Inspector Colbeck's Casebook

THE RAILWAY CHURCH

Old age had sapped his strength and bent his back but Simon Gillard’s devotion to duty was unaffected by the passage of years. Indeed, now that he had retired, he was able to dedicate himself completely to his work as churchwarden. Gillard needed no encouragement to drag himself out of bed on the Sabbath. He was always up early, lifted by a feeling of importance and filled with pure joy. It was the one day of the week when his bones never ached. During the short walk to church that morning, he went through his usual ritual, reminding himself of what he had to do before the congregation arrived for a service of Holy Communion.

Gillard had to let himself into the church, unlock the cupboard in the vestry so that the sacristan could prepare the altar, slide the hymn numbers into the wooden display board above the pulpit, open the bible on the lectern at the appropriate page for the readings and set the offertory plate in position. There would be a number of other tasks to complete before the others turned up. Gillard knew the routine off by heart and drew immense solace from the thought that he was doing God’s work and serving the community. As he turned the key in the lock, the door opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges and he stepped inside.

There were people in Wolverton who sneered at the church of St George the Martyr because it had been built fifteen years earlier by the London to Birmingham Railway Company to supply the spiritual needs of their employees and their families. Critics disliked what they saw as a church built on traditional lines with a decidedly utilitarian air about it. It blended in with the terraces of small, plain, relentlessly uniform railway houses. Some argued that the church had no history, no grandeur, no sense of being on consecrated ground and no right to be there. Gillard disagreed. To him, it was as inspiring as the greatest of medieval cathedrals. Alone in the church of St George the Martyr, he felt that he was in direct communication with the Almighty. Standing in the nave, as he did now, he looked towards heaven and offered up a silent prayer.

His gaze then alighted on the altar and he froze in horror. Stretched out in front of it was the body of a man. His head had been smashed open and was soaked in blood. He lay there like some grotesque sacrifice. It was too much for Gillard. He gasped, tottered then fell forward into oblivion.

The Sabbath was no day of rest for the detectives at Scotland Yard. If an emergency arose, they had to respond to it. Robert Colbeck and Victor Leeming had each attended services at their respective parish churches, only to return home to an urgent summons from their superintendent. Edward Tallis told them everything that could be gleaned from the telegraph he’d received from Wolverton, then he dispatched them there. An unwilling rail traveller on weekdays, Leeming was even gloomier when he was forced to catch a train on a Sunday.

‘I’d hoped to spend some time with my children,’ he moaned.

‘I, too, had other plans,’ said Colbeck.

‘It’s unfair on Estelle. She looks after them during the week. It’s only right that I do my share whenever I can.’

‘Police work often occurs at inconvenient hours, Victor. It can be irritating but we must try to see it from the point of view of the victim. He didn’t get himself killed on a Sunday morning specifically to ruin our leisure time with the family.’

‘Why bother us?’ asked Leeming. ‘This is a case for the local constabulary.’

‘Because they’re aware of our reputation, the LNWR asked for us by name. Doesn’t that make you feel proud?’

‘No, sir, it makes me feel annoyed. We’re being imposed upon.’

‘This murder has a unique distinction.’

‘Yes, it’s made me miss the best meal of the week with the family.’

‘Take a less selfish view,’ advised Colbeck. ‘The crime took place in the first church ever built by a railway company.’

‘If you ask me,’ grumbled Leeming, ‘the railways are a crime in themselves.’

Colbeck laughed. ‘That’s precisely why I don’t ask you, Victor. Tell me,’ he went on, ‘are your children still playing with the toy train I bought them?’

‘That’s different, sir.’

‘Are they?’

‘Yes,’ said Leeming, reluctantly. ‘They play with nothing else.’

‘So the railway does have a useful purpose, after all.’

‘They’re too young to understand.’

‘And you’re far too old not to understand its value to us.’ He became serious. ‘A man has been slaughtered in a church — and on a Sunday. Doesn’t that make you want to track down the killer?’

‘It does, sir,’ said Leeming, roused. ‘What he did was unforgivable.’

When a brutal murder took place, there was, as a rule, universal sympathy for the victim. That was not the case with Claude Exton. Staff on duty at Wolverton station all knew and loathed the man. More than one of them seemed pleased at the news that he was dead. What they did do was to provide useful background details for the detectives. Leeming recorded them in his notepad. Exton was an unpopular member of the community, a shiftless man of middle years who lurched from one job to another. He’d been banned from one pub for causing an affray and was thrown out of another for trying to molest the landlord’s wife. Other outrages could be laid at Exton’s door.

