The Stationmaster's farewell

CHAPTER ONE

November 4th 1857

Joel Heygate was not only a highly efficient stationmaster, he was immensely popular in the community. He was a stout man of middle height with a flabby face decorated by bushy eyebrows and a walrus moustache. In his frock coat and top hat, he was a striking figure and seemed to be a permanent fixture at Exeter St David’s railway station. Those who met him for the first time were impressed by his cheerful disposition and his readiness to offer help. None of them would have guessed that tragedy had entered his life in dramatic fashion. A few years earlier, Heygate’s wife and daughter had been killed in a freak accident on the track outside Plymouth station. Other men might have been embittered by the event and blamed the railway for the death of their loved ones. Heygate steadfastly refused to do that. If anything, his passion for the railway system was intensified and he described himself as having the best job in the world.

Because he had such a legion of friends, he was never lonely. Living in the house provided by the South Devon Railway, he shared it with a canary called Peter and with his warm memories of a happy marriage. When he was not tending his little garden, he spent his spare time birdwatching, making constant use of a telescope bequeathed to him by an old sailor. It was not the only gift that came his way. Local landowners would often drop off a brace of pheasant, and an obliging fishmonger would sometimes slip sole or mackerel into his hand. The railway station was his kingdom. During working hours, he would stride up and down the long single platform with an air of supreme contentment. Heygate would make regular visits to the refreshment room.

‘Good morning, Mrs Rossiter,’ he said.

‘Good morning, Mr Heygate,’ she replied.

‘Good morning, Dorcas,’ he went on, turning to the waitress who was wiping the tables with a cloth. ‘How are you today?’

‘Very well, thank you, Mr Heygate,’ she said.

He checked his pocket watch. ‘The next train will be here in twenty minutes.’

‘We’ll be ready for it,’ said Mrs Rossiter, sweetly. As she looked at Dorcas, her voice hardened. ‘You always forget that table in the corner, Miss Hope.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Dorcas, moving across to it.

Mrs Rossiter rolled her eyes. ‘I have to watch her all the time.’

Railway companies employed a large number of women but the vast majority were invisible as they toiled away in laundries, washing the never-ending stream of towels, tablecloths, sheets and antimacassars that were cleaned on a weekly basis. Mountains of sacks had to be made or repaired by an army of seamstresses. Female employees were more in evidence in railway hotels but Exeter St David’s was unusual in having two of them on duty in the refreshment room. Pretty waitresses like Dorcas Hope were in a vulnerable position, likely to be ogled or groped by lecherous male passengers. She escaped both these fates, thanks to the protection offered by Heygate and, even more so, by the basilisk stare of Agnes Rossiter.

The manageress was a widow in her forties, a thin sharp-featured martinet who made even the bravest and most inebriated of men shudder at the thought of ogling or groping her. Mrs Rossiter’s fearsome reputation was enough in itself to keep men on their best behaviour and restrict them to sly, wistful glances at Dorcas, a shapely young woman whose patent lack of education was outweighed by her willingness to learn. It irked Mrs Rossiter that the stationmaster showed the waitress an almost paternal affection, using her Christian name while keeping the manageress herself on surname status. This was especially demeaning to a woman who had a secret fondness for Heygate and who nursed the faint hope that she might one day be able to arouse his interest in her. For the moment, however, their relationship was one of polite formality.

‘Will you be going to the bonfire tomorrow, Mr Heygate?’ she asked.

‘Of course, Mrs Rossiter,’ he said, affably. ‘It’s an event I’ve been enjoying for over forty years now. What about you?’

‘Oh, I’ll be there,’ she said, beaming as if a tryst had just been arranged. ‘I’ll look out for you.’

‘I may be difficult to find in the crowd.’

‘Father’s taking me,’ announced Dorcas. ‘He won’t let me go alone.’

‘Quite right too,’ said Mrs Rossiter with a sniff. ‘Passions can run disgustingly high on Guy Fawkes Night. No decent woman is safe on her own.’ She smiled at Heygate. ‘That’s why I’ll be grateful for your company.’

‘Don’t bank on it,’ he said. ‘The world and his wife will be there.’

‘I’ll find you nevertheless,’ she warned.

Heygate winced inwardly. While he had the greatest respect for Agnes Rossiter, he had no wish to spend any leisure time with the woman. Her brittle voice grated on his ear and he took care to keep his distance because of her abiding aroma of lavender and mothballs. She was not unattractive. Indeed, some might account her handsome until they saw her in combative mode, when her eyes glinted madly, her teeth were bared and her whole body bristled like a wildcat about to attack.

