Railway to the Grave

CHAPTER TWELVE

Lottie Pearl couldn’t believe the transformation that had taken place during her short time at the house. Having lost both her employers to frightening deaths, she was now forced to minister to the needs of two guests. Worst of all, she had to do so in a badly dyed black dress that hung in folds off her body, gathered dust on its hem and gave off a musty smell. With a thick apron over the dress, she felt as if she were about to suffocate in the heat of the kitchen. After her long service to the family, Mrs Withers might be truly bereaved, but it soon dawned on Lottie that she herself was mourning the imminent loss of her job. Her days there were numbered. Eve Doel had no need of the house and the girl knew that, even if he stayed, she could never work for the brother. Since he’d been there, Adam Tarleton had either glowered at her or, when he’d drunk half a bottle of brandy, appraised her in a way that made her skin crawl. When she complained about it to the housekeeper, she was told to get on with her job and stop letting her fevered imagination run away with her.

In fact, there was little time for her imagination to become fevered. She was expected to get up early, draw water from the well and help in the preparation of breakfast. Whenever she had a respite, it was swiftly curtailed by Mrs Withers who had a genius for inventing new jobs that had to be done instantly. Lottie had been ready for hard work when she took on the post but the intensity of it exceeded all her fears. That evening, however, she was given a small measure of relief. Instead of scrubbing the kitchen floor as usual, she was sent off to a farm to fetch two dozen eggs. She was undeterred by the long walk there and back. Her concern was that she had to do it in her mother’s dress and face certain mockery from the children when she got to the farm. Because she wore black, one of them had called her a witch and asked her why she hadn’t arrived on a broomstick.

In the event, Lottie was spared any ridicule. The children were playing in the field and the dog that had harassed her on her last visit was nowhere to be seen. Although the girl had money to pay for the eggs, the farmer’s wife refused to take it, saying that it was her small contribution to a house in mourning. After a brief chat with her, Lottie took her leave with the basket over her arm. The walk there had been without incident but hazards lurked on her return journey. The first was a half-hidden rabbit hole into which she put an unsuspecting foot, causing her to trip up and fall. While she wasn’t injured, her basket was jolted and a few of the eggs cracked open, emptying their sticky contents. Climbing over a stile also proved perilous. She caught her dress on it and heard an ominous tearing sound.

But it was the third hazard that really upset her because it came in human form. An old pedlar rolled towards her on his cart and eyed her with interest. Tugging his horse to a halt, he leered at the girl and offered her a trinket in exchange for a kiss. When she declined, he hopped off the cart and tried to molest her. Even though she eluded him with ease and ran away at speed, she felt hurt and vulnerable. When she reached a stand of trees, she slipped behind them and sat down to rest, examining the tear in her dress then trying to remove the broken eggs from the basket. Lottie was still trying to wipe her hands clean in the grass when she heard the approach of horses. Fearing that the pedlar had come after her, she leapt to her feet and peered around the trunk of a tree.

There were two riders and, from their carefree laughter, she could tell that they’d been drinking. They reined their horses in only twenty yards from her hiding place. Lottie recognised Adam Tarleton but she’d never seen his young companion before. They were patently happy in each other’s company and loath to part. Lottie watched as Tarleton took something from his pocket and handed it over to the other man. His friend thanked him and made a jocular remark that she couldn’t quite hear. Then they waved farewell and went their separate ways.

The girl was both mystified and excited, bewildered by what had occurred yet feeling that she’d somehow witnessed a moment of real significance. She spent the rest of the journey trying to work out what it could possibly be.

After their ill-starred rendezvous in the dark, Wilf Moxey and Lorna Begg had seen very little of each other. Both had chores that kept them working apart and neither deliberately sought out the other. Because he’d raised the alarm about a dead body, Moxey had acquired a spurious celebrity in the eyes of his workmates on the farm. His name had appeared in the newspaper and he’d been praised in print by a detective inspector for what he’d done. Unaccustomed to such fleeting fame, Moxey found it a burden. He was compelled to repeat the lie about going out in search of rabbits and his mouth went dry every time he did so. That evening, therefore, he snatched a moment to speak alone with Lorna. They met behind the cowshed and, though she gave off the unmistakable odour of stale milk, he found her as entrancing as ever.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ he began.

