The Stationmaster's Farewell

by Edward Marston

  ‘We know he’s the killer. Isn’t it blindingly obvious?’

  ‘Not to me, Bishop.’

  ‘I, too, would need more evidence,’ said Tallis. ‘When we heard about the attack on the warder last evening, the inspector made an interesting point.’

  ‘It made me look at Browne in a slightly different way,’ said Colbeck, taking his cue. ‘If he really was a ruthless killer, why didn’t he murder the prison warder? After all, he had every reason to loathe the man. Yet he let him off with a beating. It may be that Browne is not the wild animal you portray him as, Bishop.’

  ‘He’s been a thorn in my flesh for years,’ said Phillpotts, scowling. ‘Isn’t that true, Ralph?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the secretary, dutifully.

  ‘List a few of his outrages.’

  Barnes winced. ‘There are so many,’ he said, ‘that I don’t know where to start. I suppose one of the worst examples of his loutish behaviour was during the procession held through the streets last Christmas when there was snow on the ground. Browne dislodged the bishop’s mitre with a snowball. Then there was wilful damage to church property in Teignmouth,’ he went on, ‘and – most reprehensible of all in my opinion – he was caught half-naked with a loose woman on consecrated ground. They had to be prised apart.’

  ‘These crimes were all personal attacks on me,’ declared the bishop.

  ‘They’re thoroughly shameful,’ said Tallis, ‘I agree. But they’re not of the same order as the killing and burning of the stationmaster.’

  ‘You’re not listening to me, man – there’s a pattern here.’

  The bishop treated them to another sermon, emphasising the importance of the Church and the villainy of those who mocked and subverted it. In trying to grind Tallis into submission, however, he was achieving just the opposite. Colbeck could see the superintendent’s hackles slowly rising. Tallis might have verged on the obsequious at the start but he was rapidly losing respect from the bishop. As the holy tirade grew louder, Tallis brought it to a premature close by interrupting it with a shout of protest.

  ‘That’s enough, Bishop Phillpotts!’ he said, standing up. ‘You’ve convinced me that I was right to send Inspector Colbeck and Sergeant Leeming here and would never dream of withdrawing them at your behest.’

  ‘Do you dare to oppose my will?’ blustered Phillpotts.

  ‘I’ve come to see the situation in a new light.’

  ‘This is a local crime that should be solved locally without interference from people who know nothing of Exeter and my position within this county.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Barnes, piously, ‘it’s a much wider area than merely Devon. The diocese extends from the borders of Somerset and Dorset to the Isles of Scilly in Cornwall. Bishop Phillpotts has the care of an untold number of souls.’

  ‘That’s irrelevant,’ said Tallis.

  The bishop sat up indignantly. ‘It’s a measure of my importance.’

  ‘I acknowledge that, Bishop, but I challenge your self-appointed right to send my officers packing. They are well versed in the art of detection and will remain here until the case is solved.’

  Colbeck rose to his feet. ‘It’s in everyone’s interest that the killer is caught and brought to justice,’ he said, smoothly, ‘and the fewer handicaps we have to face, the sooner we can achieve that result. In short, Bishop, instead of trying to steer the investigation in the wrong direction altogether, I suggest that you simply let us get on with our job. We have no desire to remain in Exeter a minute longer than necessary.’

  ‘I couldn’t have put it better, Inspector,’ said Tallis.

  ‘This is insufferable,’ said Phillpotts, cheeks reddening. ‘I find your attitude both insolent and disgraceful. I will be writing to the commissioner at Scotland Yard to voice my displeasure.’

  ‘You have every right to do so, Bishop.’

  ‘This matter will not end here.’

  ‘It will only end when we have the killer in custody,’ said Colbeck.

  Phillpotts turned to his secretary. ‘Show these gentlemen out.’

  ‘Yes, Bishop,’ said Barnes, moving to the door.

  After an exchange of muted farewells, the visitors went out. When they left the building, Tallis was able to let his true feelings show. Taking out the bishop’s letter, he waved it in the air.

