David Ashton - End of the Line

While the constable had thus been wool-gathering, the old ladies had launched into their tale and so he tuned in just as they were approaching the site of murder.

Margaret was in full flow.

‘Then Jenny saw a big black rodent and let out a hellish screech-’

‘I did. I don’t like rats,’ interrupted the other.

‘And I said Mister Pettigrew would see it far enough, and then-’

‘And then ye said, That’s funny! ’

Margaret stopped. ‘You’re right, Jenny,’ she said slowly. ‘I’d forgotten that.’

‘Whit was funny?’ McLevy encouraged softly.

‘Nothing, I’m sure, but. . the man was like clockwork.’

A look passed between the two policemen before Mulholland leant in with an equally gentle enquiry.

‘Nothing, I’m sure, Margaret — but what was it, exactly?’

Jenny put her head to the side, exactly like a sparrow, and Margaret squinted as if summoning up the exact image that had caused her to wonder.

‘Mister Pettigrew, ye could set your watch by him. Every night, he aye met us at the rear of the train but that night. . he was down by the engine. At the front.’

A thoughtful silence ensued.

‘Funny that,’ Margaret said finally.

‘Ach, his mind would be elsewhere, poor man,’ Jenny said, almost under her breath.

‘Poor man?’ McLevy made a sympathetic face and shrugged for enlightenment.

‘If whit they say is whit they say,’ said Jenny.

‘And what is that, ma’am?’ asked the equally concerned Mulholland.

‘Gossip,’ announced Margaret firmly. ‘Just gossip. The railway’s a terrible place for gossip.’

‘But we never repeat it, do we Margaret?’

‘And I never listen to it,’ McLevy concurred.

Margaret was by far the sharper of the two old ladies and caught another look between the policemen.

‘A terrible thing, the gossip, inspector,’ she said gazing straight at him.

‘Indeed, Margaret,’ he replied.

Then, at great sacrifice to himself, and for the sake of the investigation, McLevy pushed the plate of titbits towards the women and smiled like temptation itself.

‘Have a sugar biscuit,’ he murmured.

* * *

Small, precise steps sounded in the empty station as Thomas Pettigrew approached the rear carriage of the late train. Emptied of passengers, it awaited only the final rites of cleansing and inspection before resting for the night. He regarded the long, gleaming shape with obscure fondness. Its formal name was High Endeavour but it was known throughout the railway as Puffing Billy.

Pettigrew smiled for a moment, then his face changed as he consulted his watch. They were late.

‘I told Margaret and Jenny to wait for a while,’ said a voice. ‘We have business first on hand.’

The guard did not appear surprised to see the figures of McLevy and Mulholland looming in the mist of Waverley like inauspicious apparitions.

The inspector’s face was grave — tired, even; it was the end of the chase, but he took no pleasure in it.

‘How is your daughter — Christina?’ he enquired.

Pettigrew pondered.

‘She is well. Considering.’

‘Considering her condition, sir?’ Mulholland said.

The little man nodded as if something long anticipated had been confirmed, and then walked towards them to continue his inventory of the train.

The glistening body was on his right, the policemen on the left as they all walked at a slow pace while the guard scrutinised the giant machine in his keep.

‘I have made provision for her,’ Pettigrew said finally. ‘All of my savings.’

‘Buttressed by the money from the dead man’s wallet?’

A moment’s silence greeted this observation from McLevy before Pettigrew nodded once more.

‘I thought it. . appropriate,’ he replied. ‘No doubt it was come by dishonourably. I put it to another use.’

His delivery was exact, without emotion, and as they proceeded, his focus never left the wheels and carriages as the company passed them by.

‘That night. How did you recognise him, sir?’ Mulholland asked.

‘My daughter had a photograph she treasured. Of them. In a happy moment.’

For a second Pettigrew stopped and closed his eyes, then he snapped them open and continued his slow progress. ‘I found it in her belongings. By accident. I would not have you think me to be a nosey man.’

‘ I am,’ McLevy responded. ‘Nosey as hell. The night of the murder, you were at the wrong end o’ the train.’

‘To put distance between you and the corpse,’ the constable added.

‘It seemed. . a sensible precaution.’

There was even a touch of graveyard humour in the little man’s voice, but it found no answering smile.

‘The dead man, in his secret case, had a letter from one Christina P.’ McLevy announced heavily. ‘We learned from Margaret and Jenny the rumours concerning your daughter, checked at her place of service and found that she had left under disgrace.’

The inspector shivered suddenly.

‘Cold in this place.’

‘Midnight,’ Pettigrew said dryly, pausing to rest his hand against the side of a carriage as if he could sense a hidden life within. ‘The glass drops.’

McLevy jerked his head almost irritably at Mulholland, who had been a silent observer for the most part.

The constable took his cue.

‘So, sir — allow me to reconstruct events?’

The guard nodded a grave permission and the constable, monitoring his steps so as not to leap into the lead, summed up for the prosecution.

‘Fate decrees that the man responsible for your daughter’s ruin ends up on your train, drunk as a lord, boasting of impending marriage. The train empties and there he is. Snoring like a pig.’

‘So, you helped the seducer on his way. To a deeper sleep,’ McLevy said quietly.

Somewhere in the station a train let out a long, mournful cry like a lost soul. They were now at the front engine and it marked the end of the line.

The inspector stepped up to face Pettigrew, his face sombre and even somewhat troubled.

‘I will not pretend to envisage the anger and hurt which burned in your soul at the callous betrayal of your own flesh and blood, causing you to commit an act beyond anything you could ever have imagined,’ he stated. ‘But I do know how you did it.’

‘Indeed?’

‘That’s a fine silver whistle you wear.’

Pettigrew’s hand moved to clasp the object where it nestled against the stiff front of his uniform.

‘A tribute for thirty years’ service,’ he affirmed.

In fact McLevy had only noted this as they walked, but it made perfect if sad sense.

‘Hangs round your neck by a strong cord.’

The guard nodded agreement. ‘Leather. Twined fast. My own making.’

‘And with such you strangled him.’

‘It seemed. .’ said Pettigrew, ‘appropriate.’

This final and formal acknowledgement of the murder seemed to release the tension, and all three men let out a puff of breath in unison.

‘The only thing I regret,’ the guard vouched, ‘was the blaming of Angus Dalrymple. It was meant to distract but. . went too far.’

‘Aye — you led us to him and it was his words that part led me to you,’ averred McLevy. ‘Angus declared that when you arrived for the tickets, the man was boasting loud and rude of his coming nuptials. And yet you never made mention of that — just said he was civil enough. For a man as exact as yourself, I thought that peculiar.’

‘You would have found me in any case, inspector.’

‘And you, sir,’ Mulholland adjured solemnly, ‘must accompany us to the police station of Leith, where you will be formally charged.’

‘You also have a timetable,’ Pettigrew remarked with a curious glint in his eye. ‘That’s good.’