Fear on the Phantom Special

by Edward Marston

  ‘Is there any good news to report?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, my lord,’ said Hedley, ‘but we’ll be out again this afternoon.’

  ‘Who was that fetching young woman I saw you with?’

  ‘Oh, that was just somebody who joined us.’

  ‘She’s uncommonly pretty, I must say. What’s her name?’

  ‘Miss Caroline Treadgold.’

  ‘So that’s who she is,’ said the old man, pensively stroking his beard. ‘I’ve heard lots of good things about her.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Why was she here?’

  ‘She simply felt that she wanted to help.’

  ‘That’s a creditable impulse.’ He changed the subject. ‘I’ve just come back from the printers, by the way. As a result, there may be lots of other people who suddenly feel the same impulse.’

  ‘Why is that, my lord?’

  ‘I’m offering a reward.’

  He held up one of the posters. The bold lettering declared that a reward would be paid to anyone who gave accurate information about the whereabouts of Alexander Piper. Hedley gasped at the amount on offer.

  ‘That’s exceedingly generous of you.’

  ‘He’s my only nephew.’

  ‘Even so …’

  ‘Someone has to open his wallet.’

  ‘Does the inspector know about this?’

  ‘It was his suggestion,’ said Culverhouse. ‘While you were talking to that gruesome sergeant of his, we were exploring all options. Colbeck thinks that a reward of that size might smoke out the person or persons who’ve been responsible for whatever happened to Alex. Once they’re out in the open, they can be arrested and interrogated.’ He beamed. ‘If all goes well, I won’t have to pay a penny.’

  ‘I hope that the plan works, my lord.’

  ‘So do I. We must try everything.’

  ‘The inspector seems to be full of initiatives.’

  ‘That’s why I demanded that he be sent here. Nobody else would have done.’ He looked at the carriage in which Caroline was just departing. ‘Incidentally, where did you say Miss Treadgold lived?’

  ‘I didn’t, my lord.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’d do so now …’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ replied Hedley, concealing his reluctance. ‘I’ll be glad to give you the address.’

  Leeming had never met anyone quite like Norman Tiller. The man had crafted the perfect life for himself, working contentedly among his books, writing his poetry, finding joy and satisfaction in everything around him. The sergeant was bound to compare himself with him. Days in London didn’t unfold slowly and give him ample time to talk to anyone he chose. There was a hectic pace to everything that Leeming did. His was an existence that consisted of effort, danger, movement, stress, vigilance and orders he needed to obey. Tiller was clearly a popular figure. Everyone who passed the shop gave him a cheery wave. Several put their heads in to exchange a word or two. Tiller was a distinctive feature in the town whereas Leeming was nothing more than an anonymous face in a vast city, bedevilled by crime, grime and the stink of industry.

  ‘I envy you, Mr Tiller,’ he said.

  ‘Why on earth should you do that?’

  ‘You’ve got peace of mind.’

  ‘Not when I’m in the throes of my latest poem,’ said the other with a chuckle. ‘It drives me mad for days until I finally get it down on paper and start to refine it. When I’m here in the shop, yes, I do enjoy a measure of serenity, but it’s shattered when an idea gets hold of me. I’m a prisoner of the creative urge then.’

  ‘I’m just a prisoner,’ sighed Leeming.

  ‘You do an important job, Sergeant. Be proud of it.’

  ‘I just wish I lived in a place like this.’

  ‘Then you’d probably be engaged in the wool, rope, carpet, leather or fish-hook trade. Or a strong man like you would be welcome in the marble works. Is that what you really want?’ he asked. ‘No, I don’t think so. You were born to be a policeman so why don’t you ask the questions that brought you here in the first place?’

  ‘How well do you know Dr Dymock?’

  ‘Oh, he’s far too expensive for me. I try to keep healthy and stay well away from doctors.’

  ‘But you must have come across him. What’s he like?’

  ‘People respect him.’

  ‘I’m asking about his character, Norm. Is he kind, helpful and pleasant or is there a darker side to him?’