The refreshment room occupied a long low space that was filled with small tables and an array of chairs. On the counter that ran the length of the room, food and drink were on display and the walls were covered with advertisements. The catering had been leased to a contractor to whom the railway company had guaranteed regular stops at the station by their passenger traffic. In addition to those waiting to board a train or to welcome someone alighting from it, Mrs Rossiter and Dorcas also served the mass of people who surged out of a train making a prolonged stop there to break a lengthy journey. At such times, it was hectic but they coped valiantly.

‘How is your mother, Dorcas?’ asked Heygate, solicitously.

‘She never complains,’ said the waitress, ‘even though she’s in pain.’

‘Is there nothing that can be done for her?’

Dorcas shrugged. ‘There’s nothing we can afford, Mr Heygate.’

‘Do give her my regards.’

‘Yes, I will.’

‘My grandfather was crippled by arthritis, so I know what a trial it can be. Your mother has my sympathy.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I get an occasional twinge myself,’ said Mrs Rossiter, rubbing her hip as she made a plea for attention. ‘It’s agony in cold weather.’

‘Ah,’ said the stationmaster as two customers entered the room, ‘I can see that I’m in the way. I’ll let you get on with serving the travelling public.’

He tipped his hat to the well-dressed couple who’d just come in then shared a farewell smile between Dorcas and Mrs Rossiter before leaving. Straightening her white apron, the waitress went swiftly around to the other side of the counter. The manageress, meanwhile, appraised the two passengers through narrowed lids then took in the whole display of refreshments with a graceful sweep of her arm. She spoke as if bestowing a great favour upon them.

‘What can we get for you?’ she asked.

Exeter was a pleasant cathedral city with a population in excess of thirty-two thousand. In the reign of Elizabeth I, it had been one of the largest and wealthiest provincial communities in England but it was now in decline. The Industrial Revolution that created the huge conurbations in the Midlands and the North had largely passed it by, allowing it to retain a semi-rural atmosphere. County and agricultural interest still held sway. Though its mayor spoke of the city with fierce pride, it was dogged by unemployment, destitution, poor drainage and woefully inadequate public health provisions. Only three years earlier, it had witnessed a bread riot in its streets, a violent outpouring of discontent that resulted in widespread damage and serious injury to citizens and policemen. While it may have died down now, the discontent had not gone away. It was still simmering below the surface and the man most aware of it was the Right Reverend Henry Phillpotts, incumbent Bishop of Exeter. The distant sound of exploding fireworks made him grimace.

‘It’s started already,’ he complained. ‘They can’t even wait a single day.’

‘We must make allowances for the impetuosity of the young,’ said Ralph Barnes, tolerantly. ‘Their excitement is only natural.’

‘You don’t need to remind me. I’ve been the victim of their excitement many times. The year that I was consecrated, they burnt an effigy of me.’

‘It’s traditional to burn effigies of clergymen on Guy Fawkes Night.’

‘This was different, Ralph, as you will recall. It was not undertaken in a spirit of good humour. There was a collective antagonism towards me. It was the reason I summoned the 7th Yeoman Cavalry here as a precaution, and the reason that I always leave the city at this time of the year.’

They were in the bishop’s palace at the rear of the cathedral. Both men were in their seventies, yet their vigour and dedication were unimpaired. Bishop Phillpotts considered himself a prince of the church and acted with regal arrogance. He was a strict disciplinarian who ruled the clergy in his diocese with an iron rod. It earned him few friends and many enemies but he felt that seeking popularity was a sure sign of weakness of character. While his hair was silvered and his forehead lined, his eyes maintained their imperious sparkle. He turned his back so that Barnes could help him on with his cloak.

‘Thank you, Ralph,’ he said, adjusting the garment.

‘When will we return?’

‘Only when calm has been restored.’

They were leaving Exeter to avoid the celebrations on the following day, moving instead to the palace that the bishop had had built at Torquay. It was his preferred residence, with extensive gardens that stretched down to the sea. He felt safer there, well away from the hullabaloo of November 5th and the dangers that accompanied it. At an age when retirement might have beckoned, Ralph Barnes had continued to be the secretary to the bishop and clerk to the dean and chapter. A former solicitor in the city, Barnes was a slim, immaculate, well-groomed individual with a cool head and an unobtrusive manner. Beside a man of such arresting eminence as Phillpotts, he was rather insignificant but he played a vital role in the diocese and discharged his duties well.

