Inspector Colbeck's Casebook

THE BARBER OF RAVENGLASS

‘Why are we in such a rush, Inspector?’ asked Leeming in bewilderment.

‘We have a train to catch, Victor.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Ravenglass.’

‘Is it far away?’

‘It’s far enough,’ said Colbeck. ‘That’s why I advised you to bring the change of clothing you keep at Scotland Yard.’

‘Estelle will worry when I don’t come home tonight.’

‘Madeleine will be anxious for the same reason. Since they were misguided enough to marry detectives, however, they must learn to expect sudden departures.’

‘We’ve never had one as sudden as this, Inspector.’

They were in a cab that was taking them to Euston station. All that Leeming could think about was being apart from his wife and two sons. Colbeck gave him a friendly pat on the knee.

‘I’m not that hard-hearted, Victor,’ he said. ‘I considered the ladies and sent word of our movements to Estelle and to Madeleine. They’ll still fret in our absence but at least they’ll know where we are.’

‘That’s more than I will, sir. Where is Ravenglass?’

‘It’s in the county of Cumberland.’

‘That’s way up north!’ protested Leeming.

‘Your knowledge of geography cannot be faulted.’

‘What did the telegraph say?’

‘It merely said that a crisis had occurred. We are responding to it.’

‘Why does it always have to be us?’

‘A challenge has been set,’ explained Colbeck. ‘We must not shirk it simply because we enjoy the comforts of home life. Ravenglass needs our help.’

‘What sort of place is it?’

‘It’s a very small one. We are escaping the bedlam here and going to the coast where the air will be clean, and where fresh fish will be served to delight the palate.’

‘I’d still rather stay here.’

‘Even if it means that a killer goes unpunished?’

Leeming frowned. ‘I thought the superintendent said something about a burning railway carriage.’

‘Indeed, he did,’ agreed Colbeck. ‘What he omitted to tell you was that someone was inside the carriage when it was set ablaze.’

The journey was long, tiresome and involved a change of trains. When they finally reached their destination, they discovered that the station was a quarter of a mile away from the little market town. The enforcement of law and order rested in the nervous hands of Clifford Baines, a tall, gangly, young constable with a prominent Adam’s apple and a pair of bulging eyes. He had been walking up and down the platform for hours, praying for help and trying to keep people away from the wreckage. Relieved at the arrival of the detectives, he let out a cry of joy and fell on them with a gratitude verging on desperation.

‘Thank heaven you’ve both come!’ he said.

‘Thank heaven we actually got here!’ murmured Leeming.

Colbeck introduced them then asked to see the murder scene. It was over thirty yards away. A disused railway carriage had been shunted into a siding and left there until someone could decide what to do with it. During the night, it had been set alight and had burnt so fiercely that the glare could be seen for miles. All that remained was the shell of the carriage and the charred body of the victim. To give it a degree of dignity, Baines had draped some sacking over it.

‘It’s been dreadful,’ he complained. ‘Everybody has come here to stand and stare. It’s like having a beached whale. The ghouls turn out in force.’

‘A beached whale can sometimes be saved,’ observed Colbeck as he drew back the sacking. ‘This unfortunate person is way beyond salvation.’

The detectives were horrified to see what fire could do to the human body. Clothes and hair had been burnt off what was patently the shrivelled body of a woman. Leeming felt embarrassed to look at the naked black torso. He was also ashamed at his reluctance to come to Ravenglass. A grotesque crime had obviously occurred and it was their duty to find the culprit. He shook off his exhaustion at once.

‘Do you know who it is?’ he asked.

‘No, Sergeant,’ said Baines. ‘And nobody else does either. The truth is that we had no idea that someone was inside the carriage.’

‘The killer obviously did.’

‘I’m not entirely sure there was a killer.’ They shot him a sceptical glance. ‘It might just be that someone wanted to get rid of the carriage. Quite a few people have complained about it.’

‘Arson is a crime,’ said Colbeck. ‘When it’s also a form of murder, it’s even more heinous. If you hold your finger over a match, it’s painful. Don’t you think that somebody inside that carriage would have got out quickly the moment they felt the heat and smelt the smoke?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Baines, sheepishly.

