The Stationmaster's farewell

CHAPTER SIX

When she got to the stationmaster’s house that morning, Dorcas was disturbed to find a uniformed policeman on guard outside it. It was a chilling reminder that its former occupant had died a hideous death. Now that she’d taken the canary into her own home, there was no point in peeping through the window for a glimpse of Peter. She was therefore glad to hurry past the house and walk along the platform. Because she’d left the inquest before Mrs Rossiter gave her evidence, she was quite unaware of the manageress’s outburst and subsequent collapse. All that she knew was that Mrs Rossiter — in the face of damning evidence — was steadfastly refusing to believe that Joel Heygate was dead. At least, that had been the case when the two women were last together. As she entered the refreshment room, she discovered that the situation had altered dramatically. Agnes Rossiter had not only been compelled to accept the truth, she’d somehow promoted herself to the status of Heygate’s widow. Standing behind the counter, she was wearing full mourning dress with a black lace hat and gloves. It was an incongruous sight. She looked as if she should be at home, weeping into a black-edged handkerchief, rather than moving teacups about. Dorcas was stunned by the extreme to which the woman had now gone.

‘There you are at last, girl,’ said Mrs Rossiter with a censorious sniff. ‘I thought you’d never come. Mr Heygate would have disapproved.’

‘But I’m earlier than usual, Mrs Rossiter.’

‘That makes no difference. I feel as if you’re late.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘I came in over an hour ago. In deference to Mr Heygate’s memory, I was prepared to put in extra time without hope of any reward. I’d like to think that you might do the same but that was too much to expect.’

Dorcas went over to her. ‘Do you feel well, Mrs Rossiter?’

‘What an absurd question! How can anyone feel well in the wake of a tragedy like the one I have to endure? I’m mourning a great man and a special friend.’

‘Do you really think you should have come into work this morning?’

‘It’s my duty, Miss Hope. I had to come.’

‘Have you spoken to Mr Woodford?’

‘I’m only answerable to Mr Heygate and his precious memory,’ said Mrs Rossiter, brusquely, ‘so I suggest that you take off your coat and hat and get to work. Before too long, the next train will be due.’

Dorcas obeyed but she was very worried about Mrs Rossiter’s state of mind and wondered what the new stationmaster would say when he saw the older woman behind the counter. A manageress in widow’s weeds was not the most inspiring welcome for any customers entering the refreshment room. In the event, it was not Woodford who first appeared but Colbeck and Leeming. Having heard Mrs Rossiter’s impassioned denial of Joel Heygate’s death, they were astonished to find that she was now marking it as if she were the bereaved wife. Leeming gasped in amazement but Colbeck was anxious about the woman. With her flashing eyes and waving arms, she looked quite deranged.

‘What may we get you, gentlemen?’ she asked.

‘Actually,’ said Colbeck, ‘I wanted a private word with Miss Hope. Sergeant Leeming and I have come from London to investigate the murder. My name is Inspector Colbeck, by the way. We were at the inquest yesterday when you seemed to think that the victim had been wrongly identified.’

‘I sensed that it had,’ said Mrs Rossiter, ‘because we had such a bond between us. This morning, however, it was very different. The moment I opened my eyes, I knew that it had to be Joel — dear Mr Heygate — and I felt obliged to mourn him in the proper way.’

Dorcas was nervous. ‘Why do you want to speak to me, Inspector?’

‘I’d like to speak to you both in turn, Miss Hope, but I can’t take you out of here together or nobody would be served refreshments.’

‘You can’t have my assistant,’ complained the manageress. ‘I need her.’

‘All that you need is a willing pair of hands,’ said Colbeck, ‘and I’m sure that the sergeant will provide them.’

Leeming was aghast. ‘You want me to act as waitress, sir?’

‘Only for a short time, Victor — you’ll cope admirably.’

‘But I’ve never worked in a refreshment room before.’

‘Mrs Rossiter will teach you all you need to know.’

‘Yes,’ she said, regarding him sternly, ‘and the first thing you must do is to take off your coat and hat. There’s a spare apron under the counter. You can put that on. Appearance is everything in here.’

‘I can’t see how this will solve a murder,’ grumbled Leeming.