‘In other words,’ said Leeming, ‘he was a real reprobate.’

‘That’s putting it kindly,’ muttered the stationmaster.

‘Was he a churchgoer?’ asked Colbeck.

‘No, Inspector. He always boasted that the only time they’d get him across the threshold of a church was for his funeral. It seems he was right about that.’

The collective portrait of the deceased was unflattering but it gave them a starting point. Colbeck and Leeming walked swiftly to the church. Everyone had heard the news. People were standing outside their houses discussing the murder with their neighbours. A noisy debate was taking place on a street corner. There was a small crowd outside the church itself and a uniformed policeman was blocking entry to the building. When he saw them approach, the vicar guessed that they must be the detectives and he rushed across to introduce himself. In the circumstances, the Reverend John Odell was surprisingly composed. He was a short, tubby man in his fifties whose normally pleasant features were distorted by concern.

‘This is an appalling crime,’ he said. ‘A church is supposed to be a place of sanctuary against the evils of the world. I thank God that I got here early enough to stop any of my parishioners seeing that hideous sight.’

‘Were you the first to discover the body?’ asked Colbeck.

‘No, Inspector. That gruesome task fell to the warden, Simon Gillard. When I arrived here with the sacristan, we found the poor fellow prostrate in the aisle. He’d fainted and injured his head as he hit the floor.’

‘We’ll need to speak to him.’

‘Then you’ll have to go to his house. As soon as he’d recovered, I had him taken straight home. Then I sent for the police.’

‘Is the body still inside the church?’ wondered Leeming.

‘Yes, it is,’ replied Odell. ‘I want it moved as soon as possible, obviously, but I thought you might prefer to see it exactly as it was found. Claude Exton was not a churchgoer but he nevertheless deserves to be mourned. Since we couldn’t use the church, I conducted a very short, impromptu service out here and we prayed for the salvation of his soul. Then I urged the congregation to disperse to their homes but, as you see, the news has attracted people of a more ghoulish disposition.’

‘Human vultures,’ murmured Leeming. ‘We always get those.’

‘I’m assuming that the warden unlocked the church this morning,’ said Colbeck. ‘Who else has a key?’

‘Well, I do, naturally,’ said Odell, ‘and so does the other warden but he’s ill at the moment. Between us, we hold the only three keys.’

‘So how did the killer and his victim get inside the church?’

‘That’s what puzzles me, Inspector. It was locked overnight.’

‘Is it conceivable that any of the keys went missing?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Odell, firmly. ‘The other warden and I are extremely careful with our keys and Simon Gillard is so dutiful that I wouldn’t be surprised if he takes his to bed with him. How two people got inside the church is a mystery. Only one, alas, came out alive.’

After plying the vicar with some more questions, the detectives asked the policeman to let them into the church. He stood aside so that they could open the door. Some of those lingering nearby edged forward to take a peek but Colbeck shut the door firmly behind him. The atmosphere inside the church was eerie. It was quite warm outside but both of them shivered involuntarily. Consecrated ground had been violated by a foul murder. There was a strange sense of unease. They walked down the nave and into the chancel to view the body. Though both of them had seen many murder victims, they were shocked. Colbeck was also curious.

‘What does it remind you of, Victor?’ he asked.

‘That man in Norwich, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘He’d been battered to death with a sledgehammer. His head was just like pulp.’

‘Look at the way the body has been arranged in front of the altar.’

‘That’s just the way he fell.’

‘I don’t think so. There’s something almost … artistic about it.’

Leeming frowned. ‘Is there?’

‘It’s reminiscent of those medieval paintings that depict the slaughter of Thomas Becket. He was hacked down in front of the altar by four knights who thought they were doing the king’s bidding.’

‘It doesn’t look like that to me, sir. And if what they say is true, he’s certainly no saint like Becket. Exton was a real sinner.’

‘Then we could be looking at the punishment for his sins.’

Colbeck knelt down to examine the corpse. Around the mouth were traces of vomit. He searched the man’s pockets but they were empty. He then gently pulled back the sleeves of Exton’s jacket.