‘Is there an undertaker in Ravenglass?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Fetch him immediately. The body must be moved.’

‘As long as it’s here, folk will come to stare.’

When Baines went scurrying off, Colbeck covered the body up again and walked slowly around the wreckage, looking for clues and trying to work out the point at which the fire had first started. He turned to Leeming.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘The victim was killed before the carriage was set alight.’

‘Yes, Inspector — she was either killed or too drunk to know what was happening. I hope we can identify her before her remains are buried. Her family and friends need to be told what’s happened to her.’

‘We don’t know that she had either. Nobody would sleep in a broken-down old carriage like this if they had a proper home and people who cared about them.’

‘That’s a fair comment,’ said Leeming.

‘They only seem to have a stationmaster and a porter here,’ noted Colbeck.

‘It is a bit off the beaten track, sir.’

‘I’ll talk to both of them.’

‘What about me?’

‘Take the luggage and find us a room at a hotel. In a place as small as Ravenglass, there may only be one.’

Leeming looked around and heaved a sigh. ‘How can anyone want to live in such an isolated spot?’

‘Oh, I could cope with a lot of isolation, Victor. It’s infinitely preferable to the hurly-burly of a big city. You have time to think out here,’ said Colbeck, inhaling deeply. ‘Smell that air — no trace of the London stench.’

‘All I can smell is the fire that turned that poor woman into a human cinder.’ Leeming gazed down at the figure under the sacking. ‘Who is she?’

Sam Gazey, the porter, was a short, stout, pot-bellied man in his thirties with a wispy beard that seemed constantly in need of a scratch. Colbeck found him slow-witted and unhelpful. Gazey could remember no woman arriving recently at the station on her own. Nor did he have any idea that the carriage had been occupied at night. Len Hipwell, by contrast, could not stop speculating on the victim’s identity. Tucked away in the stream of conjectures he unleashed on Colbeck was some useful information. Hipwell was a self-important man in his forties with a flabby red face and piggy eyes. When holding forth, he hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat.

‘If you want my opinion,’ he said, ‘it’s Maggie Hobday.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I get to hear things in my job, Inspector.’

‘Are you referring to proven fact or idle gossip?’

‘Rumours that reach me tend to have some truth in them.’

‘And what were you told about this particular lady?’

Hipwell chortled. ‘Oh, Maggie were no lady, sir. She made a living by giving comfort to lonely men — or married ones, if their wives were not looking. Everyone knew about Maggie.’

‘Did you actually see her in Ravenglass?’ asked Colbeck.

‘No — but she were spotted in Egremont a week or so ago.’

‘What could bring her here?’

‘She were always on the move,’ said Hipwell, knowledgeably. ‘Women like that don’t stop in one place for long. They either run out of customers or get chased away by angry wives. Over the years, she’s had more than her share of trouble. Maggie was once dumped in a horse trough in Whitehaven.’

‘That would be preferable to being set alight in a railway carriage.’

‘Mark my words, Inspector. That’s her corpse over there. As soon as I knew a woman had slept in that carriage, I said it was Maggie.’

‘You must have known her well to be so certain about it.’

Hipwell spluttered. ‘That’s not true at all,’ he said, indignantly. ‘I’m a married man and glad of it when … females like her are sniffing around. It’s just that, being a stationmaster, you develop a sixth sense about people.’

Colbeck had already developed the sense that the garrulous stationmaster was of no practical help. It was clear that Hipwell lived in a world of tittle-tattle and that made his judgement unreliable. Colbeck had only one more question to ask him.

‘When is the station left unmanned?’

‘The place is closed at eleven o’clock at night, Inspector. I open it up again in time to meet the milk train at six.’

‘So there’s nobody here in the small hours.’

‘No,’ replied Hipwell with a nod towards the siding. ‘Unless you count Maggie Hobday, that is.’

