The Excursion Train (16 page)

‘Is there, sir?’

‘The man who killed Jake Guttridge may not be the one who sent him that note. He could well be someone else altogether.’

‘That makes him even more difficult to track down,’ said Leeming, popping a potato into his mouth. ‘We’re looking for
a needle in a very large haystack, Inspector.’

‘A small haystack, perhaps,’ said Colbeck, sipping his wine, ‘but that should not deter us. We know that we’re looking for a local man with some connection to Nathan Hawkshaw. Someone so outraged at what happened to his friend that he’d go in search of the hangman to wreak his revenge. The killer was strong, determined and cunning.’

‘Have you met anyone who fits that description, sir?’

‘Two people at least.’

‘Who are they?’

‘The son is the first,’ Colbeck told him. ‘From the little I saw of him, I’d say he had the strength and determination. Whether he’d have the cunning is another matter.’

‘Who’s the other suspect?’

‘Gregory Newman. He was Hawkshaw’s best friend and he led the campaign on his behalf. My guess is that he even tried to rescue him from Maidstone prison and he’d have to be really committed to attempt something as impossible as that.’

‘If he was a blacksmith, then he’d certainly be strong enough.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘but he didn’t strike me as a potential killer. Newman is something of a gentle giant. Since the execution, all his efforts have been directed at consoling the widow. He’s a kind man and a loyal friend. The priest at St Mary’s spoke very highly of him. Gregory Newman, it transpires, has a bedridden wife whom he looks after lovingly, even to the point of carrying her to church every Sunday.’

‘That
is
devotion,’ agreed Leeming.

‘A devoted husband is unlikely to be a brutal murderer.’

‘So we come back to Adam Hawkshaw.’

‘He’d certainly conform to your notion that an uneducated
man sent that note,’ explained Colbeck, using a napkin to wipe his lips. ‘When I left the shop yesterday, he was lowering the prices on the board outside. He’d chalked up the different items on offer. Considering that he must have sold pheasant many times, he’d made a very poor shot at spelling it correctly.’

Leeming grinned. ‘He’s lucky he didn’t have to spell asphyxiation.’

‘He’s certainly capable of inflicting it on someone.’

‘It’s that warning note that worries me, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘Guttridge had one and he ended up dead.’

‘So?’

‘According to George Butterkiss,’ said Leeming, pushing his empty plate aside, ‘someone else had a death threat as well. Sergeant Lugg, that policeman from Maidstone, told him about it. The note that was sent sounds very much like the one that went to the hangman. The difference is that the man who received it just laughed and tore it up.’

‘Who was he, Victor?’

‘The prison chaplain, sir – the Reverend Narcissus Jones.’

Though his job at Maidstone prison was onerous and wide-ranging, Narcissus Jones nevertheless found time for activities outside its high stone walls. He gave regular lectures at various churches and large audiences usually flocked to hear how he had conceived it as his mission to work among prisoners. He always emphasised that he had converted some of the most hardened criminals to Christianity and sent them out into society as reformed characters. With his Welsh ancestry, he had a real passion for choral singing and he talked lovingly about the prison choir that he conducted. Jones was a good
speaker, fluent, dramatic and so steeped in biblical knowledge that he could quote from Old and New Testaments at will.

He had been on good form at Paddock Wood that night, rousing the congregation to such a pitch that they had burst into spontaneous applause at the end of his talk. Everyone wanted to congratulate him afterwards and what touched him was that one of those most effusive in his praise was a former inmate at the prison who said that, in bringing him to God, the chaplain had saved his life. When he headed for the railway station, Jones was still beaming with satisfaction.

He did not have long to wait for the train that would take him back to Maidstone. Selecting an empty carriage, he sat down and tried to read his Bible in the fading light. A young woman then got into the carriage and sat opposite him, gaining a nod of welcome from the chaplain. He decided that she had chosen to join him because the sight of his clerical collar was a guarantee of her safety. She was short, attractive and dark-haired but she was holding a handkerchief to her face as if to dab away tears. At a signal from the stationmaster, the train began to move but, at the very last moment, a man jumped into the carriage and slammed the door behind him.

‘Just made it!’ he said, sitting down at the opposite end from the others. ‘I hope that I didn’t disturb you.’

‘Not at all,’ replied Jones, ‘though I’d never care to do anything as dangerous as that. Are you going as far as Maidstone?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what about you, my dear?’ asked the chaplain, turning to the woman. ‘Where’s your destination?’

