Rebecca Tullidge was bemused. Her husband continued to act strangely. He seemed to have shaken off his accustomed torpor and no longer went about his duties as if they were tiresome chores. Something else puzzled her. He spent far more time talking to people who used the crossing and she couldn’t understand why. In the past, Tullidge had shown little interest in passing vehicles and pedestrians, exchanging no more than a wave or, at best, a few words with them. Yet he actually seemed to enjoy having a conversation with passers-by now and even rose to an occasional smile. It was almost as if he were trying to make up for the years of unsociable neglect.
Talkative with others, he remained as laconic as ever with his wife. But at least he was no longer exuding a muted hostility towards her. She saw that as a welcome bonus. As for his rough treatment of her in the privacy of their bedroom, he made no reference to it whatsoever and obviously didn’t think that an apology was in order. While he might pretend that it had never happened, however, Rebecca took a different view. The bruises had not faded and the bite marks were still there. The whole frightening experience was a nasty fire at the back of her mind.
She was upstairs when she heard the front door open. Fearing that her husband had come back to the lodge, she went quickly downstairs so that he couldn’t catch her in the bedroom. Her fears were unjustified. Instead of her husband, it was Margaret Vout, her closest friend, who often called in for a chat with Rebecca. A roly-poly woman in her forties with a permanent smile on her red-cheeked face, Margaret was the wife of the publican who ran the Waggon and Horses. She was a garrulous woman but Rebecca didn’t mind that. Short of female company, she was always glad to see her friend and she never forgot how supportive the woman had been when her child was stillborn.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I was hoping to see you, Maggie.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier. We’ve been very busy. But I had to come and tell you about the detective who called on us this morning.’
‘Was it Inspector Colbeck?’
‘That’s him. What a handsome man – and what a perfect gentleman! We don’t get many of those at the Waggon. I couldn’t believe that he’s a policeman with manners like that. The only policeman we ever see is Bert Maycock and he’s one of us, if you know what I mean. The inspector is … well, he’s very special, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘I’d be happy to serve him with a pint of beer any time,’ said Margaret with a flirtatious giggle, ‘except that he’d probably want a more refined drink. It’s a silly thing to say but he made me feel young again. Did he have that effect on you, Becky?’
‘Not really.’
‘I know that you met him because he told us. In fact, that’s why he came. He wanted to check up on something you’d told him.’
Rebecca was alarmed. ‘What was it?’
‘It was about what time Michael got home on Saturday night.’
‘I told him the truth.’
‘I’m sure you did, Becky, and I’m sure he took you for the honest person you are. The inspector is the sort of man who looks deep into your eyes. I wouldn’t dare try to tell him a lie. He’d know what it was the moment it left my tongue.’
‘Why did he ask about Michael?’
‘He said that he was just checking.’
‘Didn’t he trust me?’ asked Rebecca, hurt.
‘Of course, he did, but all you could tell him was the time that your husband got back here. We knew when Michael left the Waggon on Saturday.’
‘It was the usual time.’
‘But that’s the thing – it wasn’t.’
‘He got back here when he always does.’
‘Then he must’ve gone somewhere else in between,’ said Margaret, ‘because he left us much earlier than usual – an hour, in fact. He was drinking all evening with Elias and Hugh and they stayed till we had to throw them out. But not Michael, because he’d already left. He kept looking up at that old clock of ours until he decided he had to leave.’ She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Then off he went. I thought he’d come straight back home.’
‘Well, he didn’t,’ said Rebecca, worriedly.
‘It must have been the beer. He does drink heavily on a Saturday. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he lost his way here in the dark or if he sat down somewhere and went straight off to sleep. Hugh Delafield has done that a few times. His wife told me. She found him curled up in a ditch once. He was fast asleep and had wet himself.’ She sat down familiarly. ‘What sort of a state was Michael in when he got back?’
‘He was staggering a bit.’
‘There you are, then. He had one pint too many, I expect.’
‘Yes,’ said the other, trying to reassure herself, ‘that must be it.’