Having arranged accommodation at the King’s Arms, Victor Leeming stood at the window of his room and looked out. Ravenglass was a pretty town with ample remains of Roman occupation at an earlier point in its history. It was neat, compact and well built. Situated on the estuary fed by three rivers — the Esk, the Mite and the Irt — it had a pleasant feel to it. Leeming could see oyster-fishermen mending nets and repairing boats in the harbour. He could also see groups of people in urgent conversation and could guess what they were talking about.

There had been a trap for hire at the station but, since he had no luggage to carry, Colbeck had elected to walk. When the sergeant saw him coming towards the hotel, he went downstairs to meet him. They adjourned to the lounge so that they could talk in private.

‘I waited until the undertaker arrived to take away the body,’ said Colbeck.

‘Yes, I saw him driving up the street.’

‘What have you found out, Victor?’

‘Well, I may have the name of the deceased,’ said Leeming. ‘According to the manager here, it’s someone called Joan Metcalf.’

‘That’s not what I heard. The stationmaster said it was Maggie Hobday.’

‘Ah, yes, that name came up as well but the manager said it couldn’t possibly be her. He claimed she was up in Bowness.’

‘Tell me about Joan Metcalf.’

‘She lives wild, sir,’ explained Leeming. ‘It’s a sad case. The husband she loved devotedly was killed at sea but she’s never accepted that he was dead. She walks up and down the coast in the hope that he’ll come back to her one day. Someone saw her near Selker Bay earlier in the week. I don’t know where that is but the manager says that it’s not far south of here.’

‘When did her husband die?’

‘It was all of twenty years ago. Her faith that he’s still alive must be very strong to keep her going that long. She begs for food and will do odd jobs to earn a penny. She’ll sleep wherever she can. People in Ravenglass are kind to her.’

‘Then she’s very different to Maggie Hobday. The women here are more likely to drive her away because she sells favours to the men. Which one is it,’ asked Colbeck, pensively, ‘the wife with a broken heart or the lady of easy virtue?’

‘We may never know, sir.’

‘We have to know, Victor. Only when we’ve identified the victim can we start looking for people who might have a motive to kill her.’ He stood back to appraise Leeming. ‘I think that it’s time you had a haircut.’

‘Do you?’ asked the other in surprise.

‘I passed the barber’s shop on my way here. It’s still open.’

‘Why should I have a haircut, sir?’

‘Because it’s the ideal way to get information without appearing to be doing so,’ said Colbeck. ‘There can’t be more than four hundred souls in a place like this. A barber will know almost everyone and have a lot of customers among the men.’

‘So?’

‘If he realises you’re a detective, he may not be so forthcoming. If you tell him that you’re a visitor to the area, however, he’ll talk more freely. Find out all you can about Ravenglass and the men who live here.’

Leeming ran a hand over his head. ‘I don’t really need a haircut, you know.’

‘Pretend that you do. It’s in a good cause.’

‘Where will you be, sir?’

‘Oh, I’ll be here, doing something of great importance.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’ll be studying the dinner menu.’

Most of the barber’s customers were fishermen or local tradesmen so the sight of a frock coat and top hat caused Ned Wyatt, the barber, to look up. An elderly man was having what little remained of his hair trimmed by Wyatt. They had been chatting happily until the newcomer stepped into the little shop. The conversation trailed off. Removing his hat, Leeming took a seat and waited. When his turn came, he replaced the other customer in the chair and had a white cloth put around him.

‘What can I do for you, sir?’ asked Wyatt.

‘Just … make my hair look a little tidier, please.’

‘It doesn’t need much taking off.’

‘You’re the barber. I rely on your judgement.’

He could see Wyatt in the mirror. The barber was a tall, thin, sour-faced individual in his fifties but his pronounced hunch took several inches off his height. Beside the mirror was a small framed portrait of a man in a black cloak and white bands. He looked vaguely familiar to Leeming.

‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

‘John Wesley.’

‘Ah, I see. You’re a Methodist.’

‘Wesley often came to Cumberland. He preached in Whitehaven twenty-five times. Listening to him must have been an inspiration.’

‘I sometimes fall asleep during our vicar’s sermons,’ said Leeming.

