Douglas Aird gave a carefree laugh and tried to bluff his way out of the situation. When his charm failed, and when Colbeck produced a pair of handcuffs, the Bishop of Chichester swung the valise like an incense burner and knocked the inspector aside. He then lifted his cassock and took to his heels, sprinting along the platform as if the hounds of Hell were on his tail. In fact, it was Leeming who went in pursuit and who caught him without undue difficulty. Diving on Aird’s back, he brought him crashing down. As he hit the hard stone, Aird yelled out in pain.
‘If you think that hurt,’ said Leeming with a wolfish grin, ‘wait until you meet Superintendent Tallis again.’
ON GUARD
Jake Fullard had always wanted to be a guard. It gave him a wonderful sense of authority because he was in charge of a train. The engine driver and the fireman were subservient to him. If a train stopped for any reason other than at a signal, it was Fullard’s job to apply the brake in the brake van then walk back down the line to warn oncoming trains that there was a blockage ahead. By his count — and he was a pedantic mathematician — he had prevented fourteen potential collisions by his prompt action. Fullard was a slight man in his forties with a long neck and narrow shoulders. He had a full beard, bushy eyebrows and protruding ears. Highly efficient at his job, he was also known for the care he took in his appearance. He’d never venture outside the house unless his uniform was brushed clean and his boots polished. His preference was for acting as guard on passenger trains so he was irked when he found himself assigned to a livestock train. His wife, Hannah, bore the brunt of his annoyance.
‘I’m too good to be wasted on animals,’ he protested.
‘Yes, Jake, I’m sure you are.’
‘The noise is always deafening and you wouldn’t believe the stink.’
‘Yes, I would,’ she said. ‘It gets into your clothes sometimes.’
‘It’s ridiculous,’ he went on. ‘I’m the best guard in the whole company and they make me look after pigs, cattle, sheep and horses. I should be above that kind of thing. Apart from anything else, I hate farm animals. Whenever I get anywhere near one, I start coughing and wheezing.’
‘It’s not fair on you, Jake.’
Hannah was a full-bodied woman in her forties with a pleasant face framed by a mass of dark curls. Fiercely loyal to her husband, she always oozed sympathy when she felt he’d been slighted.
He gave her a token peck on the cheek before setting off for work. It was a dull morning with persistent drizzle falling from a leaden sky. Fullard walked the half-mile to the station at a brisk pace. On arriving there, he saw that the stock wagons had already been loaded and that the animals were protesting noisily at being penned up. When he was guard on a passenger train, he travelled inside the brake van and was protected from the elements. On a livestock train, however, he sat high up at the rear of the wagons so that he could keep an eye on them in transit.
Fullard went first to the engine. The driver was puffing on his pipe while the fireman was complaining about the drizzle. After moaning about the animals, Fullard chatted with them for a few minutes then walked the length of the train towards the brake van. There were thirty wagons in all, each producing its individual cacophony and giving off its distinctive reek. Fullard checked each wagon to make certain that it was secure. He found the stink of the pigs particularly offensive and held his nose when close to them. When he reached the brake van, he was about to climb up on top of it when something hit him so viciously on the back of the head that his skull split open and his career as a guard came to a premature end.
There were two things that Victor Leeming remembered about Devon. It was a long way from London and it was the scene of a hideous murder that he and Robert Colbeck had once investigated in Exeter. The county town was again involved because the death of Jake Fullard had occurred at Cullompton beside a train that was taking animals to market in Exeter. The detectives had been summoned from Scotland Yard by telegraph. Leeming was, as usual, afraid that they might be kept away from London for days. Colbeck was more sanguine.
‘Cullompton is a small town, Victor,’ he said. ‘People tend to know each other in places like that. It’s not like London where strangers can go unnoticed in a huge population. If anything out of the ordinary happened in Cullompton, somebody will have been aware of it.’
‘All we know is that the guard was trampled to death.’
‘Foul play is suspected.’
‘It could have been an accident. They happen all the time.’
‘This one is different — at least that’s what the railway company thinks.’
‘Where will you start, Inspector?’
‘I’ll view the body, examine the scene of the crime then speak to the driver and the fireman.’
‘What about me?’
‘Do you really need to ask?’ teased Colbeck. ‘You’ll be taking statements from the animals. They’ll have lots to tell you, I’m sure.’
The town was a hundred and eighty miles from London but the express train got them there speedily. They found Cullompton station in turmoil. Farmers were demanding to know why their animals were still stuck in a siding and threatening to sue the company if they weren’t on sale in Exeter market on the following morning. Passengers awaiting trains had drifted over to a position from which they could see the actual spot where the dead body had been found. Word had spread quickly in the town and dozens of people had congregated out of curiosity. Martin Rimmer, the tubby stationmaster with a walrus moustache, was besieged.
‘Thank God you’ve come,’ he said when the detectives introduced themselves. ‘It’s been like a madhouse here.’
‘What exactly happened?’ asked Colbeck.
‘We don’t rightly know, Inspector. Jake Fullard is an experienced guard who prides himself on the way he does his job. Yet he got trampled by a wagonload of bullocks. The driver and fireman only realised that something was amiss when a couple of the animals went galloping past them. Others charged off in another direction and three of them mounted the platform and caused mayhem among the passengers. Dan Ferris, the farmer who owns them, has only just finished rounding them up. I’m not looking forward to meeting him,’ said Rimmer, grimacing. ‘Dan’s language is ripe at the best of times.’
‘Were there any witnesses?’
‘None have come forward.’
‘Has there been any attempt to find them?’
‘One of the local constables has been doing the rounds in search of anyone who might be able to shed light on what happened.’
‘Where’s the guard now?’ asked Leeming.
‘He’s in my office, Sergeant. I wasn’t sure whether to leave him here or have him moved by the undertaker. In the end, I decided to keep him.’
‘Good,’ said Colbeck. ‘Has the family been informed?’
‘Yes,’ replied Rimmer, nervously. ‘Hannah Fullard and her daughter both know that Jake is dead. What they haven’t been told, however, is whether or not he was murdered. We’re hoping that you could confirm that.’
‘Let’s go and see him.’
The appearance of the detectives had aroused a lot of interest and there was a heavy murmur all round them as they walked towards the stationmaster’s office. Two uniformed railway policemen were standing outside to keep people at bay. When they realised who the newcomers were, they stepped aside. Rimmer unlocked the door to let the detectives into the office then he locked it behind them. Curtains had been drawn to keep out prying eyes, so there was diminished light.
The body of Jake Fullard was stretched out on a trestle table and covered with a blanket. Though the faces of the dead were an all too common sight to Colbeck and Leeming, both of them recoiled slightly when the blanket was peeled back. Fullard’s face had been smashed in by the impact of several hooves. Covered in gore, it lacked eyes and a nose. The black beard was now a dark red. Colbeck drew the blanket back so that the whole body was revealed. In their escape from the wagon, the bullocks had left muddy hoof marks all over the guard and had doubtless broken many of his bones in the process.