The Stationmaster's Farewell

by Edward Marston

  ‘When will I see you again, Bagsy?’ she asked, snuggling up to him.

  ‘I haven’t gone yet.’

  ‘It won’t be long before you do. I can sense it.’

  He squeezed her. ‘There’s no fooling you, is there, Ad?’

  ‘I’ve a mind to head for Plymouth,’ she said. ‘The police will be looking for me, so I can’t stay here. I’ve a cousin in Plymouth who’ll take me in. If I dye my hair and change my name, nobody will know the difference.’

  ‘I will. Be sure to give me your cousin’s address before you go.’

  ‘What about you, Bagsy?’

  ‘North Devon is starting to call me,’ he said. ‘It must be years since I’ve seen Barnstaple. I might give it the privilege of my presence for a while.’

  ‘You’re a true rolling stone.’

  ‘That’s why I gather no moss, Ad.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she teased, running a hand through the matted hair on his bare chest. ‘What do you call this, then?’

  ‘That’s my animal fur.’ He gave an involuntary shiver. ‘It’s getting colder. Let’s put our clothes on. If I stay like this any longer, my sweat will turn to ice.’

  She looked around. ‘There are better places to spend our last night together.’

  ‘It was all I could find, Ad.’

  ‘I’m not complaining. It’s got the two things I enjoy most – plenty of brandy and plenty of Bagsy Browne.’

  He embraced her with a guffaw then reached for his shirt. Even when they were dressed, it was still cold. He came to a decision.

  ‘There’s plenty of spare wood along the bank,’ he said, ‘and there are bits of the boat we can use as well. Let’s have a fire to warm us both up, shall we? I daresay that it will put us in the mood for another celebration, don’t you?’

  * * *

  The idea that Lawrence Woodford’s wife might be a latter-day Lady Macbeth was shattered the moment they met her. She was a small, skinny, nervous mouse of a woman totally devoid of any character or spirit. When the detectives called at the house, she hustled the children upstairs and stayed there for safety. Woodford invited the visitors into a parlour bare of ornament and smelling of the fish the family had eaten earlier that evening. Tellingly, the master of the house was still wearing his stationmaster’s uniform, clear proof that he remained on duty even at home and supervised the comings and goings of his family as if following a timetable.

  ‘We’re sorry to disturb you at this hour,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I wanted to congratulate you on your devotion to duty. It was so important to have a strong presence at the railway station on this day above all others.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

  ‘Let me add my congratulation as well,’ said Leeming. ‘It must have been a very difficult decision for you to make.’

  ‘It was,’ said Woodford. ‘I’d have preferred to go to the funeral, naturally, but something told me that Joel would have wanted me to take control at the station instead. I plan to visit his grave in due course to take my leave of him.’ He glanced at Colbeck. ‘Were you there?’

  Colbeck explained that he’d attended the funeral but that Leeming had taken their injured superior back to London. Woodford remembered seeing the pair of them boarding the train and had been curious about Tallis’s sling. When he heard that the wound had been inflicted by Browne, he was livid.

  ‘That man is a menace,’ he declared.

  ‘He does appear to be,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘First of all, he murders Joel, then he rescues his mistress from custody and stabs your superintendent in the process. Mr Tallis might have been killed.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true, sir.’

  ‘Browne had nothing to lose.’

  ‘I’ve been reflecting on that,’ said Colbeck. ‘If he’d wanted to kill Mr Tallis then he could easily have done so. One thrust of the dagger into the heart would have been sufficient. But he deliberately stabbed him in the arm to disable him. It may be that Browne is not the desperate killer we all take him for.’

  Woodford looked stunned. ‘Are you saying that he didn’t murder Joel?’

  ‘I require more evidence.’

  ‘How much more evidence do you need, Inspector? Bagsy Browne is the bane of our police force. He’s been in and out of prison for years. Heavens!’ exclaimed Woodford, ‘it wasn’t long ago that he beat up one of the warders and left him in a pool of blood. If that isn’t evidence of this man’s murderous intent, what is?’

