Even though it had been necessary, Leeming had hated having to get up early that morning. Given the effort spent the night before, he could have stayed in bed until noon. There was one immediate bonus. As he’d left the hotel, he’d seen masses of textile workers going off to their respective factories. These were the people who kept Kendal throbbing with activity. The detectives had so far dealt largely with middle-class inhabitants and, in the case of Lord Culverhouse, with a member of the aristocracy. Leeming found it refreshing to see droves of what he regarded as real human beings, men and women whose destiny it was to keep the machines turning so that they could produce goods ready for dispatch and maintain the town’s reputation for quality. If he lived there, he mused, he might have been working alongside them.
He got to the bookshop to discover that Tiller had gone off to market, leaving his wife in charge of the premises. Ruth Tiller was a slim, shy, pretty woman who was younger than her husband. Whenever she mentioned his name, a smile of pleasure flitted across her face. After introducing himself, Leeming took the opportunity to ask about their domestic life.
‘Do you have any children?’
‘No, but we look after David, who’s very much like a child. He’s Norm’s younger brother. It’s sad, really. David lives in a bookshop, yet he can’t actually read. But, in spite of his problems, he’s no trouble. He helps our servant with chores.’
‘Does your husband always do the shopping?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘he has an eye for fruit and vegetables. I usually buy a bruised apple or a rotten cabbage by mistake, but Norm would never do that. Besides, he enjoys the bustle of the market whereas I find it a bit frightening.’
‘Why is that, Mrs Tiller?’
‘There’s so much pushing, shoving and shouting. I hate being jostled.’
‘What about the cooking. You do that, surely?’
‘My husband usually helps. People think that he just sits around all day and dusts off his books, but he does a lot of work in the house as well. I couldn’t manage without him.’
‘My wife has to manage without me,’ said Leeming, sadly. ‘My work takes me all over the country so I’m very often not even there. It’s unfair on her, really.’
‘I’m sure she’s very proud of the work you do, Sergeant.’
‘I think she’d rather have me doing a job that allowed me to sleep in the same bed every night.’ He glanced around the shelves. ‘Where did Norm get all these books from?’
‘Oh, he’s always collected them. He’s travelled all over the place to buy books. Norm went to an auction in Maryport once and came back with over two hundred.’
‘Do you go off on his expeditions?’
‘Sometimes,’ she said. ‘I went with him to Maryport because it’s where I was born and where I first met him. I was very young at the time.’
‘What interested you about him?’
‘He was different. Maryport is a coal town and most of the lads there work in some part of the industry. They’re strong and loud and usually up to mischief. Norm isn’t like that. He’s quiet and thoughtful. Moreover, he has principles. That’s why he was in Maryport in the first place.’
‘Tell me about his principles.’
‘He loves this county because of its beauty and hated it when they built the Maryport and Carlisle Railway. It was already well established when he came to demonstrate against the latest extension,’ she explained. ‘The first time I ever saw him, he was carrying a banner that asked us to stop letting railways ruin our landscape.’
‘What about the railway here?’
‘Oh, he objected to that as well. We were together then. I carried a banner alongside him and went to the talks Norm gave to people who felt the same as him.’
‘I didn’t realise he was an agitator.’
‘He wasn’t, Sergeant. He was just expressing an opinion. Mr Wordsworth did the same. He wrote a poem attacking the idea of a railway here. Norm wrote one as well.’
It was a new side to the bookseller and Leeming wanted to hear much more about it. Before he could ply her with further questions, however, Tiller returned from market with two large wicker baskets filled to capacity with fruit and vegetables.
‘What are you doing here, Sergeant?’ he asked.
‘I came to see you.’
‘Then you’re just in time for a cup of tea. Here you are, Ruth,’ he went on, handing her the baskets, ‘I think that’s everything you asked for. Put the kettle on, please. The sergeant looks as if he’s thirsty.’
Since the search parties had been disbanded, Geoffrey Hedley was no longer committing his daylight hours to tramping across the countryside. Instead, he went to the police station to see what information he could pick up about the investigation. Sergeant Ainsley took him into his office.
‘The person you should be asking is Inspector Colbeck,’ he said. ‘Only he can tell you what’s going on.’
‘I went to his hotel in the hope of speaking to him but both he and Sergeant Leeming left there early this morning.’ Hedley shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea where they are.’
‘What’s your opinion of them, may I ask?’
‘Their reputation speaks for itself.’
‘I’ve been a policeman far too long to put my trust in someone’s reputation. I judge people by what they do now, not because of some triumph in the distant past.’
‘Are you saying you have no faith in Inspector Colbeck?’
‘Not at all, sir,’ replied Ainsley. ‘He’s obviously a very clever man. It’s just that I find his methods a little strange.’
‘Could you explain why, please?’
‘Well, let me give you an example. The first thing he did was to examine the railway carriage in which Mr Piper – and you, of course – both travelled on that excursion. He even checked how much oil there was in the lamps in the last compartment.’
Hedley was startled. ‘Really – what did he find?’