Leeming was perplexed. ‘What are you looking for, Inspector?’

‘Something I expected to find,’ said Colbeck, ‘and you can still see traces of the marks on his wrists. As we’ve heard, Exton abhorred churches. He’d never have come in here and stood obligingly in front of the altar so that someone could bludgeon him to death. I think that he was knocked unconscious elsewhere, tied up and gagged, then brought here to be killed.’

‘Then we’re looking for a strong man, sir. Exton was heavy.’

‘Let’s get him out of here,’ said Colbeck, standing up. ‘He’s defiling the church. Tell the vicar to summon the undertaker and ask that constable to frighten the crowd away. We don’t want an audience when we move him. However much of a rascal he was, Exton is entitled to some dignity.’

Simon Gillard was propped up in his armchair with bandaging around his head. Still shocked by the ghastly discovery in the church, he was in a complete daze. When his wife admitted Colbeck to the house and took him into the parlour, her husband was staring blankly in front of him.

‘This is Inspector Colbeck from Scotland Yard,’ she explained. ‘He needs to talk to you, Simon.’ There was no response. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector,’ she went on. ‘He’s been like this for hours.’

‘That’s understandable,’ said Colbeck. ‘Perhaps you can help me instead.’

‘It was my husband who found the body.’

‘Does he enjoy being a warden?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘he loves it. Since he retired, the church has taken over his life — both our lives, in fact. I’m one of the cleaners and I organise the flower rota.’

Winifred Gillard was a short, roly-poly woman with grey hair framing an oval face that still had traces of her youthful appeal. She talked fondly of her husband’s commitment to the church since his retirement from the railway, and she spoke with great respect of the vicar.

‘Does your husband ever lend the key to the church to anybody?’

‘Only to me,’ she replied. ‘Simon guards his bunch of keys like the family jewels — not that we have any, mind you. When he first became warden, he used to sleep with them under his pillow.’

Colbeck smiled inwardly. The vicar’s earlier comment had some truth in it.

‘So nobody else would have access to the keys?’

‘Nobody,’ she insisted, ‘nobody at all.’

Victor Leeming was asking the same question of the other warden, Adam Revill, an emaciated man in his sixties with a few tufts of hair on a balding head. He was patently unwell and sat in a chair with a blanket around his shoulders. Every so often, he had a fit of coughing.

‘No, Sergeant,’ he asserted. ‘I never lend the key to the church to anybody. If I’m not using it, it stays on a hook in the kitchen. Maria will tell you the same.’

‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘Uncle Adam takes his duties seriously. It grieves him that he’s been unable to carry them out for a while. The doctor told him to stay indoors and rest.’

‘I’d be lost without Maria,’ said Revill, giving her arm an affectionate squeeze. ‘She’s been a godsend. Since my wife died, I’ve had to fend for myself. The moment I was taken ill, Maria began popping in to look after me.’

‘I only live four doors away,’ she said.

Maria Vine was an attractive woman in her thirties with a soft voice and a kind smile. Fond of her uncle, she wanted no thanks for keeping an eye on him.

‘I take it that you both knew Claude Exton,’ said Leeming.

‘Yes, we did,’ replied Revill, curling a lip. ‘We knew and disliked him.’

‘That’s not entirely true,’ said his niece.

‘He was a good-for-nothing, Maria.’

‘I know — and he was a nuisance to everybody. But he wasn’t that bad when his wife was alive.’ She turned to Leeming. ‘She was killed in a railway accident, Sergeant. It preyed on Mr Exton. That’s when he took to drink.’

‘He seems to have had a lot of enemies,’ observed Leeming.

‘I’m one of them,’ said Revill.

‘Yes, but you didn’t hate him enough to kill him, sir. And even if you did, you’d hardly do it inside a church.’

‘That’s true, Sergeant. A church is sacred.’

‘I feel sorry for Mr Gillard,’ said Maria. ‘He actually found the body.’

‘Yes,’ croaked Revill, ‘I pity Simon. But don’t ask me to shed any tears for Claude Exton. He’s gone and I’m glad.’

‘That’s a terrible thing to say,’ chided Maria. ‘Don’t speak ill of the dead.’

The rebuke set Revill off into a fit of coughing that went on for a full minute. Leeming waited patiently. Maria was embarrassed on her uncle’s behalf.