  ‘He didn’t kill the warder, sir,’ said Leeming, ‘yet he had the chance to do it.’

  ‘That’s two victims he spared,’ added Colbeck.

  ‘If you knew Browne as well as we do,’ said Woodford with growing vexation, ‘you’d realise that he was capable of anything. He once threw a firework at the bishop and relieved himself on the lawn in full view of his palace.’

  ‘That sounds more like horseplay than proof of homicidal leanings.’

  ‘If you don’t believe me, talk to Superintendent Steel. He has no doubt at all that Joel was battered to death by Bagsy Browne. He’d threatened to kill Joel and carried out that threat. You don’t need to be a detective from Scotland Yard to see the facts that are staring you in the face.’

  ‘Thank you for your advice on the art of detection,’ said Colbeck, ironically. ‘We’ll bear your words in mind. They’ll provide useful guidance to us. Let me come to the question that really prompted this visit,’ he continued. ‘When I mentioned the existence of Mr Heygate’s diary, you denied all knowledge of it.’

  ‘That’s true. I had no idea that he kept a diary.’

  ‘May I suggest you think again, sir?’

  ‘I’ve no need to do so, Inspector.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’ll explain to us why you claimed never to have heard about the diary when, in fact, Miss Hope had told you about it earlier?’

  For a second, Woodford was caught off balance. He recovered swiftly.

  ‘Miss Hope is mistaken.’

  ‘She remembers the talk she had with you very well.’

  ‘The girl is imagining things.’

  ‘She strikes me as very level-headed for her age.’

  ‘Who are you going to believe, Inspector?’ challenged Woodford, jabbing a finger at him. ‘Do you believe a clumsy waitress who can barely remember what day of the week it is, or do you believe a man whose integrity has earned him the right to take charge of the entire station? It’s her word against mine.’

  ‘Indeed, it is,’ said Colbeck, smoothly. ‘There’s just one problem.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I don’t believe that Dorcas Hope could tell a lie if she tried.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Come on, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘We stayed long enough. I think we’ve learnt what we came for, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s no fun being a waitress,’ said Leeming. ‘I should know. I tried it. I have a lot of respect for Miss Hope. She’s a good, honest, hard-working young lady.’

  Woodford was fuming. ‘I’ll show you both out.’

  Back in the street, the detectives put on their top hats and strode towards their tavern. Colbeck was content but Leeming was critical for once.

  ‘You showed your hand too soon, sir,’ he said. ‘Now that he knows we have suspicions about him, he’ll be far more careful.’

  ‘I thought it was time to prod him into life.’

  ‘You did that, well and truly.’

  ‘Did you notice how eager he was to convince us that Browne was the killer? What did you gather from that, Victor?’

  ‘I don’t know which of them murdered the stationmaster, sir, but it was obvious that they couldn’t possibly have done it together. Was he blaming it all on Browne to save his own skin?’

  ‘It’s more than likely.’

  ‘You really shook him when you asked about that diary.’

  ‘I know,’ said Colbeck. ‘I must remember to get to the station early tomorrow morning. The first thing Woodford will do
is to browbeat Miss Hope into changing her story. He’ll try to get her to swear that she didn’t mention the diary.’

  ‘What do you think she’ll do?’

  ‘She’ll do what she always does, Victor – she’ll tell the truth.’

  ‘But it’s in his power to dismiss her.’

  ‘That’s why I need to be there to remind him of something,’ said Colbeck. ‘It’s in Mr Quinnell’s power to dismiss Woodford.’

  As they walked on through the darkness, Leeming was pensive.

  ‘Did you think that his wife was like Lady Macbeth, sir?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Somehow I couldn’t see her inciting anyone to murder.’

  ‘Look at it another way,’ suggested Colbeck, ‘and you’ll see how unlikely a female monster she is. If Lady Macbeth had been like Mrs Woodford, then Scotland would still be ruled by King Duncan.’

  An excellent meal had left Bishop Phillpotts contemplative. Sipping his port, he looked across the table at his secretary. Barnes, as ever, was attentive.

