David Ashton - End of the Line

‘Everybody knows he’s my coachman. What a showing up. I’ll wring his bloody neck!’

So saying she leapt to her feet and headed off to the stables whence, not long after, there came the sound of raised voices, or rather, to be more accurate, one loudly raised female voice and a cowed masculine rumble.

As Hannah gazed suspiciously at him, James McLevy smiled guilelessly and poured himself another cupful.

For a sophisticated woman, Jean could at times bear more than a passing resemblance to a fishwife.

The inspector sighed, leant back in his chair and let the images of this recent case flicker in his mind.

One by one they registered as if projected on a screen: the contorted body in the carriage; the lined faces of the two old ladies; the lusty widow who had just left black behind; Angus at bay like a dumb animal; Hannah with her cut-throat razor at the ready; Jean’s face as she promised a shotgun reprisal and French aroma; Mulholland trying not to shudder as McLevy scoffed his eighth sugar biscuit; Roach reading the daughter’s letter in a moment that oddly moved the three of them in that office; then the sight of Pettigrew staring glumly through the gate of a bawdy-hoose and the savage picture of the proud smile upon his face as he fell like Icarus to a certain doom.

That brought a sombre cast to McLevy’s features, but then his lips twisted in humour at the last picture from the recent funeral.

The minister had done his bit, the daughter, with an aunt on each side, bowed her veiled head, and the mourners were about to reach for the ropes to lower the coffin down when — from long distance — the sound of a train whistle came blowing down the wind.

To a person, the railway men took out their watches, looked upon them, and nodded their approval.

The train was punctual in passing.

The timetable safe for another day.