Murder on the Brighton Express (12 page)

Madeleine was embarrassed. ‘I don’t think I read it
that
well.’

‘Let
us
be the judge of that, my dear.’

Follis led them out of the church and swung the heavy oak door shut behind them. Sensing that Colbeck wanted to speak to the rector alone, Madeleine drifted away to examine the inscriptions on some of the tombstones. She was also grateful for some time alone to reflect on what had happened in church. Reading from the Bible had been both a trial and a pleasure. It had left her heart beating louder than ever.

Colbeck, meanwhile, was telling Follis about his visit to the county hospital. He described Bardwell’s reaction to the name of Matthew Shanklin. Follis shook his head.

‘I’ve never heard that name before,’ he said.

‘He worked as a manager for the LB&SCR,’ Colbeck told him. ‘He made an allegation of impropriety against Mr Bardwell.’

‘Well, he won’t have been the only one, Inspector.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve only seen the man in a hospital bed. Any of us would look rather pitiable in that state. Until last Friday,’ said Follis, ‘Horace Bardwell was a robust gentleman with a fondness for throwing his considerable weight around. Since he lives here in Brighton, his antics are often reported in the local newspaper.’

‘What sort of antics?’

‘He’s always complaining about the speed at which the town is growing – we have a population of almost 70,000 now – even though his railway is chiefly responsible for the growth. He’s always thrusting his opinions down everyone’s throat. To his credit,’ he pointed out, ‘Mr Bardwell has always been
a generous man. He’s given thousands of pounds to worthy causes. The problem is that he thinks his money also buys him influence.’

‘What allegations have been made against him?’

‘There are strong rumours of bribery and corruption – not that I’ve seen any proof of either myself. People claim that Mr Bardwell has some civic leaders in his pocket, and he certainly exerts power over the
Brighton Herald
. His articles appear in it so often that you’d think he was the editor. What I’m telling you, Inspector,’ he went on, ‘is that Horace Bardwell is a deeply unpopular man here.’

‘He and Giles Thornhill are birds of a feather, then.’

‘In one sense, yes,’ agreed Follis. ‘But they’re hardly kindred spirits. Mr Thornhill has lofty aspirations, grappling with national problems. He despises Mr Bardwell for dabbling in local politics.’

‘From what you say,’ remarked Colbeck, ‘he does more than dabble. As for the funeral card, you didn’t send me the envelope in which it came. From where was it sent, Mr Follis?’

‘It had a London post mark.’

‘I’ll keep the card, if you don’t mind.’

‘I can give you the envelope as well,’ said Follis. ‘The main thing is that Mr Bardwell doesn’t hear about it. More than one person in Brighton would approve of the sentiments in it but that card would upset him greatly when he’s feeling so weak and vulnerable.’

‘One last question,’ said Colbeck.

‘Ask as many as you wish, Inspector.’

‘Which man is the more unpopular here – Horace Bardwell or Giles Thornhill?’

‘There’s a simple answer to that.’

‘Is there?’

‘Yes,’ said Follis with a merry chortle. ‘The most hated man in this whole county is, without a shadow of doubt, Mr Thornhill.’

Tempted by the warm weather, Giles Thornhill sat at a table on the terrace and dictated letters to his secretary, a tall, angular man in his thirties. Though Parliament was in recess, there was much for the politician to do as he sought support for various Bills that were in the offing or looked for opportunities to attack the coalition government in power at the time. His final letter was destined for the
Sussex Express,
a newspaper that was used to printing his trenchant views. When his secretary had finished penning it, he exchanged a few pleasantries with his employer before taking his leave.

Thornhill was left alone to bask in the sun and wonder how long it would take his broken arm to heal. The inconvenience of being unable to use it was frustrating and the nagging pain never went away. It was not long before the gentle breeze stiffened and made the flowers dance. Leaves began to rustle in the wind and the weathervane on the roof of the gazebo twisted to and fro. Thornhill decided that it was time to go indoors.

He stood up and turned sideways just in time. At that very moment, a shot rang out and a bullet whistled past, missing him by inches before hitting the window behind him and shattering the glass.