‘I’ll make a cup of tea,’ she announced. ‘Would you like one, Sergeant?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Leeming.

As soon as she went out of the room, Revill stopped coughing. He crooked a finger to beckon Leeming closer.

‘Don’t listen to Maria,’ he said. ‘She always tries to think the best of people.’

‘That’s a good attitude to take, sir.’

‘What she told you about Exton’s wife is not true. It may have looked like an accident but we know the truth.’ He lowered his voice. ‘She committed suicide.’

When they met up outside the church, the detectives were pleased to see that the body had been removed, the crowd had vanished and the door was locked. As a result of their interviews, both had acquired the names of people with a particular reason to detest Claude Exton. They compared their notes.

‘Let’s start with the people who appear on both lists,’ suggested Colbeck.

‘The man that Mr Revill kept on about was George Huxtable. He and Exton came to blows once,’ said Leeming. ‘Exton was bothering Mrs Huxtable.’

‘She wasn’t the only woman who caught his eye.’

‘He seems to have been a menace.’

‘What would you do if someone made a nuisance of himself to Estelle?’

‘Oh, I can tell you that,’ said Leeming, forcefully. ‘I’d have a quiet word with him and, if that didn’t work, I’d punch some sense into him.’

‘That might render you liable to arrest.’

‘I wouldn’t care, sir. Whatever it took, I’d protect my wife.’

‘And I’d do the same for my wife,’ said Colbeck. ‘Yet neither of us would go to the lengths of killing the person inside a church. The very idea would revolt us.’

‘It didn’t revolt the man who murdered Exton.’

‘How can you be sure it was a man, Victor?’

‘No woman would be able to carry his weight, sir.’

‘Two women might,’ argued Colbeck. ‘And one woman might move him on her own if she used a wheelbarrow. I’m not claiming that that’s what happened. I just think we should keep an open mind. A woman would have been capable of luring Exton into a position where he was off guard. No man could do that.’

‘Could any woman hate him enough to smash his head open?’

‘Why don’t you put that question to Mrs Huxtable?’

‘What will you be doing, sir?’

‘I’ll be talking to Harry Blacker. He’s the gravedigger.’

Anthony Vine more or less carried him up the narrow staircase. Revill protested but he knew that they were right. He was better off in bed where he could drift in and out of sleep. Maria was waiting in the bedroom to help her husband lift the older man into position. She plumped the pillows to make him comfortable and drew the bedclothes over him. After stifling a cough, Revill managed a smile of gratitude.

‘You’re both Good Samaritans — you really are.’

‘We’re family,’ said Vine, ‘and this is what families do for each other.’

‘But it’s so much trouble for you.’

‘Don’t be silly, Uncle Adam,’ said Maria. ‘It’s no trouble at all. I haven’t forgotten how good Aunt Rachel was to me when I was ill as a child. You used to come with her sometimes and tell me those wonderful ghost stories.’

‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it,’ said Vine with a grin. ‘I didn’t know that he enjoyed scaring the daylights out of my wife.’

‘I was only six at the time, Anthony,’ she reminded him.

‘All that I heard at that age were Bible stories.’

A few years older than his wife, Vine was a wiry individual of middle height with conventional good looks. Six days a week, he worked in the standard garb of a fireman but he now wore his suit. There was no sign of the routine dirt he picked up during his time on the footplate.

‘I still think it could be George Huxtable,’ whispered Revill.

‘Speak up, Uncle Adam,’ said Maria.

‘He and Exton were always snarling at each other.’

‘That doesn’t mean George killed him,’ reasoned Vine. ‘And if he did, he’d be more likely to dump him in the river than leave him in a church. George Huxtable only ever came near the church at Easter and Christmas.’

‘He and his wife are not the only ones,’ said Revill, darkly. ‘We have too many occasional Christians in Wolverton.’

‘Don’t worry about that now,’ said Maria, moving to the door. ‘We’re off now, Uncle Adam. One of us will pop in from time to time to see if you need anything. Anthony will bring you something to read, if you like.’

‘The only thing I read on the Sabbath is a Bible. And I still say it was George Huxtable,’ he added. ‘I’ve seen it coming for months.’