  ‘I have heard complaints,’ admitted Tiller. ‘They say that he can be brisk at times, but that’s usually the mark of a busy man. He’s held in high esteem.’

  ‘I found him testy.’

  ‘Perhaps you caught him at the wrong moment.’

  ‘I fancy that there’s always a wrong moment where the doctor is concerned.’

  ‘You must speak as you find, Sergeant.’

  ‘I just did.’ He glanced down at the book he’d been given. ‘Will this tell me anything about that haunted wood?’

  ‘It will only tell you about strange apparitions that have appeared there. That’s because it was written by an antiquarian almost half a century ago,’ explained Tiller. ‘The real trouble in Hither Wood started much later – nine or ten years ago at most.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Somebody went there alone at Hallowe’en and he’s never been seen again. But he’s been heard many a time. That’s what the Phantom Special was doing,’ he continued. ‘It was taking those rich young folk to the wood so that they could hear the disembodied voice of a dead man.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Caleb Andrews straddled two disparate worlds. When he was at home in the little terraced house he rented, he was surrounded by reminders of his long, arduous service on the railway system. His work clothing, his cap and his boots were kept in a large wooden box and there were lots of other souvenirs. Among them was a scrapbook containing newspaper accounts of the train robbery in which he’d been badly injured. Every article had praised him for his courage in standing up to the robbers. Reading them was a constant source of pleasure.

  Whenever he visited his daughter, he entered a different section of society and dressed accordingly. Much as he enjoyed being able to savour what to him was luxury, there was always the nagging fear that he didn’t really deserve it. What connected his two worlds was the painting he had of a locomotive he had once driven. It was one of Madeleine’s early works and had been hung on the wall above the fireplace. Andrews still gazed at it for hours, suffused with pride at the fact that his daughter was such a gifted artist and recalling the many times he’d stood on the footplate of that particular locomotive.

  He may have retired from the LNWR, but he kept in touch with all of his old workmates so that he could talk about the years when he felt that he was living a really useful life. It was the reason he often called at a pub near Euston where employees of the LNWR tended to gather for a pint of beer at the end of their shift. When he called in there not long after noon, Andrews was pleased to see two faces he recognised. One of them was Dirk Sowerby, who had been his fireman for a number of years, and the other was Vernon Passmore. They gave Andrews a warm welcome and the three of them were soon sitting at a table with a pint in their hands, gossiping happily.

  Sowerby was a big-boned individual with a potato face, whereas the buck-toothed Passmore was unusually short and almost painfully thin. As usual, they soon began to tease Andrews.

  ‘Are you still rubbing shoulders with the gentry?’ asked Sowerby with a grin. ‘You’ll be moving up into aristocratic circles before long, I expect.’

  ‘Why stop there?’ said Passmore. ‘Caleb will be invited to hobnob with royalty one day.’

  ‘He’d need a knighthood to do that, Vernon.’

  ‘That will come in time.’

  ‘Laugh all you like,’ said Andrews. ‘As it happens, I did get close to Prince Albert on one occasion. I drove the royal train and, when I got to the end of the journey, he made a point of comi
ng to thank me.’

  ‘Did you invite him home for tea?’ asked Passmore.

  ‘He probably drinks nothing but champagne,’ said Sowerby, ‘but then I daresay Caleb keeps a good supply of that in his wine cellar.’

  Andrews chortled. ‘What wine cellar?’

  He didn’t mind the ribbing in the least. It was all in good fun. Andrews was among friends. Sowerby and Passmore talked the same language and shared the same working experience. He felt completely at ease. The sense of belonging was wonderful.

  ‘What were Piper’s parents like?’ asked Leeming.

  ‘They fear the worst, Victor – so much so that they’re already dressed in mourning attire.’

  ‘It’s far too early for that.’

  ‘Not in their minds, alas,’ said Colbeck. ‘Unsurprisingly, they’re racked with guilt about the estrangement with their son. The Reverend and Mrs Piper are good people in a desperate situation. It’s not difficult to see why their son rejected their way of life – it verges on the monastic. Lord Culverhouse was right.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Yes. There’s more than a faint whiff of Simeon Stylites about Piper’s father.’

