‘His behaviour was atrocious,’ she cried. ‘He had no right to force his way in here and abuse you in your own study.’
‘It was rather alarming,’ he confessed. ‘He must have been drinking.’
‘That’s no excuse, Frederick. You told me that he might have matured in the time he’s been away. I saw no maturity in the account you gave of him. He sounded like the same wilful young rascal that he always was. Someone should thrash him soundly.’
‘I never resort to violence, Dorcas.’
‘It’s what the colonel should have done.’
‘I’m sure it’s what he would have wanted to do, my dear, but Miriam always interceded. She was far too soft on the lad.’
‘And look at the result,’ she said. ‘Adam has turned into an uncontrollable ruffian with no respect for a man of the cloth. I think that he should be reported.’
‘He already has been,’ he said, casting a pious glance upward.
‘God may punish him for his sins in time but he needs more immediate chastisement. Adam should be reported and flogged.’
‘By whom? There’s no agency to which we can turn.’
They were in his study and she was standing in the precise spot occupied by Adam Tarleton when he unloosed his tirade against the rector. On the wall behind Skelton’s head was the crucifix before which he prayed every morning before beginning work at his desk. Its very presence had buoyed him up at times of crisis and it seemed to fill the room with a precious sanctity. Glancing at the crucifix now, he made the sign of the cross with a grace for which he was renowned. The gesture helped to calm his wife down a little.
‘What are you going to do, Frederick?’ she asked.
‘You know my mind. The colonel will not be buried here.’
‘I wasn’t talking about that. I was thinking about Sunday when you have to take a service in the church. Members of the family might turn up. Eve will want to come and she might even persuade that lout of a brother to accompany her – though I think he should be refused entry to any place of worship.’
He spread his arms. ‘All are welcome in my congregation.’
‘Will you let him abuse you like that again?’
‘I’ll be firmly in control in my church, Dorcas,’ he said. ‘It’s my spiritual fortress. Nobody can attack me there. Besides, I doubt very much if Adam will turn up on Sunday. His sister may come with Mrs Withers and there’ll be friends of the family here as well.’
‘That’s what worries me,’ she admitted. ‘They’ll be here for solace. They’ll want your sermon to give them moral guidance to cope with their loss. They’ll expect eulogies of the deceased.’
He clenched his teeth. ‘I will not offer praise of the colonel.’
‘You could talk about his charitable work, perhaps.’
‘Dorcas,’ he said, stroking his hair with offhand vanity, ‘I’m not a man to compromise. Colonel Tarleton doesn’t deserve even to be mentioned in my church, let alone given a tribute. He flouted the teaching of the Bible. He committed suicide and we both know why he took that desperate and irrevocable step.’ His voice soared like a chord on the church organ. ‘He murdered his wife. I’ll not let his bones corrupt my churchyard. Miriam is the only person for whom we’ll pray on Sunday. My sermon will explain why and it will be fearless.’
Having eaten their supper, the detectives remained at their table to discuss the evidence they’d so far gathered and to decide what they needed to do on the following day. Neither of them was pleased when Eric Hepworth hove into view, his bald head gleaming in the light of the oil lamps, the sight of his uniform causing some of the other customers to sidle out of the bar. Without invitation, Hepworth took an empty seat at the table and gave them a conspiratorial smirk.
‘Have you made an arrest yet, gentlemen?’ he asked.
‘No,’ replied Colbeck, ‘but it’s only a matter of time.’
‘That means you have someone in view.’
‘We have a number of suspects, Sergeant, but we prefer to be certain of our facts before we make a move. Had we listened to you, for instance, we’d have believed that Mrs Tarleton had simply fled from a domineering husband.’
Hepworth bridled. ‘That was only a theory.’
‘A foolish one, as it turned out,’ said Leeming.
‘Ginny heard the colonel arguing with his wife. Others may tell you that they were happily married but I know the truth.’ His tone became placatory. ‘Anyway, the body was found. We know the truth now. All we need to do is to find the killer.’
‘That’s our task.’
‘But I’m the one with local knowledge, Sergeant.’
‘With respect,’ said Leeming, ‘it’s not entirely reliable. Your view of the colonel is coloured by the fact that he dismissed your daughter and treated your son badly.’
‘I saw him for the petty tyrant he really was,’ argued Hepworth.
‘That opinion is not yours alone,’ said Colbeck, thinking of the stationmaster. ‘And we do respect your local knowledge. In fact, I’d like to draw on it now.’
Hepworth beamed. ‘Feel free to do so, Inspector.’
‘We’re trying to find a man named Michael Bruntcliffe.’
‘Why – is he a suspect?’
‘We just wish to speak to him, that’s all, and eliminate him from our enquiries. Do you know who he is?’
‘I should do,’ said Hepworth, proudly. ‘I was the one who arrested him for defacing railway property. That’s a serious offence in my book. Signs and notices are there to guide the travelling public. If someone paints out certain words, the information can be very misleading. What annoyed me was that Bruntcliffe treated the whole thing as a joke.’
‘Did you catch him in the act?’
‘Yes, Inspector, he was painting vulgar messages on the side of a goods wagon.’ He grinned at the memory. ‘Fortunately for me, he resisted arrest. I had to overpower him.’
‘The colonel sent him to prison,’ said Leeming.
‘That’s where he belonged. If it was left to me, he’d still be there. Bruntcliffe likes to make mischief. His family have disowned him. Or, to be more exact, Bruntcliffe has disowned them.’
‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘I spoke to the prison governor. He said that Bruntcliffe refused to see his family on release. He just disappeared. Nobody seems to know if he’s in the area or not.’
‘There’s one person who should be able to tell you.’
‘Oh? And who’s that?’
‘Young Mr Tarleton. He and Michael Bruntcliffe were friends. They were also birds of a feather.’
‘We spoke to Mr Tarleton earlier,’ said Colbeck, ‘and he claimed that he hadn’t seen Bruntcliffe for years.’
‘Then he was lying to you, Inspector.’
‘How do you know?’
‘My brother is a warder at the prison. He tells me what happens there. When you spoke to the governor, did you ask him if Bruntcliffe had had any visitors while he was serving his sentence?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ said Colbeck.
‘Then you should have done,’ said Hepworth, relishing a minor triumph, ‘because you might have learnt what I did. So young Mr Tarleton hasn’t seen Bruntcliffe for years, has he? Ask him to explain why he visited his friend in prison more than once. The last time was less than a month ago.’ He gave a ripe chuckle. ‘Do you see what I mean about the value of local knowledge?’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Instead of mourning the death of an old friend, Edward Tallis threw himself into his work with such