As soon as he laid eyes on the man, Victor Leeming could see that he’d have no trouble carrying a body over his shoulder. George Huxtable was a hulking man in his forties with a pair of angry eyes staring out of an unprepossessing face. His wife, May, by contrast, was a dainty woman with a fading prettiness. Side by side, they were an incongruous couple. When the sergeant introduced himself, Huxtable dismissed his wife with a flick of the hand and she fled to the kitchen.

‘I know why you’ve come,’ he said, arms folded. ‘People have been talking. Well, you’re wasting your time, Sergeant. I didn’t kill that bastard. Somebody got there before me.’

‘Show some respect, sir. The man is dead.’

‘It’s the best news I’ve had in years.’

‘You spent the night here, presumably,’ said Leeming.

‘Yes, I did. I worked the late shift at the factory,’ explained Huxtable. ‘While everyone else was back home for the evening, I was putting rivets into a locomotive that came in for repair.’

‘What time did the shift finish?’

‘At ten o’clock last night. I came straight here. My wife will tell you that I got back here around twenty past ten.’

‘Did your journey home take you anywhere near the church?’

‘No, it didn’t.’

‘I can always check your departure time at the factory.’

‘Please do. The foreman stands over us. I have to work until the last second.’

‘We have a superintendent like that,’ said Leeming, ruefully. ‘He keeps our noses to the grindstone.’ He looked Huxtable up and down. ‘Mr Exton must have been a fool.’

‘He was a fool, a liar, a drunk and a pest to women.’

‘I’d have thought that the last woman he’d pester was your wife. He must have known you wouldn’t take kindly to it.’

‘When I heard that he’d been following May around, I wanted to tear his head off. My wife begged me not to touch him but I gave him a black eye just to let him know who he was dealing with. He didn’t bother May after that.’

Leeming thought of the submissive little creature that had scurried off to the kitchen. Colbeck had suggested that he ask her if a woman could hate a man enough to kill him. The question was redundant. She was clearly incapable of violence. As for burning hatred, Huxtable had enough for the two of them.

‘Do you have any idea who did commit the murder?’ asked Leeming.

‘A lot of people come to mind.’

‘Would the name of Harry Blacker be among them?’

Huxtable smirked. ‘He’d be top of the list,’ he said. ‘The surprise is that he battered Exton to death in a church. Harry would have preferred to bury him alive.’

Leeming was not convinced of his innocence. There was no point in asking the wife to confirm the time of her husband’s return on the previous day. May Huxtable was so afraid of him that she’d say anything he told her to say. As he left the room, Leeming glanced through the open door of the kitchen. The woman was bent over a washboard, scrubbing away as hard as she could at what looked like Huxtable’s working clothes. Two questions sprang into Leeming’s mind. Why was she doing that on the day of rest and what was she so anxious to wash away?

‘Where were you last night?’

‘Where were you, Inspector?’

‘I’ll ask the questions, Mr Blacker.’

‘Then the answer is that I can’t remember.’

‘Why is that?’ asked Colbeck.

‘I’d drunk too much.’

Harry Blacker was fishing in the river when Colbeck finally ran him to earth. He was a scrawny man in his sixties with a craggy face and an almost toothless mouth. When Colbeck asked him about the murder, the gravedigger claimed that it was the first time he’d heard of the crime. Putting his head back, he chortled merrily.

‘Now there’s one grave I’ll really enjoy digging,’ he said.

‘You and Mr Exton were not exactly bosom friends, were you?’

‘I despised him, Inspector.’

‘Did he harass Mrs Blacker?’

‘There’s no Mrs Blacker to harass,’ said the gravedigger with another chortle. ‘Who’d marry an ugly devil like me? Besides, I like my own company. And I’d much rather catch fish all day than be chased around from breakfast to supper time by a sharp-tongued harridan. There’s plenty of women like that in Wolverton.’

‘I’ll have to take your word for it,’ said Colbeck, recoiling from the man’s bad breath. ‘What did you and Mr Exton fall out over?’

‘What else but the churchyard?’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s mine, Inspector,’ said Blacker with vehemence. ‘I’ve dug every grave in that place and I’ll dig a lot more before it’s my turn to be buried in the ground. Exton had the nerve to sleep there when I wasn’t looking. I caught him one night and poured a bucket of water over him. That kept him away for weeks but I knew he’d be back eventually. People like him never give up.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I got into the habit of going past there every night to make sure he wasn’t using my territory as his bedroom. When he did show up,’ said Blacker, bitterly, ‘he did something so disgusting that I wanted to kill him on the spot. Since he had his trousers down, I smacked him across his bare arse with the flat of my spade.’ He let out a cruel laugh. ‘He wouldn’t have been able to sit down for a week.’

