The Devon Scot

By Eric Mills

John Gunn has found himself the perfect job, close to his home in South Devon. Having trained as a marine biologist, it’s a change of career, but it will allow him to set up home with Kate, his long-term girlfriend. But within weeks, it all starts going wrong.

Together with his boss Bill Hexter, he becomes embroiled in a macabre discovery on a local farm. It looks like a scoop. But with no explanation, Bill tells him to drop the story. Ever impetuous, John persists and is summarily fired. The following day, Bill is killed in suspicious circumstances.

Realising he must be the prime suspect, John tries to discover the truth behind Bill’s death, whilst staying out of reach of the law.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781035801831

Eric Mills

Eric Mills was born in Devon, but has lived in numerous locations in the UK and Europe. He spent his working life as a life scientist. This is his first work of fiction, though some ex-colleagues might suggest otherwise.

Book preview

1

4 July 1998

I hate being late—for anything. When meeting someone, I’m always conscious of the fact that, by being late, I’m wasting their time. Furthermore, I don’t like feeling rushed. And the best way to avoid this, I’ve found, is to aim to be early. So in such cases, perhaps having arranged to meet a friend for a beer, I’m usually a good way through my first pint when they arrive—or my second if they are a bit late.

On occasions such as now, when it comes to catching a train, I might even be early enough to catch the previous departure. So why, on this particular day and with such a long journey in prospect, should I have left myself so little time? I can’t blame slow clocks or watches. And I’m certainly not feeling too relaxed.

I’ve walked a couple of miles to the station, so I can’t blame late-running buses or heavy traffic either. Perhaps some subconscious reluctance to make the journey at all? But catching the 9.10 from Aberdeen this morning necessitates an unscheduled sprint across the station concourse with a fully loaded rucksack, making a beeline for the nearest carriage door, inwardly pleading with the guard—already unfurling his green flag and looking purposefully up and down the train—to delay blowing his whistle for a few more seconds.

‘OK, pal—just made it,’ he growls in a deep Glaswegian brogue as I heave myself plus rucksack up into the train. Signalling our departure with a shrill blast on his whistle and a cursory wave of his flag, he follows me into the carriage, slamming the door behind him.

With a rise in pitch of the twin diesel engines at the front and rear, the train eases its way out of Aberdeen station as I stumble through a couple of carriages, clambering over sundry items of luggage lying in the gangway. I eventually find my reserved seat, lift the rucksack up onto the luggage rack and lower myself into the corner next to the window.

It strikes me with some satisfaction that, even after running across the station concourse carrying a heavy bag, my breathing and pulse rate seem back to normal within seconds. Still pretty fit for someone embarking on his seventh decade. Fumbling in my jacket pocket, I find my reading glasses, retrieve The Scotsman from my rucksack and contemplate the impending long journey south.

In the seat opposite and apparently asleep already, a thin, rather wasted-looking young man is slumped against the window, his legs stretched out diagonally under the table, with a battered sports bag occupying the adjacent seat. A pair of black leads hang from his ears connecting small earpieces to a device hidden in the bag.

Even from a distance, I can perceive what sounds like the rhythmic battering of a sheet of corrugated tin and marvel at the ability of someone to tolerate, let alone sleep through such a cacophony. Possibly the legacy of an end-of-term party the night before. Sensing my arrival, the young man opens an eye and nods perceptibly, returning immediately to his state of apparent slumber.

As the train clears the station, imposing granite buildings stand out in the bright morning sunshine. On days like this, Aberdeen lives up to its designation of The Silver City. We cross the bridge over the River Dee and swing to the left, out towards the North Sea as the train gathers speed.

Squinting into the harsh reflection of the sun off the calm, glistening water, I can see the usual scattering of walkers taking their early morning constitutional along the pebbly shore, dogs rushing in and out of the shallow waves in pursuit of thrown sticks. We turn to the right through a cutting, the line now heading south as it begins its long meandering trajectory down Scotland’s east coast.