‘What brings you to Ravenglass?’ asked Wyatt, starting to snip away.

‘Friends of mine had a holiday here once and told me what a pleasant spot it was. Since I was travelling north by train, I thought I’d make a small diversion and see what it was that they liked so much.’

‘I hope you’re not disappointed.’

‘Not at all — it’s very …’ He groped for the right word. ‘It’s very quaint.’

‘It’s a nice place to live, sir.’

‘So I should imagine,’ said Leeming, starting to relax into his role. ‘But there seems to be some commotion here. I saw some of the remains of a carriage at the station and overheard the manager of the King’s Arms talking about a tragic death.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What exactly happened?’

‘Nobody can say with any certainty, sir. Everyone who comes in here has a different view. Bert Longmuir, who just left, reckons as how someone wanted to kill theirselves by setting fire to that carriage.’ He gave an expressive shrug. ‘I’m not sure that I believe that.’

‘Oh — what do you think happened?’

As his scissors clicked away, Wyatt gave him a range of theories about the crime and told him the names of the people who held those opinions. What he was careful not to do was to commit himself to a point of view. Leeming tried to prod him into voicing his own opinion.

‘You must have thought some of those comments ridiculous.’

‘I’m in business, sir. I never argue with customers.’

‘Has anything like this ever happened in Ravenglass before?’

Wyatt was crisp. ‘Never, sir — and we don’t want it to happen again. It leaves a bad feeling in the town. People start to suspect each other and arguments break out. That’s not good for us. It could well be that nobody from Ravenglass is involved.’

‘No, that’s right. He might have come from somewhere else.’

‘And he might be a she, sir.’

Leeming was startled. ‘What’s that?’

‘Women know how to light a fire.’

Wyatt finished cutting the hair and looked at Leeming from both sides before he was satisfied that his work was done. He removed the white cloak and used a brush on his customer’s shoulders. After examining his haircut, Leeming got up, thanked him and paid the barber.

‘I’ll be on my way then,’ he said.

‘You’ll notice that the barman at the King’s Arms has also had a haircut,’ said Wyatt, impassively. ‘He were talking to manager when you went in to book rooms. Then he came in here and told me who you were.’

‘Oh,’ said Leeming, uneasily. ‘I see.’

‘I hope you enjoy your stay, Sergeant Leeming. They’re decent people in Ravenglass. They like honesty.’ He held the door open. ‘So do I, sir. Goodbye.’

After a visit to the undertaker, Colbeck returned to the crime scene. He borrowed a rake from the stationmaster and used it to sift through the debris, taking excessive care not to soil his well-polished shoes. Nothing had survived the fire intact. What few possessions the victim had owned had been eaten up by the flames. He was still raking through the embers when Victor Leeming came towards him.

‘They told me at the hotel that you’d be here, sir.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘now that the body has been removed, I wanted a closer look at the scene.’ He appraised the sergeant. ‘Take your hat off.’

‘Why?’

‘I want to see what the barber did.’

‘He almost turned my cheeks crimson,’ admitted Leeming. ‘There was I, talking as if I was on holiday there, and he knew all the time that I was lying. The barman from the hotel had seen me arrive and told him who I was.’

‘Then I owe you an apology, Victor. But I’d still like to see his handiwork.’ When Leeming removed his hat, Colbeck had to hide a smile. ‘I’m not sure that I altogether approve,’ he said, tactfully. ‘To tell you the truth, it looked better before.’

‘I know,’ said Leeming, putting the hat back on again. ‘But I did get what you sent me to get, including another possible name for the victim. Everyone who went into the shop has been talking about the murder. Mr Wyatt saved us a lot of wasted time knocking on doors.’

‘Did he suggest who the killer might be?’

‘He didn’t, sir, but other people did. Unlike the manager, most of them are convinced that it was Maggie Hobday in that carriage. I’ve got the names of three people from Ravenglass we ought to take a close look at and one from a hamlet called Holmrook.’

‘Well done, Victor. Your visit to the barber was fruitful.’

‘It was very embarrassing.’

