The Museum of Literary Souls

CHAPTER THREE

The police did much the same as Mr. Berger had done, only with greater numbers and at greater expense in man-hours and overtime payments. They searched the bushes and the track, and enquiries were made in Glossom in case any female residents had gone missing. The driver of the train was contacted, and the train was kept on the platform at Plymouth for an hour while its engine and carriages were examined for any sign of human remains.

Finally, Mr. Berger, who had remained seated on his stile throughout, was interviewed for a second time by the inspector from Moreham. His name was Carswell, and his manner when he confronted Mr. Berger was colder than it had originally been. A light rain had begun to fall shortly after the search for a body had commenced, and Carswell and his men were now damp and weary. Mr. Berger was also wet and found that he had developed a slight but constant shiver. He suspected that he might be in shock. He had never witnessed the death of another person before. It had affected him deeply.

Now Inspector Carswell stood before him, his hat jammed on his head, and his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his coat. His men were packing up, and a pair of dogs that had been brought in to help with the search were being led back to the van in which they had arrived. The townspeople who had gathered to watch were also drifting away, but not without final curious glances at the figure of Mr. Berger.

“Let’s go through it again, shall we?” said Carswell, and Mr. Berger told his story one last time. The details remained the same. He was certain of what he had witnessed.

“I have to tell you,” said Carswell when Mr. Berger had finished speaking, “that the driver of the train saw nothing and was unaware of any impact. As you can imagine, he was quite shocked to hear that a woman had been reported as throwing herself under his wheels. He aided in the examination of the train himself. It turns out that he has some unfortunate experience of such matters. Before he was promoted to driver, he was a fireman on an engine that struck a man near Coleford Junction. He told us that the driver saw the man on the rails but couldn’t brake in time. The engine made a terrible mess of the poor fellow, he said. There was no mistaking what had happened. He seems to think that if he had somehow hit a woman without knowing, we’d have no trouble finding her remains.”

Carswell lit a cigarette. He offered one to Mr. Berger, who declined. He preferred his pipe, even though it had long since gone out.

“Do you live alone, sir?” asked Carswell.

“Yes, I do.”

“From what I understand, you moved to Glossom fairly recently.”

“That’s correct. My mother died, and she left me her cottage.”

“And you say that you’re a writer?”

“Trying to be a writer. I’ve started to wonder if I’m really destined to be any good at it, to be honest.”

“Solitary business, writing, or so I would imagine.”

“It does tend to be, yes.”

“You’re not married?”

“No.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No,” said Mr. Berger, then he added, “not at the moment.”

He didn’t want Inspector Carswell to think that there might be anything odd or unsavory about his bachelor existence.

“Ah.”

Carswell drew deeply on his cigarette.

“Do you miss her?”

“Miss who?”

“Your mother.”

Mr. Berger considered it an odd question to ask but answered nonetheless.

“Of course,” he said. “I would visit her when I could, and we spoke on the telephone once a week.”

Carswell nodded, as if this explained a lot.

“Must be strange, coming to a new town and living in the house in which your mother died. She passed away at home, didn’t she?”

Mr. Berger thought that Inspector Carswell seemed to know a lot about his mother. Clearly he had not just been asking about a missing woman during his time in Glossom.

“Yes, she did,” he replied. “Forgive me, Inspector, but what has this got to do with the death of this young woman?”

Carswell took the cigarette from his mouth and examined the burning tip, as though some answer might be found in the ash.

“I’m beginning to wonder if you might not have been mistaken in what you saw,” he said.

“Mistaken? How can one be mistaken about a suicide?”

“There is no body, sir. There’s no blood, no clothing, nothing. We haven’t even been able to find the red bag that you mentioned. There’s no sign that anything untoward happened on the track at all. So…”

Carswell took one last drag on his cigarette, then dropped it on the dirt and ground it out forcefully with the heel of his shoe.

“Let’s just say that you were mistaken and leave it at that, shall we? Perhaps you might like to find some other way to occupy your evenings now that winter is setting in. Join the bridge club, or take up singing in the choir. You might even find a young lady to walk out with. What I’m saying is you’ve had a traumatic time of it, and it would be good for you not to spend so much time alone. That way you’ll avoid making mistakes of this nature again. You do understand me, don’t you, sir?”

The implication was clear. Being mistaken was not a crime, but wasting police time was. Mr. Berger climbed down from the stile.

“I know what I saw, Inspector,” he said, but it was all that he could do to keep the doubt from creeping into his voice, and his mind was troubled as he took the path back to his little cottage.