The Stationmaster's farewell

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?’

‘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.’

‘I will, Mrs Heygate,’ promised Leeming, ‘and I’m sorry to intrude at such a time. But the more we learn about the character of your brother-in-law, the more helpful it is to us. Everyone speaks highly of him and yet he was the victim of a despicable crime. Can either of you suggest who committed it?’

‘No, we can’t,’ said Heygate.

‘Did he never confide that he had enemies?’

‘It was something we never discussed, Sergeant.’

‘Did he seem at all afraid on that last occasion when you saw him?’

‘Joel was never afraid.’

‘He was a brave man,’ added Lavinia. ‘I’ll say that for him. He loved his job at the station and wouldn’t let anyone cause trouble there. Isn’t that true, Michael?’

‘Yes, it is,’ confirmed her husband. ‘Joel would tackle anybody.’

‘That’s the impression we’ve been getting,’ said Leeming.

After a few more questions, Leeming apologised again for disturbing them. He then asked them to get in touch with him and Colbeck if they remembered anything — even the slightest detail — that might be of relevance to the investigation. So eager were they to get rid of him that they both accompanied him to the front door. Heygate opened it and ushered the visitor into the street.

‘I did some fishing as a lad,’ recalled Leeming.

‘It’s a very popular hobby,’ said Heygate. ‘That’s why I opened the shop.’

‘I’m sorry that it faltered, sir.’

‘We prefer to forget about that … Goodbye, Sergeant.’

‘Goodbye, sir, and goodbye, Mrs Heygate.’ About to turn away, Leeming paused. ‘Oh, there is one thing I meant to ask. Have you lived in Devon for long?’

‘We’ve both spent all our lives here,’ said Heygate. ‘I was born in Exeter and my wife hails from Starcross. It’s not far away.’

‘I know. I came past it on my way here. In fact,’ said Leeming, ‘perhaps you can help me. According to Inspector Colbeck, Starcross was one of the places where they tried to run trains by atmospheric pressure.’

‘That’s right. Joel was very excited about it at the time. He was upset when the experiment was abandoned. What did you wish to know, Sergeant?’

Leeming smiled hopefully. ‘How exactly did it work?’

Agnes Rossiter was in a pitiable condition. Still dressed like a grieving widow, she sat in the corner of the room and stared blankly ahead of her through red-rimmed eyes. Colbeck had called at the little cottage and been admitted by Frances Impey, the unmarried sister. Frances was older, paler and thinner with plain features and watery eyes. Lacking any confidence, she was in a state of continual embarrassment as if forever apologising for her very existence. As he glanced around the cluttered parlour with its fading wallpaper, its sparse furniture, its insipid paintings, its threadbare carpet, its potted plant, its stuffed fox and its vague smell of damp, Colbeck felt that it was the ideal habitat for the spinster. It was a place into which she could withdraw from life surrounded only by what was old, worn and familiar.

‘She’s been like this all morning,’ said Frances, hands fluttering like a pair of giant butterflies. ‘Agnes won’t eat a thing. I made her a nourishing broth but she refused to touch it.’

‘Did she get any sleep?’ asked Colbeck.

‘No, Inspector, she sat up all night in that chair. I don’t know what’s got into my sister. Is it true that she created a scene at the cathedral?’

‘There was an incident of sorts,’ he said, trying to play down its significance. ‘Mrs Rossiter is clearly unable to control her emotions.’

‘It frightens me.’

‘I daresay that it does, Miss Impey.’

‘It’s so unlike Agnes, you see. She always has so much to say for herself.’

‘I’ve taken the liberty of asking for a medical opinion,’ said Colbeck, raising a hand when he saw the panic in her face. ‘Have no fear about the cost. I spoke to Mr Quinnell and told him of your sister’s sterling service. In view of that, the railway company has offered to pay the bills for any treatment.’

The word alarmed her. ‘Treatment? What sort of treatment?’

‘That depends on Dr Swift’s advice.’

‘Agnes has never been this ill before. She couldn’t afford to be.’

‘Tell me how it started,’ said Colbeck. ‘How did your sister seem when she came home after hearing about Mr Heygate’s death?’

‘She was as white as a sheet, Inspector. It was even worse than when her dear husband died — God rest his soul! Agnes wept for hours on end.’

‘Were she and the stationmaster close friends?’

‘Oh, yes, she thought the world of him.’

‘Did Mr Heygate ever visit her here?’

‘Lord, no,’ said Frances, drawing back defensively. ‘I don’t have any gentlemen under my roof — except for the vicar, of course, but he’s different. Agnes would never have brought Mr Heygate into my house. That was understood when she first moved in with me. She would have seen him elsewhere.’

‘Yet they don’t appear to have spent any time together outside working hours.’

