‘Oh, yes,’ said Leeming, standing beside him. ‘The prints are deeper here where the horse dug in its hooves as it heaved.’
‘This must have been done at night. When I went past here yesterday evening, the cross was upright. I remember seeing it.’
‘At least it wasn’t broken in the fall.’
‘No,’ said Colbeck, ‘but it’s already attracting far too much attention. I don’t want the Tarleton family to see this. Let’s put it back where it belongs.’
Removing his hat and coat, he handed them to a bystander and Leeming did the same. When he saw what they planned to do, a burly farmer offered his help, taking off his hat and coat before giving them to his wife. Getting the cross upright was relatively easy. Lifting it back onto the plinth, however, took a little more time and effort. They were fortunate. There had been a clean break so, once they’d managed to lift it between them, it was only a question of manoeuvring it back into position. It tapered outwards at the base and slotted securely back into its original position. After thanking the farmer, Colbeck used a handkerchief to wipe his hands.
‘It needs to be secured with mortar,’ he said. ‘Now that it’s back up again, I don’t think anybody would be stupid enough to try to push it over.’ He collected his coat and hat. ‘Thank you to everybody. Could you please move away now or people will wonder what’s going on?’
The small crowd drifted away, one of the women still claiming that it was an act of God. Leeming heard her.
‘Well, I wish that an act of God had put it back again,’ he said, pulling on his coat. ‘That thing was heavy.’
‘We all have our cross to bear,’ said Colbeck, dryly, ‘and I’m not referring to the superintendent.’
He was about to turn towards the church when he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye. An unkempt youth was sitting on a low tombstone, playing with toy soldiers. Since he was wearing rough clothing and a crumpled cap, he was patently not a churchgoer. What interested Colbeck was that he was showing such intense concentration, moving the metal soldiers about with slow deliberation. The detectives walked across to him and had a surprise. What they had mistaken as soldiers were spent shotgun cartridges.
‘Good morning,’ said Colbeck, amiably.
The youth looked up at him. ‘Mornin’, sir.’
‘Do you always play in the churchyard?’
‘No room in ’ouse.’
There was no need to ask his name. As soon as they saw his face with its large, vacant eyes and narrow forehead, they knew that it was the railway policeman’s son.
‘You must be Sam Hepworth,’ said Colbeck.
‘Aye, sir.’
‘How old are you, Sam?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘That’s a bit old to be playing with soldiers,’ said Leeming.
‘I like ’em, sir.’
‘Where did you get the cartridges from?’
‘Shootin’ parties, sir. I carry guns.’
‘You’ve got quite a collection here.’
‘There’s more at ’ome, sir. Our Dad says there’s too many.’
‘That would be Sergeant Hepworth, then.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Colbeck felt sorry for the boy and not only because he was saddled with a father who’d browbeat him unmercifully. Sam obviously had some disabilities. His speech was slurred, his movements slow and his eyes seemed to wander ungovernably. Yet, at the same time, he was a direct link with a man about whom they had suspicions. Unlike his father, Sam Hepworth had an open face and a complete lack of guile. There was a benign simplicity about him.
‘Are you going to church, Sam?’ asked Colbeck.
‘No, sir. Our Dad don’t like rector.’
‘Oh, I see. Is there any reason?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Well – what is it?’
‘Rector’s too bossy, like.’
‘I noticed that,’ said Leeming. ‘And your father didn’t think highly of Colonel Tarleton either, did he?’
‘No, sir,’ replied Sam.
‘Why was that?’
‘Same reason.’
‘You mean that he was too bossy?’
‘Aye, sir.’
Sam’s attention went back to the private battle he was fighting and he moved various members of his two armies. They watched him for a while then turned to go. Sam’s voice piped up.
‘Sent letters, like.’
Colbeck swung round. ‘What was that?’
‘Our Dad sent letters, sir.’
‘Letters?’
‘Aye, to colonel.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Leeming, moving to kneel beside him. ‘Is that what your father told you?’
‘No, sir, it were our Ginny.’
‘She’s your sister, isn’t she?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘What did she tell you, Sam?’
‘Ginny took letters there.’
‘Where?’
‘To big ’ouse, sir – it’s where colonel lived.’
‘Do you know what was in the letters?’ asked Colbeck.
‘No, sir – can’t read.’
‘Why did your sister deliver the letters? Why didn’t your father take them himself?’
Sam needed time to separate the two questions in his mind. It required an effort. While he was waiting, he shifted a couple of the soldiers on the tombstone. At length, he supplied an answer.
‘Our Ginny knew way there,’ he said.
‘I know,’ said Colbeck. ‘She used to work at the house.’
‘No, sir – she knew secret way there.’
‘What time of the day did she take the letters, Sam?’
‘It were at night, sir.’
‘When it was dark?’ The youth nodded. ‘I think I understand. Your sister had to deliver the letters without being seen. Your father didn’t want the colonel to know who’d sent them.’
It was too much for Sam to comprehend. He looked bemused. Colbeck patted him on the shoulder and thanked him. Squatting on the tombstone, the youth returned to his soldiers and he was soon happily lost in the heat of battle. Leeming glanced back at him.
‘Do you think it’s true, sir?’ he asked.
‘I think it’s more than likely.’
‘Then the sergeant has been condemned by his own son.’
‘No, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘All that Sam has done is to point the way. Against his father’s word, the lad’s testimony is useless. He could barely string a few sentences together.’
‘What about those toy soldiers? They reminded me of the cartridges you found near the body of Mrs Tarleton. In other words,’ he continued with muted excitement, ‘the interfering Sergeant Hepworth may be more involved in this business than we suspected.’
‘Don’t rush to judgement. We need more than supposition.’
‘We need a miracle, sir. Otherwise, Mr Tallis will be coming to Yorkshire and the whole investigation will drag on for weeks. We need to pray for a miracle.’
‘We’ve already had one,’ said Colbeck, looking over his shoulder. ‘His name is Sam Hepworth.’
Lottie Pearl had always been an unwilling churchgoer. The services were too long, the church was too cold and the archaic language was like a foreign tongue to her. She was therefore disconcerted when forced to join the family party. In addition to her mother’s black dress, she wore a black hat borrowed from Mrs Withers and a pair of brown shoes covered in black polish. She also wore a black lace shawl. On such a fine morning, they all walked to church. Eve and Lawrence Doel led the way with Adam Tarleton at their side. Lottie and the housekeeper walked ten paces behind them.
‘Why do I have to go?’ asked the girl, mutinously.
‘Because you do,’ said Mrs Withers with unanswerable finality.
‘I don’t like church.’
‘Your likes and dislikes don’t come into it.’
‘Everyone will stare at me.’
‘Nobody will even know you’re there. People will come to pay their respects. The family will get all the attention.’
‘Ah,’ said Lottie, spying some relief, ‘there is that.’
‘In the old days, all the servants would go to church. It was expected of us.’