‘I can’t think of any other reason, can you?’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘The inspector was very grateful. He said that I’d been a real help to him. I’m not sure what he meant by that, mind you. As for this terrible murder,’ she went on, touching her friend’s arm, ‘I feel so sorry for you, Becky. It happened just down the track from the lodge. It would’ve scared me rigid, being so close. I’d never met this John Bedloe – had you?’
‘I must have seen him when I went into Wimborne,’ replied Rebecca, her mouth suddenly dry, ‘because he’d be on duty near the station, but I’d never spoken to him. It’s the other one I’ve met – Dick Satchwell.’
‘Oh, yes, we know Dick Satchwell. He’s been to the Waggon a few times and very welcome he is. Not as welcome as Inspector Colbeck, though,’ she added with a throaty laugh. ‘The pity of it is that the only chance we get to see him is if someone else is murdered and I hope that never happens again.’ She gave a shudder. ‘My blood runs cold when I think of it. Who could possibly have stabbed him to death? People round here are friendly. We like each other. Do we really have a killer in our midst?’
At that moment, Rebecca had the uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched. Turning around sharply, she saw the unsmiling face of her husband framed in the window. It shook her.
Given the choice, Leeming opted to hire a trap rather than a horse. When the animal was between the shafts, it always seemed much more obedient than when he was in the saddle. As it trotted ahead of him, he actually felt in control of the horse and he was reminded of his earlier ambition to be a London cab driver. It had always appealed to him as a way of life and, while it lacked the adventure that he routinely enjoyed, it was largely devoid of the concomitant danger. The idea of rolling through the streets of the capital was tempting enough but, he now discovered, driving through beautiful countryside was an even better experience. On the trip to the Sweetbriar Estate, he’d had to endure the malodorous companionship of his driver. There was no such handicap now. Leeming was alone and in charge. Amongst the rough-hewn country people he drove past, he cut an incongruous figure but that didn’t trouble him. For the first time since he’d come to Dorset, he felt something akin to happiness.
Frustration soon set in, however. He’d been told that God’s Blessing Green was a couple of miles north of Wimborne. All that he had to do, he was assured, was to follow the signs to Holt and he would reach his destination. What nobody warned him was that the road would soon become a winding track and that he’d be faced with a plethora of conflicting signposts that would send him in an ever-decreasing circle. Everyone whose help he sought had a different view of how best to reach the tiny hamlet and it was impossible to decide on whose advice to rely. Leeming became so confused and fretful that he came to believe he’d lost God’s Blessing and was under the malign spell of the Devil’s Curse.
The horse was increasingly fractious. When they passed the same wayside cottage for the third time, it became mutinous and broke into a canter that made the trap rock violently side to side. Leeming could neither stop the animal nor establish any control over it. All that he could do was to cling on for dear life. Miraculously, they did actually reach God’s Blessing Green, but he only had the briefest glimpse of it as the trap hurtled past. Half a mile outside the hamlet, the horse eventually decided that it had had enough strenuous exercise and it reverted to a gentle trot. There was another welcome source of relief. Leeming chanced upon a man repairing hurdles and was, for once, given accurate directions. He was to skirt the forest around Holt and look for Manor Farm. That was where Simon Copsey worked.
By the time he finally got there, Leeming was exhausted and had abandoned his dream of becoming a cab driver. Whether in town or country, horses were a law unto themselves and they were far too unpredictable for comfort. Though Colbeck could be wilful at times, he was much more dependable as a work partner. At Manor Farm, Leeming was greeted by a stroke of luck. The old shepherd was actually there. Attended by his tail-wagging dog, he was acting as midwife to yet another of the spring lambs. He’d just brought one more slippery creature into the world and placed it in the straw beside its mother before wiping his hands on a piece of sacking.
Leeming looked and felt completely out of place in a farmyard. Chickens ran between his legs and he had to be careful not to scuff his shoes or step into any dung. He couldn’t decide whether the incessant squawking or the pervading stink was the more offensive. Introducing himself to Copsey, he took him aside. They sat on a rickety bench close to the pens. The shepherd eyed him up and down.
‘Another p’liceman, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But uglier than the last one.’
‘Inspector Colbeck has already spoken to you, I believe.’
‘So ’e did – bought me a drink.’
