‘I did some fishing as a lad,’ recalled Leeming.
‘It’s a very popular hobby,’ said Heygate. ‘That’s why I opened the shop.’
‘I’m sorry that it faltered, sir.’
‘We prefer to forget about that … Goodbye, Sergeant.’
‘Goodbye, sir, and goodbye, Mrs Heygate.’ About to turn away, Leeming paused. ‘Oh, there is one thing I meant to ask. Have you lived in Devon for long?’
‘We’ve both spent all our lives here,’ said Heygate. ‘I was born in Exeter and my wife hails from Starcross. It’s not far away.’
‘I know. I came past it on my way here. In fact,’ said Leeming, ‘perhaps you can help me. According to Inspector Colbeck, Starcross was one of the places where they tried to run trains by atmospheric pressure.’
‘That’s right. Joel was very excited about it at the time. He was upset when the experiment was abandoned. What did you wish to know, Sergeant?’
Leeming smiled hopefully. ‘How exactly did it work?’
Agnes Rossiter was in a pitiable condition. Still dressed like a grieving widow, she sat in the corner of the room and stared blankly ahead of her through red-rimmed eyes. Colbeck had called at the little cottage and been admitted by Frances Impey, the unmarried sister. Frances was older, paler and thinner with plain features and watery eyes. Lacking any confidence, she was in a state of continual embarrassment as if forever apologising for her very existence. As he glanced around the cluttered parlour with its fading wallpaper, its sparse furniture, its insipid paintings, its threadbare carpet, its potted plant, its stuffed fox and its vague smell of damp, Colbeck felt that it was the ideal habitat for the spinster. It was a place into which she could withdraw from life surrounded only by what was old, worn and familiar.
‘She’s been like this all morning,’ said Frances, hands fluttering like a pair of giant butterflies. ‘Agnes won’t eat a thing. I made her a nourishing broth but she refused to touch it.’
‘Did she get any sleep?’ asked Colbeck.
‘No, Inspector, she sat up all night in that chair. I don’t know what’s got into my sister. Is it true that she created a scene at the cathedral?’
‘There was an incident of sorts,’ he said, trying to play down its significance. ‘Mrs Rossiter is clearly unable to control her emotions.’
‘It frightens me.’
‘I daresay that it does, Miss Impey.’
‘It’s so unlike Agnes, you see. She always has so much to say for herself.’
‘I’ve taken the liberty of asking for a medical opinion,’ said Colbeck, raising a hand when he saw the panic in her face. ‘Have no fear about the cost. I spoke to Mr Quinnell and told him of your sister’s sterling service. In view of that, the railway company has offered to pay the bills for any treatment.’
The word alarmed her. ‘Treatment? What sort of treatment?’
‘That depends on Dr Swift’s advice.’
‘Agnes has never been this ill before. She couldn’t afford to be.’
‘Tell me how it started,’ said Colbeck. ‘How did your sister seem when she came home after hearing about Mr Heygate’s death?’
‘She was as white as a sheet, Inspector. It was even worse than when her dear husband died — God rest his soul! Agnes wept for hours on end.’
‘Were she and the stationmaster close friends?’
‘Oh, yes, she thought the world of him.’
‘Did Mr Heygate ever visit her here?’
‘Lord, no,’ said Frances, drawing back defensively. ‘I don’t have any gentlemen under my roof — except for the vicar, of course, but he’s different. Agnes would never have brought Mr Heygate into my house. That was understood when she first moved in with me. She would have seen him elsewhere.’
‘Yet they don’t appear to have spent any time together outside working hours.’
‘I think you’re wrong there, Inspector. Agnes would go out of an evening now and then and it was always to see Mr Heygate.’
‘Is that what she told you?’
‘It was the truth. We kept no secrets from each other.’
Colbeck preferred to rely on the testimony of others. The stationmaster had never spent an evening alone with Mrs Rossiter. She’d invented a fantasy courtship and persuaded a gullible sister to believe in it. Now that Heygate had died, her fantasy had crumbled and her unrealistic hopes of a second marriage had perished. She was forced to confront a bleak future without a dream of escape to sustain her. As a result, something inside her had snapped.