  ‘This is not Holy Writ,’ he said.

  ‘The bishop evidently thinks that it is, sir.’

  ‘He has all the attributes of a tyrant.’

  In that respect, Colbeck mused, Tallis and the bishop were very similar: men of power who hated to have their authority questioned and who sought to quash any sign of what they felt was opposition. While Phillpotts operated in a spiritual sphere, Tallis was restricted to the temporal and both of them followed a policy of aggressive and unequivocal dictatorship. What Colbeck had witnessed in the library was, in microcosm, a skirmish between Church and State. Tallis had been the victor.

  ‘The fellow is not fit to hold his bishopric,’ he said, thrusting the letter back in his pocket. ‘He should be shunted into instant retirement.’

  ‘He probably feels the same way about us, sir,’ said Colbeck, ‘and is writing to the commissioner at this very moment to have us summarily dismissed.’

  ‘He’s nothing but a sanctimonious bully.’

  ‘Leave him to us, sir. He’s not your problem any longer. Now that you’ve put him in his place – your forthrightness, may I say, was exemplary – you can return to London to supervise the policing of the capital.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not stirring from here now.’

  ‘But the sergeant and I can manage on our own.’

  ‘Not if you have to withstand sniping from the bishop,’ said Tallis, seriously. ‘You need me to keep him at bay. Besides, an extra pair of hands is always useful in an investigation and this case is one of such unimaginable horror that I wish to make my contribution to it. I’m staying to see it through.’

  Colbeck’s heart sank.

  Madeleine could not keep away from it. Now that the wedding was imminent, she took every opportunity she could to walk past the place where the ceremony would be held. St Pancras New Church had been built over thirty years earlier and, like the rival Camden Chapel, looked more like a Greek temple than a traditional Anglican church. It stood on Euston Road and was intended to serve the population in the southern part of the parish. As she made her daily visit that morning, Madeleine looked up in awe at the spacious Ionic portico that ran the length of the western facade. Spearing the sky was a magnificent tower that enjoyed a view over the whole of Camden Town and its neighbouring parishes. She could scarcely believe that she’d be married to Robert Colbeck in such an imposing edifice and she recalled how nervous she’d been when they attended services there together to hear the banns being read. It would not be long before they were stepping out of the church as man and wife.

  It made her reflect on the immense changes Colbeck had brought about in her life. As a rule, someone of her modest upbringing could never aspire to befriend – let alone to marry – a person from a distinctly higher class. Before he joined the police force, Colbeck had been a barrister, a well-educated man who’d inherited a large house and a clutch of servants. In social and intellectual terms, the gap between them had been wide, yet it had narrowed dramatically over the years. Quick to learn and keen to study, she’d borrowed countless books from Colbeck’s library. Then there was her skill as an artist. Under his tutelage, it had developed and blossomed, giving her immense pride. Madeleine had never been short of confidence but the fact that she could command an income of sorts was a huge fillip. What had really bonded her and Colbeck together, however, was her readiness to join in his investigative work when required. Though she lacked his insight and deductive powers, Madeleine had nevertheless been able to offer significant help at times and hoped to render it again, especially when she could do so as Mrs Colbeck.

  Tearing herself away from the church, she walked slowly
home, luxuriating in thoughts of her wedding day and of the blissful married life that would follow it. When she let herself into the house, she was still dreaming fondly of the future. Caleb Andrews brought her out of her reverie.

  ‘This came while you were out, Maddy,’ he said, giving her a letter.

  ‘It’s from Robert!’ she exclaimed, opening it at once.

  Andrews stuck out his chest. ‘If he needs any assistance in Exeter,’ he said, ‘tell him that I’ll be happy to join him there – even if it means travelling on Brunel’s railway. I may not be a trained detective but I’ve got great experience of the world. That must count for something.’ He saw the distress on her face. ‘What’s the matter? Has something happened?’