Disguise was a weapon that Colbeck had used many times and he had taught Victor Leeming its value. Accordingly, the sergeant kept a couple of changes of clothing at his office in case they were needed. Off went his frock coat, smart trousers, waistcoat, shirt, cravat and shoes and on went a crumpled shirt, a smelly old coat frayed at the edges, a pair of baggy trousers and two boots in urgent need of repair. When he replaced his top hat with a ragged cap, Leeming looked like a costermonger down on his luck. After checking his appearance in a mirror, he felt ready to venture out.

Since few cab drivers would stop for someone so blatantly down-to-heel, Leeming made his way to Chalk Farm by means of a horse-drawn omnibus, collecting disdainful looks and murmured complaints from the other passengers. Josie Murlow’s hovel was at the end of a cul-de-sac. As he walked along the pavement towards it, he kept his head down and cultivated a lumbering walk. Choosing a spot from which he could keep the house under observation, he pretended to read the newspaper he had brought with him.

Leeming was unhappy. Apart from the danger of meeting Josie Murlow again, he feared that his vigil would be pointless.
Dick Chiffney might already have come and gone to the house or sent an intermediary on his behalf. Its formidable owner might not even be there. He was certainly not minded to find out. All in all, it promised to be a long, tiring, uneventful and futile assignment.

It did, however, give him time to brood once more on what he should buy his wife as a birthday present. A garnet necklace was beyond the reach of his wallet and, since Josie Murlow sported such an item of jewellery, he would not even consider it. A small silver brooch was a possibility or even a ring of some kind. What his wife had talked about needing most was a new dress but that was something he could only buy with Estelle’s cooperation, and he wanted to enjoy the pleasure of watching her face as she opened a gift that came as a total surprise.

Thoughts of his wife inevitably led to a comparison with the woman whose house he was keeping an eye on. Estelle Leeming was everything that Josie Murlow was not. She was short, dark-haired, slight of build and, even though she had given birth to two children, she had retained something of the youthful bloom that had first won Leeming’s heart. Most of all, she was thoroughly wholesome. The same could not be said of the raddled denizen of the nearby hovel, a gross woman whose occupation had reduced her to a waddling mound of flesh and exposed her to the constant threat of assault and hideous diseases.

An hour soon passed and he shifted his position to stretch his legs and to avoid the disapproving glare of the man outside whose house he was standing. Crossing to the other side of the road, he opened his newspaper once more and stared unseeingly at one of the inside pages. There was a
consolation. Because he was in a cul-de-sac, people could only come from one direction. Leeming could not miss anyone who went to Josie Murlow’s house. As another half an hour slid past, he moved back across the road and took up a different stance, trying to recall when he had last wasted so much time maintaining such an unproductive surveillance. Colbeck might make few mistakes but Leeming felt that he was the victim of one of them now. He gave a first yawn of disillusion. He wanted to go home.

His disaffection was premature. Moments later, a figure came into the street and walked furtively towards him. The man was thickset, shambling and wearing the kind of threadbare suit that could never belong to anyone who lived in one of the neat and respectable villas. Since the stranger’s cap was pulled down over his forehead, Leeming could not see much of the unshaven face but the man passed close enough for him to smell the beer on his breath.

Reaching the hovel, the newcomer was circumspect. He looked around to make sure that he was not seen then he banged on the door. Hidden behind his newspaper, Leeming peered around the edge and saw the door open. Josie Murlow was there, after all. From the effusive welcome she gave the man, she knew him well. Leeming felt a thrill of discovery. He might have found Dick Chiffney.

On the train to London, Colbeck and Madeleine Andrews had a compartment to themselves, allowing them to talk freely for the first time since they had left Camden.

‘I hope that your father will not disapprove,’ he said.

‘Of course not,’ she replied. ‘Father trusts you as much as I do, Robert. He knows that we have an understanding and is
quite happy for us to spend time alone together.’

‘That’s not what I meant, Madeleine. He’s such a dedicated servant of the LNWR that he might object to his daughter being taken off on a line owned by another company.’

She laughed. ‘He’s not that prejudiced,’ she said. ‘Besides, he’ll willingly accept anything that helps you to catch the man who killed Frank Pike and the others. Do you think you’re any closer to doing that after today?’