‘So have I. It was a mistake.’

‘No, that’s not true. What we did was right. We were unlucky.’

Lorna trembled. ‘I keep feeling the touch of that hand.’

‘Forget it.’

‘I can’t, Wilf. I’ve tried.’

‘What I’ve been thinking is this. There’s an inquest.’

‘It’s nothing to do with us,’ she said, anxiously.

‘I have to go, Lorna.’

‘Why?’

‘I told them what…what we found.’

‘You said you’d pretend you were on your own.’

‘I did. The detectives believed me. This is different. When I go to the inquest, Mr Higginbottom says I’ll be under oath.’ His face was contorted with apology. ‘I can’t tell a lie. That’d be perjury.’

She was terrified. ‘But everyone will know.’

‘Is that such a bad thing?’

‘You swore it’d be a secret, Wilf. You promised me.’

‘That was before.’

‘I trusted you. I don’t want people to know about us.’

He was hurt. ‘Are you ashamed?’

‘You promised me,’ she insisted. ‘It was our secret.’

Moxey was in a quandary. Infatuation with Lorna Begg made him eager to tell any amount of lies on her behalf but he had a conscience. It had reminded him that a lie under oath was a sin as well as a criminal offence. He would be questioned in public by the coroner, a man seasoned in the art of ferreting out the truth from witnesses. Even if he’d wanted to, Moxey wasn’t sure that he could lie convincingly enough. Yet he had to do so if he wanted to retain the milkmaid’s affections.

He reached out for her hand but she pulled it away.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked, nervously.

It was the kind of journey that Victor Leeming preferred. Seated in the trap with Robert Colbeck, he felt perfectly secure and able to enjoy the sight of rolling countryside on a summer evening. There was none of the deafening noise and continual juddering of a train. This was by far the more civilised way to travel. When the house was finally conjured into view, his jaw dropped in astonishment.

‘You didn’t tell me it was that big, sir,’ he protested.

‘It’s the old manor house, Victor.’

‘I begin to see the sort of position the colonel held.’

‘People looked up to him,’ said Colbeck. ‘Wealth is always an easy way to impress. It buys respect. He had status in the county.’

‘But it wasn’t only based on money.’

‘No, he earned it in other ways as well. He also earned a good reputation. Our task is to rescue it from oblivion.’

After driving the vehicle to the stables, Colbeck alighted and took the sergeant across to the front door. The housekeeper had seen them through the window so they had no need to ring the bell. The door was opened wide. Colbeck exchanged greetings with Mrs Withers then introduced Leeming.

‘I hope you haven’t come to speak to Mrs Doel,’ she said. ‘She’s asleep at the moment. I’d rather she wasn’t awakened.’

‘It’s her brother we came to see, Mrs Withers, but I’d also like to ask you a few questions as well.’

She stood back so that they could step inside, closing the door after them. Leeming’s unbecoming features troubled her slightly so she kept her eyes fixed on Colbeck.

‘How can I help you, sir?’ she asked.

‘Before he left this house for the last time,’ Colbeck said, ‘the colonel told you he was taking a train to Doncaster.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Had he ever done that before?’

‘I can’t remember him doing so, Inspector.’

‘Did he say why he was travelling to Doncaster?’

‘But he wasn’t,’ she pointed out. ‘That was only an excuse. As we know, he didn’t catch the train at all.’

‘Not on that occasion, I agree. Think of others. When he went somewhere by rail, did he always tell you what his destination was?’

‘No, sir, the colonel didn’t. All I knew was the time when he was likely to return so that everything was ready for him. He only told me what I needed to know.’

‘So the mention of Doncaster was unusual?’

