‘I’d have to speak to the vicar first,’ said Vine, clearly attracted by the notion. ‘I’ll need his approval before I speak to Simon Gillard.’
They heard a knock at the front door. Maria went off to see who it was.
‘That may be the vicar now,’ said Revill. ‘He promised to call this afternoon.’
‘Then I’ll seize my opportunity,’ said Vine.
But it was not the Reverend Odell. They heard a voice talking to Maria then three sets of footsteps came up the staircase. Maria entered the bedroom with Colbeck and Leeming. Since he’d met Revill and Maria before, the sergeant took charge of the introductions. Vine shook hands with both men.
‘I’m so glad that you haven’t deserted us,’ he said. ‘We need this murder solved and solved quickly.’
‘We take the same view, Mr Vine,’ said Colbeck. ‘That’s why we went for a ride on the train. I went to Blisworth and the sergeant went to Bletchley. When he drew a blank there, he went on Leighton Buzzard.’
Maria was baffled. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Everything turns on that key, Mrs Vine. Only three keys to the church existed so the killer must somehow have acquired a fourth. And that,’ Colbeck said, ‘means that he needed a locksmith to make one. He’d be too cunning to use someone here in Wolverton so he’d go to another town — Leighton Buzzard, as it turns out.’
‘The locksmith there was very helpful,’ said Leeming. ‘He remembered that he’d made a replica of a key to a church door only days ago and he remembered the man who asked him to do it. Of course,’ he went on, turning meaningfully to Vine, ‘you were careful not to give him your proper name. You called yourself Marklew.’
‘That was my maiden name!’ cried Maria, looking at her husband. ‘Is this true, Anthony? Did you go to Leighton Buzzard?’
‘No,’ replied Vine, indignantly. ‘The locksmith is confused.’
‘We can soon clear the confusion,’ said Colbeck. ‘We can take you to meet the gentleman and he will confirm his identification.’ He confronted Vine. ‘You took advantage of Mr Revill’s illness, didn’t you? While he was confined to his bed, you borrowed his key, had a copy made and restored the original to its place here. Then you overpowered Mr Exton, got him into the church and committed the murder in front of the altar.’
Vine spluttered. ‘I’d never dream of doing such a thing.’
‘We spoke to the vicar, sir. He told us what a deeply religious man you were.’
‘There’s nothing religious about battering a man to death,’ said Leeming.
‘I also spoke to Harry Blacker,’ resumed Colbeck. ‘He said that you were incensed when you heard that Mr Exton had defecated on your mother’s grave. There’d been bad blood between them when she was alive, apparently, but nothing excused what he did in that churchyard.’
Maria was staring at her husband in horror and Revill was scandalised.
‘Did you take my key behind my back, Anthony?’ he demanded.
‘Yes, he did,’ said Leeming.
‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this,’ said Maria, backing away.
Abandoning denial, Vine tried to justify what he’d done.
‘He deserved it, Maria,’ he argued. ‘Have you forgotten all the other things he did to the church? I lost count of the number of times I had to scrub off the obscenities Exton had daubed on the walls. He mocked God. He laughed at Christianity,’ he cried, eyes darting wildly. ‘When he … did what he did over my mother’s grave, it was the final straw. I had to teach him a lesson. You must see that. I took him into church and made him beg forgiveness from God — then I killed him in front of the altar.’ He raised a palm. ‘Don’t ask me to feel sorry for him because I don’t. Divine guidance made me do it.’
Colbeck nodded to Leeming who moved forward to make an arrest. But Vine was not going to surrender. Grabbing the sergeant by the shoulders, he flung him away then lifted the sash window in order to jump out. A yell of pain told them that he’d fallen badly and injured himself.
‘I’ll arrest him outside,’ said Leeming, leaving the bedroom.
‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, peering through the window. ‘From the look of it, you won’t get much resistance this time.’
‘Anthony can’t plead divine guidance,’ said Revill in bewilderment. ‘Thou shalt not kill. That’s what we’re taught. What Anthony did was … dreadful.’
Maria was still transfixed by what she’d learnt about her husband. As she tried to take in the full horror of it all, her face crumpled and the tears gushed out. After a few moments, she collapsed into Colbeck’s arms.
When the train pulled into Euston station, the detectives got out and walked along the platform. Both were pleased to have solved the crime so quickly and to have restored a degree of calm to Wolverton.
‘There you are, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘You’ll still be able to see your children before they go to bed.’
‘I’m sorry that I was so churlish on the way there, sir.’
‘Our interrupted Sunday was redeemed by an important arrest.’
‘I’m glad we don’t have people like Anthony Vine in our congregation,’ said Leeming. ‘He’s got a very twisted view of Christianity.’
‘He’s a devout man with a fatal weakness. He forgot one of the main precepts of the Bible — Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord. Mr Vine took too much upon himself,’ said Colbeck. ‘In trying to play God, he created a disaster for the very church he loved and served. It will be something to reflect upon as he’s waiting to mount the gallows.’
A FAMILY AFFAIR
In a sense, Caleb Andrews had never actually retired from the railway. He continued to turn up at Euston on an unpaid, unofficial basis in order to hear the latest gossip and to offer unsought advice to his former colleagues over a pint of beer at the pub they patronised. Andrews was a short, stringy man with a fringe beard decorating a leathery face. Known for his pugnacity, he also had a softer side and it was in evidence that evening as he listened to the harpist. A small crowd had gathered around the old man as he worked his way through his repertoire. Andrews was not the only onlooker who had to hold back a tear when he heard the strains of ‘Home, Sweet Home’. He marvelled at the way that the decrepit figure could pluck such sweet melodies from his strings. Well into his seventies, the harpist wore an ancient, ragged suit and a top hat battered into concertina shape. Beside him on the ground was a cap to collect any money from his transient audiences. Curled up asleep near the cap was a mangy dog of uncertain parentage.
The harpist’s musical taste was catholic, embracing everything from operatic arias to bawdy music hall songs and stretching to stirring marches more suited to a regimental brass band. Passers-by hovered long enough to hear a favourite tune and, in some cases, tossed a coin into the cap. Andrews did the same, then his sharp eye spotted a threat to the money. Lurking on the edge of the crowd was a ragamuffin who could be no more than nine or ten. He sidled towards the cap and was about to snatch it up when Andrews shouted a warning.
‘Watch out!’
His yell was unnecessary because the dog had already come to life to protect its master’s income and bitten the boy’s wrist. Howling in pain, the ragamuffin darted off. As he turned to look after the thief, Andrews bumped into a well-dressed man who muttered an apology then walked swiftly past him. Thinking no more of the incident, Andrews listened to the harpist for another few minutes then headed for the pub where he’d spent so many happy times with his friends over the years. They gave him a warm welcome and someone bought him a drink. He revelled in the banter. Dirk Sowerby, his erstwhile fireman, then came in. Andrews insisted on treating him and moved to the bar counter. When he reached inside his coat for his wallet, however, it was not there. He came to an immediate conclusion.
‘I’ve been robbed!’ he protested.
‘It was embarrassing, Maddy.’