Blood on the Line

trepidation but it soon evaporated. Gordon Younger was a plump man of middle years with a reassuring smile. His bald head gleamed, his cheeks were red and his goatee beard was his only facial hair. Susanna, his wife, was even more rotund, her clothing carefully tailored to hide some of her contours. She was a poised, educated, middle-class woman who looked as if her natural milieu would have been a country vicarage. Clearly, the Youngers were not short of money. Their cottage was expensively furnished and there were gilt-framed paintings of hunting scenes on the walls.

Astonished to see Oxley after a long absence, they gave him and Irene an effusive welcome. Glad to offer accommodation to the visitors, neither Younger nor his wife asked why they had come to London. They simply accepted that their guests had a need and were happy to fulfil it. What struck Irene about the couple was the pleasure they seemed to take in each other’s company. There was an unforced togetherness about them that she envied. She wondered if she and Oxley would ever be able to achieve something similar. When she was shown up to the guest room by Susanna, she took the opportunity to probe a little.

‘How long have you been here, Mrs Younger?’ she asked.

‘My name is Susanna as long as you’re here,’ said the other, with a hand on her shoulder, ‘and the answer is that we’ve lived here for seven years. Gordon was able to retire early.’

‘What did he retire from?’

‘Medicine – he was a doctor.’

‘It must be idyllic here.’

‘We love it, Irene. Twenty years ago, this was a country village. It’s starting to feel more like a city suburb now but it still has a whiff of a farming community.’ She indicated the window. ‘Watch that low beam when you open the window,’ she warned. ‘There are only two things wrong with this place – low beams and spiders in the thatch.’

‘We can put up with those,’ said Irene with a laugh.

She was wearing a wedding ring but she could see that Susanna was not fooled by it. Only people who’d been married could attain the kind of closeness that the Youngers had of right. Irene felt another pang of envy, hoping that Oxley had the same response. She prayed that the cottage would not simply be a refuge for them but that it would exert a good influence and make Oxley want to emulate their hosts. Irene longed for permanence.

It was not until she and Oxley retired to bed that she was able to talk to him properly. After an excellent meal washed down by a fine wine, he was in a relaxed mood.

‘This is a wonderful place,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been anywhere quite like it. What about you, Jerry?’

‘It’s very comfortable but a little too quiet for my liking.’

‘Gordon and Susanna seem so at home here.’

‘Yes, it’s a big change from Bradford,’ said Oxley. ‘That’s where I first met them.’

‘Why did they leave?’

He laughed. ‘Why did we leave Manchester?’

Irene was curious. ‘Were they wanted by the police?’

‘Gordon certainly was,’ he replied, ‘but he had the sense to plan his escape long before his crimes actually came to light. They are probably still searching for him in Bradford.’

‘Is that where he murdered people?’

He put a finger to his lips. ‘Don’t ever say that in his presence. He doesn’t believe that he murdered anyone. Gordon was a doctor. He took an oath to say that he’d always seek to preserve life. It’s just that he felt there were certain exceptions – people whose existence was so dire and unendurable that they begged him to help them.’

‘You mean that he assisted in their death?’

‘That’s one way of putting it. Gordon felt that he was performing a sacred duty. And, of course, there was a commercial aspect to it.’

‘In what way?’

‘It was a lot to ask of a doctor, Irene. His patients understood that. After he’d sent them painlessly to their deaths, he was rewarded by the provisions of their respective wills. That’s how he came to buy this cottage,’ he went on, taking in the whole building with a sweep of his hand. ‘He and Susanna have retired on the proceeds of his work in Bradford, putting rich old ladies to sleep for the last time.’ He pulled her close. ‘Take heart from what happened to them, my love. It is possible to kill and to live happily ever after.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Caleb Andrews was home earlier than usual that evening. He found his daughter reading the latest book she’d borrowed from Colbeck. Madeleine got up to give him a welcoming kiss. After hanging his cap on the peg, he went into the kitchen to wash the grime off his hands and face. When he came back in, she was putting a bookmark in place before setting her book aside.

‘Who wrote that one?’ he asked.

‘Charles Dickens.’

‘Ah, now there’s a man who can make the blood race. I like his novels. When you’ve finished with it, I might take a look at it myself. What’s it called, Maddie?’

‘American Notes,’ she answered. ‘But it’s not a novel. It’s an account of a journey Mr Dickens made to America some years ago. It must have upset a lot of readers over there because it’s very critical of the Americans.’

‘So it should be,’ said Andrews with acerbity. ‘What did America ever do for this country except cause us a lot of trouble? I don’t like Americans.’

‘How can you say that, Father? You’ve never even met one.’

‘I don’t need to meet one.’

‘It’s unfair to make judgements about people like that.’

‘Britain is best, Maddie, that’s what I always say. I hate France, Germany, Russia and – most of all – America.’

‘Yet you’ve never been to any of those countries.’

‘Wild horses wouldn’t drag me there.’ He sat down opposite her. ‘I spoke to Mr Pomeroy again today. He’s given me an exact date. My retirement is only a matter of weeks away.’

She needed a moment for the full impact of the announcement to sink in. After all these years, it seemed unreal that her father was finally quitting a job that he loved so much. From the time when she was a small child, Madeleine remembered the way that he set off each morning with a spring in his step. Though he moaned about the long hours, inadequate pay and bad weather he had to endure, Andrews had never considered finding alternative work. Wholly committed to the railways, he was proud to serve them.

‘Well,’ he said, taking out his pipe and tobacco pouch, ‘now that I’ve set a date, it’s time that you and the inspector did the same.’

‘Robert has promised to discuss it as soon as this case is over.’

‘I’ll believe that when it happens.’

Madeleine was hurt. ‘He always keeps his promises.’

‘Then why hasn’t he taken you up the aisle before now? Each time he looks as if he’s about to do so, there’s a delay.’ He filled the pipe with tobacco. ‘Perhaps it’s time for me to speak to him, man to man?’

‘Don’t you dare!’ she warned.

‘I’m only thinking of you, Maddy.’

‘We just have to wait until Robert is ready.’

‘That means you’ll have to wait for ever,’ he grumbled. ‘Look how long you had to twiddle your thumbs while you waited for a proposal of marriage. It was years and years.’

‘We had an understanding, Father.’

‘Well, it’s about time that Inspector Colbeck and I had a sort of understanding. I’m fed up with seeing my daughter moping around the house all day while the man she’s supposed to marry keeps feeding her one excuse