Looking at her now, it was difficult to imagine her running wildly down the nave of the cathedral, but Colbeck had no reason to doubt the report he’d been given by the police. The manageress had gone from one extreme to another. After her dramatic and uncontrolled action, she’d now lapsed into a wounded silence. Sitting opposite her, Colbeck tried to break it.
‘Good morning, Mrs Rossiter,’ he said, softly. ‘How are you today?’
There was no reply. She didn’t even seem to notice that he was there.
‘It’s Inspector Colbeck,’ he went on. ‘You remember me.’
‘It’s no use,’ said Frances. ‘I couldn’t get a word out of her myself. She just sits there and broods.’ She held her sister’s hands. ‘It’s the inspector, Agnes, the kind man who brought you home in a cab. He’d like to talk to you.’ There was no response at all. ‘There you are,’ said Frances, giving up, ‘I told you that it was hopeless.’
‘So it would seem.’
She let go of her sister’s hands. ‘What will happen to her?’
‘That will depend on the diagnosis.’
‘I don’t mean her illness,’ said Frances. ‘Though I don’t know the full details, Agnes did something terrible in the cathedral. The police brought her home. We’ve never been in trouble before, Inspector. We’re good, law-abiding people.’
‘I’m sure that you are, Miss Impey.’
‘Will my sister have to go to prison?’
‘Oh, I don’t think there’s any danger of that,’ said Colbeck, soothingly. ‘Mrs Rossiter caused a stir but there was no actual damage. Superintendent Steel is a humane and understanding man. He’s not inclined to press charges.’
‘What about the bishop?’
Colbeck grimaced. ‘He may take a different view, alas.’ The doorbell rang. ‘Ah, that will be Dr Swift, I suspect. May I let him in?’
‘Please do so.’
Colbeck went to the front door and opened it to admit Dr Morton Swift. After introductions, Swift removed his hat and scrutinised the patient. Frances described her sister’s symptoms and was slavishly deferential. Colbeck, meanwhile, sized up the newcomer. Swift was a tall, suave individual in his early forties with a searching gaze. He was not the family doctor but had been recommended by Superintendent Steel as the man best qualified to deal with a hysterical woman. He was calm, experienced and reassuring. Like Colbeck, he paid considerable attention to the quality of his apparel.
‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Rossiter alone,’ decided Swift.
‘But she won’t talk to anyone, Doctor,’ said Frances.
‘Why don’t you and I step into the next room?’ suggested Colbeck as he shepherded her to the door. ‘Dr Swift doesn’t want us in the way.’
‘Oh, well … I suppose not.’
With a fearful glance at her sister, Frances went into the kitchen. Colbeck went after her, relieved that Mrs Rossiter was getting the medical attention that she obviously needed. Dr Swift had an excellent reputation. After his examination, he would be able to prescribe the appropriate treatment.
‘An owl, a canary, a missing diary, a bonfire, an angry bishop, a well-known thug on the loose, a crazed female in a revolting display of blasphemy — this is the most bizarre case in which I’ve ever been involved,’ said Tallis. ‘One is bound to wonder what comes next.’
‘I’m grateful that you came all this way to take charge of the investigation, Superintendent,’ said Quinnell.
&n
bsp; ‘I’m here at the behest of Bishop Phillpotts.’
‘Have you met him yet?’
‘I had that displeasure,’ said Tallis, scowling. ‘It was an abrasive encounter. I came in the spirit of obedience and, if truth be told, left in something of a temper.’
Quinnell smiled. ‘The bishop has that effect on me as well.’
They were in the stationmaster’s house. Keen to see everything for himself, Tallis had asked to be shown around the station. Happy to oblige, Quinnell took him on a short tour and they ended up in the dwelling once inhabited by Joel Heygate.
‘When someone in authority criticises my officers,’ explained Tallis, ‘I wish to know why. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Well, I have no criticism of them,’ said Quinnell. ‘Inspector Colbeck imparts confidence somehow. This case is too complex for the local police. We needed help from Scotland Yard.’
