She’s a good, honest, hard-working young lady.’
Woodford was fuming. ‘I’ll show you both out.’
Back in the street, the detectives put on their top hats and strode towards their tavern. Colbeck was content but Leeming was critical for once.
‘You showed your hand too soon, sir,’ he said. ‘Now that he knows we have suspicions about him, he’ll be far more careful.’
‘I thought it was time to prod him into life.’
‘You did that, well and truly.’
‘Did you notice how eager he was to convince us that Browne was the killer? What did you gather from that, Victor?’
‘I don’t know which of them murdered the stationmaster, sir, but it was obvious that they couldn’t possibly have done it together. Was he blaming it all on Browne to save his own skin?’
‘It’s more than likely.’
‘You really shook him when you asked about that diary.’
‘I know,’ said Colbeck. ‘I must remember to get to the station early tomorrow morning. The first thing Woodford will do is to browbeat Miss Hope into changing her story. He’ll try to get her to swear that she didn’t mention the diary.’
‘What do you think she’ll do?’
‘She’ll do what she always does, Victor — she’ll tell the truth.’
‘But it’s in his power to dismiss her.’
‘That’s why I need to be there to remind him of something,’ said Colbeck. ‘It’s in Mr Quinnell’s power to dismiss Woodford.’
As they walked on through the darkness, Leeming was pensive.
‘Did you think that his wife was like Lady Macbeth, sir?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Somehow I couldn’t see her inciting anyone to murder.’
‘Look at it another way,’ suggested Colbeck, ‘and you’ll see how unlikely a female monster she is. If Lady Macbeth had been like Mrs Woodford, then Scotland would still be ruled by King Duncan.’
An excellent meal had left Bishop Phillpotts contemplative. Sipping his port, he looked across the table at his secretary. Barnes, as ever, was attentive.
‘Under other circumstances, I might have liked the man,’ said Phillpotts.
‘To whom are you referring, Bishop?’
‘I am talking about Superintendent Tallis.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘He’s a man of principle and a good Christian.’
‘Then he should have shown more respect for your position,’ said Barnes. ‘It’s the same with Inspector Colbeck. What is it that entitles detectives to overlook the simple rules of hierarchy? There’s a bumptious quality about them that I abhor.’
‘Both men spoke their mind. I admired them for that.’
‘Yet they treated your advice with flagrant disregard.’
‘They’ll come to see its innate wisdom,’ said Phillpotts. ‘At least, the inspector will come to do so. The superintendent, I hear, has withdrawn to London with a nasty wound in his arm. One is bound to look up to any man who is ready to tackle a ruffian like Browne. I’m the first to admit that I’d never do it. That’s why we have a policeman on guard outside. He’s protecting me against attack from Browne.’
‘Surely, even he would never come here to the palace, Bishop.’
‘Remember what happened on my lawn. I’ll never forget the sight of those bare buttocks as they delivered their coarse message to us. Browne is little more than a beast. He should be shot on sight like any wild animal.’
‘Your anger is natural,’ said Barnes, ‘but you are, in reality, as anxious as any of us that the fellow faces the due process of law. To shoot him dead would be to let him escape a proper punishment. He needs to be arraigned in public, convicted and sent to the gallows.’
Phillpotts smiled. ‘Trust you to think like a lawyer.’
‘I used to be one, Bishop — centuries ago.’
‘Have we been here that long, Ralph?’
They traded a dry laugh then fell into a comfortable silence, sipping their port by the light of the silver candelabra and looking back on the events of the last week or so. There was much that troubled Bishop Phillpotts. He singled out one element of his disquiet.
‘I wonder if I should have attended the funeral,’ he said, moodily.
‘You made the right decision when you stayed away.’
‘Do you think so, Ralph?’
‘You hardly knew the stationmaster because you rarely travel by train.’
‘That is so,’ said Phillpotts, ‘but I wonder if it was expected that I would be there. Mr Quinnell clearly believed that I should be. He sent a letter to that effect.’
‘Mr Quinnell doesn’t understand the jeopardy you’re in, Bishop,’ said the secretary. ‘As long as Browne is on the loose, it’s too dangerous for you to go abroad. Had you been at St Olave’s, you’d have presented a tempting target and Browne would not be discouraged by the fact that you’d be inside a church. No, on balance, your decision was right and proper.’
Phillpotts nodded, glad that he’d been given an excellent excuse for staying away from the proceedings. Personal safety was involved. There would be a time when he could show his admiration for Joel Heygate by taking a memorial service in his honour. Since it would be weeks away, there’d be no danger of an assassination attempt on him. While he’d taken a dislike to Colbeck, he expected him to have caught Browne before too long and have him locked away. It would therefore be safe for the bishop to move freely about the city. As a gesture, he might even offer the cathedral as the venue for the memorial service. It was his home territory. In there, he was supreme.
As he envisioned himself standing in the pulpit at the cathedral, another image came into his mind. It was that of a woman, screaming her way down the nave, racing past the choir and committing an act of utter blasphemy at the altar.
‘Mrs Rossiter should be restrained,’ he asserted.
‘The lady has been, Bishop.’
‘She should remain in the County Asylum in perpetuity.’
‘No,’ said Barnes, firmly. ‘That’s a fate we should wish on nobody. Think of the conditions there. It will be a daily ordeal for her.’
The bishop was sobered. While he wanted retribution, he had expected it to take place in a court of law. When he considered her future properly, the fact that Agnes Rossiter was being treated as a lunatic aroused his sympathy. He pitied anyone sent to the asylum. People of unsound mind could not be held accountable for their actions. He believed that they deserved forgiveness.
‘Poor woman!’ he said, finishing his port with a gulp. ‘We must pray for her recovery and we must mention her name to the asylum chaplain.’
‘I’ll make a point of writing to him, Bishop.’
‘Canon Smalley may be able to offer her some comfort.’
Canon Smalley was a cadaverous man of middle height and years. Assigned to the asylum when it first opened, he’d soon felt that the role of chaplain was his mission in life and implored the bishop to make it a permanent appointment. Everyone trusted him and he moved freely about the establishment. Unlike those of the asylum staff, his methods never included restraint or the sudden administration of pain. What he offered to the patients was time, understanding and compassion. When someone was first admitted, Smalley always took the trouble to see them as soon as possible so that he could assess their needs and see how he could best meet them. The patient on whom he now called was Agnes Rossiter.
She was locked in a room with bare white walls and no furniture apart from a bed and a chair. A gas lamp illumined the scene and gave off a faint whiff. Dressed in the standard asylum garb, she was sitting on the uncarpeted floor with a faraway look in her eye. His arrival disturbed her and she tried to get up.
