake him off. ‘Come on, Victor. We have important work to do.’

After bidding farewell to Quinnell, they left him fuming quietly on the platform and headed for the exit. It was only when they were being driven into the city that Leeming asked the question that had been perplexing him.

‘What exactly is the atmospheric railway?’

CHAPTER THREE

Maud Hope was a thin angular woman in her late forties with a ravaged prettiness. Plagued by arthritis in her knees and hip, she was often in pain and unable to do anything but the most simple domestic chores. When she heard the front door of their little house being unlocked, she was in the kitchen struggling to chop some onions. She thought at first that it might be the neighbour who popped in regularly to keep an eye on her. In fact, it was Dorcas. Maud was surprised to see her daughter and even more surprised that she was carrying a birdcage.

‘What on earth have you got there, Dorcas?’

‘It’s Peter – Mr Heygate’s canary. They said I could look after him.’

‘Who did?’

‘Well, it was Mr Woodford who asked,’ gabbled Dorcas. ‘He talked to a man who’s something to do with the railway company. According to Mr Woodford, the man didn’t want me to have Peter. He said the bird was railway property because the house belongs to them. But Mr Woodford spoke up for me and said how I’d fed him in the past, then the superintendent agreed that I should have him. They argued over it and I won in the end.’

‘I’m not sure that I follow this,’ said Maud, using the back of her hand to wipe away the tears that always streamed when she chopped onions. ‘Are you talking about Mr Woodford the clerk?’

‘Yes, Mother – he was kind to me.’

‘I thought you didn’t like him.’

‘I don’t. He looks at me in a funny way. But he was different today. He was friendly for once. Mr Woodford has taken over as stationmaster.’

‘Your father won’t like that. He’s got no time for the man.’

‘All I know is that he helped me and rescued Peter.’ Setting the cage down on the table, Dorcas removed the cloth. The bird cocked its head to inspect its new home. ‘He’s so sweet, isn’t he? I couldn’t leave him in an empty house.’

Maud smiled indulgently. ‘No, I suppose not.’

‘I can’t stop. I have to get back to the refreshment room. Mrs Rossiter can’t manage on her own for long.’

‘How has she taken the awful news?’

‘She doesn’t believe in it. She thinks that Mr Heygate is still alive.’

‘But that’s silly. He’s dead. Everyone knows that.’

‘Mrs Rossiter says it’s not true. They made a mistake. It was someone else.’

‘Well, she’ll have to believe it one day,’ said Maud, laughing abruptly as the canary began to sing. ‘He’s a happy little fellow, isn’t he?’

‘Mr Heygate used to let him out of the cage. Peter would fly around the room then perch on his shoulder. He did it to me once.’ She became anxious. ‘Father will let me have him, won’t he?’

‘I’m sure that he will, dear. Where are you going to keep him?’

‘The best place is in my room. I’ll make sure he isn’t a nuisance.’ She picked up the cage. ‘He eats hardly anything and only drinks water.’

‘Leave him downstairs,’ said her mother, amused by the bird’s antics as it hopped about. ‘Put him in the parlour where I can enjoy watching him. I wouldn’t trust myself to carry that cage.’

‘He can sit on the table,’ said Dorcas, taking the cage out. She was back within seconds. ‘I must go now.’

‘Are you sure you feel well enough to go to work?’ asked Maud, a hand on her shoulder. ‘You were terribly shaken when you heard about Mr Heygate. He was such a good friend to you.’