‘Bishop Phillpotts thinks otherwise.’
‘What does he know about solving a murder?’
‘I had the feeling that he considers himself to be an expert on everything under the sun. One has to respect his position, of course,’ said Tallis, ‘but there are limits even to my instinctive reverence for a prelate.’
‘Say no more, Superintendent. We’ve all had tussles with him.’
He was about to expand on the theme when he was interrupted by the arrival of Lawrence Woodford, who stepped into the house and tipped his hat to Quinnell.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, politely. ‘I noticed you earlier but was too busy supervising trains to attend to you both. If there’s anything at all I can do, you only have to ask.’
‘Thank you, Woodford,’ said Quinnell. ‘This is Superintendent Tallis from Scotland Yard, by the way. He’s now in charge of the investigation.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He tipped his hat to Tallis. ‘You’re most welcome, sir. Joel Heygate was a friend as well as a colleague. His killer must be caught.’
‘He will be,’ said Tallis, resolutely.
‘I’ve taken over Joel’s duties because I know how important it is to keep the station operating as smoothly as usual. A murder is a bad advertisement for any railway company. We have to reassure the public that it’s not affected the quality of our service.’
‘Quite right,’ said Quinnell. ‘You’re a good man, Woodford.’
‘I’m only doing what Joel would have wanted me to do, sir.’
‘The reputation of the South Devon Railway has been besmirched. That’s why I turned to Superintendent Tallis and his detectives. We want this crime solved and our good name restored.’
‘I’m ready to lend any assistance that I can,’ said Woodford.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ Quinnell turned away. ‘That will be all.’
‘Then I’ll get back to my duties, sir.’
After a covetous glance around the room, Woodford went out.
‘He seems a capable man,’ observed Tallis.
‘Yes, he’s very capable, albeit a little too ingratiating for my taste. I like our staff to get on with their jobs instead of expecting a round of applause for doing so. Heygate was an ideal stationmaster,’ said Quinnell. ‘He was industrious, efficient and calm under stress. He didn’t feel the need to be obsequious.’
‘Then he’ll be a very difficult man to replace.’
‘We’ll cast our net wide, Superintendent. First, however, we must concentrate all our efforts on catching the fiend responsible for the murder. I know that Inspector Colbeck is hoping for a quick resolution.’
‘Only because he’s getting married at the end of the month.’
‘Indeed? Then his urgency is understandable.’
‘The wedding is irrelevant.’
Quinnell chuckled. ‘It’s not irrelevant to him,’ he said, ‘or, indeed, to his bride. They will have looked forward to the great day for months. I know that’s what my wife and I did. It must have been the same for you, Superintendent.’
Tallis glowered. ‘I was never tempted to marry, Mr Quinnell.’
‘You’ve remained a bachelor all this time?’
‘And will do so to my dying day,’ said Tallis with emphasis. ‘Fighting crime is too important a task to take lightly. I allow no distractions into my life. As for the inspector, he knows that this investigation takes precedence over everything else. While he’s here in Exeter, Colbeck must not even think about his wedding.’
It was both strange and exasperating. Madeleine Andrews could conjure any number of locomotives on to her canvas and give them startling verisimilitude. When it came to figurative art, however, she tended to flounder. She knew every last detail of Colbeck’s face and had always wanted to paint his portrait but it was beyond her talents. Standing at her easel after her latest attempt to bring him to life before her, she had to accept defeat yet again. The portrait was a disaster.
‘Thank you, Maddy,’ said her father, coming up behind her. ‘I didn’t know that you were painting a picture of me.’
‘It’s not you, Father.’
He stared at it intently for a moment. ‘No, no,’ he went on, ‘I can see that now I’ve taken a closer look. It’s Dirk Sowerby, isn’t it?’
She was offended. ‘Why on earth should I paint a portrait of him?’
‘That’s what I asked myself. Dirk is no fit subject for an artist.’
‘It’s supposed to be Robert.’ He burst out laughing. ‘It’s not that bad.’