But she did not even hear him. Unable to contain her sorrow, she began to sob loudly and press the handkerchief
to her eyes. Jones put his Bible aside and rose to his feet so that he could bend solicitously over her. It was a fatal error. As soon as the chaplain’s back was turned to him, the other man got up, produced a length of wire from his pocket and slipped it around the neck of Narcissus Jones, pulling it tight with such vicious force that the victim barely had time to pray for deliverance. When the train stopped at the next station, the only occupant of the carriage was a dead prison chaplain.

Robert Colbeck had always been a light sleeper. Hearing the footsteps coming up the oak staircase with some urgency, he opened his eyes and sat up quickly in bed. There was a loud knock on his door.

‘Inspector Colbeck?’ said a voice. ‘This is Constable Butterkiss.’

‘One moment.’

‘I have a message for you, sir.’

Colbeck got out of bed, slipped on his dressing gown and unbolted the door. He opened it to admit George Butterkiss who had come to the Saracen’s Head at such speed that he had not even paused to button up his uniform properly.

‘What’s the problem, Constable?’

‘I’m sorry for the delay,’ gabbled Butterkiss, almost out of breath, ‘but they didn’t realise that you were in Kent. They sent a telegraph message to London and it was passed on to Scotland Yard. When they found out you were in Ashford, they asked us to get in touch with you straight away.’

‘Calm down,’ said Colbeck, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘Just tell me what this is all about.’

‘There’s been another murder, sir.’

‘Where?’

‘In a train on its way to Maidstone.’

‘Do you know who the victim was?’

‘The prison chaplain – Narcissus Jones.’

Colbeck felt a pang of regret. ‘Where’s the body?’

‘Where it was found, sir,’ said Butterkiss, deferentially. ‘They thought you’d want to see it before it was moved.’

‘Someone deserves congratulations for that. I hope that the same person had the sense to preserve the scene of the crime so that no clues have been lost. Sergeant Leeming needs to hear all this,’ he went on, stepping into the passage to bang on the adjoining door. ‘Wake up. Victor! We have to leave at once.’

Leeming took time to come out of his slumber and to adjust to the fact that someone was pounding on the door. He eventually appeared, bleary-eyed and wearing a flannel nightshirt. Colbeck invited him into his own room then asked Butterkiss to give a succinct account of what he knew. It was a tall order for the former tailor. Overwhelmed at being in the presence of two Scotland Yard detectives, albeit it in night attire, he started to jabber wildly, embroidering the few facts he knew into a long, confused, meandering narrative.

‘That’s enough,’ said Colbeck, cutting him off before he had finished. ‘We’ll find out the rest when we get there.’

Butterkiss was eager. ‘Will you be needing my assistance, sir?’

‘You’ve already given that.’

‘There must be something that I can do, Inspector.’

‘There is,’ said Colbeck, glad to get rid of him. ‘Arrange some transport to get us to the station as fast as possible.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘Only not that cart that stinks of fish,’ warned Leeming.

‘I’ll find something,’ said Butterkiss and he rushed out.

‘Get dressed, Victor. We must be on our way.’

The Sergeant was hungry. ‘What about breakfast?’

‘We’ll think about that when we reach Maidstone. Now hurry up, will you? They’re all waiting for us.’

‘What’s the rush, Inspector? The chaplain isn’t going anywhere.’ Leeming put an apologetic hand to his mouth. ‘Oh dear! I shouldn’t have said that, should I?’

The baker’s shop in North Street was among the earliest to open and Winifred Hawkshaw was its first customer that morning. Clutching a loaf of bread still warm from the oven, she was about to cross the high street when she saw two familiar figures coming towards her on a little cart. Gregory Newman gave her a cheery wave and brought the horse to a halt. Seated beside him and swathed in a rug, in spite of the warm weather, was his wife, Meg, a thin, wasted creature in her forties with a vacant stare and an open mouth.

‘Good morning,’ said Winifred. ‘How is Meg today?’

‘Oh, she’s very well,’ replied Newman, slipping a fond arm around his wife, ‘aren’t you, Meg?’ She looked blankly at him. ‘It’s Win. You remember Win Hawkshaw, don’t you?’ His wife nodded and gave Win a crooked smile of acknowledgement. ‘She’s not at her best this time of the morning,’ explained her husband, ‘but the doctor said that she must get plenty of fresh air so I take her for a ride whenever I can.’ He looked up as a few dark clouds began to form. ‘We went before work today because it may rain later.’