Victor Leeming had a long wait outside the church and it gave him time to construct his theory about the crime. When an apologetic Colbeck turned up at last, Leeming had the solution worked out in his mind.

‘We must treat George Huxtable as a prime suspect, sir.’

‘Why is that, Victor?’

‘He’s a big, embittered man with a grudge against Exton. Huxtable worked until late at the factory last night. I believe that he could have overpowered Exton, left him bound and gagged somewhere, then slipped out in the night and taken him to the church to murder him. It was the wife who gave me the clue,’ said Leeming. ‘She was frantically scrubbing his working clothes. Estelle would never do anything like that on a Sunday. Mrs Huxtable is under her husband’s thumb. If he ordered her to get rid of bloodstains, she’d do it without question.’

‘Did you actually see any bloodstains?’

‘No, but it’s a strong possibility they were there.’

‘Only if he actually committed the murder,’ said Colbeck, ‘and to do that, he’d need a key to the church. Where did he get it from?’

Leeming’s certainty faltered. ‘I’m not sure about that, sir.’

‘It’s the crucial factor. Is Huxtable a religious man?’

‘Not as far as I could see.’

‘Then the significance of that scene at the altar would mean nothing to him.’

‘He just looked so guilty, Inspector.’

‘And so did Harry Blacker when I first clapped eyes on him.’

‘Is he a likely suspect?’

‘No,’ said Colbeck, ‘but he did point me in the direction of someone who might be. Come on, Victor,’ he said, moving off. ‘We have a train to catch.’

Leeming fell in beside him. ‘Are we going back to Euston?’ he asked, hopefully.

‘I’m afraid not. Do you know why the railway company chose Wolverton as a place for their depot and their factories?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘It’s almost equidistant between London and Birmingham. When I said that we had a train to catch, there was something I forgot to mention.’ Colbeck gave a teasing smile. ‘It won’t be the same train. You’ll go in the direction of London and I’ll go in the direction of Birmingham.’

When they called in on Adam Revill later that afternoon, the warden had rallied. A couple of hours’ sleep had put some colour in his cheeks and given him the urge to sit up in bed and read. Anthony and Maria Vine were pleased to see the improvement in him. Maria placed a cup of tea on the bedside table.

‘There you are, Uncle Adam,’ she said. ‘It’s just as you like it.’

‘You’re so good to me, Maria — and so are you, Anthony.’

‘We’re both happy to help.’

‘I feel so much better now,’ said the warden. ‘The person who really needs your help is Simon Gillard. After making that grisly discovery in the church, he must be in a terrible state. I just wish that I was well enough to comfort him.’

‘Anthony says they’ve moved the body,’ explained Maria. ‘He walked past the church earlier on. The detectives seem to have disappeared.’

‘Well, I hope they come back soon,’ said Vine. ‘The murder has cast a pall over the whole town. We need someone to lift it from us. As for Simon, I agree that he’ll need a lot of support from us. He doesn’t have the strongest constitution. It’s been a real blow.’

‘You must be ready to take over, Anthony.’

‘I’m not a warden, my dear.’

‘You will be one day and there’s nobody who can compare with you when it comes to church affairs. That’s the kindest thing you can do for Simon. Tell him that you’ll take over his duties next Sunday. It will be a huge weight off his shoulders.’

‘Maria is right,’ said Revill. ‘You’re the man to step into the breach.’

‘I’d have to speak to the vicar first,’ said Vine, clearly attracted by the notion. ‘I’ll need his approval before I speak to Simon Gillard.’

They heard a knock at the front door. Maria went off to see who it was.

‘That may be the vicar now,’ said Revill. ‘He promised to call this afternoon.’

‘Then I’ll seize my opportunity,’ said Vine.

But it was not the Reverend Odell. They heard a voice talking to Maria then three sets of footsteps came up the staircase. Maria entered the bedroom with Colbeck and Leeming. Since he’d met Revill and Maria before, the sergeant took charge of the introductions. Vine shook hands with both men.

‘I’m so glad that you haven’t deserted us,’ he said. ‘We need this murder solved and solved quickly.’