‘They’d been tampered with, he claimed. So much oil had been taken out that there was a likelihood that one or both of the lamps would go out in the course of the journey.’
‘One of them did go out, as it happens.’
‘I don’t see any significance in that. All it proves is that someone forgot to put fresh oil in the lamps before the train set out. After all,’ said Ainsley, ‘the carriages are out of use most of the time. What the inspector sees as vital evidence could easily be a case of laziness on the part of a railwayman.’
‘I’m inclined to agree with you,’ said Hedley.
‘In other ways, the inspector has done the right things. He’s talked to all of the right people and has even identified a few suspects – thanks to help from you, sir.’
‘I merely named people with a grudge against Alex.’
‘There are rather a lot of those in Kendal.’
‘These were men with a particular reason to want some kind of retribution.’
‘And I can understand why, sir,’ said Ainsley. ‘However, I don’t know that I’d have put Norm Tiller’s name forward as a suspect. He did once lose his temper with Mr Piper but that’s as far as it went.’
‘Then I have to disagree with you, Sergeant. I witnessed the row at that meeting of the local poets. Alex had drunk too much. I’d tried to stop him but he ignored me. The next morning, he felt he’d gone too far. I suggested that he offered Tiller an apology but he refused to do that.’
‘Yes, I know. He dared to demand an apology from Norm Tiller.’
‘That’s what I was ordered to ask for, Sergeant. In fact, I followed my own instincts. When I went to the bookshop, I made my own apology for Alex’s behaviour.’
‘What did Norm say to you?’
‘He hardly said a word,’ replied Hedley, ‘but I could see that he was still simmering with anger. He refused point-blank to accept any apology. That’s why his name went on the list I gave to Inspector Colbeck. Only one thing would appease him and that was Alex’s death.’
Norman Tiller was in an almost jovial mood as he and his visitor drank their cup of tea. He regaled Leeming with anecdotes about his visits to the town market over the years and he chortled as he recalled some of the characters he’d met. A few of them had actually inspired poems of his. It was only when his wife went off into the kitchen that Tiller’s mood changed.
‘What have I done this time, Sergeant?’ he asked, softly.
‘You’ve done nothing, as far as I know.’
‘Then why have you come back?’
‘I’m interested in some of your poems.’
‘Let’s be honest,’ said the other. ‘By your own admission, your interest is limited to nursery rhymes and I don’t write those. Who’ve you been talking to?’
‘I had a word with Sergeant Ainsley, as it happens.’
‘I thought so. You wanted to know how that argument at the King’s Arms ended.’
‘I went in search of more detail,’ said Leeming, ‘but you were not the only person we talked about. The sergeant told me about his friendship with Gregor Hayes, the blacksmith.’
‘They were very close.’
‘I could tell that. He still has hopes of solving that case.’
‘We’d all be grateful if he did that.’
‘How well did you know Mr Hayes?’
‘I only saw him when I took my horse to be shoed,’ said Tiller, ‘and we always had a chat. But I wouldn’t say that I really knew Gregor. He was an important figure in this town, the kind you take for granted until they disappear. Then you realise how much you miss them.’
‘Is that why you wrote a poem about him?’
Tiller was momentarily stunned. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Sergeant Ainsley happened to mention it. That’s why I came here. I’d like to read it out of interest.’
‘But you never knew the man.’
‘I know of him and he fascinates me. Also, I’d like to see how you described his disappearance.’
Tiller was abrupt. ‘Well, you can’t, I’m afraid.’
‘Why not?’
‘I wasn’t happy with the poem, so I tore it up.’
‘That was a bit impulsive, wasn’t it? Why go to all the trouble of writing it if you then destroy it?’
‘It failed to meet the standard I set myself,’ said Tiller. ‘Most of my poems are like that. I do endless versions of them until I reach the point when I have to accept that they’re simply not good enough. Out they go. You have to be brutal if you want to preserve the quality of your work.’
‘That’s a pity,’ said Leeming. ‘I just hope you’ve kept another poem I’d like to take a look at. Your wife was telling me how you’ve been involved in protests about the building of the railways in the Lake District.’
‘That was years ago.’
‘Perhaps it was, but you have the poem to remind you of the time when you fought against the Kendal and Windermere Railway. If I’d lived here, I’d have done the same. I hate railways,’ said Leeming. ‘That’s why I’d love to see your poem. Do you still have it?’
The bookseller said nothing, but it was clear from the glint in his eye that his visitor’s request was being turned down.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Aware of their intense suffering, Colbeck made a point of calling on the Haslam family. It seemed odd that, in such a relatively small community, they knew nothing about the rumours surrounding Alexander Piper but, having met them, he could understand why. Their house was isolated from Kendal and the only time they ventured into the town on a regular basis was when they went to church. When their daughter had been befriended by Piper, her parents had taken him largely at face value, assuming that the son of an archdeacon would be honourable and above reproach. All that concerned them was Melissa’s happiness and she had been radiant. Unfortunately, the dramatic events at Hallowe’en had made her dreams of an idyllic marriage disintegrate.