‘You gleaned useful information and had a memorable haircut.’

‘What about you, sir?’ asked Leeming, looking at the wreckage. ‘Have you found anything of interest?’

‘I found nothing here,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I learnt two things when I called in on the undertaker. First, our instincts were sound. The victim was murdered before the carriage was set alight. On closer inspection than we were able to give, the undertaker discovered that her throat had been cut from ear to ear.’

‘If she was dead, why did the killer need to burn the body?’

‘He wanted to destroy any evidence of her identity and thus make our task much more difficult. But there was something that was not completely destroyed,’ Colbeck went on, taking a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘I said that I learnt two things from the undertaker. This is the second discovery.’

Unfolding the handkerchief, he revealed a tiny, twisted, nickel object that glinted in the evening sun. Leeming peered closely at it then shook his head.

‘What is it, sir?’

‘It used to be a wedding ring, Victor. It was clutched in the woman’s hand.’

‘Then the body must be that of Joan Metcalf,’ said Leeming with conviction. ‘It was probably the only souvenir of her husband that she had.’

‘Let’s not be too hasty. It may well be that Maggie Hobday was married as well. She wouldn’t be the only widow to turn to prostitution. Think of the ladies of the night you’ve arrested in London,’ said Colbeck. ‘Even if they’re spinsters, some of them wear a wedding ring during the day because it bestows a measure of respectability.’ He wrapped the wedding ring up again and put it in his pocket. ‘It may have belonged to neither, of course. You mentioned that another name for the victim had surfaced. That will give us three potential victims to discuss over dinner.’

Colbeck returned the rake to Hipwell who locked it away in the shed with the other implements used to tend the flower beds at the station. The detectives walked back towards the town.

Leeming was worried. ‘Will you give me an honest opinion, sir?’

‘I like to think that I always do, Victor.’

‘What do you think Estelle will say when she sees my hair?’

Colbeck’s face was motionless. ‘I think that your wife will say that it makes you look rather … different.’

Sam Gazey was sweeping the platform when the stationmaster strolled over to him.

‘They won’t listen, you know,’ said Hipwell.

‘Who are you talking about, Len?’

‘It’s them two detectives from London. I tried to help but they ignored me. It were Maggie Hobday in that carriage — I’d wager my pocket watch on it. They didn’t believe me. It’s their own fault if they run round in circles.’

‘How long will they be here?’

‘One day is long enough. I don’t like policemen.’

‘Cliff Baines is no trouble.’

‘That’s because Cliff is one of us. Inspector Colbeck and that ugly sergeant of his don’t belong here. They’ll never solve the crime in a month of Sundays.’ Hearing the distant approach of a train, he pulled out his watch and clicked his tongue when he saw the time. ‘It’s late again.’

Gazey put his broom aside and stood ready to assist anyone with heavy luggage. Thumbs hooked in his waistcoat, Hipwell watched as the locomotive surged towards them, belching out smoke. When they rolled past him, the stationmaster exchanged greetings with the driver and fireman then chided them for being well behind schedule. The train juddered to a halt and a handful of passengers got out. Nobody needed help from Gazey so he picked up his broom again. A woman strode purposefully towards Hipwell.

He touched his hat. ‘Good morning to you, madam.’

‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’

‘I’m afraid that I don’t.’ He looked at her more closely then stepped back in alarm. ‘What are you doing here, Maggie?’

‘I’ve come to see why everyone in Ravenglass thinks I’m dead. There was a gentleman I met in Barrow last night who happened to call here yesterday and he told me that I’d been burnt to death in a railway carriage.’ She caught sight of the wreckage in the siding. ‘Is that where it happened?’ She prodded Hipwell. ‘Who decided that I were the victim when — as you can see — I’m very much alive?’

Maggie Hobday was a buxom woman in her late thirties with handsome features ravaged by the life she’d led. In a smart coat and with a hat pulled down over her face, she was unrecognisable from the powdered harlot known throughout the county. Hipwell was agitated.

‘You can’t stay here,’ he pleaded. ‘Catch the next train out of Ravenglass.’