‘You’re solving a problem of keeping the refreshment room open,’ Colbeck told him, ‘and we’re very grateful.’

He took Dorcas out and escorted her to the stationmaster’s office. Quinnell had given him permission to use it whenever necessary and Woodford had been quick to agree. It was empty when they got there so they stepped out of the cold. Dorcas was fearful, eyes widening and stomach churning. She was glad when Colbeck doffed his hat. He looked less intimidating now. He offered her a chair then sat opposite her.

‘There’s no need to be afraid,’ he soothed. ‘You’re not in any kind of trouble. It’s just that you may be able to help us.’

‘I said all I know at the inquest, sir — until it got too much for me, that is.’

‘I felt that there were things you may have overlooked.’

Dorcas was confused. ‘Were you there, sir?’

‘Yes, we were.’ He appraised her. ‘You’re the young lady we saw when we first arrived here, I fancy. You were carrying a large birdcage.’

‘That was Mr Heygate’s canary. His name is Peter. I used to look after him when Mr Heygate was away.’ Her face clouded. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong, have I, sir? Mr Woodford said I could have Peter. It’s not against the law, is it?’

‘Not at all,’ said Colbeck with a smile. ‘I’m only glad that the bird has gone to someone who’ll care for him. When the superintendent and I searched the house yesterday, we found a couple of books on canaries.’

‘Mr Heygate loved birds.’

‘Yes, I’m told that he rescued an injured pigeon once and nursed it back to health. Is that true?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, gathering confidence, ‘it was lying on the track. I was allowed to feed the pigeon sometimes. He kept it here in the back room. We called it Lucky because it almost got run over by a train.’

‘It sounds to me as if it was lucky in finding people like you and Mr Heygate as well. You obviously have an affinity for birds.’

‘What does that mean, sir?’

‘You like them and they like you.’

‘Well, yes, that’s true. But Mr Heygate was the expert.’

‘Did he ever mention a barn owl to you?’

‘Oh, he did,’ she replied, shedding her apprehension and talking with a degree of excitement. ‘He stumbled on it by accident when he was out walking. He used to go and see it after dark and take it food. That was the best time, he said. The owl came to the shed most nights.’

‘Do you happen to know where that shed was, Miss Hope?’

‘No, sir, but it wasn’t all that far away. Mr Heygate said that it only took him a quarter of an hour to get there.’

‘According to Mr Woodford,’ said Colbeck, ‘he was going to see the owl on the night that he was … on the night that he disappeared. Did you know about that?’

‘Yes, sir — Mr Heygate told me.’

‘You were obviously a friend in whom he could confide.’

‘He was a very nice man.’

‘You must have gone into his house a number of times.’

‘Yes — and not only to feed Peter. Mr Heygate invited me to tea on a Sunday once in a while. My parents were happy to let me go. They knew they could trust him.’

‘Did you ever see any sign of money in the house?’

‘Money?’

‘Mr Heygate earned a good wage, yet we found no sign of money in the house and we searched hard. I wonder if he had a hiding place somewhere.’

‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I wouldn’t know about that.’

‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Do you like working here, Miss Hope?’

She was hesitant. ‘I used to like it.’

‘What about now?’

‘Things have changed. Mr Woodford is …’ She needed time to find the right words. ‘Well, he’s very different and Mrs Rossiter is behaving strangely. She’s nothing to do with Mr Heygate’s family but she’s pretending that she is. To be honest, sir, I was upset when I saw her dressed up like that.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Colbeck. ‘What we need to establish is where exactly Mr Heygate was going that night when he set off to see this owl. You may not know. Is there anyone else who might?’

‘No, sir — he was a very private man.’

‘So we’ve discovered.’

‘But there is one way to find out where he went.’

Colbeck’s interest quickened. ‘Is there?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘Mr Heygate kept a diary. He always made a note of where he’d seen certain birds. It was his hobby, you see.’

‘We found no diary during our search and we were very thorough.’

‘It ought to be there somewhere, sir. All you have to do is to look at the diary and it will tell you what you want to know.’