When he called on the family, therefore, Colbeck made a point of spending some time alone with Melissa, doing his best to offer some reassurance. While promising her that he would find out exactly what had happened to her betrothed, he was conscious that the truth might well cause her even more sorrow. Melissa produced one surprise.
‘Our friends have been so kind,’ she said. ‘We’ve had cards and letters of condolence from everyone, but there was a glaring exception.’
‘Oh – and who might that be, Miss Haslam?’
‘Mr Hedley.’
‘That’s because he’s been heavily involved in the search,’ suggested Colbeck. ‘They leave not long after dawn and only get back when light is fading.’
‘He could still have written to me.’
‘That’s true and no more than you should expect.’
‘Geoffrey was there. He’d have travelled in the same compartment as Alex. He could tell me the things I’d like to know. Of all the men on that excursion, Geoffrey is the only one I’d trust.’
‘What about some of the women on that train?’
‘There were only a handful of those. According to Alex, most of the people on the Phantom Special were men. By and large, women were too frightened to go. I was one of them.’
Colbeck felt sorry for her as he realised that she’d been duped by her fiancé. Melissa had been told that the excursion was an almost exclusively male affair whereas there were several young women aboard the train.
‘Will you be seeing Geoffrey Hedley today?’ she asked.
‘I expect so, Miss Haslam.’
‘Then I’d be grateful if you’d pass on my concern.’
‘I’ll make a point of doing so,’ said Colbeck, ‘though it may well be that he’s kept his distance from you because he fears that you’re in too fragile a state to receive visitors.’
‘I’d happily speak to him.’
‘Then I’ll pass on the message.’
‘Thank you, Inspector. And let me say that I do appreciate your taking the trouble to come here at a time when you’re in the middle of leading the investigation.’
‘I have, alas, been in this situation many times, Miss Haslam,’ he said, ‘so I know the importance of keeping grieving families well informed. It’s the reason I’m now going on to visit Lord and Lady Culverhouse to see what comfort I may be able to offer to them.’
Though she was always pleased to see Madeleine’s father, Lydia Quayle was glad to have arrived at the house when the old man was preoccupied with his granddaughter. Now she could have a private conversation with her friend. Madeleine was unusually despondent.
‘What’s the trouble?’ asked Lydia.
‘The medal has definitely gone,’ said the other. ‘I still had hopes that it was there but, when father and I searched the house from top to bottom this morning, there was no sign of it. It’s pointless expecting it to turn up out of the blue.’
‘I’m so sorry, Madeleine.’
‘Father is afraid he’ll never see his medal again.’
‘At least wait until Alan has looked into the case. During the time he’s been at Scotland Yard, he’s arrested quite a few thieves. Alan has a knack of finding clues.’
‘We certainly need his help.’
‘How is your father now?’
‘Strangely enough, he’s more settled in his mind. Now that he’s been back to the house, he feels he’d rather sleep there tonight. He chided himself for being afraid to stay under his own roof yesterday. During the day, of course,’ said Madeleine, ‘he has no qualms because I asked a neighbour to keep watch on the house. We were able to speak to him earlier on.’
‘Had he seen anything suspicious?’
‘As a matter of fact, he had, Lydia. A man had banged on the front door twice then peered through the window. Mr Kingston didn’t recognise him, so he wrote down a description of him and told us that he just didn’t trust him.’
‘You’re lucky to have a good neighbour like that.’
‘Mr Kingston has always got on well with my father. He used to work on the railway himse
lf but only in the ticket office. He loved to hear about the adventures my father had, especially the story about how Robert and I first came to meet as a result of the train robbery. Oh,’ said Madeleine, ‘I almost forgot. I had a lovely long letter from Robert this morning.’
‘What does he say about the investigation?’
‘It’s far more complicated than he thought it would be. But he’s confident of success in the end. You know my husband, Lydia. He always strikes an optimistic note.’ Madeleine pursed her lips. ‘I wish I could say that about Father.’
Victor Leeming never needed any persuasion to step into a bar but, on this occasion, he was not there in search of a drink. He’d come to the King’s Arms to speak to its landlord, Hugh Penrose. Leeming asked him how many people belonged to the group of poets that used to meet there.
‘Why do you want to know that, Sergeant?’ asked Penrose. ‘Are you thinking of joining them?’
Leeming grinned. ‘I can’t string more than a few words together,’ he confessed, ‘and even then, they’re usually in the wrong order.’
‘To answer your question, there are six or seven of them.’
‘Can you remember their names?’
‘Why? Do you want their autographs?’
‘I want something a lot more important than that,’ said Leeming, taking out his notebook and pencil. ‘I’m ready.’
Penrose rattled off seven names and also provided details of each poet’s occupation. As a result, the sergeant first headed off to the shop owned by Reginald Garside, one of the town’s barbers. He found him carefully trimming the beard of a customer. Garside was a tall, bony, middle-aged man who’d spent so much time bent over in the course of his work that his spine had acquired a permanent stoop.
Luckily, no other customers were waiting. When the bearded man had paid and left, Garside turned to Leeming.
‘What can I do for you, sir?’ he asked.
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