Unfolding the newspaper I begin leafing through the back pages, searching for some item of interest among the sports pages. The young man opposite remains inert and apparently oblivious to the occasional changes in the pattern of jarring noise emanating from his earphones. Half an hour into the journey, the train’s conductor announces that the buffet situated near the middle of the train has just opened for the sale of a range of beverages and rather unappealing-sounding comestibles.

The view to the west reveals a wooded rolling landscape leading away inland up the Dee valley towards the foothills of the distant Cairngorm Mountains. From now on, I will have a lot more opportunities to explore the Scottish Highlands. Perhaps even extend my meagre list of Munros. The decision to take early retirement at the end of the academic year in a couple of weeks’ time, three months after my sixtieth birthday, had been made considerably more attractive by the deal offered by the University.

Apart from this, having spent a whole working lifetime in academia, the prospect of trying something completely different—with luck, before senility sets in—seems rather appealing. More time spent outdoors would now be not only possible but positively desirable. Not to mention more time for reading and writing and even some type of voluntary work. All part of finding a new sense of purpose.

But first, this journey to the opposite corner of Britain has to be undertaken, to visit someone I’ve not seen for—it must be at least thirty-five years. And all the result of a mysterious email a few weeks earlier.

Hello, John. I hope you don’t mind me contacting you out of the blue like this—and apologies for the shock you’re probably feeling, hearing from me after all this time. I’d heard you’d ended up in the far north, though I wasn’t sure exactly where until I bumped into Peter the other day. The internet is quite a thing—I just hope there isn’t another John Gunn, a marine biologist in the UK!

I’m sure a lot of water must have flowed under the Avon bridge over the last 30 years or so, but it would be good to hear from you sometime. Perhaps even meet up again for a beer if you happen to venture back to God’s Own Country at any time?

Hope this missive finds you well.

Best wishes,

Kate

PS: I recently came across something that had been printed in the local paper that made me think of you. And if you can make it down sometime fairly soon, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.

PPS: Isn’t email amazing?

Well, that one certainly had been. I was sitting in my office a couple of weeks ago, trying to get all my research, teaching and admin documentation organised prior to retirement whilst sorting through and replying to the usual deluge of emails: announcements of future conferences, invitations to submit abstracts, reprint requests, plus the daily blitz of reminders of departmental meetings and seminars, internal memos announcing examiners’ meetings from course coordinators and the like. And then a message entitled Hello from Thomas_K151.

I’d been on the point of deleting it, assuming it was misdirected, but opened it out of curiosity. Then the identity of the sender hit me with a shock. She had certainly been right about that. The rest of the day had passed in a bit of a haze of speculation about what she had seen in the paper that had motivated her to make contact and what the implications—if any—might be.

That evening in the North Star—the bar that I occasionally call by on my way home from work—I’d thought about this whilst composing the draft of a reply that I would send the following day. Friendly, but non-committal was the intended tone. A couple of subsequent emails in a similar vein were exchanged before my curiosity got the better of me.

So now here I am, heading inexorably in a south-westerly direction towards that meeting—with mixed feelings, to say the least. I had tried to get Kate to provide some clues about the newspaper article, but she firmly resisted my enquiries, happy to let the mystery grow in my mind.

Following up on an email might seem a rather inadequate reason for making this marathon trip. But then, I remind myself, it’s been a good while since I last spent any time in Devon. It must be ten years since my father’s funeral; brief Christmas and summer visits to see my mother since then. I’m guessing she will be pleased—if a little surprised—to see me again and hear my latest bits of news. And a visit to see Pete, my oldest friend, is long overdue.

On occasion, teaching duties had meant that I had been obliged to go by plane, the flight to Plymouth taking just an hour or two. Now, without such time constraints, I can use my preferred mode of transport. Though whether I’ll be feeling the same way by the time I arrive remains to be seen.