‘We take the same view, Mr Vine,’ said Colbeck. ‘That’s why we went for a ride on the train. I went to Blisworth and the sergeant went to Bletchley. When he drew a blank there, he went on Leighton Buzzard.’

Maria was baffled. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Everything turns on that key, Mrs Vine. Only three keys to the church existed so the killer must somehow have acquired a fourth. And that,’ Colbeck said, ‘means that he needed a locksmith to make one. He’d be too cunning to use someone here in Wolverton so he’d go to another town — Leighton Buzzard, as it turns out.’

‘The locksmith there was very helpful,’ said Leeming. ‘He remembered that he’d made a replica of a key to a church door only days ago and he remembered the man who asked him to do it. Of course,’ he went on, turning meaningfully to Vine, ‘you were careful not to give him your proper name. You called yourself Marklew.’

‘That was my maiden name!’ cried Maria, looking at her husband. ‘Is this true, Anthony? Did you go to Leighton Buzzard?’

‘No,’ replied Vine, indignantly. ‘The locksmith is confused.’

‘We can soon clear the confusion,’ said Colbeck. ‘We can take you to meet the gentleman and he will confirm his identification.’ He confronted Vine. ‘You took advantage of Mr Revill’s illness, didn’t you? While he was confined to his bed, you borrowed his key, had a copy made and restored the original to its place here. Then you overpowered Mr Exton, got him into the church and committed the murder in front of the altar.’

Vine spluttered. ‘I’d never dream of doing such a thing.’

‘We spoke to the vicar, sir. He told us what a deeply religious man you were.’

‘There’s nothing religious about battering a man to death,’ said Leeming.

‘I also spoke to Harry Blacker,’ resumed Colbeck. ‘He said that you were incensed when you heard that Mr Exton had defecated on your mother’s grave. There’d been bad blood between them when she was alive, apparently, but nothing excused what he did in that churchyard.’

Maria was staring at her husband in horror and Revill was scandalised.

‘Did you take my key behind my back, Anthony?’ he demanded.

‘Yes, he did,’ said Leeming.

‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this,’ said Maria, backing away.

Abandoning denial, Vine tried to justify what he’d done.

‘He deserved it, Maria,’ he argued. ‘Have you forgotten all the other things he did to the church? I lost count of the number of times I had to scrub off the obscenities Exton had daubed on the walls. He mocked God. He laughed at Christianity,’ he cried, eyes darting wildly. ‘When he … did what he did over my mother’s grave, it was the final straw. I had to teach him a lesson. You must see that. I took him into church and made him beg forgiveness from God — then I killed him in front of the altar.’ He raised a palm. ‘Don’t ask me to feel sorry for him because I don’t. Divine guidance made me do it.’

Colbeck nodded to Leeming who moved forward to make an arrest. But Vine was not going to surrender. Grabbing the sergeant by the shoulders, he flung him away then lifted the sash window in order to jump out. A yell of pain told them that he’d fallen badly and injured himself.

‘I’ll arrest him outside,’ said Leeming, leaving the bedroom.

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, peering through the window. ‘From the look of it, you won’t get much resistance this time.’

‘Anthony can’t plead divine guidance,’ said Revill in bewilderment. ‘Thou shalt not kill. That’s what we’re taught. What Anthony did was … dreadful.’

Maria was still transfixed by what she’d learnt about her husband. As she tried to take in the full horror of it all, her face crumpled and the tears gushed out. After a few moments, she collapsed into Colbeck’s arms.

When the train pulled into Euston station, the detectives got out and walked along the platform. Both were pleased to have solved the crime so quickly and to have restored a degree of calm to Wolverton.

‘There you are, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘You’ll still be able to see your children before they go to bed.’

‘I’m sorry that I was so churlish on the way there, sir.’

‘Our interrupted Sunday was redeemed by an important arrest.’

‘I’m glad we don’t have people like Anthony Vine in our congregation,’ said Leeming. ‘He’s got a very twisted view of Christianity.’

‘He’s a devout man with a fatal weakness. He forgot one of the main precepts of the Bible — Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord. Mr Vine took too much upon himself,’ said Colbeck. ‘In trying to play God, he created a disaster for the very church he loved and served. It will be something to reflect upon as he’s waiting to mount the gallows.’