Putting on his top hat, Barnes followed the bishop through the front door held open by a servant, then clambered into the open carriage beside him. Paradoxically, they were fleeing from an annual event that only existed because of ecclesiastical support. Guy Fawkes Day was a symbol of a Reformation that was held in high regard by the Protestant citizenry. The public were allowed to hold festivities in the cathedral close and the Church contributed funds to the building of a massive bonfire near the west door of the edifice. Essentially an occasion for the youth of the city, it was attended by people of all ages. Having sanctioned the celebrations, the bishop was now being driven well away from them. As the carriage rumbled into the close, they caught sight of the vast pile of timber and other combustible material.

‘That will burn merrily for hours,’ observed Barnes.

‘There’d be even more merriment if I was sitting on top of it,’ said Phillpotts, sourly. ‘Someone who lives by the highest moral principles will never find favour with the common people. That’s why I rise above their mindless disapproval of me.’

‘Yet you still command a great deal of respect.’

‘After over a quarter of a century as their bishop, I deserve it.’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’

‘When I took charge of this diocese, the clergy were despondent and their respective ministries fell well short of desired standards. That is no longer the case. I have brought about a reformation of my own.’ He permitted himself a rare smile. ‘Fortunately, it does not need to be marked by an annual bonfire.’

Barnes grinned. ‘That’s very amusing, Bishop.’

‘You know exactly how much I’ve done to revive the church here.’

‘Nobody could have done more.’

While they were talking, squibs were being let off on all sides by mischievous children, filling the air with a series of pops and flashes. Someone threw a firework at the carriage and it exploded under the hooves of one of the horses. With a loud neigh, it reared up between the shafts. The driver needed time to bring the animal under control again. Meanwhile, other fireworks were being hurled in fun at the carriage and there was a whole salvo of minor explosions. Stamping his foot in exasperation, the bishop looked up at the driver.

‘Hurry up, man!’ he shouted. ‘Get me away from here!’

Dorcas Hope was roused from her slumbers at four o’clock next morning when cannon fire boomed out from various quarters of the city to mark the great day. By the time she set off towards the station, the streets were already busy. Children were hawking rudimentary guys about and youths were carrying more fuel to the bonfire. There was a sense of corporate exhilaration and Dorcas was caught up in it. When a firework went off close to her, she simply laughed and continued on her way. It was her custom to peep into the stationmaster’s house each morning so that she could watch the canary hopping about in its cage. When she reached the relevant window this time, however, the curtains were drawn. That was most unusual. Joel Heygate was an early riser and a stickler for punctuality. She’d expected him to have been at work an hour ago. Could he have overslept for once or — the thought was more disturbing — been taken ill? Dorcas was worried. She went to the front door and used the knocker. Though the sound echoed through the house, it evoked no response. She tried again but it was futile. Heygate was either not there or too unwell to move. When she looked upwards, she saw that the bedroom curtains were also closed.

The irony was that she had a key to the house. It had been entrusted to her so that she could feed Peter on the few occasions when Heygate took time off to visit friends in Cornwall. Dorcas kept it hidden at home. It never occurred to her that the key might have been useful. There was no time to retrieve it now. If she was only minutes late, she would suffer a stinging reprimand from Mrs Rossiter and she wanted to avoid that at all costs. She was about to leave when she noticed that there was a chink in the curtains that concealed the parlour from view. If she stood on her toes, she might just be able to get a glimpse of the interior. Raising herself up to her full height, she peered through the tiny gap. The room was in shadow but she was able to see something that turned her concern into alarm. There was a cloth over the birdcage. The first thing that the stationmaster did every morning was to remove the cloth and welcome Peter into the light of day. The bird was still in darkness. It was ominous.

Dorcas hurried to the station as fast as she could, determined to report what she’d discovered. When she arrived, she found everyone in a state of agitation. Clerks and porters were asking each other what could possibly have happened to Heygate and Mrs Rossiter was weeping quietly into a handkerchief. Before Dorcas could speak, a stern voice interrupted the anguished debate.

‘That’s enough of that!’ declared Lawrence Woodford. ‘You all have jobs to do. I suggest that you get on and do them.’ When they paused to gape at him, he wagged an admonitory finger. ‘I’m in charge now,’ he decreed. ‘If you don’t do as you’re told, there’ll be dire consequences.’

Obeying the order, they all dispersed. Only Dorcas remained.

‘I just passed Mr Heygate’s house,’ she explained. ‘The curtains were drawn.’

‘We know that, Miss Hope,’ said Woodford, irritably.

‘What’s happened to him?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘He’s never late for work, Mr Woodford.’

‘There’s always a first time,’ he said, ‘and this — evidently — is it. That’s why it’s fallen to me to take over as stationmaster.’