‘I think you’re wrong there, Inspector. Agnes would go out of an evening now and then and it was always to see Mr Heygate.’

‘Is that what she told you?’

‘It was the truth. We kept no secrets from each other.’

Colbeck preferred to rely on the testimony of others. The stationmaster had never spent an evening alone with Mrs Rossiter. She’d invented a fantasy courtship and persuaded a gullible sister to believe in it. Now that Heygate had died, her fantasy had crumbled and her unrealistic hopes of a second marriage had perished. She was forced to confront a bleak future without a dream of escape to sustain her. As a result, something inside her had snapped.

Looking at her now, it was difficult to imagine her running wildly down the nave of the cathedral, but Colbeck had no reason to doubt the report he’d been given by the police. The manageress had gone from one extreme to another. After her dramatic and uncontrolled action, she’d now lapsed into a wounded silence. Sitting opposite her, Colbeck tried to break it.

‘Good morning, Mrs Rossiter,’ he said, softly. ‘How are you today?’

There was no reply. She didn’t even seem to notice that he was there.

‘It’s Inspector Colbeck,’ he went on. ‘You remember me.’

‘It’s no use,’ said Frances. ‘I couldn’t get a word out of her myself. She just sits there and broods.’ She held her sister’s hands. ‘It’s the inspector, Agnes, the kind man who brought you home in a cab. He’d like to talk to you.’ There was no response at all. ‘There you are,’ said Frances, giving up, ‘I told you that it was hopeless.’

‘So it would seem.’

She let go of her sister’s hands. ‘What will happen to her?’

‘That will depend on the diagnosis.’

‘I don’t mean her illness,’ said Frances. ‘Though I don’t know the full details, Agnes did something terrible in the cathedral. The police brought her home. We’ve never been in trouble before, Inspector. We’re good, law-abiding people.’

‘I’m sure that you are, Miss Impey.’

‘Will my sister have to go to prison?’

‘Oh, I don’t think there’s any danger of that,’ said Colbeck, soothingly. ‘Mrs Rossiter caused a stir but there was no actual damage. Superintendent Steel is a humane and understanding man. He’s not inclined to press charges.’

‘What about the bishop?’

Colbeck grimaced. ‘He may take a different view, alas.’ The doorbell rang. ‘Ah, that will be Dr Swift, I suspect. May I let him in?’

‘Please do so.’

Colbeck went to the front door and opened it to admit Dr Morton Swift. After introductions, Swift removed his hat and scrutinised the patient. Frances described her sister’s symptoms and was slavishly deferential. Colbeck, meanwhile, sized up the newcomer. Swift was a tall, suave individual in his early forties with a searching gaze. He was not the family doctor but had been recommended by Superintendent Steel as the man best qualified to deal with a hysterical woman. He was calm, experienced and reassuring. Like Colbeck, he paid considerable attention to the quality of his apparel.

‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Rossiter alone,’ decided Swift.

‘But she won’t talk to anyone, Doctor,’ said Frances.

‘Why don’t you and I step into the next room?’ suggested Colbeck as he shepherded her to the door. ‘Dr Swift doesn’t want us in the way.’

‘Oh, well … I suppose not.’

With a fearful glance at her sister, Frances went into the kitchen. Colbeck went after her, relieved that Mrs Rossiter was getting the medical attention that she obviously needed. Dr Swift had an excellent reputation. After his examination, he would be able to prescribe the appropriate treatment.

‘An owl, a canary, a missing diary, a bonfire, an angry bishop, a well-known thug on the loose, a crazed female in a revolting display of blasphemy — this is the most bizarre case in which I’ve ever been involved,’ said Tallis. ‘One is bound to wonder what comes next.’

‘I’m grateful that you came all this way to take charge of the investigation, Superintendent,’ said Quinnell.

‘I’m here at the behest of Bishop Phillpotts.’

‘Have you met him yet?’

‘I had that displeasure,’ said Tallis, scowling. ‘It was an abrasive encounter. I came in the spirit of obedience and, if truth be told, left in something of a temper.’

Quinnell smiled. ‘The bishop has that effect on me as well.’

They were in the stationmaster’s house. Keen to see everything for himself, Tallis had asked to be shown around the station. Happy to oblige, Quinnell took him on a short tour and they ended up in the dwelling once inhabited by Joel Heygate.

‘When someone in authority criticises my officers,’ explained Tallis, ‘I wish to know why. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Well, I have no criticism of them,’ said Quinnell. ‘Inspector Colbeck imparts confidence somehow. This case is too complex for the local police. We needed help from Scotland Yard.’

‘Bishop Phillpotts thinks otherwise.’

‘What does he know about solving a murder?’