  Leeming sat up. ‘Who?’

  They were in the pub where they’d agreed to meet in order to exchange information about their respective discoveries. Conscious of how much more work awaited them, they restricted themselves to a very simple meal. After gulping down a last mouthful, Leeming put the same question to him again.

  ‘Who is Simeon Whatever-His-Name-Was?’

  ‘He was a saint and a hermit,’ explained Colbeck. ‘He lived in the Middle East in the fifth century and was famous for undergoing extreme torment in a bid to please God.’

  ‘What sort of torment?’

  ‘I don’t think it would appeal to you, Victor. For the last twenty years of his life, he lived on a pillar sixty feet high, staying up there in all weathers. People venerated him as a saint and made pilgrimages to see him.’

  Leeming was aghast. ‘He was at the top of a pillar in full view of those below? How did he …?’

  ‘I leave that to your imagination.’

  ‘He must have had no privacy at all.’

  ‘Simeon wanted his suffering to be seen by everyone,’ said Colbeck. ‘Tennyson wrote a poem about him. Anyway, the Reverend Piper is also a man who goes to extremes. No wonder his son wanted to live a more normal life.’

  ‘It wasn’t very normal, according to Sergeant Ainsley, and it certainly wasn’t very Christian. But for his connections, Piper would’ve been arrested many times.’

  ‘What manner of man was the sergeant?’

  ‘He was a bit hostile at first, sir. Ainsley feels that we’re treading on his toes. It’s a pity. He’s a good, old-fashioned policeman of the type I used to pound the beat with in uniform. We must try to win him over.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘He could be very useful to us,’ said Leeming.

  ‘Tell me about the possible suspects.’

  ‘I’ve only spoken to two of them, as you know, and I really don’t think we should bother with Miss Treadgold. The first person I spoke to was Cecil Dymock and got short shrift there. He was outraged at being thought of as a suspect and more or less threw me out of his surgery.’

  ‘Actions speak louder than words.’

  ‘Oh, he had plenty of words to say – unpleasant ones.’

  ‘Why did Mr Hedley suggest his name in the first place?’

  ‘It was because Piper and the doctor were locked in some kind of boundary dispute. Hedley didn’t give me details.’

  ‘That brings us to Norman Tiller.’

  ‘You can forget about him, sir.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Mr Tiller – or Norm, as everyone calls him – is a bit like that saint you were talking about. He’s given up what most people would call basic comforts and lives a very simple life in a tiny bookshop. The house itself is a limestone cottage in need of attention but Norm is too busy writing poetry to worry about mending a broken window or replacing some badly damaged brickwork. He doesn’t even bother to sell books,’ Leeming went on, lifting up the one he’d been given. ‘He lends them.’

  ‘How does he stay in business?’

  ‘It’s not a business to him. He just muddles along. Norm is a dreamer. He’s found the secret of true happiness.’

  ‘I thought I’d found that when the superintendent was on leave.’ They laughed in unison. ‘What is the book he wanted you to read?’

  ‘It’s about the folklore and superstitions of Cumberland.’

  ‘I’d appreciate a glance at it some time.’

  ‘Have it whenever you want, sir.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Colbeck, rubbing a thoughtful hand across his chin. ‘If Tiller is so obviously not a suspect, why ever did Hedley claim that he was?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask him that.’

  ‘I will, Victor.’

  ‘But my visit was not entirely in vain,’ said Leeming. ‘I discovered something that could be of some importance. I know why that wood is supposed to be haunted.’

  ‘My guess is that someone was once killed there.’

  ‘That’s what everyone believes. It happened nine or ten years ago when a man named Gregor Hayes went into that wood alone at Hallowe’en and never came out again.’

  ‘How do they know?’

  ‘They found some of his clothing scattered about.’

  ‘That’s not proof positive of a murder.’

  ‘How else do you explain the fact that a man’s voice is heard howling in that wood at every Hallowe’en? People who knew him well have sworn that it was the blacksmith.’