‘Well, you’ll not get one from me.’
‘Pity.’
‘There’s something he sent me to ask you, Mr Copsey.’
‘Call me Sim, if ye likes,’ said the other. ‘Everyone else does.’ His dog barked. ‘I’m Sim and this is Sam. Some folk gets us mixed up.’
‘This is important, sir.’
‘Is it?’
‘You may have information that’s valuable in a murder enquiry.’
‘I told everything to th’inspector.’
‘But you’d been drinking at the time,’ Leeming reminded him. ‘That’s not a criticism. After the shock of what you discovered, anyone would want a pint or two.’
Copsey laughed. ‘I ’ad a lot more’n that, Sergeant.’
‘Let’s go through the details once again, shall we?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I said so, Mr Copsey,’ warned Leeming. ‘We can either do it here or I can take you back to Wimborne to question you at the police station.’
‘Leave me be!’ howled the shepherd.
‘Do as I tell you or there’ll be trouble.’
‘I can’t leave the farm now. I got lambs comin’.’
‘Then answer my questions right here.’
Copsey regarded him with a combined disgust and wariness. Averse to anyone involved in law enforcement, he was nevertheless careful not to provoke them. It had led to cold nights in comfortless cells before. He was getting much too old for that. Against the background of plaintive bleats from the lambs and clucking from the hens, he told his story once more. Give or take a few playful digressions, it was very much the tale that Colbeck had heard.
‘That’s it,’ said the shepherd, getting up. ‘I’ll go back to work.’
‘I haven’t finished yet, sir. Sit down again.’
‘I’m too busy.’
Leeming pulled him back on to the bench. ‘Sit down!’ he ordered. ‘That’s better. And it’s no good trying to ignore a murder investigation. There’ll be an inquest any day now and you’ll be called to give evidence.’
The shepherd gasped. ‘I can’t take time off from the farm.’
‘You’ll have to, Mr Copsey. You’ll be fetched and brought back here. One word of warning – you’ll be under oath before the coroner. He’ll want the truth.’
‘I always tell the truth,’ protested the other.
‘Then answer me this – what were you doing in West Moors on Saturday?’
‘I was going for a walk.’
‘At midnight?’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘It must be the best part of three miles away.’
‘That’s nothing to me, Sergeant.’
‘Do you often go to West Moors?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘So what was special about last Saturday?’
‘That’d be tellin’,’ said the other, baring his few remaining teeth.
‘Then tell me,’ insisted Leeming. ‘I didn’t come all this way to be fobbed off. You go somewhere you don’t usually go and – lo and behold – you just happen to stumble on a body draped across a railway line. Did you actually find John Bedloe or did you help to put him there?’
‘I found ’im,’ yelled Copsey. ‘I’ll swear it on the ’Oly Book!’
‘So what were you doing in such a remote place?’
‘I told ye – goin’ for a stroll.’
‘You went there for a purpose, didn’t you?’ demanded Leeming, putting more authority into his voice. ‘I’m not leaving till I know what that purpose was.’
Simon Copsey drew back with a hunted look in his eye. He’d had many brushes with the law in the past and he’d usually been able to talk his way out of trouble. Local constables were more easily duped. Leeming was very different. He had a tenacity about him that was unsettling. He needed an answer.
‘I went to see a friend,’ said Copsey. ‘Are ye ’appy now, Sergeant?’
‘I will be when I know the friend’s name.’
‘Why’d ye say that?’
‘I need to meet him and confirm that you’re telling the truth.’
‘Ye can’t do that,’ whispered the other, anxiously.
‘Why not?’
Copsey’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘It weren’t a man I went to see.’
‘Then give me the woman’s name.’
‘And what d’ye think will ’appen when ye roll up to speak to ’er in front of ’er ’usband? It’ll be my death warrant,’ wailed the shepherd. ‘I’ll finish up stretched across that friggin’ railway line just like Bedloe!’