‘I had the feeling that he considers himself to be an expert on everything under the sun. One has to respect his position, of course,’ said Tallis, ‘but there are limits even to my instinctive reverence for a prelate.’

‘Say no more, Superintendent. We’ve all had tussles with him.’

He was about to expand on the theme when he was interrupted by the arrival of Lawrence Woodford, who stepped into the house and tipped his hat to Quinnell.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, politely. ‘I noticed you earlier but was too busy supervising trains to attend to you both. If there’s anything at all I can do, you only have to ask.’

‘Thank you, Woodford,’ said Quinnell. ‘This is Superintendent Tallis from Scotland Yard, by the way. He’s now in charge of the investigation.’

‘Oh, I see.’ He tipped his hat to Tallis. ‘You’re most welcome, sir. Joel Heygate was a friend as well as a colleague. His killer must be caught.’

‘He will be,’ said Tallis, resolutely.

‘I’ve taken over Joel’s duties because I know how important it is to keep the station operating as smoothly as usual. A murder is a bad advertisement for any railway company. We have to reassure the public that it’s not affected the quality of our service.’

‘Quite right,’ said Quinnell. ‘You’re a good man, Woodford.’

‘I’m only doing what Joel would have wanted me to do, sir.’

‘The reputation of the South Devon Railway has been besmirched. That’s why I turned to Superintendent Tallis and his detectives. We want this crime solved and our good name restored.’

‘I’m ready to lend any assistance that I can,’ said Woodford.

‘Yes, I’m sure.’ Quinnell turned away. ‘That will be all.’

‘Then I’ll get back to my duties, sir.’

After a covetous glance around the room, Woodford went out.

‘He seems a capable man,’ observed Tallis.

‘Yes, he’s very capable, albeit a little too ingratiating for my taste. I like our staff to get on with their jobs instead of expecting a round of applause for doing so. Heygate was an ideal stationmaster,’ said Quinnell. ‘He was industrious, efficient and calm under stress. He didn’t feel the need to be obsequious.’

‘Then he’ll be a very difficult man to replace.’

‘We’ll cast our net wide, Superintendent. First, however, we must concentrate all our efforts on catching the fiend responsible for the murder. I know that Inspector Colbeck is hoping for a quick resolution.’

‘Only because he’s getting married at the end of the month.’

‘Indeed? Then his urgency is understandable.’

‘The wedding is irrelevant.’

Quinnell chuckled. ‘It’s not irrelevant to him,’ he said, ‘or, indeed, to his bride. They will have looked forward to the great day for months. I know that’s what my wife and I did. It must have been the same for you, Superintendent.’

Tallis glowered. ‘I was never tempted to marry, Mr Quinnell.’

‘You’ve remained a bachelor all this time?’

‘And will do so to my dying day,’ said Tallis with emphasis. ‘Fighting crime is too important a task to take lightly. I allow no distractions into my life. As for the inspector, he knows that this investigation takes precedence over everything else. While he’s here in Exeter, Colbeck must not even think about his wedding.’

It was both strange and exasperating. Madeleine Andrews could conjure any number of locomotives on to her canvas and give them startling verisimilitude. When it came to figurative art, however, she tended to flounder. She knew every last detail of Colbeck’s face and had always wanted to paint his portrait but it was beyond her talents. Standing at her easel after her latest attempt to bring him to life before her, she had to accept defeat yet again. The portrait was a disaster.

‘Thank you, Maddy,’ said her father, coming up behind her. ‘I didn’t know that you were painting a picture of me.’

‘It’s not you, Father.’

He stared at it intently for a moment. ‘No, no,’ he went on, ‘I can see that now I’ve taken a closer look. It’s Dirk Sowerby, isn’t it?’

She was offended. ‘Why on earth should I paint a portrait of him?’

‘That’s what I asked myself. Dirk is no fit subject for an artist.’

‘It’s supposed to be Robert.’ He burst out laughing. ‘It’s not that bad.’

‘It’s not that good either, Maddy. I think you should stick to painting locomotives — as long as they’re ones that run on the LNWR. I’m not having my daughter painting anything that belongs to another railway company.’ He put his face close to the canvas. ‘There is a faint resemblance, I suppose.’

‘You should have been able to see at once who it was.’

‘I’m sorry. I just couldn’t do that.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ she said, sadly. ‘I have to accept that I simply don’t have the skill to be a portrait artist. That’s why I never put people into my paintings. If I want a portrait of Robert, someone else will have to paint it.’

Andrews was dressed to go out for his morning walk. He regretted mocking her attempt at portraiture because he knew what had impelled her to pick up her brush. She was missing Colbeck so much that she’d tried to create an image of him.

‘He’ll be back before long, Maddy,’ he said, kissing her on the temple.

‘His letter said that the murder wouldn’t be easy to solve. What if the investigation carries on for a few weeks?’