It was a role that he’d coveted for many years. Woodford was the chief clerk, a tall, stooping man of middle years with a mobile face and darting eyes. Dorcas had never liked him. He was officious, self-important and inclined to shoot her lewd glances whenever he caught her alone. Since he made no secret of the fact that he felt he could do the job better than Heygate, he was now glorying in the opportunity to prove it. He smirked triumphantly.

‘You answer to me henceforth, Miss Hope.’

‘I understand, Mr Woodford.’

‘This station will be run properly from now on.’

‘Mr Heygate ran it very well,’ she said, defensively.

‘Then where is he?’ he demanded. ‘A captain does not desert his ship.’

‘He may have been taken ill.’

‘Joel Heygate is never ill.’

‘There’s no other explanation.’

‘I can think of two or three,’ he said, darkly. ‘The most obvious one is that he’s absconded. He has the keys to the safe, remember, and could easily have emptied it before making his escape.’

Dorcas was horrified. ‘He wouldn’t do a thing like that!’

‘You’re too young and trusting, Miss Hope. I know the ways of the world.’

‘And I know Mr Heygate,’ she said with a hint of defiance. ‘He was a good man and it’s wrong to think bad things about him.’

‘Get off to the refreshment room,’ he snapped.

She held her ground. ‘I want to know the truth, Mr Woodford.’

‘You’ll hear it at the same time as the rest of us. I’ve sent word to the police and asked them to collect Mrs Penhallurick on their way here. She cleans the house so is bound to have a key. Don’t be misled by false loyalty,’ he said, looming over her. ‘There’s something sinister in his disappearance. It’s just as well that you have me to step into the breach.’

Dorcas looked around in bewilderment. Ordinarily, it was a joy to come to work. The stationmaster looked after her and she enjoyed meeting so many people every day. Any pleasure had now been snatched away from her. Instead of working under a kind friend, she was at the mercy of someone she disliked and distrusted.

Woodford asserted his authority. ‘Don’t stand there dithering, girl,’ he growled. ‘You have passengers to serve.’

She scampered off to the refreshment room with tears in her eyes.

Exeter had learnt from experience that it was wise to clear the streets of horses, carriages and carts on that particular day in autumn. Household pets were locked safely away but there were always stray animals on which the crueller youths could pounce. More than one dog went yelping across the cobbles with a cracker attached to its tail and cats were tempting targets for a lighted squib or two. An afternoon service was held in the cathedral but the main focus of attention was the close. It filled up steadily throughout the day. Children argued, fought, played games or paraded their guys — misshapen creations wearing tatty old coats, corduroy breeches and battered hats on the pumpkins or other vegetables that served as heads. Carrots were pressed into service as comical noses. Suspended from one arm was a lantern while a bundle of matches dangled from the other. The better examples of craftsmanship garnered pennies from passers-by, while the poorer exhibits aroused derision. Owners of rival guys sometimes came to blows.

Celebrations were not confined to the city. People came in from miles around, many of them arriving by train. There were well over a hundred pubs in Exeter and they were all working at full stretch. When they tumbled out to watch the lighting of the bonfire that evening, their patrons were drunk, rowdy and excitable as they swelled the enormous crowd in the cathedral close. The timbers were fired, the crackle of twigs was heard and smoke began to rise in earnest. There was a concerted cheer from the crowd but it was nothing to the volcanic eruption of delight that later greeted the sight of hungry flames around a guy that bore a distinct resemblance to the bishop. They yelled and hooted until his papier mache mitre was destroyed along with the rest of him. Henry Phillpotts was burnt out of existence.

Police were on duty but their numbers were ridiculously small. There was no way that they could control any disorder. They just hoped that it would not reach a level where they’d have to call on reinforcements from Topsham Barracks. Ever since police and soldiers had engaged in a ferocious brawl over a decade earlier, there had been bad blood between them. The general view taken of the police was unflattering and Guy Fawkes Night was seen by many as an excuse to settle old scores with them. Lest their hats were knocked off or they became embroiled in a fracas, policemen therefore tended to stay in the shadows. Even with the support of watchmen, they were hopelessly outnumbered. Yet the mayor and the justices of the peace had to make a gesture in the direction of law and order, so they occupied the Guildhall ready to offer summary justice to any malefactors dragged in.