  ‘Robert sends his apologies,’ she said, her lower lip trembling. ‘It seems that his case is going to take much longer than he anticipated.’ She looked hopelessly at her father. ‘What if it’s not solved by the time of the wedding?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Though still unhappy about the continued absence from his family, Victor Leeming boarded the train that morning with a measure of interest because the journey would take him past a number of pumping stations used in an experiment in powering a train by atmospheric pressure. Leeming still didn’t quite understand what exactly it had involved but his curiosity had been aroused. He wanted to know more. In places like Starcross, however, the abandoned pumping station was a sad reminder of the failed atmospheric railway. What Leeming would remember most clearly of the small seaport were the turrets of nearby Powderham Castle, its extensive grounds stocked with deer, shrubberies, plantations, lawns and pleasure grounds, all of it bronzed by the glow of autumn sunshine. Its Belvedere Tower soared above all else and looked down on the River Exe as it flowed between broad banks to join the sea. For someone who led an urban existence and who saw nothing but bricks and mortar in a normal day, the view was breathtaking. Leeming wished that he’d been able to bring his wife and children away from the grimy streets of London to this delightful watering place. It spoke of a healthier, quieter, better way of life.

  He had to remind himself that he was there to work and not to enjoy the scenery and the fresh air. Dawlish was equally picturesque, a village situated on the shore of the English Channel and well established as a seaside resort. The train chugged along with the sea on its left and he noted the beach huts, baths and other amenities built for visitors. Leeming was glad that the tide was out, exposing the gentle curve of the bay and an array of jagged rocks. At high tide – he’d been warned by Colbeck – the sea would frequently splash over the railway tracks and slap against the side of the locomotive and its carriages. It was an experience that he was more than willing to miss. Trains were uncomfortable enough in his opinion without being lashed by angry waves. As he stepped on to the platform, he was greeted by a cold wind that blew in off the sea and threatened to dislodge his top hat.

  While he took his bearings, he looked up at the red sandstone cliffs looming over the village and adding a sense of grandeur. After taking directions, Leeming ventured out of the station. Even at that time of year, Dawlish itself was so endearingly pretty that he longed to bring his family there one day. Long hours of work and a modest income meant that such holidays were rarities for him. He still savoured a trip he’d once made to Brighton with tickets provided by a grateful railway company for whom he and Colbeck had worked. His children talked fondly of their magical time on the beach. Though on a much smaller scale, Dawlish would provide them with similarly vibrant memories. He looked forward to describing the place to them when he returned to London. The village was bisected by a brook that meandered its way towards the sea with a flotilla of ducks and the occasional swan gliding on its bubbling waters. Dawlish looked serene, unrushed and parochial. Gulls wheeled, dived and perched on rooftops. The salty tang of the sea was bracing.

  It was easy to find the address he sought. He walked past a row of houses and shops that ran alongside the brook. Several of the properties offered accommodation and there was an inn and a chapel to satisfy the competing needs of the populace. Leeming arrived at a tiny shop that looked irredeemably closed. Blinds had been drawn down over the window and a sign announced that business had been suspended. Michael and Lavinia Heygate lived with their two children at the rear of the premises. After ringing the bell, Leeming had to wait some time before the door was eventually opened. Heygate was unwelcoming.

  ‘We’re closed,’ he said.

  ‘I came to see you, Mr Heygate. My name is Detective Sergeant Leeming. I’ve been sent from Scotland Yard to investigate the murder of your brother.’

  Heygate was insulted. ‘Why come here? I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘I’d just like to discuss a few things with you, sir.’

  ‘It’s not a convenient time.’

  ‘Really?’ said Leeming, looking him in the eye. ‘Are you telling me that you’re too busy to help in the search for your brother’s killer? The shop is closed and your business no longer exists. What is it that’s of such importance that it takes precedence over the death of your closest blood relation?’

  Heygate had the grace to look slightly shamefaced. After considering what could be the awkward consequences of turning his visitor away, he decided to let him in. He stood aside so that Leeming could step into the passageway. It led to a parlour at the back of the property. Lavinia was seated beside the fire. Rising to her feet, she was introduced to Leeming and hid her displeasure behind a forced smile. Like her husband, she was in mourning attire but there was little sense of actual mourning. Both of them were plainly irritated at the notion of having to answer questions about the stationmaster.