Alone in his room, Colbeck read the letters over and over again in the hope that they would yield up the telling clue that he needed. Those written by Susan Elwell were set aside. Her romance with John Bedloe had run its full course and ended in a disaster that had an exact date. The other two women, it was clear, belonged to a later stage in the railway policeman’s career. Both expressed an ardent desire to see him more often but their freedom of movement was largely curtailed by the presence of a husband. Colbeck got the distinct impression that they lived in or near Wimborne. The one who’d written the most letters had been careful neither to sign nor date them in case they fell into the wrong hands. Her handwriting was more legible and her feelings more fervently expressed. The last of the three women had dashed off her letters so quickly that many of the words were indecipherable as was the signature at the bottom of each letter.
Since both women lacked a name, Colbeck bestowed one upon them in order to give them some definition. The woman who sent the majority of the letters was Alice while the other became Betsy. Aspects of their respective characters came through in what they’d written and it was the same with Susan Elwell. Each of the three had a distinct individuality. What linked them was their susceptibility to the wiles of John Bedloe. Of the trio, Susan had been the most impressionable and the fact that she had an absent husband made her more available. She didn’t have to wait patiently to contrive a meeting with her lover. Susan had a freedom that the others lacked. In the end, it was her downfall.
It seemed obvious to Colbeck that the railway policeman had been enjoying the favours of Alice and Betsy alternately. Each laboured under the delusion that she was involved in a romance with someone who loved her devotedly and who spent the time without her yearning and suffering. The two women certainly yearned and suffered. It was agony to be apart from him for lengthy periods. Never having met the man, Colbeck had no idea what his appeal had been but, patently, he offered the two women a love that they couldn’t find at home and they responded with the complete submission that he sought.
That could be their weakness. Neither of the women was practiced in the arts of deception. One of them might well have given herself away. In a sense, that was what Susan Elwell had done. When her death was reported in the newspapers, the truth had been exposed. The shock to her husband must have been profound. Had he nursed the pain all this time as he sought to discover who’d led his wife astray? Was that why he lived in the same house and worked beside the river in which she’d drowned herself and her unborn child? In Colbeck’s mind, Jack Elwell had to be considered a prime suspect but he was not the only one. The husbands of the other two of Bedloe’s victims had to be remembered. Had one of them discovered his wife’s betrayal of him? Had he beaten the truth out of her then gone to take revenge?
Who were Alice and Betsy? What were their real names? Where did they live and how had Bedloe been able to work on them so cunningly? Colbeck was intrigued by another possibility. He speculated on what would have happened if Alice or Betsy had found out about each other and realised that they’d been cruelly betrayed. Each was in the grip of a passion but, when thwarted, was that passion strong enough to drive them on to murder? Colbeck was ready to accept that it was until he had second thoughts. If Alice or Betsy had discovered the existence of a rival, would their anger move them to stab Bedloe to death or would they instead want to eliminate the rival to his affections? It would certainly be easier to kill another woman than to murder a powerful man.
As he sifted through the letters once more, another idea took root in Colbeck’s mind. Each woman had been tricked and exploited to the full by a master of his trade. If one of them had learnt the awful truth about her fake romance, would she really turn on the other woman or might she instead make common cause with her? Should the detectives stop looking for a jealous husband and try to identify two desperate wives bonded together in a murder pact?
‘What’s happened, Bert?’ asked Satchwell.
‘Don’t ask me.’
‘You’re much closer to them than I am.’
‘I wish I was.’
‘What has Inspector Colbeck said to you?’
‘Very little,’ said Maycock.
‘I would’ve thought you’d be involved in the hunt.’
‘Why aren’t you?’
Bertram Maycock gave a philosophical shrug. After taking advice from him soon after their arrival, the detectives had been pursuing lines of enquiry on their own, ignoring Maycock along with other members of the local constabulary. He had hoped to learn something of the methods employed by Colbeck and Leeming but they didn’t seem to need him. While other policemen might have been upset, he accepted it with a tolerant smile.
‘They’ve caught killers before, Dick,’ he said. ‘We ’aven’t. They’ve ’ad a police force in Lunnun for thirty years. Dorset’s only ’ad a proper one for three or four. We’re still learnin’.’
‘Has there been any response to the posters advertising a reward?’
‘Oh, yes, the usual folk ’ave started rollin’ in. Whenever there’s a reward, they always claim to ’ave seen somethin’ important. They lie their ’eads off, Dick.’