  ‘Under other circumstances, I might have liked the man,’ said Phillpotts.

  ‘To whom are you referring, Bishop?’

  ‘I am talking about Superintendent Tallis.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘He’s a man of principle and a good Christian.’

  ‘Then he should have shown more respect for your position,’ said Barnes. ‘It’s the same with Inspector Colbeck. What is it that entitles detectives to overlook the simple rules of hierarchy? There’s a bumptious quality about them that I abhor.’

  ‘Both men spoke their mind. I admired them for that.’

  ‘Yet they treated your advice with flagrant disregard.’

  ‘They’ll come to see its innate wisdom,’ said Phillpotts. ‘At least, the inspector will come to do so. The superintendent, I hear, has withdrawn to London with a nasty wound in his arm. One is bound to look up to any man who is ready to tackle a ruffian like Browne. I’m the first to admit that I’d never do it. That’s why we have a policeman on guard outside. He’s protecting me against attack from Browne.’

  ‘Surely, even he would never come here to the palace, Bishop.’

  ‘Remember what happened on my lawn. I’ll never forget the sight of those bare buttocks as they delivered their coarse message to us. Browne is little more than a beast. He should be shot on sight like any wild animal.’

  ‘Your anger is natural,’ said Barnes, ‘but you are, in reality, as anxious as any of us that the fellow faces the due process of law. To shoot him dead would be to let him escape a proper punishment. He needs to be arraigned in public, convicted and sent to the gallows.’

  Phillpotts smiled. ‘Trust you to think like a lawyer.’

  ‘I used to be one, Bishop – centuries ago.’

  ‘Have we been here that long, Ralph?’

  They traded a dry laugh then fell into a comfortable silence, sipping their port by the light of the silver candelabra and looking back on the events of the last week or so. There was much that troubled Bishop Phillpotts. He singled out one element of his disquiet.

  ‘I wonder if I should have attended the funeral,’ he said, moodily.

  ‘You made the right decision when you stayed away.’

  ‘Do you think so, Ralph?’

  ‘You hardly knew the stationmaster because you rarely travel by train.’

  ‘That is so,’ said Phillpotts, ‘but I wonder if it was expected that I would be there. Mr Quinnell clearly believed that I should be. He sent a letter to that effect.’

  ‘Mr Quinnell doesn’t understand the jeopardy you’re in, Bishop,’ said the secretary. ‘As long as Browne is on the loose, it’s too dangerous for you to go abroad. Had you been at St Olave’s, you’d have presented a tempting target and Browne would not be discouraged by the fact that you’d be inside a church. No, on balance, your decision was right and proper.’

  Phillpotts nodded, glad that he’d been given an excellent excuse for staying away from the proceedings. Personal safety was involved. There would be a time when he could show his admiration for Joel Heygate by taking a memorial service in his honour. Since it would be weeks away, there’d be no danger of an assassination attempt on him. While he’d taken a dislike to Colbeck, he expected him to have caught Browne before too long and have him locked away. It would therefore be safe for the bishop to move freely about the city. As a gesture, he might even offer the cathedral as the venue for the memorial service. It was his home territory. In there, he was supreme.

  As he envisioned himself standing in the pulpit at the cathedral, another image came into his mind. It was that of a woman, screaming her way down the nave, racing past the choir and committing an act of utter blasphemy at the altar.

  ‘Mrs Rossiter should be restrained,’ he asserted.

  ‘The lady has been, Bishop.’

  ‘She should remain in the County Asylum in perpetuity.’

  ‘No,’ said Barnes, firmly. ‘That’s a fate we should wish on nobody. Think of the conditions there. It will be a daily ordeal for her.’

  The bishop was sobered. While he wanted retribution, he had expected it to take place in a court of law. When he considered her future properly, the fact that Agnes Rossiter was being treated as a lunatic aroused his sympathy. He pitied anyone sent to the asylum. People of unsound mind could not be held accountable for their actions. He believed that they deserved forgiveness.