‘I hope so.’

‘That was the purpose of the visit to Brighton, wasn’t it? You wanted to speak to two of the survivors of the crash and that’s exactly what you did. What you still haven’t explained is why you took me with you.’

He kissed her. ‘Do you
need
an explanation?’

‘I’m serious, Robert. All that I seemed to do was to keep you company on the journey there, get a glimpse of the Royal Pavilion, take tea in the rectory, look around a church and be more or less forced to read a passage from the Bible.’

‘That’s why I took you, Madeleine.’

‘I’m still none the wiser.’

‘I wanted you to meet the Reverend Follis,’ he said. ‘He’s such a curious fellow. I thought he might interest you.’

‘He did. I found him very interesting. He’s pleasant, attentive and highly intelligent. And he made me feel so welcome.’

‘It’s precisely why I left you alone with him. I wanted a woman’s opinion of the rector. To some extent, of course,’ he continued, ‘I got that from Amy Walcott. She obviously adores him and was upset when we tore him away from her.’

‘Did you see the flowers in the church?’ she asked. ‘It must have taken her hours to pick and arrange them like that.’

‘She’s only one doting female at his behest. Mrs Ashmore, his housekeeper, is another, as you must have noticed when she served tea. She mollycoddles him.’

‘Well, that’s not what
I
did, Robert,’ she said, laughing.

‘What happened while I was away?’

‘We just talked. When the housekeeper came back from the market, she made us some tea and served scones. Then Mr Follis tried to probe me about our friendship.’

‘I thought he might.’

‘He was fascinated to hear how we met,’ she recalled, ‘and amused to discover that Father is an engine driver. The rector has an almost childish love of trains.’

‘I don’t condemn anyone for that,’ said Colbeck, grinning.

‘After tea, he asked me if I’d like to see the church. He was showing me around when he suddenly asked me to read something.’

‘Were you given freedom of choice?’

‘No, Robert,’ she replied. ‘He chose the passage for me. If it had been left to me, I’d have refused politely but I felt obliged to him. He’d been so friendly and courteous.’

‘Considering that you’d never been allowed to read in church before, you did extremely well.’

‘I was very nervous.’

‘It didn’t show, Madeleine.’

‘The odd thing was that Mr Follis knew exactly what he wanted me to read. It was almost as if he had made up his mind about it before we even went into the church.’ She gave a shrug. ‘Why do you think he picked that passage?’

Colbeck smiled. ‘I have a theory about that.’

Leeming was in a quandary. There was enough evidence
to suggest that Dick Chiffney might have been involved in causing the train crash and it was important to question him. Since the man could well be inside the house, Leeming’s first instinct was to knock on the door and apprehend him. He was not afraid of any resistance from Chiffney. Leeming was strong, fit and fearless, very accustomed to overpowering criminals. What made him hesitate was the presence of Josie Murlow. If she became violent – and he was certain that she would – then the arrest would be more difficult. It would also entail restraining, if not actually punching, a woman and that troubled him.

He agonised for a long time over what he should do. In the event, the decision was made for him because the door of the hovel opened and the man came out. After wiping a hand across his mouth, he came back up the street. Lowering the paper, Leeming folded it up and stuffed it into his pocket. He then took a good look at the approaching figure. The fellow was certainly big and brawny enough to be Josie Murlow’s lover and he was around the same age as her. He had also been shown great affection on his arrival. It had to be Chiffney. He and his woman had been reconciled.

Careful not to forewarn the man, Leeming turned on his heel and lumbered off, moving slowly so that he would soon be overtaken. The moment that the man went past him, the sergeant pounced. He grabbed him by the shoulders, spun him round then held him by the lapels of his jacket.

‘What are you doing!’ protested the man.

‘Dick Chiffney?’

‘Let go of me!’

‘Are you Dick Chiffney?’ demanded Leeming.

‘No, I’m not,’ said the other, struggling to get away.

‘What’s your name?

‘That’s my business.’

‘I’m a member of the Metropolitan Police and I just saw you going into Josie Murlow’s house.’

‘No harm in that, is there?’