‘It’s not that good either, Maddy. I think you should stick to painting locomotives — as long as they’re ones that run on the LNWR. I’m not having my daughter painting anything that belongs to another railway company.’ He put his face close to the canvas. ‘There is a faint resemblance, I suppose.’
‘You should have been able to see at once who it was.’
‘I’m sorry. I just couldn’t do that.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ she said, sadly. ‘I have to accept that I simply don’t have the skill to be a portrait artist. That’s why I never put people into my paintings. If I want a portrait of Robert, someone else will have to paint it.’
Andrews was dressed to go out for his morning walk. He regretted mocking her attempt at portraiture because he knew what had impelled her to pick up her brush. She was missing Colbeck so much that she’d tried to create an image of him.
‘He’ll be back before long, Maddy,’ he said, kissing her on the temple.
‘His letter said that the murder wouldn’t be easy to solve. What if the investigation carries on for a few weeks?’
‘Then I’ll go down to Exeter and drag him back for the wedding.’
‘Robert hates to abandon a case before he’s brought the culprit to justice.’
‘Marrying my daughter comes before anything else.’
‘It doesn’t stop me from fretting,’ she confessed. ‘I’ve waited for years to become Mrs Colbeck. I’m terrified that something will happen at the last minute to ruin the arrangements.’
‘Take heart, Maddy. It’s not like you to be down.’
‘Robert takes his work so seriously.’
‘And so he should do,’ said Andrews. ‘I was the same. There’s no point in doing a job if you don’t put all your energy into it. Anyway,’ he added, ‘I’m on my way out. Why not come with me for a walk?’
‘I’d much rather stay here, Father.’
‘Brooding will get you nowhere.’
‘I’ll be fine — off you go.’
‘Goodbye,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘And there’s no need to worry about the arrangements being ruined. Since the church has been booked for a wedding, we simply replace the pair of you with another happy couple.’
She was baffled. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ll give you one guess.’
Opening the door, he let himself out with a cackle of amusement. When Madeleine realised that he’d been talking about himself and Mrs Langton, she was shaken. Her father hardly knew the woman yet he was already thinking of marriage. Madel
eine had a sneaking suspicion that Mrs Langton’s mind was also inclined in that direction. It gave her something else to worry about. Returning to her easel, she looked at her portrait and sighed with disappointment. She reached for a damp cloth and wiped Colbeck decisively off the canvas.
They were in the tiny kitchen for a long time. Colbeck could think of many better companions with whom to be cooped up than Frances Impey but he had no choice. She was tense, lacklustre and a poor conversationalist. All that she did was to bleat about her sister’s condition. Colbeck kept his ears open to pick up the sounds that came from the parlour. Incredibly, Dr Swift had somehow got Mrs Rossiter talking. What she was saying Colbeck was unable to make out but he could hear her getting increasingly expressive. Desperate to listen at the door, Frances felt unable to do so. She was positively writhing with anxiety.
‘What are they saying, Inspector?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure, Miss Impey.’
‘How ever did the doctor get Agnes to talk?’
‘It’s a secret I’d like to learn.’
‘We’ve been in here for ages. How much longer must we wait?’
Dr Swift answered the question by opening the door and inviting them in. Frances immediately went to embrace her sister who was now on her feet. While she still looked far from well, Mrs Rossiter had more colour in her cheeks and some animation in her eyes. Frances led her sister into the kitchen to question her in private. Colbeck was quick to exploit their absence.
‘What’s your diagnosis, Doctor?’ he asked.
‘Mrs Rossiter has had a profound shock,’ replied the other, solemnly. ‘It’s destroyed some of the certainties in her life.’
‘You achieved a miracle in getting her to talk.’
‘Once she got started, the problem was to stop her.’
‘Did you ask her about the incident at the cathedral?’
‘Yes,’ said Swift, ‘and she wasn’t in the least repentant. In fact, she said she’d do exactly the same if she were given the chance. That was worrying. Her mind has been unbalanced by the loss of a dear friend. I’ve seen it happen before many times. She’s exhibiting far more than natural grief at the death of a loved one.’
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