‘It was very unusual. I’d have been less surprised if he’d said he was going to York or somewhere like that. But, then, it wasn’t my place to question his movements.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Colbeck. ‘Does the name Michael Bruntcliffe mean anything to you?’

Her face clouded. ‘Yes, it does.’

‘Well?’

‘The colonel spoke harshly about him.’

‘Did you ever see Bruntcliffe here?’

‘Only the once, Inspector,’ she replied. ‘It was years ago when the colonel and Mrs Tarleton were in Sussex. Young Mr Tarleton was still here then. I kept out of their way.’

‘How would you describe Bruntcliffe?’ asked Leeming.

‘He seemed a personable young man,’ she said, trying to recall an image in her mind. ‘Some might call him handsome. He was tall and well dressed. Oh, and he had long, black hair that curled at the ends. That’s all I can say, really.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Withers,’ said Colbeck. ‘We’re really here to see young Mr Tarleton. I assume that he’s at home.’

‘He is now, Inspector. He was out riding all afternoon and came back a short while ago. I’ll take you to him now.’ She looked sheepish. ‘I had to give him the key, sir. He’s the master now.’

Expecting to be conducted to the drawing room or the library, the visitors were instead taken to the room where the firearms were kept. The housekeeper knocked, entered, then explained to Tarleton that the detectives wished to speak to him. She retreated before she was told to leave. Colbeck introduced Leeming, who was agog at the weaponry that had been amassed. Tarleton was holding the Purdey shotgun with his stepfather’s initials carved into the stock. He replaced it in the cabinet.

‘That was the colonel’s favourite,’ observed Colbeck. ‘Did you intend to go out shooting?’

‘No,’ said Tarleton. ‘I was just wondering how much money it would fetch. A tidy amount, I hope.’

‘Are you thinking of selling it, sir?’

‘Well, I can hardly keep everything here, can I? What use is it to me when I go back to London? I’ll have to get it valued.’

‘I think you should wait before you do that, sir,’ said Leeming, surprised that Tarleton was not in mourning apparel. ‘The will has to be read first. You have to be sure that these items are yours to sell.’

‘Well, they’d hardly be left to my sister, would they?’

‘The sergeant makes a valid point,’ said Colbeck. ‘Since your stepfather wouldn’t even let you handle the firearms, he might have left them to one of the friends who joined him on shooting parties.’

Tarleton scowled. ‘He might have done just that,’ he said, stung by the notion, ‘if only out of spite. If that’s the case, I’ll contest the will. All this is mine.’

‘Be that as it may, sir. Now, would you rather we had this conversation in the drawing room or are you happy to talk to us here?’

‘This is as good a place as any, Inspector.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Leeming under his breath, gazing at a pike and imagining the fearful wounds it could inflict. Aloud, he said, ‘You saw very little of your parents in recent times, I believe, sir.’

‘My mother was my only living parent,’ corrected Tarleton. ‘I could never accept the colonel as my father. As it was, I drifted apart from both of them in the end.’

‘So you loved your mother and resented your stepfather?’

‘It was rather more complicated than that, Sergeant, and I’ve no intention of explaining why.’

‘That’s your privilege, Mr Tarleton.’

‘If you loved your mother,’ said Colbeck, ‘why didn’t you join the search for her when she went missing?’

‘I had no idea that she’d gone astray,’ said Tarleton. ‘I told you. We’d lost touch. I was trying to make my own way in life.’

‘Had you lost touch with your sister as well?’

‘Not to the same extent.’

‘Didn’t she contact you about your mother’s disappearance?’

‘Eve wrote to my last known address but I’d moved twice since then. The first time I heard about Mother vanishing was when I read a newspaper report about my stepfather’s suicide.’

‘What did you do then, sir?’

‘I got in touch with my sister, of course. When I heard that Eve’s husband was abroad,’ said Tarleton, donning the mantle of a caring brother, ‘I went to her house to comfort her then brought her here.’ He became protective. ‘If you’re hoping to speak to her, you’re out of luck. I’m afraid that I can’t allow it. She needs time to mourn.’