‘You’re wonderful with her, Gregory.’

‘You were there when I made my marriage vows before the altar. In sickness and in health means exactly what it says, Win. It’s not Meg’s fault that she’s plagued by illness.’

‘No, of course not.’

‘But how are you? I’ve been meaning to call in.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Winifred. ‘Well, as fine as I’ll ever be, I suppose.’

‘What about Emily?’

‘She’s still the same, I’m afraid. Emily seems to be lost in a bad dream most of the time. I just can’t reach her, Gregory.’

‘Things will improve soon.’

‘Will they?’ she asked with a hint of despair. ‘There’s been no sign of it so far. Emily can go a whole day without even speaking.’

Newman glanced at his wife to show that he had experienced the same problem many times. Win marvelled at the patience he always showed. She had never known him complain about the fact that he had to care for a woman whose mind was crumbling as fast as her body. His example gave Win the courage to face her own domestic difficulties.

‘Did an Inspector Colbeck come to see you, Gregory?’

‘Yes,’ he said with a grin. ‘We had a nice, long chat that kept me out of that madhouse of a boiler room for a while. I took him for a shrewd man though he was far too smartly dressed for a town like Ashford.’

‘I talked to him as well. Adam refused.’

‘That was silly of him.’

‘He hates policemen.’

‘I don’t admire them either,’ confessed Newman, ‘but I’m ready to accept their help when it’s offered. We know that Nathan didn’t commit that murder but we still haven’t managed to find out who did. I reckon that this Inspector Colbeck might do the job for us. I’ll speak to Adam and tell him to talk to the Inspector.’

‘I can’t promise it will do any good.’

‘How is he?’

‘Still hurting like the rest of us,’ said Winifred, ‘but he wants to hurt someone back. It doesn’t matter who it is to him. Adam just wants to strike out.’

‘Are you still having trouble at the shop?’

‘Our custom is slowly drying up. Mr Hockaday won’t supply us with meat any more and Bybrook Farm turned us down as well.’

‘Bybrook!’ he said, angrily. ‘That’s unforgivable.’

‘No, Gregory. It’s only natural.’

‘Nathan was not guilty of that murder.’

‘He was hanged for it – that’s enough for them.’

‘Let me go to Bybrook Farm and have a word.’

‘There’s no point.’

‘There’s every point, Win. You’ve been buying their meat and poultry for years. It’s high time someone told them about loyalty.’

‘It’s good of you to offer,’ she said, reaching up to squeeze his arm, ‘but you can’t fight all our battles for us. You’ve done more than enough as it is and we can never repay you.’

‘I don’t look for repayment. I simply want to see some justice in this world. Think of all the money that Nathan paid to Bybrook Farm over the years – and to Silas Hockaday. They ought to be
ashamed
.’

‘You’d better go. I don’t want to make you late for work.’

‘We must talk more another time.’

‘I’d like that, Gregory.’

‘And so would I.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Wouldn’t I, Meg?’ She continued to stare unseeingly in front of her. ‘One of her bad days, I’m afraid. Meg will be better next time we meet.’

‘I’m sure.’ She raised her voice. ‘Goodbye, Meg.’

‘Goodbye, Win,’ he said, clicking his tongue make the horse move off again. ‘And I won’t forget to speak to Adam. He listens to me.’

‘Sometimes.’

‘He’s the man of the house now. He’s got responsibilities.’

‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘that’s the trouble.’

After watching the cart rattle on up the high street, she went back to Middle Row in time to find her stepson trying to chalk up some information on the board outside the shop. He wrote in large, laborious capitals.

‘Good morning, Adam,’ she said. ‘You’re up early.’

He smirked. ‘I didn’t sleep at all last night.’

‘When was the body actually discovered?’ asked Inspector Colbeck.

‘First thing this morning,’ replied Lugg.

‘Why was there such a delay?’

‘It was the last train from Paddock Wood and it stayed here all night. When it was due to leave this morning, someone tried to get into this carriage and found the chaplain.’

‘Didn’t anyone check that the carriages were empty last night?’

‘The guard swears that he walked the length of the train and looked through all the windows but, of course, he couldn’t see anyone lying on the floor now, could he?’

Colbeck was pleased to encounter Sergeant Obadiah Lugg again but he wished that it could have been in more propitious circumstances. After taking a train from Ashford, the two detectives had changed at Paddock Wood so that they could travel on the Maidstone line. News of the crime had spread
quickly through the town and a crowd had gathered at the station to watch developments. Colbeck was relieved to see that Lugg had deployed his men to keep the inquisitive and the purely ghoulish at bay while the Inspector went about his work.