In any case, today’s protracted journey will certainly give me plenty of time to reflect on that email and the sequence of events that took place all those years ago; the last time I spoke to Kate. And, of course, to avail myself of the delights of railway coffee.

I continue to speculate pointlessly on the something and someone referred to in Kate’s email as the train makes steady progress southwards through coastal towns and fishing villages. The lush green hills to my right, side-lit by the strong sun’s rays, stand out vividly against the dark blue-grey clouds starting to gather inland.

Following a halt at Dundee, we arrive at the vast expanse of the Firth of Tay, the sun reflecting off the roofs of vehicles crossing the road bridge a mile or so to the east as we make our way across the calm icy-looking blue water of the estuary. Looking down, the stumps of the original railway bridge bring to mind the infamous disaster resulting from its collapse one winter’s evening in the late nineteenth century. Sometime later, we cross over the even more impressive Forth Bridge, before pulling up in Edinburgh Waverley station with a jolt strong enough to wake the young man opposite me.

Peering out of the window, he leaps instantly to his feet, heaves his bag off the seat and hurries towards the carriage exit. The enviable ability of the young to switch from deep slumber to full gas in an instant. Once joining passengers have settled themselves down, I get up and make my way to the buffet car for a coffee and a sandwich.

Then, as we continue south through remote Border Country towards England, I reflect that I have spent virtually half my life in Aberdeen. And now I’m making the long journey back to the place that, in some ways, I still thought of as home. Perhaps my ageing mother—still living in her old house in Brent—has kept those ties alive?

I think back to the first time I made this trip, though in the opposite direction. It must have been September 1961. Back then, the 450-odd miles of steam traction had been a formidable undertaking, involving changing trains—possibly even stations—at least twice. Today, the Devon Scot will get me there without changing trains at all, but it will still take most of the day to reach my destination.

Finding little of interest in the paper, I push it back into my rucksack and remove instead a printout of the email. With it, I pull out the selection of old battered diaries that for some reason I’ve kept all these years. Perhaps because they go back to the time when Kate and I were together. And to the bizarre circumstances of our sudden separation.

But in any case, browsing through them will at least help to pass the time and perhaps jog some memories in preparation for whatever awaits my arrival. The first of the diaries is dated 1952. I would have been fourteen—the year that, rather self-consciously, I began jotting down random notes and reflections as puberty tightened its grip.

Some of those entries are frankly embarrassing to read now, but the one I’m looking for now was written nine years later. I open it about halfway through the year; the summer months. And my mind jumps back to another memorable train journey I’d taken one Friday afternoon. My original diary notes are appended from memory.

2

Friday, 21 July 1961

There had been no need to rush to catch the 11.35 from Kingsbridge. So I’d had plenty of time to reflect on the circumstances of my summary dismissal from the post of trainee journalist at the South Hams Echo. Even without the diary, the events of that day are still vivid in my mind in fine detail. It had been a hot, sultry day with some relief provided by a gentle southerly breeze that drifted occasional thin, white clouds up the estuary from the sea.

On any other day, the train ride home would have been a delight. From the South Devon market town, the line climbed gradually inland through cuttings and a short tunnel, reaching the course of the River Avon which it followed via a succession of villages and hamlets, eventually reaching my home village of South Brent, on the Exeter-Plymouth main line and in the shadows of the southern foothills of Dartmoor.

The tortuous route meandered through riverside woodland, crossing and re-crossing the river, traversing high embankments with views over the rounded, rich green Devon hills and up towards the dark outlines of the moor. It was known as the Primrose Line and was a journey that could lift the spirit.

But on that hot July morning, my state of mind was far from receptive to these aesthetic delights. I sat at the rear of one of the two faded maroon carriages as the train rocked and lurched along the single track of the branch line. On the seat beside me, my shoulder bag containing my personal effects; a couple of unused notebooks, pens etc and a sandwich that I’d made for lunch but for which I now had absolutely no appetite.