  Heygate gestured towards the chairs and they all sat down around the fire.

  ‘I watched you at the inquest, Mr Heygate,’ Leeming began. ‘I was interested to hear that you’d spoken to your brother on the day of his death.’

  ‘It was only for a short time,’ said Heygate.

  ‘Why were you in Exeter at that time?’

  ‘I explained that. We came for the celebrations.’

  ‘But that was on November 5th, the following day,’ Leeming pointed out. ‘Why come twenty-four hours earlier?’

  ‘We wanted to enjoy the atmosphere that builds up beforehand.’

  ‘I believe that you have two children.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Lavinia. ‘We have two sons, one of twelve and one of ten.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you take them with you, Mrs Heygate? Our information is that the day is really intended for the young of Exeter. I’m sure that your children would have loved the occasion.’

  ‘We chose to leave them in Dawlish.’

  ‘Was there any reason for doing that?’

  ‘It’s a private matter,’ said Heygate. ‘They stayed here with friends.’

  ‘While you and your wife spent the night at an inn, I presume.’ When he got no answer, Leeming changed his tack. ‘What sort of a mood was your brother in when you met him?’

  ‘Joel was … rather testy.’

  ‘At the inquest, you said he was calm and polite.’

  ‘That wasn’t entirely true. He was short with us.’

  ‘He mentioned an owl to you.’

  ‘That’s right, Sergeant.’

  ‘Did he say where he’d found it?’

  ‘No,’ replied Heygate. ‘It was in an old shed somewhere. That’s all we know.’

  ‘He was always going off to look at birds,’ said Lavinia with a slight edge. ‘In fact, he was more interested in them than he was in us. It was unnatural, Sergeant. What sort of man cares more for birds than for human beings?’

  ‘Now, now, Lavinia,’ warned Heygate. ‘Let’s not speak ill of the dead. Joel may have had some strange ways but he was my brother. And there was a time when we were much closer.’

  ‘Why did you drift apart, sir?’ asked Leeming.

  ‘He let us down.’

  ‘Could you be more specific?’

&n
bsp; ‘Well,’ said Heygate, trading an uneasy glance with his wife, ‘he refused to help me in a time of need. That’s what I’d have done in his place. I’ve always had a generous nature. Joel wasn’t like me. When I needed some money to put into the business, he turned me away. It was very hurtful.’

  ‘What did you sell in the shop?’

  ‘It was fishing tackle. There was a steady demand for it but we never had enough stock to give all our customers what they wanted. All that I needed was some extra capital, then I could have rented a storeroom nearby and maintained a large stock. As it was,’ said Heygate, sullenly, ‘we had to turn custom away and it went to a shop in Teignmouth instead. Their profit was our loss.’

  ‘And you blame your brother for that, do you?’

  ‘Of course – it was his fault.’

  In Leeming’s estimation, both man and wife would be adept at shifting the blame for any failures on to something else. Neither was ready to take responsibility for the collapse of their business and their inability to raise finance from elsewhere. The stationmaster was the scapegoat for their lack of success.

  ‘Did your brother ever lend you money in the past?’ asked Leeming.

  ‘As a matter of fact, he did,’ admitted Heygate. ‘It helped to set up the business in the first place.’

  ‘And did you repay the loan in due course?’

  ‘That’s immaterial.’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. If I’d given money to a relative of mine, I’d think twice about giving him a second loan when he hadn’t repaid the first one. Was that the situation with your brother?’

  Heygate was roused. ‘I thought you came here to talk about Joel’s death,’ he said, seething with resentment, ‘and not about our financial affairs. He and I had our differences – I’m not disguising that. But I mourn him nevertheless and I ask you to respect our feelings.’

  ‘My husband and I have been distracted by grief,’ said Lavinia, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve as if about to stem tears. ‘Please bear that in mind.’