The scene that confronted him was very similar to the one he had found at Twyford, except that the wider gauge of the Great Western Railway had allowed for a carriage with more generous proportions. The prison chaplain was lying on his back, his mouth agape, his eyes wide open as if straining to leave their sockets. Rigor mortis had set in, turning the face into a marble carving of pain. Above his clerical collar was a dark red circle of dried blood. When he knelt to examine the wound, Colbeck saw that something very sharp and unyielding had cut deep into the neck of Reverend Narcissus Jones.

There were signs of a struggle – the victim’s clothing was in disarray, his hair was unkempt, the padding on one seat had been badly torn – but it was one that the chaplain had clearly lost. Underneath his head was his Bible, acting as a spiritual pillow. On the floor near his hand was a small button that did not belong to the victim. Colbeck picked it up and saw the strands of cotton hanging from it.

‘He managed to tear this from his attacker by getting a hand behind him,’ said Colbeck. He indicated the gash in the padding. ‘That could well have been caused by the heel of his shoe when he was threshing about.’

‘The chaplain wouldn’t give up without a fight, Inspector.’

‘Unfortunately, he was caught off guard.’

‘How?’ said Lugg. ‘If there are only two of you in a carriage, it’s hard for one man to surprise the other.’

‘Not if a third person distracts the victim.’

‘A third person?’

‘A woman, for instance,’ explained Colbeck. ‘When I spoke to the stationmaster at Paddock Wood, he remembers a woman on the platform though he didn’t see her board the train.’

‘Very few women travel alone at that time of the evening.’

‘Exactly. That’s why this one interests me.’

‘I’ve talked to our own stationmaster,’ said Lugg, keen to show that he had not been idle, ‘and he recalls that the train was two-thirds empty when it reached Maidstone. Albert knew most of them by name because he’s been here for years. No stranger got off that train, he swears to that. Only regular travellers on the line.’

‘The killer and his accomplice – if there was one, that is – would never have stayed on the train until it reached here. My guess is that the murder took place shortly after they left Paddock Wood because the killer could not take the risk that someone might get into the same carriage when they stopped at Yalding.’

‘In that case,’ concluded Lugg, ‘he must have strangled the chaplain to death then made his escape at the station.’

‘No, Sergeant.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because someone might have seen him getting off the train,’ said Colbeck. ‘And if, as I believe, there was a woman with him, they would surely have been noticed by the railway staff.’

Lugg was baffled. ‘Then where and how did they get off, sir?’

‘I can’t give you a precise location but it’s somewhere the other side of Yalding. The train slows down well short of the station and there’s a grassy bank that runs along the side of
the line.’

‘You think that the killer jumped off?’

‘That’s what I’d have done in his place, wouldn’t you?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Lugg, wrinkling his brow in concentration. ‘I suppose that I would, sir. Except that I’m a bit old for anything as daring as leaping out of a moving train.’

‘Approaching the station, it only goes at a snail’s pace but it would still take some agility to get off. That tells us something about the killer.’

‘What about this woman you mentioned?’

‘She, too, must be quite athletic.’

‘Younger people, then?’

‘We’ll see, Sergeant, we’ll see.’

‘Two people, leaping from the train,’ said Lugg, rubbing his chin as he meditated. ‘Surely, some of the other passengers would have spotted them doing that.’

‘Only if they happened to be looking out of the window at the time. This, as you can see, is near the end of the train. There are only two carriages and a guard’s van behind it. Naturally,’ he went on, ‘we’ll speak to all the passengers who were on that train last night but, since there were so few of them, I doubt that we’ll find a witness.’

‘No, Inspector. If someone had seen people hopping off the train, they’d have reported it by now. The killer obviously chose the point to jump off very carefully.’

‘Someone who knows this line well.’

Colbeck continued with his meticulous examination of the body and the carriage while Lugg looked on with fascination. After searching the dead man’s pockets, Colbeck lifted the head so that he could slip the Bible out from under it. He opened it at the page with the marker in it and read the text.

‘Amazing how his head came to rest on that, isn’t it?’ said Lugg with his characteristic chuckle. ‘Almost as if God’s hand was at work.’

‘It was the killer’s hand, Sergeant,’ announced Colbeck. ‘He put the Bible there deliberately so that he could leave us this message.’