‘So you’ve had no new evidence, then?’
‘Not so much as a whisper of it.’
‘Mr Feltham will be disappointed.’
The two men were on the platform at Wimborne Station. Seeing him standing there, Satchwell had been quick to swoop down on Maycock in the hope of picking up information about the progress of the investigation. He was upset to learn that there was no new development he could pass on to Feltham.
‘I seed ’is picture in the paper again,’ said Maycock. ‘Mr Feltham is never slow to get ’imself on the front page, is ’e?’
‘It was he who summoned Inspector Colbeck. The town needs to know about that. They ought to appreciate what Mr Feltham does for Wimborne.’
‘Oh, ’e’s appreciated, Dick. It’s just that nobody likes ’im.’
‘That’s not true. He’ll be the next mayor.’
‘Only if Mr Preece drops down dead, and that’s unlikely. Last time I seed ’im, ’e looked as fit as a flea.’
‘Godfrey Preece doesn’t have Mr Feltham’s initiative.’
‘Maybe not but ’e ’as a lot more friends round ’ere.’
‘Wait till this murder is solved. Who’ll get the credit?’
‘Well, it won’t be me.’
‘It will be Mr Feltham. He’ll get the recognition he deserves.’
Maycock grinned slyly. ‘Oh, I think that folk already recognise ’im for what ’e is, Dick.’
‘He has big ambitions for Wimborne.’
‘I like it the way it is.’ He leant in close. ‘Do you miss ’im?’
‘Who are you talking about?’
‘John Bedloe.’
‘Yes, I miss him all right,’ said Satchwell with feeling. ‘Turning up for work is a real pleasure now. I don’t have to put up with his sneers and his bullying. Losing him is the best thing that could have happened to me.’
‘Don’t say that too loud,’ cautioned Maycock.
‘Why not?’
‘Anyone’d think that ye’d killed ’im.’
The return journey to Wimborne went without mishap. Leeming reached the town in half the time it had taken him to get to Manor Farm. On the way back, he had the chance to review his conversation with Simon Copsey. The old shepherd’s claim that he’d come to West Moors in search of a woman seemed improbable. To begin with, there’d be very little choice of female companionship for a man of Copsey’s age. According to Colbeck, who’d visited houses in the area, they were scattered in little clusters. In a community as small as that, people tended to know each other’s business. There’d be severely limited opportunities for a secret rendezvous. More to the point, what woman would look twice at someone as poor, crude, unsightly and unwholesome as the shepherd? He was no John Bedloe. Copsey would surely have to pay for his pleasures.
Having taken the trap back to its owner, Leeming went in search of Richard Satchwell’s house. He’d taken the precaution of making a note of the address when he first met him. It was important to go there when Satchwell was at work and unable to shield his wife from questions about his movements. When he called at the house and explained who he was, Leeming got the expected response. Amy Satchwell was disturbed.
‘Why do you want to speak to me?’ she asked.
‘Actually,’ said Leeming, telling a white lie, ‘I was hoping to catch your husband. Since he’s not here, I wonder if you could help me, Mrs Satchwell?’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose so …’ She opened the door wide. ‘Do come in.’
Doffing his hat, the sergeant entered a living room that was remarkably like his own back in London. Small, low-ceilinged and compact, it had the same cosiness and the same amiable clutter. The railway policeman’s wife, however, bore no resemblance at all to his own. Where Estelle was confident and forthright, Amy Satchwell was tense and apprehensive. Her hands were clutched tightly together. She was a short, slim, dark-haired woman wearing an apron over her dress. Had she not been so nervous, she would have been attractive. As it was, her face was scrunched up and her eyes fearful.
‘What do you want to ask me?’ she said.
‘I’d like you to tell me what happened on Saturday night, Mrs Satchwell.’
‘Richard has already told you, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes, but I’d like your version of events.’
‘I can’t tell you anything, Sergeant.’
‘Why not?’
‘I slept through it,’ she told him. ‘I’m so used to having a husband who climbs out of bed at all hours that it no longer wakes me up. All I know is that Richard got up in the night because someone was banging on the door.’