‘I’m not leaving until I get to the bottom of this.’

‘Just go, Maggie — I’ll pay the fare, if you like.’

‘I’m staying, Len. I want to know who’s spreading stories about me.’

‘There’s a murder investigation going on. Detectives have come all the way from London. You don’t want to get involved with them.’

‘I want to know the truth of what happened,’ she insisted. ‘How would you like it if someone told you they’d heard you were burnt to a frazzle? It upset me, it really did — well, it would upset anyone. Where will I find these detectives?’

He blocked her path. ‘You don’t need to talk to them.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Why not just go away and forget all about it?’

‘Get out of my way, Len.’

‘I can’t let you do this,’ he said, grabbing her arm.

Maggie spoke in a whisper. ‘It costs money to touch me, Len,’ she said, ‘or have you forgotten?’ He released her as if her arm were red hot. ‘That’s better.’

She brushed past him and walked towards the station exit. All that Hipwell could do was to run his tongue over dry lips and watch her go. Gazey had heard enough to rouse his interest. He sidled across to Hipwell.

‘Maggie Hobday is still alive,’ he said with a smirk. ‘You bet your pocket watch that she was dead.’ He extended a palm. ‘Hand it over, Len.’

After enjoying a hearty breakfast, Colbeck and Leeming were just about to get up from the table when they heard sounds of an altercation. The manager was shouting but it was the piercing voice of a woman that they heard most clearly.

‘I demand to see the detectives!’ she yelled. ‘They need to be told that I’m still alive and mean to stay like that.’

‘You’ve been warned before, Miss Hobday,’ said the manager. ‘You’re not welcome at the King’s Arms.’

‘The King’s Arms might not want me but there are plenty of other arms in this town that have welcomed me.’

‘Please keep your voice down.’

‘Then stop bellowing at me!’

Colbeck and Leeming came swiftly into the hallway to part the combatants. The inspector introduced himself and Leeming to the visitor then assured the manager that — since she might provide evidence vital to their investigation — Maggie Hobday should be permitted to stay for a while.

‘I take full responsibility for the lady’s presence,’ he said, suavely. ‘Her stay here will not be of long duration.’

After giving his reluctant agreement, the manager withdrew sulkily. Colbeck invited Maggie into the lounge where she sat down opposite the detectives.

‘You’ve made our job much easier,’ said Leeming. ‘We were told that you were the person trapped inside that burning carriage. The stationmaster was adamant that it had to be you.’

‘Len Hipwell should have known better,’ she said.

‘You were seen in the area.’

‘This is where I work, Sergeant. I’m bound to be noticed from time to time.’

‘What do you know about Joan Metcalf?’

‘Oh,’ said Maggie, face clouding. ‘Everyone knows Joan’s story. Whenever I think of her, I want to cry with pity. At the same time,’ she continued, adopting a sharper tone, ‘that sort of thing would never happen to me. If I lost a husband, I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life weeping over him. I’d find another.’ She grinned. ‘I’ve found quite a few in my time. They just happen to be married to someone else.’ She suddenly reeled from the shock of realisation. ‘Are you telling me that …?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Colbeck. ‘The victim, in all likelihood, was Mrs Metcalf.’

‘How could anyone want to hurt her, Inspector? Joan was as harmless as a fly. Only a monster would set fire to someone like her.’

‘I suspect that mistaken identity may have been involved, Miss Hobday.’ He tried to be diplomatic. ‘I understand that, in the course of your visits here, you may have made one or two enemies in this town.’

She cackled. ‘Well, I’m never going to be popular with women, am I?’

‘Have you received threats?’ asked Leeming.

‘I get those wherever I go, Sergeant,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Ravenglass is no worse than anywhere else.’

‘It looks as if it could be. The person who burnt that carriage to the ground might have thought that you were inside it.’

‘Then he deserves to hang as high as you can string him up!’ she declared.

‘We need your help to find the killer,’ said Colbeck.

‘What can I do?’

‘For a start, you can tell us who made those threats against you. We are not ruling out the possibility that another woman is the culprit. Thinking it was you in that carriage, the killer first cut Mrs Metcalf’s throat.’