Victor Leeming had a well-earned reputation for handling a crisis and police work had given him plenty of practice. One thing he’d never done, however, was to handle a sudden influx of customers who poured out of a train and demanded refreshments before they continued their journey to Plymouth. Caught up in a whirl of non-stop activity, he could only marvel at the way that Mrs Rossiter took a stream of orders, accepted payment for them and set tea and food on the counter for Leeming to carry to respective tables. He was embarrassed to be wearing an apron and humiliated by being treated as a menial. The occasional tip did nothing to sweeten his temper. Passengers were given fair warning when the train was about to depart and they left in a solid group. Overwhelmed with relief, Leeming collapsed on to a chair.

‘There’s no time to sit down, Sergeant,’ snapped the manageress. ‘The tables need clearing and you can wash some of the crockery.’

He stood up wearily. ‘Is it always like this?’

‘No, we’re usually much busier.’

He began to collect teacups and plates from the tables before stacking them on the counter. Mrs Rossiter, meanwhile, was boiling a fresh supply of water in readiness for the next invasion. When he heard the door open, Leeming feared another horde of passengers but it was only the stationmaster.

‘Good God!’ yelled Woodford, seeing the manageress for the first time that morning. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’

‘I’m remaining at my post out of loyalty to Mr Heygate,’ she said, crisply.

‘You can’t work in here dressed like that.’

‘I can and I will, Mr Woodford.’

‘Think how it must look to our customers,’ said the stationmaster. ‘They want to eat and drink — not to take part in a funeral service.’ He stared at Leeming’s apron. ‘And whatever are you doing, Sergeant?’

‘It wasn’t my idea,’ said the other, disconsolately.

‘Where’s Miss Hope?’

‘She’s being interviewed by Inspector Colbeck.’

‘Did I hear my name being taken in vain?’ asked Colbeck, entering the room with Dorcas. ‘I’ve brought your waitress back, Mrs Rossiter.’

She tossed her head. ‘Not before time, if I may say so.’

‘This is preposterous,’ said Woodford, taking charge. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Rossiter, but I can’t allow you to deal with the general public in mourning garb. You must either change into something more presentable or stay at home until you’re ready to do so. I suggest that you leave at once.’

‘I refuse to go,’ she said, folding her arms.

‘I’m giving you an order.’

‘I prefer to obey my instincts.’

‘If you don’t do as you’re told,’ he warned, ‘then you’ll face dismissal.’

She was visibly shaken by the threat and Dorcas was utterly dismayed. Trying to relieve the tension, Colbeck stepped in with an emollient smile.

‘There’s no need for talk of dismissal,’ he said. ‘Mrs Rossiter is clearly an asset to this refreshment room. As it happens, I need to speak to her alone, so I’ll borrow her if I may. I’m sure that Mrs Rossiter is as eager as the rest of us to move the investigation on to the next stage. Isn’t that so?’

‘Yes, it is, Inspector,’ she confirmed.

‘Very well,’ said Woodford, ‘but I’m not having any member of the staff dressed in mourning wear. When you’ve concluded your interview, Inspector, don’t send her back in here.’

‘Leave it to me,’ suggested Colbeck. ‘Mrs Rossiter and I have a lot to discuss. I’ll certainly be touching on the subject of her appearance.’ He indicated the door. ‘Shall we go, Mrs Rossiter?’

She weighed up the situation carefully, looking first at the grim countenance of the stationmaster, then at Colbeck. After deliberation, she picked up her reticule, took her coat from its hook and walked towards the door.

Dorcas was alarmed. ‘I can’t manage in here on my own.’

‘You won’t have to,’ said Colbeck. ‘The sergeant will assist you.’

Leeming turned puce. ‘Am I to be subservient to a waitress?’

‘It could be worse, Victor.’

‘That’s impossible.’

‘Think what Superintendent Tallis would say if he saw you in that apron.’

Edward Tallis sat behind his desk in a cloud of cigar smoke. Whenever he was under real pressure, he reached for a cigar in the mistaken belief that it helped his thought processes. In fact, it dulled his mind, shortened his breath, darkened his teeth and left him with an unpleasant taste in his mouth. Notwithstanding that, he enjoyed the act of smoking. It was one of the few luxuries that he allowed himself. Picking up the letter that lay on his desk, he read it for the fifth time. Each word was a sharp pinprick and the cumulative effect was painful. Tallis did not take criticism easily. When it was serious criticism, he was even less inclined to accept it and was adept at unloading it on to somebody else. Inhaling deeply, he then blew out more smoke to thicken the fug and ground his cigar into the ashtray with a vengeance. Tallis stood up, brushed the ash from his waistcoat and came to a decision. Minutes later, he left Scotland Yard.