‘What time would that be?’
‘I couldn’t say for sure.’
‘But he must have told you afterwards.’
‘It was very early in the morning, Sergeant. That’s all I know.’
Leeming studied her for a moment. Her distress was out of all proportion to the situation. All that he wanted was confirmation of her husband’s testimony. Amy was behaving as if she were under suspicion.
‘Does your husband like working as a railway policeman?’ he asked.
‘He used to.’
‘What about now?’
‘Richard never talks about his work,’ she said. ‘When he comes home, he likes to forget all about it. Not that he’s here all that often, mind,’ she confided. ‘He usually has things to do in his spare time.’
‘Some of them involve Mr Feltham, I understand.’
There was a considered pause. ‘Yes, they do sometimes.’
‘Is he employed by the gentleman?’
‘I told you. He never discusses his work with me.’
‘That’s odd,’ he said. ‘I always tell my wife what I’ve been up to at work. If I’ve been dealing with something gruesome, of course, she doesn’t want to hear the gory details. I won’t tell her everything about this case, for instance. Estelle will guess that there are nasty aspects to it and that’s enough for her.’ He could see that her teeth were gritted and that her knuckles had turned white. ‘Since he was a colleague of your husband’s, you obviously knew the victim.’
‘I knew of him,’ she said.
‘Did he ever come here?’
‘No, he didn’t. Richard wouldn’t have him in the house.’
‘But you must have bumped into him at some point.’
‘I’d been warned to keep away from him.’
‘Did you know anything about Mr Bedloe?’
‘My husband didn’t like him, that’s all.’
‘He must have told you why.’
‘Well, he didn’t,’ she replied with sudden firmness.
‘Thank you for your help, Mrs Satchwell,’ he said, backing away. ‘I’m sorry to burst in on you like this. I’ll catch your husband another time.’ After moving to the door, he turned to face her again. ‘My wife’s biggest complaint is that I work long hours. I suppose that you could make the same one. Unfortunately, crime takes place twenty-four hours a day. If you’re involved in law enforcement – like me and your husband – you have to work through the night sometimes. Estelle hates that. I daresay that you do as well.’
‘I’m here for Richard whenever he wants me,’ she said, loyally.
Stepping out of the front door, he put on his hat and walked away.
Rebecca Tullidge had only confronted her husband once before. It had been in the early years of their marriage and she’d soon regretted it. Once roused, he became foul-mouthed and intimidating. It had frightened her so much that she vowed she’d never do it again but the visit of Margaret Vout had made her question that resolve. On the night of the murder, Tullidge had departed from a routine that he’d kept religiously for years. There was an unexplained gap of an hour or so between his leaving the Waggon and Horses and returning to the lodge. Where had he been and what had he been doing?
The questions yapped at her like angry dogs until she was eventually forced to ask them. Knowing the timetable, she’d waited until there was a substantial gap between two trains. Rebecca didn’t want their conversation to be interrupted by a dash to the crossing gates. Over a cup of tea, she raised the subject.
‘Maggie Vout called earlier.’
‘I know. I saw her.’
‘She told me something interesting.’
‘Oh?’
‘It was about Saturday night, Michael.’
‘What about it?’
‘She said that you left the pub much earlier than usual.’
He stiffened. ‘Telling tales on me, is she?’
‘Is she right?’
‘Maggie makes things up. Don’t listen to her.’
‘But she sounded so certain of it. And she’s not the only one. Elias Rawles and Hugh Delafield were there as usual. You played cards with them. After you’d gone, they were annoyed you’d sneaked off so early.’
‘I didn’t sneak off,’ he asserted, voice rising in volume.
‘So what did you do?’
‘Shut up!’
‘I’d just like to know, Michael.’
‘What difference does it make to you?’
‘You’re my husband.’
‘I can do what I like when I like it,’ he roared, rising from the table.
‘Of course you can,’ she said, trying to appease him. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. What time you get back home is your business. Forget that I asked.’
For a moment, he towered over her and she was afraid that he was about to hit her. Instead, he swung on his heel, left the room and slammed the door after him.