  ‘What’s Sergeant Ainsley’s opinion?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Try to find out. Since he’s a local man, he’d have been here when it happened and might even have led the search.’

  ‘Norm is convinced that a ghost haunts that wood.’

  ‘Yes, but as you pointed out, Mr Tiller is a dreamer. I prefer an opinion from a policeman. They know how to keep their minds clear and grounded in reality.’

  When he was told that his brother-in-law had called to see him, Lord Culverhouse asked that his visitor be sent into the study immediately. His surprise quickly turned to astonishment when he saw what Rodney Piper was wearing.

  ‘Good gracious!’ he exclaimed. ‘Whatever are you doing?’

  ‘I’m in mourning for my son.’

  ‘His death hasn’t been formally established yet. His father, of all people, ought to hold fast until the truth is finally known.’

  ‘I already know it.’ Piper tapped his head. ‘In here.’

  ‘That’s an unreliable source of information, Rodney. I know that you feel you have direct contact with the Almighty, but I don’t believe that he’s furnished you with incontrovertible evidence of Alex’s demise.’

  ‘Please don’t mock my faith.’

  ‘It’s your lack of faith that I deplore,’ said Culverhouse, indicating a chair. ‘And please sit down. You look as if you’re about to fall over. Doesn’t my sister feed you properly?’

  ‘I prefer to eat sparely.’

  ‘That’s certainly not true of Emma. She always had a healthy appetite. Can I offer you a drink? Whisky, perhaps?’

  ‘That’s the brew of the devil.’

  ‘We don’t have any communion wine, I’m afraid,’ said Culverhouse, mischievously. ‘Forgive me, Rodney,’ he added, quickly. ‘Levity is hardly appropriate in a crisis like this. How is my dear sister?’

  ‘Emma is bearing up as best she can.’

  ‘Why didn’t you bring her with you?’

  ‘This is not a social visit. I came in search of advice.’

  ‘That’s a change. You’re usually the one who likes to dispense it. It’s part of your stock-in-trade.’

  ‘There’s no need to be offensive, Horace.’

  ‘I take it back at once,’ said Culverhouse,
holding up both palms. ‘Now please sit down before I force you into that chair.’ Piper lowered himself gingerly onto the sofa. His brother-in-law sat beside him. ‘That’s better. I’m all ears.’

  ‘First of all, I must thank you for having the foresight to employ Inspector Colbeck.’

  ‘Only the best is ever good enough for me.’

  ‘We’ve met him.’

  ‘Then you must have seen that burning intelligence of his. Colbeck will sort everything out somehow.’

  ‘We drew strength from his confident attitude.’

  ‘I was impressed by that as well. But what’s this about advice, Rodney?’

  ‘It concerns Mr and Mrs Haslam. I’d like to speak to them. Do you think it’s wise to call at the house uninvited?’

  ‘Of course it is. It’s what I’ve already done.’

  ‘My position is rather different. When the betrothal took place, we were not on speaking terms with our son. It meant that our relationship with Miss Haslam’s father had to be conducted by letter. Her father wrote to me,’ he continued, ‘and had the kindness to say how much he’d enjoyed a sermon I once preached at St Mary and St Michael Church in Cartmel. That somehow helped to break down the barriers between us.’

  ‘What about Alex himself? When did he get in touch?’

  ‘It was immediately before the engagement was due to be announced. Alex sent us a short note of apology for the way that he’d behaved towards us and said that his life had changed for the better in every way since he’d met Miss Haslam. He hoped that we’d soon get to meet her family.’

  ‘And you did, Rodney, so why are you afraid to visit them again?’

  ‘I feel I’d be trespassing on a house of mourning. Miss Haslam’s loss is as great as our own. How would she feel if I went barging in there? It would only remind her of the unfortunate strife that existed between us and our son.’

  ‘Melissa Haslam would welcome you, I’m sure. When I called there yesterday, she was able to talk to me. As for the parents, they too will be glad to see you. There is, after all, a bond between the two families. A visit from you will strengthen that bond,’ said Culverhouse, ‘provided you don’t preach that sermon you gave in Cartmel, of course.’