‘You don’t seem to share that need, sir,’ said Leeming.

‘Each of us is dealing with the catastrophe in our own way.’

‘Yours involved going for a ride, we’re told.’

Tarleton was angry. ‘Is there any law against that, Sergeant?’ he asked. ‘If you must know, I went to the rectory to make our views known with regard to the two funerals. The rector is trying to stop my stepfather from being buried in the churchyard.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck. ‘I had an argument with him over that.’

‘I wasn’t prepared to argue. I simply stated our demand.’

‘There may be wrangling ahead, sir. The rector has an obsession about death by suicide. My advice is to go over his head and appeal to the archbishop. You’ll surely get his support.’

‘I want the bodies buried as soon as the second inquest is over. It’s frustrating to have an obstacle like this thrown in our way by Mr Skelton. Where’s his Christian forgiveness? He knows the verdict reached at the inquest. Our stepfather’s mind was unbalanced. Why can’t the rector accept that and show some compassion?’

‘Because he has another reservation,’ said Colbeck. ‘In the short time that I spent with the reverend gentleman, one thing became crystal clear. He’s convinced that the colonel killed your mother. It’s a secondary reason for denying him a place in the churchyard. When we catch the real killer, of course, that excuse will disappear.’

‘Do you have any suspects?’

‘We do, as a matter of fact. One of them is an old friend of yours, as it happens – Michael Bruntcliffe.’

‘Michael is no killer,’ snapped Tarleton.

‘He was furious when your stepfather sent him to prison.’

‘That doesn’t mean he’d commit murder. He does have a vengeful streak, I grant you, but it would express itself in very different ways.’

‘Can you give us an example, sir?’

‘Well, there was the business with that farmer years ago. When he prosecuted Michael for trespass, there was a hefty fine to pay. That irked Michael. He got his revenge by opening a gate at night and letting the farmer’s sheep wander off.’

‘Was he ever taken to court for that?’ asked Leeming.

‘No – they had no proof. But you take my point. If Michael wanted to get back at someone, there was always a touch of humour in what he did.’

‘I don’t find letting sheep out very amusing, sir.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Colbeck. ‘Some of them could have been attacked by dogs or even rustled. Mr Bruntcliffe could have cost the farmer a lot of money.’

‘Michael had the last laugh,’ said Tarleton. ‘It’s all that mattered to him. The farmer kept out of his way after that.’

‘When did you last see your friend, sir?’

‘Oh, it was years ago.’

‘So you didn’t keep in touch at all?’

‘Not really, Inspector.’

‘But you seem to have been good friends.’

‘We were for a time.’

‘Why did the friendship fall off?’

‘I left here and forged a new life for myself in London.’

‘Do you have any idea where Mr Bruntcliffe is?’

‘No,’ said Tarleton, ‘and I don’t care. Michael is part of my past. With the inquest pending and the funerals to organise, I’ve got enough to keep me fully occupied. I just don’t have time for old friends. To be absolutely candid, I want to forget all about the North Riding. I can’t wait to get away from here for good.’

While she was waiting for her father to come home, Madeleine was not idle. After preparing his supper, she read another chapter of Cranford then took out Colbeck’s letter once more and pored over it. Simply holding it in her hand gave her a thrill and its sentiments warmed her to the core. The village of South Otterington was clearly very different from the one in Cheshire evoked in such detail by Mrs Gaskell. Violent death did not disturb the even rhythm of life in Cranford. Colbeck had said little about the events in Yorkshire but she’d gathered something of what had been happening there from the newspaper reports. The description of the suicide had been horrific and she’d felt sick at the thought of Colbeck having to exhume a rotting body in the wood. He took such events in his stride and Madeleine wondered if the time would ever come when she could cultivate the same indifference to morbid tasks. When they were married, she felt sure, she’d learn a great deal from him and, in turn, teach Colbeck certain things.