While everyone around her was whooping with joy, Dorcas was strangely detached from the whole event. She was still preoccupied by the fate of Joel Heygate. At first she hadn’t wanted to go to the bonfire celebrations but her father felt that they might stop her from brooding about the stationmaster. Nathaniel Hope had been upset to hear about the man’s disappearance. Since he worked as a guard on the railway, he saw a great deal of Heygate and the two of them were good friends. Hope was a big, solid man with craggy features edged with a beard. In the jostling throng, he kept a protective arm around his daughter. To make sure that she heard him, he had to raise his voice over the cacophony.

‘Try not to think about it,’ he advised.

‘That’s what I’ve been trying to do, Father, but I can’t put it out of my mind. I’m afraid that something terrible has happened to Mr Heygate.’

‘We don’t know that for certain.’

‘I do,’ she said, grimly. ‘He’s disappeared.’

‘That doesn’t mean he came to grief somewhere, Dorcas. When the police went into his house this morning, there was no sign of anything untoward. Nothing was touched and nothing was taken.’

‘That’s no comfort to me.’

‘No,’ he sighed, ‘I can see that it isn’t. Joel Heygate is a man in a thousand. I admire him. It was only because he was the stationmaster that I agreed to let you take that job in the refreshment room.’

‘He was my friend.’

‘He was also someone who could take care of himself,’ he said, sounding more optimistic than he felt. ‘If he did get into a spot of bother last night, I’m sure that he was able to cope with it.’

‘Then where is he?’ she wailed.

Hope had no answer to that. He was still struggling to suppress his own fears. Heygate was a methodical man. Over the years, he’d kept to a strict routine. Until now, he’d never once deviated from it. His absence was thus profoundly unsettling. Closing his eyes, Hope offered up a silent prayer for him.

The blazing bonfire didn’t merely warm everyone up on a raw evening, it also lit up the whole area and painted the cathedral in garish colours. Flames danced wildly and the roar was deafening. The stench of smoke was everywhere and sparks were carried on the wind, singeing the overhanging branches of nearby trees or lodging harmlessly on roofs until they expired. Bawdy songs were sung, scuffles broke out and youthful exuberance had free rein. The cathedral close was a cauldron of heat, noise and abandon. Policemen stationed on the margins began to get restive.

Dorcas had seen enough. It was time to go. Before she could ask her father to take her home, however, she spotted someone coming towards them. It was Mrs Rossiter, barging her way through the crowd and looking in all directions as she did so. She was wearing her best coat and a new hat trimmed with ostrich feathers. When she bumped into Dorcas, she spoke with breathless urgency.

‘Have you seen Mr Heygate?’ she asked.

‘No, Mrs Rossiter,’ replied Dorcas.

‘He promised that he’d be here. Well, you’re my witness, Miss Hope. You heard him. He more or less agreed to meet me at the bonfire.’

‘He’s not here,’ said Hope, resignedly.

‘He must be, Mr Hope. It’s not like him to let me down. It’s not like him at all. Joel — Mr Heygate, that is — is so reliable. He’s in the crowd somewhere.’

‘I very much doubt that, Mrs Rossiter.’

‘So do I,’ added Dorcas.

‘You’re both wrong,’ insisted the older woman. ‘He’s here. I sense it.’

‘Then you’re mistaken, Mrs Rossiter.’

‘He is — I’d swear it.’

‘You may be right,’ said Hope, deciding to humour her. ‘Who knows? He may have turned up out of the blue. Listen,’ he went on, ‘Dorcas and I are about to leave. Would you like to walk home with us?’

‘What a terrible thing to suggest!’ said Mrs Rossiter, indignantly. ‘That would be an act of betrayal. I can’t leave when I have to meet Mr Heygate.’

‘But he’s not here,’ said Dorcas in despair.

‘Yes he is, and I won’t rest until I find him.’

Lifting her chin, Mrs Rossiter charged off, elbowing her way through the bellowing horde as she continued her search. Dorcas felt sorry for her. She’d never seen the other woman so close to hysteria. Mrs Rossiter had such self-control as a rule that her behaviour was troubling.

‘Do you think we should go after her, Father?’ she asked.

‘Leave her be.’

‘But she’s wasting her time.’

‘I know,’ he said, sadly. ‘One thing is certain. Joel Heygate is not here.’

A rousing cheer went up as the blaze suddenly strengthened and poked tongues of flame at the cathedral in blatant mockery. Smoke thickened and sparks fell in ever-widening showers of radiance. Fireworks exploded like a volley from an infantry regiment. The Bishop of Exeter had perished with the other guys tossed onto the bonfire and the inferno roared on. It would be several hours before it burnt itself out and exposed the charred body of a human being among the embers. Crazed she might be, but Mrs Rossiter’s instincts had been sound.

The stationmaster was there, after all.