‘I’d forgotten that,’ he said, ‘and I’m against it. I don’t want to sit there and listen to person after person saying kind things about Joel. He was no brother to me. He was an uncaring swine and I’m glad we got rid of him at last.’
Though he hadn’t deigned to attend the inquest, Henry Phillpotts made sure that he had a pair of eyes and ears present. A full report of the event was written and handed to him. As he sat behind his desk in the library, he scrutinised the report. It caused him to suck his teeth and issue an occasional grunt of displeasure. As soon as he’d finished it, he set it aside, reached for a sheet of writing paper and took up his pen. His hand moved gracefully for a few minutes then he paused to read the letter before appending his signature. Picking up a little bell, he rang it a couple of times. Almost immediately, Ralph Barnes came in dutifully from the adjoining room.
‘What can I do for you, Bishop?’ he asked.
Phillpotts handed him the letter. ‘Read that.’
The secretary did as he was told, noticing that the words were given more impact by the beautiful calligraphy. He put the missive on the desk.
‘I can’t fault it, Bishop,’ he said. ‘It’s clear, concise and authoritative.’
‘It should produce the desired result. I wish I’d written it earlier. It must be dispatched immediately,’ said Phillpotts with polite malice. ‘I’ll stand for no more of it. Someone has to put salt on Inspector Colbeck’s tail.’
‘I lied about this beer,’ said Leeming, quaffing his pint. ‘I think it’s very good.’
‘You’ve earned it, Victor.’
‘It’s much better than the stuff they sell at the Barnstaple Inn.’
Colbeck smiled. ‘Oh, you sampled that, did you?’
‘Well, since I was there, I thought I might as well.’
It was evening and they’d adjourned to the Acland Tavern. Over restorative drinks, they were pooling the information they’d gathered. After interviewing Woodford, the sergeant had talked to other members of the station staff. He’d then made his way to the Barnstaple Inn in Lower North Street.
‘There’s never any harm in checking, sir,’ he said.
‘I’m very glad that you did.’
‘The landlord knew Mr Woodford well because he goes in there a lot. But he wasn’t there on the night before Guy Fawkes Day. Mr Woodford lied.’
‘Was the landlord certain about that?’
‘Yes, sir — he knows his regular customers.’
‘Do you think that Woodford deliberately misled you?’
‘I’m sure that he did, sir. But how did you get on at the house?’
‘Oh, we discovered that someone else can tell barefaced lies. His name is Michael Heygate.’
Colbeck went on to discuss the search he’d made with the superintendent. The brother’s letter had been significant and the absence of any cash was very worrying. Leeming agreed that it had been wise to leave a policeman on guard at the house.
‘So,’ he said, ‘we have two additional suspects. Which one is the killer?’
‘It’s too early to tell, Victor,’ replied Colbeck. ‘One thing is certain. They’d never have acted together. Woodford was impelled by envy whereas the brother would have been activated by hatred. The question is whether or not his wife was party to the murder or even directly involved in it.’
‘Mrs Heygate wouldn’t be the first female killer we’ve arrested.’
‘Superintendent Steel still favours Bagsy Browne.’
‘That’s not surprising, sir. He’s a seasoned criminal whereas the others are not. I just wonder why the police haven’t caught him yet.’
‘From what I’ve heard, he’s a slippery customer and he’s as bold as brass. Well, you’d have to be to relieve yourself on the bishop’s lawn.’ Leeming chortled. ‘Bishop Phillpotts didn’t find it very funny,’ Colbeck went on. ‘He’d like nothing better than to see Browne dangling from the gallows.’
Adeline Goss didn’t even hear him come in. She was dozing on the bed that evening when she felt something brush across her face like a cobweb. When she tried to push it aside, she found herself holding the tassels of a beautiful silk shawl.
‘Bagsy!’ she cried, sitting up.
‘I brought you a gift, Ad,’ he said, letting go of the shawl.
She ran it between her fingers. ‘It feels like real silk.’
‘You deserve only the best, my love.’
‘Thank you, Bagsy.’ She put it around her shoulders but it was rather skimpy on her. ‘How does it look?’
‘Not as nice as I’d expected. The woman I stole it from was smaller than you. I’ll choose a bigger target next time.’ He sat on the bed and stole a kiss. ‘It’s my way of saying thank you, Ad. After what I’ve done, a lot of women would have turned me away in horror but you let me hide here. I’m grateful.’
‘There’s always a place for you here, Bagsy,’ she said, seriously, ‘whatever you’ve done. I don’t care if you burn down the bleeding cathedral.’
He cackled merrily. ‘Now there’s a good idea …’
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
‘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
‘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,