Caleb Andrews returned slightly earlier than usual, having trotted much of the way to escape the rain that started to fall. He let himself into the house, kissed his daughter then took off his coat and hat. Before he could stop her, Madeleine had taken the newspaper from his pocket.

‘It’s on the back page,’ he told her. ‘Everybody up there thinks that the colonel shot his wife.’

‘Robert doesn’t think that. Sergeant Leeming told me.’

‘The local people knew the colonel, Maddy. They could turn out to be right. For once in his career, the inspector may have made a big mistake – apart from travelling on the Great Northern Railway.’

Madeleine laughed. ‘How else could he get there?’ she said. ‘In any case, he didn’t go all the way on the GNR. The stretch between York and Darlington is operated by the Great North of England Railway. Robert mentioned that in his letter.’

‘What about your letter to him?’ asked Andrews. ‘Did you manage to deliver it to Sergeant Leeming?’

‘Yes, I met him at King’s Cross.’

‘Does that mean you’ll be here for breakfast tomorrow?’

‘I’ll be here,’ she said, still reading the newspaper. ‘According to this article, the investigation is faltering. That’s not true.’

Andrews went into the kitchen to wash his hands. Madeleine followed him in so that they could eat their supper together.

He was in a teasing mood. ‘Did you do what I suggested?’

‘And what was that, Father?’

‘When you wrote your letter, I wanted you to tell him to get a move on with the wedding arrangements. I may be making some arrangements of my own in the near future.’ He wiped his hands dry. ‘I hope that you mentioned that to the inspector.’

‘You know quite well that I didn’t.’

‘Then you can put it in your next letter, Maddy, and there’s something you can add about that book he loaned you.’

‘ Cranford?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘I didn’t know that you’d read it.’

‘I’ve been reading a chapter a night after you’ve gone to bed.’

‘It’s so interesting, isn’t it?’

‘I thought it was boring.’

‘But it shows you the pleasures of life in a country village.’

‘If that’s all the pleasure you get, I’ll stay here in Camden.’

‘Well, I love the book,’ she said, levelly.

‘That’s because you’re a woman, Maddy,’ he told her, sitting at the table. ‘There’s nothing in it for a man. Tell the inspector you’d like something by Dickens next time, something with murder in it to add a little spice. That’s what I like to read late at night.’

It was dark by the time they reached South Otterington. After returning the horse and trap to the place from which they’d hired it, the detectives strolled towards the Black Bull. Colbeck savoured the sense of tranquillity. He inhaled deeply.

‘The air is so much cleaner here than in London,’ he noted.

‘That makes no difference, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘I could never settle here. There are too many things I couldn’t stand.’

‘Give me an instance.’

‘Take the way they speak. They all sound funny to me.’

Colbeck smiled. ‘We probably sound funny to them, Victor. What you hear is the genuine Yorkshire accent. I find it very pleasant.’

‘Well, I don’t, Inspector. It grates on my ears. Some of them are not too bad – Mr and Mrs Reader, say, or young Mr Tarleton – but the rest talk in a sort of foreign language. Sergeant Hepworth is the worst. I couldn’t listen to that voice, day in and day out.’

‘His wife has no choice. My guess is that his is the only voice you can hear when he’s at home. He loves to hold forth.’

‘I hope we don’t find him in the bar again this evening.’

‘So does the landlord. Hepworth is bad for business.’

As they approached the pub, Colbeck noticed someone lurking in the shadows nearby. At first, he thought it was someone waiting to ambush them and he got ready to repel any attack. In fact, when they got closer, the figure withdrew completely. Saying nothing to Leeming, the inspector followed him into the bar, handed him his top hat then walked straight through the rooms at the rear of the building and let himself out into the yard. He unlocked the door in the high stone wall and let himself out as quietly as he could. Creeping along, he reached the corner and peeped carefully around it. Colbeck could just make out the shape of someone, crouched furtively against the wall as if waiting to pounce on a passer-by.