Maggie’s hand went to her own throat. ‘Thank goodness I wasn’t here!’

‘Can you think of anyone who hated you enough to do that?’

‘No,’ she said, unsettled by the news. ‘When people make threats, they very rarely carry them out. They just want to scare me away.’

‘There must be someone you can suggest,’ said Leeming.

Maggie Hobday brooded in silence for a couple of minutes. Having met hostility wherever she went, it was difficult to disentangle one battery of threats from another. She eventually spoke.

‘There is someone in particular,’ she said.

‘Go on.’

‘He called me a witch. He said that I cast spells and ought to be driven away. He said that witchcraft were evil, Inspector, and he meant it.’

‘We know what they used to do to witches,’ said Colbeck with a meaningful glance at Leeming. ‘They burnt them at the stake.’

When he heard the news that Maggie Hobday had been seen in the town, Ned Wyatt was in the act of shaving a customer. His hand jerked involuntarily and he sliced open the man’s cheek. Mouthing apologies and thrusting a towel at him, the barber went quickly into the storeroom and locked the door behind him. With his back against it, he considered the implications of what he’d just heard. The woman whose throat he’d cut in the darkness was not the witch he had detested for so long, after all. He had instead murdered an innocuous creature who roamed the coast in the futile hope of seeing her dead husband. Wyatt felt utterly mortified. Driven by blind hatred, he’d killed someone he actually liked. It was a terrifying revelation and he knew at once that he could never live with the horror of what he’d done.

The razor was still in his hand. He put it to his throat and, with full force, he inflicted a deep, deadly, searing slit. When the detectives found him, the barber of Ravenglass was beyond help.

By the time that Colbeck and Leeming finally left Cumberland, the burnt-out carriage had been cleared away from the siding and the sleepy little town had, to some extent, been cleansed of its hideous crime. The barber’s suicide was both a confession of guilt and a self-administered punishment. Inquests would be held into both unnatural deaths but the detectives were spared the ordeal of a long murder trial. Anxious to see his wife and family again, Leeming had been disturbed by facts that had emerged about Ned Wyatt.

‘Could he really hate Maggie Hobday that much?’ he asked.

‘As the father of two sons, you should be able to answer that question. If you felt that David or Albert had been abused in some way, wouldn’t you have the urge to strike back at the abuser?’

‘Well, yes — but I wouldn’t go to those lengths.’

‘When the barber’s wife died,’ said Colbeck, ‘she left the upbringing of their only child to him. It appears that Wyatt worshipped his son and did everything that was expected of a father. They lived together contentedly. And then …’

‘Maggie Hobday came on the scene.’

‘She wasn’t entirely to blame, Victor. It was the lad’s friends who put him up to it. They got him drunk, clubbed together then handed him over to a prostitute. He was barely seventeen. I doubt if he even knew what was happening.’

‘I can see why the barber was furious.’

‘He was a strict Methodist and one of the tenets of Methodism is the avoidance of evil. Maggie Hobday embodied evil to him. She cast a spell on his son and led him astray. The lad couldn’t cope with the shame of it all,’ said Colbeck. ‘That’s why he took his own life, it seems. You can see why anger festered inside Wyatt. When he heard the rumour that Maggie was in that carriage, his lust for revenge took over.’

‘It was pointless, sir. Killing her wouldn’t bring his son back.’

‘He felt that he’d rid the world of a witch. That was his justification.’

‘Religion can affect people in strange ways, sir.’

‘His mind was warped by what happened to his son.’

‘I condemn what he did,’ said Leeming, ‘but as a father, I’m bound to feel some pity for him. It’s made me resolve to bring my boys up properly.’

‘You have nothing to reproach yourself with, Victor. They’re good lads.’

‘It’s a valuable lesson for me to take away from Ravenglass. A father can never relax his vigilance.’

‘Perhaps there’s a second lesson to take away,’ suggested Colbeck, looking at the sergeant’s hair with frank amusement. ‘Choose your barber with the utmost care.’