‘That depends on who you are.’

‘If you must know,’ said the man, exhaling beer fumes into Leeming’s face, ‘my name is Luke Watts and that’s the truth. You can ask anyone – ask Josie, if you like.’

Leeming released him. ‘Then you’re not Dick Chiffney?’

Watts was offended. ‘Do I
look
like him?’ he said. ‘Dick is the ugliest bugger in London. Don’t you dare take me for that cross-eyed son of a sow. It’s a bleeding insult, that’s what it is.’

‘I seem to have made a mistake, Mr Watts.’

‘Yes – a bad mistake.’

‘But if you’re not Chiffney,’ said Leeming with a glance at the hovel, ‘what were you doing in Josie Murlow’s house?’

The man smirked. ‘What do you think?’

Edward Tallis had never been hampered by indecision. When action was needed, he took it instantly. Hiring a cab outside Scotland Yard, he was driven to the offices of the LB&SCR. He was immediately shown into the room occupied by Harvey Ridgeon. The captain was nonplussed to see him storming through the door.

‘What brings you here, Superintendent?’ he asked.

‘This,’ replied Tallis, tossing a copy of the evening newspaper on to the desk. ‘It’s the early edition – have you read it?’

‘I can’t say that I have.’

‘It contains defamatory statements made by you about my officers. Worse than that, it brings a covert investigation into the full glare of publicity and thereby weakens its effectiveness.’

‘It was ineffective enough already.’

‘I demand an apology.’

‘You’ll get nothing at all if you try to hector me,’ said Ridgeon, coolly. ‘Why don’t you sit down and give me a chance to see what it is that I’m supposed to have done?’

Choking back another accusation, Tallis removed his top hat and sat down opposite the desk. Ridgeon, meanwhile, opened the newspaper and saw the headline that had upset the Superintendent. Police Chase Phantom Killer. Highly critical of Tallis and Colbeck, the article contended that the train crash was the result of an accident caused by the driver of the Brighton Express. Ridgeon was quoted a number of times.

‘You pour scorn on hard-working detectives,’ complained Tallis.

‘Not in the way that I’m quoted here,’ said Ridgeon. ‘I give you my word that I didn’t actually say some of these things.’

‘You spoke to the press, Captain Ridgeon, and that was fatal. They always twist what you tell them. If you’ll forgive my language,’ said Tallis, ‘a man in your position should know that a newspaper reporter is a man who swallows nails and shits screws. This unprincipled scribbler didn’t even have the courtesy to speak to me.’

‘That’s not true, Superintendent. According to him, he came to Scotland Yard as soon he heard about the crash and asked if the police were taking an interest in it. You told him that you were not.’

‘It was an honest answer.’

‘Yet you’d already dispatched Inspector Colbeck to the scene.’

‘I authorised him to go in the light of a request from the railway company. At that time,’ said Tallis, ‘there was no indication of any criminal activity in relation to the crash. Strictly speaking, therefore, I had not set an investigation in motion. When I did so, I hoped that it could operate without the so-called gentlemen of the press looking over our shoulders. Thanks to that libellous article,’ he went on, pointing to the newspaper, ‘the whole world now knows about it.’

‘Then they can judge for themselves whether or not a police investigation is appropriate.’

‘No, they can’t, Captain. People can only make a considered judgement if both sides of a case are presented to them. Only one is offered in that article –
yours
. You have no idea how much evidence Inspector Colbeck has gathered.’

‘I must correct you there, Superintendent.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The Inspector was good enough to reveal it to me.’

Tallis frowned. ‘When was this?’

‘Earlier today,’ said Ridgeon.

‘Colbeck made no mention of any visit to you. It was certainly not something I’d have endorsed. I felt that we’d said everything that needed to be said between us in my office.’

‘The Inspector took a less inflexible view of the situation than you, Superintendent. He had the sense to see that my work might complement his own. We had a long discussion.’

‘Really?’ said Tallis, infuriated at being wrong-footed.

‘I admired him for his candour and heard what he had to say. His argument was very cogent. Unfortunately,’ said Ridgeon, ‘it was fundamentally flawed.’

‘Those are the very words quoted in that article.’