‘Were you aware that Mr Heygate kept a diary?’ asked Colbeck.

‘No,’ she admitted, ‘I wasn’t.’

‘Did you know where he kept his money?’

‘It was none of my business, Inspector.’

‘Did he ever mention an owl to you?’

‘I don’t believe that he did.’

‘Mrs Rossiter,’ he said, gently, ‘you keep telling me how close you and he were but it’s hardly borne out by the facts. You were never once invited into his house, were you?’

‘That means nothing. We had an understanding.’

Colbeck was sympathetic. She was evidently under immense strain. To cope with the loss of someone for whom she had deep, if unrequited, feelings she’d convinced herself that their relationship was far closer than it had been. He was therefore handling her with tact. They were in the stationmaster’s office and Agnes Rossiter was sitting beside the desk in Heygate’s old seat. Encouraged by Colbeck, she talked about her life at the railway station. She’d taken over the position of manageress after the untimely death from cholera of her husband over a decade earlier. They had no children and it was an eternal regret of hers. To stave off despair, she’d eventually moved in with her unmarried sister but she clearly missed the company of a man.

‘Mr Heygate knew my circumstances,’ she recalled, ‘and he showed me the greatest kindness. I never thought that I would get over the death of my husband but I did — thanks to him.’ Her jaw tightened. ‘The upsetting thing was that, when he lost his wife and daughter, Mr Heygate didn’t let me offer the support I got from him.’

‘He was doubtless grateful for the offer, Mrs Rossiter.’

‘He just never talked about it. Don’t you find that odd?’

‘Each of us has his or her own way of dealing with setbacks,’ said Colbeck, ‘and there’s no bigger setback than the loss of a loved one.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, taking out a black-edged handkerchief to dab at her eyes. ‘It’s happened to me twice now and the anguish is unbearable.’

‘That’s all the more reason why you should take some time off. It’s wrong for you to force yourself to work when you have so much on your mind. There’s a clash here,’ he pointed out. ‘Mourning is a private matter while serving refreshments is a public one. You can’t do both simultaneously.’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘Mr Woodford was quite right. Mourning dress is out of place.’

She was waspish. ‘A fat lot he knows about mourning!’ she said. ‘He’s a cold-hearted man, Inspector, and he showed Mr Heygate little compassion during his time of suffering. I dislike him intensely.’

‘All the same, he is the acting stationmaster, so it’s best not to antagonise him.’

‘I won’t be ordered out of my own refreshment room.’

‘Then you should do as he advises,’ said Colbeck, ‘and wear something more appropriate. You don’t want to get tea stains on that lovely dress, do you?’

She softened. ‘It belonged to my mother. I inherited it.’

‘Then save it for the funeral, Mrs Rossiter. It doesn’t belong here.’

Mrs Rossiter studied him for a moment. He was quite unlike any policeman she’d met before and had a gentleness of manner that seemed at variance with the brutal world in which he was obliged to operate. Because Woodford had ordered her to change her apparel, she resolved not to do so. Colbeck had been more persuasive, arguing that she could not grieve properly while stuck behind a counter serving tea. She came to see how bizarre she must have looked.

‘Go home,’ he said, soothingly. ‘I’ll happily take you there in a cab.’

‘Perhaps that might be wise,’ she decided.

‘Let them find someone else to run the refreshment room. Not that they’ll do it half as well,’ he added. ‘Miss Hope was telling me how efficient you are.’

‘Miss Hope is a good girl — a trifle slow, that’s all.’

He stretched out an arm. ‘Shall we go and find a cab, Mrs Rossiter?’

‘Yes,’ she said, taking his hand and rising to her feet. ‘Have you ever lost someone you adored, Inspector?’

‘I’ve lost several people who’d qualify under that description, alas. There was my mother, father and my younger brother, not to mention four grandparents. I’m no stranger to family funerals.’