The inspector sensed trouble and sought to nip it in the bud. Easing his way around the corner, he moved on tiptoe until he got within reach of the man, then he dived forward, gripped him tightly and pinioned him to the wall.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Colbeck.

The man struggled to get away. ‘Nothing, sir – let me go.’

‘You’re up to no good.’

‘Is that you, Inspector?’ said the other, respectfully.

Colbeck recognised the voice. ‘Moxey?’ He let his prisoner go. ‘I didn’t realise it was you.’

‘That’s all right, sir.’ The labourer turned to look at him with obvious unease. ‘I’m sorry to cause you any bother, sir. I’ll have to get back to the farm.’

‘No, no, stay here. You came to see me, didn’t you?’

‘It was a mistake,’ said Moxey. ‘I changed my mind.’

‘Well, I’m not letting you go now that you’re here,’ said Colbeck. ‘The first thing I insist on doing is to buy you a drink. You brought us vital information and that deserves a reward.’

The labourer smiled. ‘Oh, I see.’

‘Come on, let’s go inside.’

Before Moxey could resist, Colbeck put an arm around his shoulders and shepherded him into the bar. Leeming was already seated at a table with drinks for himself and Colbeck. The inspector ordered a pint of beer for their visitor then took him across to the table. He knew that Moxey had come to see him and lost his nerve at the last moment. The first task, therefore, was to make the labourer relax. It wasn’t easy. Moxey was overawed. He’d never shared a drink with two gentlemen from London before and couldn’t believe they were so friendly to him. His awkwardness slowly faded. Colbeck let him get halfway through the pint before questioning him.

‘You came about the inquest, didn’t you?’ he asked.

Moxey looked hunted. ‘How did you know?’

‘I couldn’t think of any other reason for you to be here.’

‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ said Leeming. ‘You’ll only be questioned for a few minutes then you’ll be free to go. The inspector and I will then have to take our turn.’

‘Do I have to be there?’ asked Moxey.

‘Yes – you found the body.’

‘What will I be asked?’

‘How you came to be there and how you stumbled on it.’

‘Can’t you write that down and show it to the coroner? That would save me going. Mr Higginbottom’s not happy about me taking time off. Write it down,’ said Moxey with enthusiasm as the idea took hold on him. ‘I’d do it myself but I never learnt writing and such.’

‘I think I see the problem here,’ said Colbeck. ‘When you went out after rabbits that night, you might not have been on your own.’

‘But I was, I was alone, Inspector.’

‘I’m sure that you were, Wilf, but let’s assume – for the sake of argument – that you did have a friend with you. And let’s assume that you have a very good reason for keeping that friend’s name out of it altogether.’ He gave an understanding smile. ‘Do you follow me?’

‘I do, sir.’

‘In that case, there’s a simple solution.’

Moxey went blank. ‘Is there?’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck. ‘The coroner isn’t really interested in what you were doing in that wood in the middle of the night. The point is that you discovered the body. Until you did that, Sergeant Leeming and I had been floundering.’

‘We didn’t know if the lady was alive or dead,’ said Leeming. ‘All we knew was that she was missing.’

‘You solved the mystery for us, Wilf.’

‘Yes,’ said Moxey with a slow smile, ‘I did, didn’t I?’

‘The coroner will realise that and take it into account.’

‘Will he, sir?’

‘He will, if I speak to him beforehand,’ explained Colbeck. ‘Even on a short acquaintance, I can see that you’re an honest man. It would upset you to lie on oath, wouldn’t it? You’re afraid you’d be committing perjury.’ Moxey lowered his head to his chest. ‘Then the coroner will simply say that he believes you were out walking that night and found the grave by accident. He won’t try to interrogate you about why you went to that particular place.’ Moxey’s head was raised hopefully. ‘How does that sound?’

‘Would you do that for me, Inspector?’

‘We need your evidence and I’ll make sure that you don’t have any embarrassment while giving it.’

