Edward Marston - The excursion train

'Oh, I had a very quiet time,' she said, determined to conceal from him where she had been. 'I cleaned the house then read for a while.'

'Did you work on the painting?'

'A little.'

'When are you going to give it to him?'

'When it's ready, Father. And,' she told him, pointedly, 'when you're not here to embarrass me.'

'I wouldn't embarrass you for the world.'

'You've done it already since you walked through that door.'

'Have I? What did I say?'

'I'd rather not repeat it. Let's talk about something else.'

'As you wish.' He racked his brain for a new subject. 'Oh, I know what I mean to tell you. When you read the paper this morning, did you see that Jake Guttridge was being buried today?'

'Really?'

'I bet he was there as well.'

'Who?'

'The killer. The man who strangled him on that excursion train. I'd bet anything that he turned up at the funeral just so that he could get in a good kick at the coffin. It's exactly the sort of thing that he'd do.'

Madeleine ate her dinner, not daring to say a word.

Because they had been asked to bring someone back with them, Victor Leeming and George Butterkiss travelled in the cart that had taken them to Lenham on their first journey together. This time it smelt in equal proportions of fish, animal dung and musty hay. The potholes made an even more concerted assault on the Sergeant's buttocks and he was glad when they finally reached Charing, a charming village on the road to Maidstone. His aches and pains increased in intensity when he learnt that they had gone there in vain. The farmer for whom Amos Lockyer had worked told them that he had sacked the man months earlier for being drunk and unreliable.

Hearing a rumour that Lockyer had taken a menial job on the staff at Leeds Castle, they rode on there, only to be met with another rebuff. After only a short time in service at the castle, Lockyer had failed to turn up for work and vanished from his lodging. Nobody had any idea where he could be. George Butterkiss drove his unhappy passenger back towards Ashford. The road seemed bumpier than ever.

'Why is the Inspector so keen to speak to Amos?' asked Butterkiss.

'I don't know,' said Leeming.

'Does he want him to help in the investigation?'

'Possibly.'

Butterkiss beamed. 'It will be wonderful to work alongside him once again,' he said. 'Amos Lockyer, me and two detectives from the Metropolitan Police. A quartet like that is a match for any villain.'

Conscious that he would have to listen to his zealous companion all the way back, Leeming gritted his teeth. When rain began to fall, he swore under his breath. It was the last straw.

'We'll be soaked to the skin,' he complained.

'I know what Amos would have done at a time like this,' said Butterkiss, remaining resolutely cheerful. 'Never let things get on top of you – that was his motto. If Amos was sitting where you are, Sergeant, do you know what he'd suggest?'

'What?'

'That we sing a song to keep up our spirits.'

'Don't you dare!' warned Leeming, turning on him. 'I don't want my spirits kept up after this wild goose chase. If you sing so much as a single note, Constable Butterkiss, you'll be walking all the way home.'

Adam Hawkshaw waited until it was quite dark before he opened the door of his lodging and peeped out. The rain was easing but it was still persistent enough to keep most people off the streets that evening. When he saw that nobody was about, he pulled down his hat, stepped on to the pavement and pulled the door shut behind him. Hands in his pockets, he walked swiftly off into the gloom.

Robert Colbeck was beginning to get worried. He had expected Leeming and Butterkiss to be back hours earlier with the man they had sought. Charing was no great distance from the town, miles closer than Lenham. Even if they had had to go to an outlying farm, they should have returned by now. The combination of rain and darkness would slow them down but not to that extent. Colbeck wondered if they had encountered trouble of some sort. He sat near the window of his bedroom for what seemed like an age before he finally heard the rattle of a cart below.

Hoping that they had at last come back, he went downstairs and hurried to the door, ignoring the rain and stepping out from under the portico. By the light of the street lamps, to his relief, he saw a wet and disgruntled Victor Leeming, seated on the cart beside an equally sodden George Butterkiss. There was no third person with them. Before he could even greet them, however, Colbeck was aware of sudden movement in the shadows on the opposite side of the street. A pistol was fired with a loud bang. The noise frightened the horse and it bolted down the high street with the driver trying desperately to control it. Taken by surprise, Leeming was almost flung from the cart.

Robert Colbeck, meanwhile, had fallen to the ground with a stifled cry and rolled over on to his back. Satisfied with his work, the man who had fired the shot fled the scene.

It was ironic. Robert Colbeck, the assassin's intended target, suffered nothing more than a painful flesh wound in his upper arm whereas Victor Leeming, who just happened to be nearby at the time, collected a whole battery of cuts and bruises when he was hurled from the cart as it overturned. The Sergeant was justifiably upset.

'It's not fair,' he protested. 'All that I expected to do was to ride to Charing to pick someone up. Instead of that, I'm drenched by rain, bored stiff by Constable Butterkiss, beaten black and blue by that vicious cart of his, then flung to the ground like a sack of potatoes.'

'You have my sympathy, Victor.'

'And on top of all that, we came back empty-handed.'

'That was unfortunate,' said Colbeck.

They were in his room at the Saracen's Head, free at last from the inquisitive crowd that had rushed out into the street to see what had caused the commotion. Colbeck's injured arm had now been bandaged and the doctor had then treated Leeming's wounds. Back in dry clothing again, the Sergeant was puzzled.

'Why are you taking it so calmly, sir?' he asked.

'How should I be taking it?'

'If someone had fired at me, I'd be livid.'

'Well, I was annoyed at the damage he did to my frock coat,' said Colbeck, seriously. 'I doubt if it can be repaired. And the blood will have ruined my shirt beyond reclaim. No,' he continued, 'I prefer to look at the consolations involved.'

'I didn't know that there were any.'

'Three, at least.'

'What are they?'

'First of all, I'm alive with only a scratch on me. Luckily, the shot was off target. The man is clearly not as adept with a pistol as he is with a piece of wire.'

'You think that it was the killer?'

'Who else, Victor? He's frightened because we are closing in on him. That's the second consolation. We've made more progress than we imagined. The man is right here in Ashford. He's given himself away.'

'What's the third consolation, sir?'

'He thinks that he killed me,' said Colbeck. 'That's why I fell to the ground and stayed there. Also, of course, I didn't want to give him the chance to aim at me again. Believing I was dead, he ran away. There was no point in trying to chase him because I had this searing pain in my arm. I'd never have been able to overpower him. Much better to give him the impression that his attempt on my life had been successful.'

'He's in for a nasty surprise.'

'Yes, but it does behove us to show additional caution in future.'

'I will,' said Leeming. 'I'll never ride on that blessed cart again!'

'I was talking about the killer. He's armed and ready to shoot.'

'You mentioned a pistol just now.'

'That's what it sounded like,' said Colbeck, 'though I couldn't be sure. It all happened in a split second. One of the first things we need to do is to find the bullet. That will tell us what firearm was used.'