‘Are you married?’

‘Not at the moment,’ he replied, ‘but our wedding is arranged for the end of this month. It’s not the ideal time of the year but I’m blessed in having the ideal bride and that’s wonderful compensation.’

‘I hope that she never has to suffer what I’ve had to endure,’ she said with sudden acrimony. ‘Fate can be so cruel at times. It’s happened to me twice now. I pray that your wife will be spared such unspeakable horror.’

It was no use. No matter how hard she tried, Madeleine Andrews could not concentrate on her work. Though she’d been standing at her easel for hours, she’d put very little on the canvas. It was Colbeck who’d spotted her artistic talent and who’d urged her to develop it. His encouragement was all the incentive that she needed. By dint of study and incessant practice, she produced paintings that were eventually good enough to be shown to a dealer and her first sale had been a joyous experience. Building on that early success, she’d managed to make a regular income of sorts from her brush. What had attracted the art dealer was her unusual choice of subject. Instead of painting a pretty landscape or a portrait, she took her inspiration from the railways. Locomotives were conjured on to the canvas with a mixture of love and growing expertise. She knew how to bring them alive. Her success was a source of continuous pleasure for her father, who boasted — correctly at times — that he’d been able to give her the benefit of his professional advice.

But she could not address her mind to the painting in hand that afternoon. All that she could think about was the wedding and the dress she’d wear to the event. It was years since she’d first met Robert Colbeck and, though their friendship deepened with each passing month, they seemed to get no closer to marriage. Then, when she least expected it, he proposed to her in the middle of the Birmingham Jewellery Quarter, where he’d bought the engagement ring she wore so proudly on her finger. The date was set, the church was booked, the invitations sent out and her wedding dress ordered. With so much to think about, Madeleine was mad even to imagine that she could work properly. Whenever she looked at her painting of a locomotive her father had once driven, the face of Colbeck smiled back at her from the easel. She was alternately aroused and dejected, lifted by the thought of the wedding day ahead and crestfallen at the prospect of some harm befalling her future husband. Danger always lurked in a murder investigation. She had to accept that.

The sound of approaching footsteps reminded her that she was not the only person in the house. Recognising her father’s distinctive gait, she broke off and used a piece of cloth to wipe her brush dry. Caleb Andrews unlocked the door and stepped into the house. It was the day when he’d taken tea at Dirk Sowerby’s. Among the guests was a lady in whom Andrews had taken more than a passing interest. Madeleine searched his face for a hint at the success or otherwise of the occasion but her father was unduly impassive.

‘Well,’ she asked, ‘did you enjoy the visit?’

‘It was pleasant enough, Maddy.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Dirk’s wife makes a poor cup of tea.’

‘Was Mrs Langton there?’

‘Who?’

‘The lady you were hoping to meet.’

‘Yes, yes,’ he said, off-handedly, ‘I think she was there.’

‘Can’t you even remember? That was the whole point of going, wasn’t it?’

‘I forget, Maddy.’

She saw the telltale glint in his eye. ‘You’re teasing me, Father.’

‘I’d never do that.’

‘What happened?’ she demanded. ‘If you’re expecting a meal this evening, you can stop playing games with me. How did you get on with Mrs Langton?’

His face was split by a grin. ‘I got on very well,’ he said, whisking off his cap. ‘Binnie has invited me to her own home — and promised me a better cup of tea than I had today. Who knows where things will lead from there?’

‘Am I invited to go with you?’

‘We don’t need a chaperone at our age, Maddy. That’s the beauty of it. Binnie and I can do exactly as we please with nobody to stop us.’

Madeline felt a pang of unease. There could be trouble ahead.

It had been almost an hour before Leeming was rescued from his unsought role as an assistant waitress. In that time, three trains had come into the station and disgorged dozens of passengers in search of refreshment. Leeming had had no time to rest. While Dorcas handled the money and set up the various trays, he had been confined to the tedious job of carrying orders to the different tables. Even when the bulk of the customers departed, others drifted in to kill time over a cup of tea while they waited for a later train. It had seemed an age before Woodford was able to rustle up a young porter to replace the sergeant and assist Dorcas Hope.

Leeming had torn off his apron and flung it aside.