Through one window the telegraph wires rose and fell slowly against an idyllic backdrop of farmland whilst to the north, the purplish fringes of the moor were highlighted by the sun’s rays. From time to time, the locomotive would re-assert its presence with a shrill whistle or with a more strident exhaust note as it tackled another incline, subsiding again to a muffled hiss as the gradient eased.

Plumes of white smoke flurried across the carriage window, a sulphurous mixture of smoke, steam and oil wafting occasionally into the compartment through the open ventilator. A quarter of an hour or so into the journey, the train slowed as it crossed a river bridge and drifted past a pair of camping coaches into Gara Bridge station, the halfway point on the line. An elderly couple sat outside one of the coaches, basking in the sun’s warmth.

The train pulled up at the platform, setting off a minor burst of activity as mailbags, parcels and crates of perishables were loaded into the goods van at the front of the train, en route for London and points north. The familiar bulky figure of Sam, one of the branch line guards, came ambling along the platform, chatting amiably to the regulars through the open windows. Seeing me, he raised a quizzical eyebrow.

‘What’s this, John boy, knocking off early today?’

I nodded and gave a non-committal shrug, not willing to explain the reason for my early return home. Clearly not picking up on my gloomy demeanour, Sam posed another question, ‘Don’t see you so often these days since you got that motorbike.’

I explained briefly that it had broken down the previous day. He shook his head, suggesting I should make the most of having the afternoon off with such fine weather and lurched off with a guffaw along the platform. Several more minutes passed waiting for the southbound train to arrive on the opposite platform. The grimy black tank locomotive came to an abrupt standstill, its boiler humming gently outside the open window of my compartment.

A clatter from the signal box announced the setting of the points and signal and with an exchange of tokens between the signalman and engine driver and short blast of the whistle, our journey recommenced. Pulling out of the station, we passed the small signal cabin at the end of the platform, the signalman raising his arm in acknowledgement as we rumbled over the level crossing where a handful of animated young children in the first week of their summer holiday swung on the crossing gates, waving at the train as it set off again up the densely wooded valley.

Following a couple more brief stops, we eventually arrived at the main line junction via a sharp left-hand curve and, rattling over a series of points, pulled up on the bay platform of South Brent station. Virtually unaltered since it was built in the late nineteenth century, the low brick station buildings still retained their steeply pitched slate roofs, tall ornate chimney stacks and protective canopies reaching out above the edge of the platforms.

Large wooden boards announced the station’s name in its locally abbreviated form Brent, the faded and flaking brown and cream paint contrasting with the shock of colour from the interspersed flower beds and palm trees.

I remember stepping off the train out into the heat of the early afternoon sun as if from a reverie and with the feeling of bewilderment that had been building during the last few hours. I needed to think things through. To try and work out why, only a matter of weeks after joining the Echo, I was now effectively jobless.

So instead of heading off home, I wandered aimlessly up the platform as the other passengers stepped off the train, all with some sense of purpose—a few to wait for the next train to Plymouth, others climbing up and across the enclosed wooden footbridge to make their way out of the station or to catch a connection on towards Exeter.

Meanwhile, back on the branch line platform, a couple of station porters interrupted their conversation and began sorting items from the parcels van. The fireman climbed down onto the platform, then lowered himself onto the track behind the diminutive tank engine and uncoupled it from the train. I stood watching as the engine moved a few yards along the platform to the water crane to fill the engine’s tanks prior to re-attaching itself to the other end of its train in preparation for the return trip down to Kingsbridge.

Nearby, another locomotive sat at the end of a string of goods vans, simmering gently in the sunshine between shunting duties while the driver supped tea from a white enamel can. I must have been sitting for several minutes watching this unremarkable scene play out, eventually roused from a numb daze by a series of sharp rings from the bell in the signal cabin.

This was followed by a thud as the signalman heaved on a lever, the movement transmitted via rattling cables below the platform edge to a signal at the western end of the platform. The signal clunked downwards, indicating the approach of a down train. A few minutes later, a plaintive whistle in the distance to