Edward Marston - The excursion train

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.'