The Stationmaster's farewell

‘It would certainly make my life a lot easier, sir,’ said Leeming.

Colbeck took him by the arm. ‘Come on, Victor,’ he said, pulling him gently away. ‘The superintendent is being droll. We are two of a pair. Both of us would like to keep the time we spend away from London to an absolute minimum and there’s one obvious way to do that.’

‘Is there?’

‘Yes — we must solve this crime as soon as possible.’

He led the sergeant out and closed the door firmly behind them.

Exeter St David’s railway station was a place of mourning. Even though there was still some uncertainty as to the identity of the murder victim, almost everyone believed that it had to be Joel Heygate. The one exception was Agnes Rossiter who insisted that he was still alive and who put all her energies into the smooth running of the refreshment room because it was ‘what Mr Heygate would have expected of me’. It was not a view shared by Dorcas Hope. Stunned by what had happened, she walked around in a dream and had to be given a verbal crack of the whip from time to time by the manageress. Other members of staff were horrified by the news, finding it hard to accept that such a universally popular man had met his death in such a grotesque way. Passengers waiting to depart from the station had all heard the rumour and rushed to pay fulsome tributes to Heygate.

Rising above the general solemnity, Lawrence Woodford concentrated on the many duties that fell to a stationmaster, supervising his staff, keeping the platform uncluttered, inspecting all the buildings for cleanliness, ensuring the most economical use of stores, stationery, coal, gas and oil, noting the appearance of all passengers, answering their endless questions and — most important of all — taking care that trains left the station on time. Dressed for the occasion in frock coat and top hat, he lacked Heygate’s physical presence but his calm efficiency was undeniable. It was almost as if he’d been rehearsing for this moment of crisis.

Dorcas discovered an unexpected streak of kindness in the man. Slipping out of the refreshment room, she accosted him on the platform.

‘Could I have a word with you, please, sir?’ she asked, nervously.

‘What’s the trouble, Miss Hope?’

‘I’m worried about Peter — that’s Mr Heygate’s canary. Somebody ought to look after him.’

‘I quite agree,’ said Woodford.

‘Peter knows me. I’ve fed him in the past. Can I take care of him?’

‘I don’t see why not. We shouldn’t let the bird suffer. The decision is not mine to make, of course,’ he went on with a smile, ‘but I can pass on your generous offer and recommend that we accept it.’

‘Thank you, Mr Woodford.’

‘You get back in there with Mrs Rossiter. Leave it to me.’

As Dorcas scurried off, Woodford strode along the platform with his head up and his back straight. He was in charge now. The sense of power and influence was almost dizzying. He savoured it to the full. When he got to the stationmaster’s office, he entered it as of right and was in time to witness a raging argument.

‘I should have been consulted, Mr Quinnell.’

‘There was no point, Superintendent.’

‘I’m in charge of the police force here.’

‘And I represent the South Devon Railway. We want this crime solved.’

‘Then let us get on with solving it.’

‘With all due respect,’ said Quinnell with disdain, ‘it’s way beyond the competence of your force.’

‘I dispute that, sir.’

‘I showed initiative and made contact with Scotland Yard.’

‘It was an insult to me and I am bound to say that I resent it bitterly.’

‘We need the best man for the job.’

‘The murder occurred on our territory and it’s our job to investigate it.’

Unaware of Woodford, they continued to bicker. Gervase Quinnell was the managing director of the South Devon Railway, a plump, pompous man in his fifties, with bulging eyes and mutton chop whiskers peppered with grey. Superintendent David Steel, by contrast, tall and square-shouldered, cut a fine figure in his police uniform. His handsome face was puckered by barely concealed rage. Appointed when he was in his late twenties, he’d run the Exeter police force for a decade and felt that his sterling work deserved more recognition.

‘Inspector Colbeck is the person to take on this case,’ said Quinnell, briskly. ‘He comes with the highest credentials.’

‘There’s no need for him to come at all,’ argued Steel. ‘May I remind you that I, too, served in the Metropolitan Police Force before I came to Devon? When I left to take up a post in Barnstaple, I did so with glowing testimonials.’

‘You do not have Colbeck’s expertise with regard to railways.’

‘Murder is murder, regardless of who the victim might be.’

‘Success is success. That’s why he’s on his way here.’

‘You might have had the courtesy to discuss it with me beforehand.’

‘I’m discussing it with you now, Superintendent,’ said Quinnell, airily. ‘You’re not being excluded from the investigation. You’re simply being demoted to a supportive role. Look and learn, man. Inspector Colbeck can teach you a lot.’

‘But he knows nothing at all about Exeter.’

‘In that case, he’ll turn to you for assistance.’

‘What if the dead man is not the stationmaster, after all?’

Quinnell was testy. ‘It has to be him. There’s no question of that. How else do you explain his disappearance?’

‘When we sought his next of kin, Mr Heygate’s brother was unable to identify him with any confidence. He’d only say that the corpse might be him.’

‘The circumstantial evidence points unmistakably to Heygate. Since he was a model employee of ours, I’m taking a personal interest in the case.’ He inflated his chest and put thumbs inside his waistcoat. ‘I care for the men who work on my railway.’

‘Then why don’t you pay them a decent wage?’ retorted Steel. ‘If the porters got enough to live on, they wouldn’t have to work part-time for me on night patrol.’

Quinnell was scandalised. He was just about to issue a sharp rebuke when he became aware of Woodford, standing self-consciously in the open doorway and listening to the heated exchange. Steel also noticed the new stationmaster for the first time. He treated him to a long and hostile glare.

‘Well,’ he demanded, ‘what do you want?’

Woodford cleared his throat. ‘It’s about the canary …’

When they caught the train in London, Colbeck was in his element. Rail journeys were a constant source of pleasure to him because there was so much of interest to see out of the window. Leeming, on the other hand, disliked the noise, the rattle and the sense of imprisonment he always felt on a train. Though they would be travelling first class for most of the way on the broad gauge of the Great Western Railway, the sergeant was not appeased. Uppermost in his mind was the fact that Exeter was the best part of two hundred miles from the wife and children he adored. Murder cases took time. It might be weeks before he saw them again.

Until they reached Chippenham, the compartment was too full to permit a proper conversation. It suddenly emptied at the Wiltshire station, allowing them to set off on the next stage alone. Colbeck tried to cheer his companion up.

‘What did you do yesterday, Victor?’

Leeming was surly. ‘I can’t remember. It seems like an age ago.’

‘Didn’t you celebrate Guy Fawkes Day with the children?’

‘Oh, yes. I’d forgotten that.’

‘Did you have a bonfire?’

‘Yes,’ said the other, rallying. ‘I’d been building it all week. I made them a guy as well. It looked a bit like Superintendent Tallis, now I come to think of it.’

Colbeck laughed. ‘Did it have a cigar in its mouth?’

‘Yes, it did — a big one. I carved it out of a piece of wood. The children loved it when the guy caught fire. They danced around it and so did Estelle.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘I’m going to miss them, Inspector.’