Edward Marston - Railway to the Grave

‘He won’t get a penny from his parents, I discovered that.’

‘Then he might turn to Adam Tarleton.’

‘But he doesn’t have any money either, does he?’

‘He has prospects, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘He probably stands to inherit half of the estate. On the strength of that, he wouldn’t have much difficulty in raising a loan.’

Leeming snapped his fingers. ‘That makes it almost certain that Bruntcliffe is the killer. His old friend paid him to commit the murder.’

‘You’ve overlooked something. That, on its own, wouldn’t have brought in the cash that Adam Tarleton coveted. He needed both his mother and his stepfather to die. Only on the death of the colonel would he be able to claim his inheritance.’

‘Ah!’ Leeming was instantly deflated. ‘I never thought of that, Inspector. How could Tarleton know that his stepfather would take his own life?’

‘He’d know how bereft the colonel would be at the loss of his wife,’ reasoned Colbeck, ‘and he’d be aware that his stepfather would be under suspicion. The pressure on the colonel was intense. It may even be that his stepson added to that pressure by getting someone to write poison-pen letters on his behalf.’

‘It’s all beginning to make sense at last,’ said Leeming.

Colbeck was cautious. ‘Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. At the moment, we’re constructing a hypothesis on the basis of limited facts. We need far more information, Victor, and we only have until Monday to get it.’

‘Then we’re doomed, sir.’

‘Have more faith, Victor. Our efforts will soon be rewarded. Remember what the superintendent always tells us.’

‘Perseverance is a virtue,’ groaned Leeming.

They were in the bar at the Black Bull, enjoying a drink at a table in a quiet corner. Neither of them looked up when the door opened. It was only when a shadow fell across them that they realised they had company. Bertram Reader was relieved to see them.

‘I was hoping that I’d catch you here,’ he said.

‘Then do join us,’ invited Colbeck, pointing to an empty chair. ‘Can I get you anything to drink, sir?’

Reader sat down. ‘No, thank you.’

‘Why did you wish to see us?’

‘I may have some evidence for you, Inspector.’

‘Thank goodness someone does!’ said Leeming under his breath.

‘First, let me give you this list drawn up by my wife. All the people on it knew that Miriam would be visiting her that day.’ He handed it over. ‘Now, do you still have that letter you showed me?’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, reaching inside his coat.

‘May I have another look at it, please?’

Colbeck gave it to him. ‘Be my guest, Mr Reader.’

‘Thank you.’

Reader took out the letter and unfolded it, scanning the lines as if searching for a secret code. At length, he gave a decisive nod.

‘I knew that I was right,’ he said. ‘It’s the same hand.’

‘Would you care to explain, sir?’ asked Colbeck.

‘My wife and I worship at All Saints’ church in Northallerton. We rarely come to the church here. But when we heard that Miriam’s body had been found, my wife sought a visible way to express our grief. I suggested that she might buy flowers to adorn St Andrew’s this Sunday when the prayers will certainly be offered for Miriam – if not, I regret to say, for her husband.’

‘That was a very kind gesture, sir.’

‘It was much appreciated,’ said Reader, taking a card from his pocket, ‘and this was sent from the rectory in acknowledgement. As soon as I saw it, I thought I recognised the handwriting.’

Opening the card, he laid it beside the letter so that Colbeck and Leeming could compare the two. Each had the same neat, looping hand. One person had obviously written them both and the polite phrases on the card came in sharp contradistinction to the vile insinuations in the letter. Grateful for such evidence, the detectives were astounded to see the name at the bottom of the card.

It was Dorcas Skelton.

The arrival of her husband was the blessing for which Eve Doel had prayed. She collapsed into his arms, confident that he would take over and provide the commiseration that her brother had signally failed to supply. Lawrence Doel, a stocky yet elegant man of middle years, was mortified that he’d been away when tragedy had struck his family and upset that his wife had been unable to make contact with him while he was negotiating contracts with merchants in various European cities. His presence was not only succour to Eve, it had a curative effect on Adam Tarleton, who dressed and bore himself in a way more suited to the circumstances.

Mrs Withers noted the changes with approval. During a lull in what had been almost endless activity, she was in the kitchen with Lottie Pearl who was mending the tear in her dress.

‘This is how it should be,’ said the housekeeper. ‘It’s started to feel like a house of mourning at last.’

‘Mr Doel seems such a capable person,’ said Lottie, seated on a chair as she repaired her hem. ‘You can tell by looking at him.’

‘He’s also a true gentleman.’

‘How long will he stay, Mrs Withers?’

‘They’ll all be here until the funeral is over. When that is, I fear, hasn’t yet been decided. They have to wait for the inquest.’

‘I overheard Mrs Doel saying that the colonel wouldn’t be buried in the churchyard.’

‘Then you should be ashamed of yourself, Lottie,’ reprimanded the other, turning on her. ‘You should never listen to what’s being said in private conversations.’

‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.’

‘It’s one of the reasons that Ginny Hepworth had to leave. I caught her with her ear to the door of the drawing room and it wasn’t the first time she’d eavesdropped. I asked the colonel to dismiss her.’

‘Ginny told me it was because you didn’t like her.’

‘My personal feelings never came into it,’ said Mrs Withers. ‘The girl was hopelessly slack in her duties. She had to go.’

‘Am I any better?’

‘You’re improving, Lottie, that’s all I’ll say.’

Bolstered by a rare word of praise, the girl finished her sewing and put the needle and cotton away in the basket. She stood up and let the dress fall down to her ankle. The repair was invisible and even won a glance of approval from the housekeeper.

‘Is it true?’ asked Lottie.

‘Is what true?’

‘What I shouldn’t have overheard about the funeral.’

‘There is a problem,’ confessed Mrs Withers.

‘No wonder Mrs Doel is so upset. I think it would be a terrible thing if the colonel is not there alongside his wife. How could he get to heaven if he’s not buried proper in a churchyard?’

‘Be quiet, girl. You know nothing about these things.’

‘I know the Reverend Skelton likes to make up his own mind. He’s told us so in the pulpit. Mother used to make me go every Sunday but I never really liked it because he frightened me.’

‘Who did?’

‘The rector – he makes me shiver.’

‘How can you say that about a man of God?’

‘I’m scared of him, Mrs Withers.’

‘That means you must have a guilty conscience,’ said the older woman. ‘Is there anything else you’ve done wrong, Lottie? Is there anything else I should know?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Come on, girl. You should have no secrets from me. I still haven’t heard why it took you so long to fetch those eggs from Rock Farm yesterday.’

‘I told you – I was chased by this horrible man.’

‘That was just a story you made up.’

‘It wasn’t,’ cried Lottie, hurt by the accusation. ‘He was a pedlar and I met him near the stream. He asked me for a kiss and, when I turned away, he jumped off his cart and chased me. I wouldn’t make something like that up, Mrs Withers, honest.’