  ‘Poor woman!’ he said, finishing his port with a gulp. ‘We must pray for her recovery and we must mention her name to the asylum chaplain.’

  ‘I’ll make a point of writing to him, Bishop.’

  ‘Canon Smalley may be able to offer her some comfort.’

  Canon Smalley was a cadaverous man of middle height and years. Assigned to the asylum when it first opened, he’d soon felt that the role of chaplain was his mission in life and implored the bishop to make it a permanent appointment. Everyone trusted him and he moved freely about the establishment. Unlike those of the asylum staff, his methods never included restraint or the sudden administration of pain. What he offered to the patients was time, understanding and compassion. When someone was first admitted, Smalley always took the trouble to see them as soon as possible so that he could assess their needs and see how he could best meet them. The patient on whom he now called was Agnes Rossiter.

  She was locked in a room with bare white walls and no furniture apart from a bed and a chair. A gas lamp illumined the scene and gave off a faint whiff. Dressed in the standard asylum garb, she was sitting on the uncarpeted floor with a faraway look in her eye. His arrival disturbed her and she tried to get up.

  ‘No, no,’ he said, with a gentle hand on her shoulder, ‘stay where you are, Mrs Rossiter. I’ll come down to you.’ He lowered himself to the floor. ‘My name is Canon Smalley and I’m the chaplain here.’

  ‘I don’t believe in God,’ she said, belligerently.

  ‘A lot of people say that when they first come here and even the most devout of us sometimes question His existence. But that’s not what I came to talk to you about, Mrs Rossiter. I’m here to help. I’m here to listen to what you have to say.’

  The softness of his voice and the kindness of his manner were soothing. He was not at all like the male nurse who marched her to the room and locked her in it. While the nurse had treated her like a prisoner, Canon Smalley was treating her like a human being and giving her a mild sense of dignity.

  ‘They wouldn’t let me go to the funeral,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘It was my right.’

  ‘Why do you think that, Mrs Rossiter?’

  ‘We’d planned to marry one day,’ she insisted. ‘Before too long, I’d have been Mrs Heygate, living with the most wonderful husband in the world.’

  ‘I knew the stationmaster at St David’s. He was indeed a splendid man.’

  ‘It was a joy to work beside him.’

  ‘Tell me
why,’ invited Smalley, patting her arm. ‘Tell me why it gave you so much pleasure to work with him. And there’s no need to hurry, Mrs Rossiter. I’ll listen for as long as you wish. That’s what friends should do.’

  Disguise was an important component in Browne’s continued freedom from arrest. His ability to change his appearance had saved him time and again. As soon as light began to filter into the cabin, he got up, collected a bowl of water from the estuary so that he could wash and shave, then donned his latest outfit. Adeline laughed in approval.

  ‘You look a proper gentleman from top to toe, Bagsy,’ she said. ‘Where did you get hold of the frock coat and top hat?’

  ‘They fell into my hands, Ad.’

  ‘In other words, you stole them.’

  ‘I borrowed them for just such a day as this.’

  In fact, he’d purloined the clothes from the room of one of her neighbours in Rockfield Place. As he was coming down the stairs in the wake of Adeline’s arrest, he heard the telltale grunts of a client thrusting away inside the woman he’d hired for an hour. Browne had eased open the door, seen that both of them were too busy to notice him and grabbed the man’s discarded clothing and shoes. They were rather tight on him but he was prepared to stand the discomfort.

  Adeline had also disguised herself. By cleaning the powder from her face, she’d added a decade to her age but no longer looked like a whore. Her hair was pinned up so that it could disappear under her hat and her coat was buttoned up to the neck. To Browne’s eye, she seemed almost wholesome. The belongings she needed were packed into a valise. Everything else had been burnt on their fire.

  ‘I can manage on my own, you know,’ she said.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of letting you go alone, Ad. I’ll see you off.’

  ‘Thank you, Bagsy. I’d appreciate that.’

  ‘Everyone will take us for a gentleman and his servant,’ he said.