‘Then you can go back to the farm and boast about appearing at a coroner’s court,’ said Leeming.

‘It’s nothing to boast about, sir. I’m just sad about the lady.’

‘So are we,’ said Colbeck. ‘But the best way to get rid of that sadness is to catch the man who murdered her. Now then, have I put your mind at rest?’

‘Oh, you have, sir. Thank you. It’s been preying on me.’

‘Have you had a hard day at work, Wilf?’

‘Yes, Inspector, we started to get the harvest in.’

‘Then you’ll have built up a good thirst,’ said Colbeck, patting him on the back. ‘Drink up and the sergeant will get you another.’

Moxey thought about Lorna Begg and laughed inwardly. He’d have so much to tell her when he got back to the farm.

Dorcas Skelton was an obedient wife who readily took instruction from a husband she regarded as a kind of saint. She never questioned his decisions nor tried to take the initiative in their marriage. The fact that it was childless was something she’d long ceased to feel slight qualms about. Life with Frederick Skelton was a blessing. Maternal instincts were smothered beneath a blanket of wifely devotion. Yet she was not the sedate creature that she appeared. Adversity could bring out the essential steel in her character. Whenever she felt that the rector was unfairly criticised or undervalued, she leapt to his defence like a guard dog straining at the leash. The visit of Adam Tarleton had her barking wildly.

‘His behaviour was atrocious,’ she cried. ‘He had no right to force his way in here and abuse you in your own study.’

‘It was rather alarming,’ he confessed. ‘He must have been drinking.’

‘That’s no excuse, Frederick. You told me that he might have matured in the time he’s been away. I saw no maturity in the account you gave of him. He sounded like the same wilful young rascal that he always was. Someone should thrash him soundly.’

‘I never resort to violence, Dorcas.’

‘It’s what the colonel should have done.’

‘I’m sure it’s what he would have wanted to do, my dear, but Miriam always interceded. She was far too soft on the lad.’

‘And look at the result,’ she said. ‘Adam has turned into an uncontrollable ruffian with no respect for a man of the cloth. I think that he should be reported.’

‘He already has been,’ he said, casting a pious glance upward.

‘God may punish him for his sins in time but he needs more immediate chastisement. Adam should be reported and flogged.’

‘By whom? There’s no agency to which we can turn.’

They were in his study and she was standing in the precise spot occupied by Adam Tarleton when he unloosed his tirade against the rector. On the wall behind Skelton’s head was the crucifix before which he prayed every morning before beginning work at his desk. Its very presence had buoyed him up at times of crisis and it seemed to fill the room with a precious sanctity. Glancing at the crucifix now, he made the sign of the cross with a grace for which he was renowned. The gesture helped to calm his wife down a little.

‘What are you going to do, Frederick?’ she asked.

‘You know my mind. The colonel will not be buried here.’

‘I wasn’t talking about that. I was thinking about Sunday when you have to take a service in the church. Members of the family might turn up. Eve will want to come and she might even persuade that lout of a brother to accompany her – though I think he should be refused entry to any place of worship.’

He spread his arms. ‘All are welcome in my congregation.’

‘Will you let him abuse you like that again?’

‘I’ll be firmly in control in my church, Dorcas,’ he said. ‘It’s my spiritual fortress. Nobody can attack me there. Besides, I doubt very much if Adam will turn up on Sunday. His sister may come with Mrs Withers and there’ll be friends of the family here as well.’

‘That’s what worries me,’ she admitted. ‘They’ll be here for solace. They’ll want your sermon to give them moral guidance to cope with their loss. They’ll expect eulogies of the deceased.’

He clenched his teeth. ‘I will not offer praise of the colonel.’

‘You could talk about his charitable work, perhaps.’

