suspect. May I let him in?’
‘Please do so.’
Colbeck went to the front door and opened it to admit Dr Morton Swift. After introductions, Swift removed his hat and scrutinised the patient. Frances described her sister’s symptoms and was slavishly deferential. Colbeck, meanwhile, sized up the newcomer. Swift was a tall, suave individual in his early forties with a searching gaze. He was not the family doctor but had been recommended by Superintendent Steel as the man best qualified to deal with a hysterical woman. He was calm, experienced and reassuring. Like Colbeck, he paid considerable attention to the quality of his apparel.
‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Rossiter alone,’ decided Swift.
‘But she won’t talk to anyone, Doctor,’ said Frances.
‘Why don’t you and I step into the next room?’ suggested Colbeck as he shepherded her to the door. ‘Dr Swift doesn’t want us in the way.’
‘Oh, well … I suppose not.’
With a fearful glance at her sister, Frances went into the kitchen. Colbeck went after her, relieved that Mrs Rossiter was getting the medical attention that she obviously needed. Dr Swift had an excellent reputation. After his examination, he would be able to prescribe the appropriate treatment.
‘An owl, a canary, a missing diary, a bonfire, an angry bishop, a well-known thug on the loose, a crazed female in a revolting display of blasphemy — this is the most bizarre case in which I’ve ever been involved,’ said Tallis. ‘One is bound to wonder what comes next.’
‘I’m grateful that you came all this way to take charge of the investigation, Superintendent,’ said Quinnell.
‘I’m here at the behest of Bishop Phillpotts.’
‘Have you met him yet?’
‘I had that displeasure,’ said Tallis, scowling. ‘It was an abrasive encounter. I came in the spirit of obedience and, if truth be told, left in something of a temper.’
Quinnell smiled. ‘The bishop has that effect on me as well.’
They were in the stationmaster’s house. Keen to see everything for himself, Tallis had asked to be shown around the station. Happy to oblige, Quinnell took him on a short tour and they ended up in the dwelling once inhabited by Joel Heygate.
‘When someone in authority criticises my officers,’ explained Tallis, ‘I wish to know why. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Well, I have no criticism of them,’ said Quinnell. ‘Inspector Colbeck imparts confidence somehow. This case is too complex for the local police. We needed help from Scotland Yard.’
‘Bishop Phillpotts thinks otherwise.’
‘What does he know about solving a murder?’
‘I had the feeling that he considers himself to be an expert on everything under the sun. One has to respect his position, of course,’ said Tallis, ‘but there are limits even to my instinctive reverence for a prelate.’
‘Say no more, Superintendent. We’ve all had tussles with him.’
He was about to expand on the theme when he was interrupted by the arrival of Lawrence Woodford, who stepped into the house and tipped his hat to Quinnell.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, politely. ‘I noticed you earlier but was too busy supervising trains to attend to you both. If there’s anything at all I can do, you only have to ask.’
‘Thank you, Woodford,’ said Quinnell. ‘This is Superintendent Tallis from Scotland Yard, by the way. He’s now in charge of the investigation.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He tipped his hat to Tallis. ‘You’re most welcome, sir. Joel Heygate was a friend as well as a colleague. His killer must be caught.’
‘He will be,’ said Tallis, resolutely.
‘I’ve taken over Joel’s duties because I know how important it is to keep the station operating as smoothly as usual. A murder is a bad advertisement for any railway company. We have to reassure the public that it’s not affected the quality of our service.’
‘Quite right,’ said Quinnell. ‘You’re a good man, Woodford.’
‘I’m only doing what Joel would have wanted me to do, sir.’
‘The reputation of the South Devon Railway has been besmirched. That’s why I turned to Superintendent Tallis and his detectives. We want this crime solved and our good name restored.’
‘I’m ready to lend any assistance that I can,’ said Woodford.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ Quinnell turned away. ‘That will be all.’
‘Then I’ll get back to my duties, sir.’
After a covetous glance around the room, Woodford went out.
‘He seems a capable man,’ observed Tallis.
‘Yes, he’s very capable, albeit a little too ingratiating for my taste. I like our staff to get on with their jobs instead of expecting a round of applause for doing so. Heygate was an ideal stationmaster,’ said Quinnell. ‘He was industrious, efficient and calm under stress. He didn’t feel the need to be obsequious.’
‘Then he’ll be a very difficult man to replace.’
‘We’ll cast our net wide, Superintendent. First, however, we must concentrate all our efforts on catching the fiend responsible for the murder. I know that Inspector Colbeck is hoping for a quick resolution.’
‘Only because he’s getting married at the end of the month.’
‘Indeed? Then his urgency is understandable.’
‘The wedding is irrelevant.’
Quinnell chuckled. ‘It’s not irrelevant to him,’ he said, ‘or, indeed, to his bride. They will have looked forward to the great day for months. I know that’s what my wife and I did. It must have been the same for you, Superintendent.’
Tallis glowered. ‘I was never tempted to marry, Mr Quinnell.’
‘You’ve remained a bachelor all this time?’
‘And will do so to my dying day,’ said Tallis with emphasis. ‘Fighting crime is too important a task to take lightly. I allow no distractions into my life. As for the inspector, he knows that this investigation takes precedence over everything else. While he’s here in Exeter, Colbeck must not even think about his wedding.’
It was both strange and exasperating. Madeleine Andrews could conjure any number of locomotives on to her canvas and give them startling verisimilitude. When it came to figurative art, however, she tended to flounder. She knew every last detail of Colbeck’s face and had always wanted to paint his portrait but it was beyond her talents. Standing at her easel after her latest attempt to bring him to life before her, she had to accept defeat yet again. The portrait was a disaster.
‘Thank you, Maddy,’ said her father, coming up behind her. ‘I didn’t know that you were painting a picture of me.’
‘It’s not you, Father.’
He stared at it intently for a moment. ‘No, no,’ he went on, ‘I can see that now I’ve taken a closer look. It’s Dirk Sowerby, isn’t it?’
She was offended. ‘Why on earth should I paint a portrait of him?’
‘That’s what I asked myself. Dirk is no fit subject for an artist.’
‘It’s supposed to be Robert.’ He burst out laughing. ‘It’s not
‘It’s not that good either, Maddy. I think you should stick to painting locomotives — as long as they’re ones that run on the LNWR. I’m not having my daughter painting anything that belongs to another railway company.’ He put his face close to the canvas. ‘There
‘You should have been able to see at once who it was.’
‘I’m sorry. I just couldn’t do that.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ she said, sadly. ‘I have to accept that I simply don’t have the skill to be a portrait artist. That’s why I never put people into my paintings. If I want a portrait of Robert, someone else will have to paint it.’
Andrews was dressed to go out for his morning walk. He regretted mocking her attempt at portraiture because he knew what had impelled her to pick up her brush. She was missing Colbeck so much that she’d tried to