‘It was demeaning, Inspector,’ he said.

‘Someone had to save the day, Victor, and you were the chosen man.’

‘Why couldn’t you have done it?’

‘I was too busy interviewing Miss Hope and, later on, the manageress. In the latter case,’ said Colbeck, ‘I had to take the lady home in a cab because she was too unstable to travel alone. The woman is possessed by a fantasy.’

‘So am I,’ said Leeming. ‘My fantasy is that I’m a sergeant in the Detective Department at Scotland Yard. Clearly, I’m not. I’m the lowest of the low, a drudge.’

‘I’m serious about Mrs Rossiter. She needs medical help.’

‘When the doctor’s finished with her, please send him on to me. I need my head examining as well.’

Colbeck laughed. They were at the police station, having spent the afternoon dealing with bogus claims by people over-excited by the amount of money being offered for information. Two of them insisted that they’d seen a corpse being dumped on the bonfire the night before it was lit, a third remembered a dead body cunningly disguised as a guy, while a fourth maintained that he’d actually seen Joel Heygate being murdered before being concealed under the heap of timber. Since he said that the victim had been stabbed to death, this last claimant was the easiest to unmask as a blatant liar. Had he read newspaper reports, he would have known that Heygate had, in fact, been bludgeoned. The detectives had quickly exposed the tissue of deceit and, after arresting and charging them, handed all four men over to a magistrate.

Having moaned about his stint in the refreshment room, Leeming turned his thoughts back to the investigation. His concern was the prime suspect.

‘Do you think he’s still in Exeter, sir?’ asked Leeming.

‘Are you talking about Bagsy Browne?’

‘In his place, I’d make myself scarce.’

‘I fancy that he’s here. He doesn’t want to miss the fun of the funeral.’

Leeming was startled. ‘Fun!’

‘That’s how he’ll see it, Victor. It’ll be a celebration to him. If you loathe someone enough to murder them, you might well take pleasure out of seeing their remains lowered into the earth. That,’ said Colbeck, ‘might be our chance to catch the elusive Mr Browne.’

‘Do we have to wait until the funeral?’

‘We’ll wait a lot longer if called upon to do so. That’s assuming that Browne is our man, of course. I still think that we should keep Michael Heygate and Lawrence Woodford in mind. Patience is our watchword. We bide our time.’

‘This case could drag on and on,’ said Leeming, gloomily. ‘I may not get to see my family again for weeks — and what about the wedding?’

‘I try not to think about that, Victor.’

‘Then you’re very different from me, sir. When I was about to get married, it preyed on my mind for months beforehand. I could think of nothing else.’

‘My only concern is to solve this crime.’

‘But we’ve made no real progress so far.’

‘I disagree,’ said Colbeck. ‘We’ve identified three possible suspects and the news about the diary has been in the nature of a breakthrough.’

‘Except that we don’t actually have the diary.’

‘We know of its existence, that’s the main thing.’

‘Then why didn’t you find it when you searched the house?’ asked Leeming. ‘My guess is that it was destroyed by the killer so it’s gone for ever.’

‘I remain more sanguine,’ said Colbeck. ‘It’s highly unlikely that the killer knew that Heygate kept such a diary and the stationmaster would hardly carry it with him when he was going off on a nocturnal search for an owl. It’s here somewhere and it may well hold the clue that leads to an arrest.’

‘Then how do you find it?’

‘It will turn up somehow.’

‘I wish I had your confidence, sir,’ said Leeming, dispiritedly. ‘In every other investigation, I’ve always had the feeling that we’re moving forwards. Here in Exeter, we seem to be treading water. I’m starting to hate the place.’

‘Concentrate on its virtues, Victor.’

‘I didn’t know that it had any.’

‘It has several, believe me, but the one that might recommend itself to you is its geographical position. As long as we’re in this city, we’re almost two hundred miles away from Superintendent Tallis.’

Leeming brightened. ‘Now that is a bonus,’ he said, chuckling. ‘We don’t have to put up with him yelling at us. The superintendent can’t touch us here.’

When the train pulled into Exeter St David’s station, the first person to step on to the platform was Edward Tallis. As a porter came towards him, he thrust his valise at the man and barked an order.

‘Take me to a cab!’