Rebecca was even more troubled now. Her polite enquiry had turned a cold and cheerless husband into a dangerous one.
It was late afternoon when Colbeck and Leeming finally had the opportunity to sit down in the inspector’s hotel room and look back over their day. It had been full and productive. The inspector talked about his meditations on the cache of letters from the victim’s house and how Bedloe had clearly revelled in the power he had over the three women. He also held an important advantage over them.
‘He was able to keep their letters and read them at will,’ he said. ‘That was a luxury the women could never enjoy. If he wrote to them – and one suspects that he must have at some point – they’d have had to destroy the missives. None of them would have dared to keep them under the mattress in case their husband found them.’
‘That’s not the only advantage he had, sir,’ observed Leeming. ‘From what you’ve told me, he was dallying with two of those women at the same time. That’s dreadful. He was not only betraying their husbands, he was betraying them as well. They had no idea that each other existed. It’s just as well.’
‘I incline to the view that one of them did learn the truth.’
‘Do you believe that she killed him?’
‘It’s something to consider.’
‘I believe that the murder was a man’s work. Someone like Bill Manders fits the bill for me but I wouldn’t forget Copsey or Satchwell.’
‘What motive would the shepherd possibly have?’
‘I don’t know,’ confessed Leeming. ‘But he was in the right place at the right time. And he wasn’t there to meet a woman, as he claimed, I’m sure of that. He stinks to high heaven. That would put anyone off.’
‘What about Satchwell?’
‘He does have a motive and could easily have followed Bedloe one night to see what he was up to. His wife is a heavy sleeper. She never knows if he’s lying beside her in bed or not.’
‘That can’t be conducive to harmony between them.’
‘She didn’t strike me as being a happy woman, sir.’
‘I trust your judgement on that score, Victor. Did you think that the visit to her was worthwhile?’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Leeming. ‘It proved to me that Satchwell could have slipped out of the house, lain in wait for Bedloe, killed him near the spot where he was expecting to meet someone, then gone straight back to his house. When someone banged on his door, he was in bed with his wife – and with an alibi.’
Colbeck sat back with his hands behind his head. ‘I fancy that the killer is either a woman or it’s Jack Elwell. Did he really work all night on a boat? I suppose he might have done – unless he had business in West Moors.’
‘How could he keep track of Bedloe’s movements?’
‘There’s one obvious way, isn’t there?’
‘He paid someone to follow him,’ said Leeming. ‘When he saw there was a pattern to Bedloe’s antics at night, he could have moved in to strike.’
‘He could have,’ said Colbeck, ‘but did he?’ His fingers counted them off again. ‘Elwell, Manders, Copsey, Satchwell or a mystery woman – not forgetting Michael Tullidge, of course. If we’re talking about being in the right place at the right time, we have to include him.’
‘That gives us six suspects.’
‘I’d rather have too many than too few, Victor.’
‘I prefer too few. There’s less travel involved.’
‘I thought you were enjoying your sojourn in Dorset. A little earlier, you were telling me what wonderful vistas you saw on your way to God’s Blessing Green.’
‘That was before the horse bolted.’ There was a firm knock on the door. ‘I hope that’s not Satchwell again, coming to tell us what a marvellous man Feltham is.’
‘Let’s find out,’ said Colbeck, getting to his feet and crossing to the door.
He opened it wide and then stood back in horror. Edward Tallis was standing there like a figure of doom. Leeming gurgled.
‘Good evening,’ said Tallis, stepping into the room and setting down his valise. ‘Since you can’t be bothered to send me a full report on this case, I decided to come here in person to find out the details.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Have you made an arrest yet?’
‘No, Superintendent,’ said Colbeck. ‘We were just discussing the suspects.’
‘Then I’ve come at the ideal time.’ He turned to Leeming. ‘Don’t goggle at me, man. I’m not a ghost.’
‘You were the last person we were expecting, sir,’ said the other.
‘Surprise gives you an advantage. It was one of the first things I learnt in the army. Strike when the enemy least expects you.’
‘Are the sergeant and I being depicted as enemies?’ asked Colbeck, drily.
Tallis smiled grimly. ‘That remains to be seen.’