‘Dorcas,’ he said, stroking his hair with offhand vanity, ‘I’m not a man to compromise. Colonel Tarleton doesn’t deserve even to be mentioned in my church, let alone given a tribute. He flouted the teaching of the Bible. He committed suicide and we both know why he took that desperate and irrevocable step.’ His voice soared like a chord on the church organ. ‘He murdered his wife. I’ll not let his bones corrupt my churchyard. Miriam is the only person for whom we’ll pray on Sunday. My sermon will explain why and it will be fearless.’

Having eaten their supper, the detectives remained at their table to discuss the evidence they’d so far gathered and to decide what they needed to do on the following day. Neither of them was pleased when Eric Hepworth hove into view, his bald head gleaming in the light of the oil lamps, the sight of his uniform causing some of the other customers to sidle out of the bar. Without invitation, Hepworth took an empty seat at the table and gave them a conspiratorial smirk.

‘Have you made an arrest yet, gentlemen?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied Colbeck, ‘but it’s only a matter of time.’

‘That means you have someone in view.’

‘We have a number of suspects, Sergeant, but we prefer to be certain of our facts before we make a move. Had we listened to you, for instance, we’d have believed that Mrs Tarleton had simply fled from a domineering husband.’

Hepworth bridled. ‘That was only a theory.’

‘A foolish one, as it turned out,’ said Leeming.

‘Ginny heard the colonel arguing with his wife. Others may tell you that they were happily married but I know the truth.’ His tone became placatory. ‘Anyway, the body was found. We know the truth now. All we need to do is to find the killer.’

‘That’s our task.’

‘But I’m the one with local knowledge, Sergeant.’

‘With respect,’ said Leeming, ‘it’s not entirely reliable. Your view of the colonel is coloured by the fact that he dismissed your daughter and treated your son badly.’

‘I saw him for the petty tyrant he really was,’ argued Hepworth.

‘That opinion is not yours alone,’ said Colbeck, thinking of the stationmaster. ‘And we do respect your local knowledge. In fact, I’d like to draw on it now.’

Hepworth beamed. ‘Feel free to do so, Inspector.’

‘We’re trying to find a man named Michael Bruntcliffe.’

‘Why – is he a suspect?’

‘We just wish to speak to him, that’s all, and eliminate him from our enquiries. Do you know who he is?’

‘I should do,’ said Hepworth, proudly. ‘I was the one who arrested him for defacing railway property. That’s a serious offence in my book. Signs and notices are there to guide the travelling public. If someone paints out certain words, the information can be very misleading. What annoyed me was that Bruntcliffe treated the whole thing as a joke.’

‘Did you catch him in the act?’

‘Yes, Inspector, he was painting vulgar messages on the side of a goods wagon.’ He grinned at the memory. ‘Fortunately for me, he resisted arrest. I had to overpower him.’

‘The colonel sent him to prison,’ said Leeming.

‘That’s where he belonged. If it was left to me, he’d still be there. Bruntcliffe likes to make mischief. His family have disowned him. Or, to be more exact, Bruntcliffe has disowned them.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘I spoke to the prison governor. He said that Bruntcliffe refused to see his family on release. He just disappeared. Nobody seems to know if he’s in the area or not.’

‘There’s one person who should be able to tell you.’

‘Oh? And who’s that?’

‘Young Mr Tarleton. He and Michael Bruntcliffe were friends. They were also birds of a feather.’

‘We spoke to Mr Tarleton earlier,’ said Colbeck, ‘and he claimed that he hadn’t seen Bruntcliffe for years.’

‘Then he was lying to you, Inspector.’

‘How do you know?’

‘My brother is a warder at the prison. He tells me what happens there. When you spoke to the governor, did you ask him if Bruntcliffe had had any visitors while he was serving his sentence?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ said Colbeck.

‘Then you should have done,’ said Hepworth, relishing a minor triumph, ‘because you might have learnt what I did. So young Mr Tarleton hasn’t seen Bruntcliffe for years, has he? Ask him to explain why he visited his friend in prison more than once. The last time was less than a month ago.’ He gave a ripe chuckle. ‘Do you see what I mean about the value of local knowledge?’