‘Then I’ll go down to Exeter and drag him back for the wedding.’

‘Robert hates to abandon a case before he’s brought the culprit to justice.’

‘Marrying my daughter comes before anything else.’

‘It doesn’t stop me from fretting,’ she confessed. ‘I’ve waited for years to become Mrs Colbeck. I’m terrified that something will happen at the last minute to ruin the arrangements.’

‘Take heart, Maddy. It’s not like you to be down.’

‘Robert takes his work so seriously.’

‘And so he should do,’ said Andrews. ‘I was the same. There’s no point in doing a job if you don’t put all your energy into it. Anyway,’ he added, ‘I’m on my way out. Why not come with me for a walk?’

‘I’d much rather stay here, Father.’

‘Brooding will get you nowhere.’

‘I’ll be fine — off you go.’

‘Goodbye,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘And there’s no need to worry about the arrangements being ruined. Since the church has been booked for a wedding, we simply replace the pair of you with another happy couple.’

She was baffled. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’ll give you one guess.’

Opening the door, he let himself out with a cackle of amusement. When Madeleine realised that he’d been talking about himself and Mrs Langton, she was shaken. Her father hardly knew the woman yet he was already thinking of marriage. Madeleine had a sneaking suspicion that Mrs Langton’s mind was also inclined in that direction. It gave her something else to worry about. Returning to her easel, she looked at her portrait and sighed with disappointment. She reached for a damp cloth and wiped Colbeck decisively off the canvas.

They were in the tiny kitchen for a long time. Colbeck could think of many better companions with whom to be cooped up than Frances Impey but he had no choice. She was tense, lacklustre and a poor conversationalist. All that she did was to bleat about her sister’s condition. Colbeck kept his ears open to pick up the sounds that came from the parlour. Incredibly, Dr Swift had somehow got Mrs Rossiter talking. What she was saying Colbeck was unable to make out but he could hear her getting increasingly expressive. Desperate to listen at the door, Frances felt unable to do so. She was positively writhing with anxiety.

‘What are they saying, Inspector?’ she asked.

‘I’m not sure, Miss Impey.’

‘How ever did the doctor get Agnes to talk?’

‘It’s a secret I’d like to learn.’

‘We’ve been in here for ages. How much longer must we wait?’

Dr Swift answered the question by opening the door and inviting them in. Frances immediately went to embrace her sister who was now on her feet. While she still looked far from well, Mrs Rossiter had more colour in her cheeks and some animation in her eyes. Frances led her sister into the kitchen to question her in private. Colbeck was quick to exploit their absence.

‘What’s your diagnosis, Doctor?’ he asked.

‘Mrs Rossiter has had a profound shock,’ replied the other, solemnly. ‘It’s destroyed some of the certainties in her life.’

‘You achieved a miracle in getting her to talk.’

‘Once she got started, the problem was to stop her.’

‘Did you ask her about the incident at the cathedral?’

‘Yes,’ said Swift, ‘and she wasn’t in the least repentant. In fact, she said she’d do exactly the same if she were given the chance. That was worrying. Her mind has been unbalanced by the loss of a dear friend. I’ve seen it happen before many times. She’s exhibiting far more than natural grief at the death of a loved one.’

‘Yet she and the stationmaster were not close,’ said Colbeck. ‘They merely worked together. They were never bosom friends.’

‘Mrs Rossiter believes that they were, Inspector, and therein lies the problem. She’s in the grip of an obsession.’

‘Is it possible to break that obsession?’

‘I can prescribe medication that might help to calm her down but there’s no cure for a mania. That’s what we have here. Though I began my career as a general practitioner,’ he went on, ‘my main interest is in psychiatry and I spend much of my time at the County Asylum. That’s the work that really interests me. I’ve treated several manic patients. Some have recovered enough to warrant release while others remain in the custody of the medical staff indefinitely.’

Colbeck glanced towards the kitchen and lowered his voice so that he wouldn’t be overheard by the two women. He could imagine how shattering a blow it would be for Frances Impey if her sister were taken away from her. Colbeck was not at all sure that she could cope with the stigma of having her sister confined because of a mental disorder. For both their sakes, he hoped that this last resort would somehow be avoidable. Yet he had to accept the doctor’s expert opinion.

‘Does Mrs Rossiter belong in a lunatic asylum?’ he asked.

‘Let me put it this way,’ said Swift, adjusting his cravat. ‘That extraordinary outburst in the cathedral was prompted by her obsession. It has left her with a hatred of religion and what she perceives as its specious benefits. She feels utterly betrayed by God, hence her act of defiance. If the lady has another hysterical episode of that order,’ he stressed, ‘I’d have no hesitation in signing the certificate to commit her to the County Asylum.’