Murder on the Brighton Express (16 page)

‘Thank goodness! I can at least start to write again.’

Flexing his right hand, he examined it. Still covered by scabs, it was no longer burning away under the bandaging. It was the left hand that was more badly damaged and it would be some time before he had free use of it again. Meanwhile, he could now catch up on the correspondence that he had had to postpone.

‘Will you be going to London this week?’ asked Mrs Ashmore.

‘I think not. I’ll have to change my routine for once. Until my hands and my head are better, I’ll stay here and enjoy the comforts of home.’

‘I’m glad to hear that.’

‘As for refreshment, Mrs Ashmore, I think that a long walk will be the best tonic for me somehow. Splendid fellows though they are, our churchwardens can lower the spirits at times – not that they must ever know that.’

‘You can always rely on me, Mr Follis.’

‘Your discretion is much appreciated.’

After thanking her with a smile, he took his leave and
stepped out of the rectory. It was a fine day and he wished that he could wear a hat to ward off the sun but the bandaging around his skull made that impossible. Though he had told his housekeeper that he was going on a long walk, he instead took a short stroll to a terrace not far from the church. Stopping outside the corner house, he rang the bell. The door was opened by a breathless Amy Walcott, who had seen him through the window of the drawing room and scampered to meet him.

‘Good morning, Amy,’ he said.

‘What a lovely surprise!’

‘The churchwardens and I have just been talking about you.’

Her expression changed. ‘There are no complaints about the way the flowers are arranged, are there?’ she said, apprehensively. ‘I take so much trouble over them and always check when it’s been someone else’s turn.’

‘The flowers have earned nothing but compliments,’ he told her. ‘In fact, Miss Andrews, whom you met yesterday, said that you had mastered the art of flower arranging.’

‘Did the young lady go into the church, then?’

‘I made sure that she did.’ He beamed at her. ‘It’s very nice standing out here on your doorstep, Amy, but I was hoping for a private word. May I come in?’

‘Of course, of course,’ she said, backing away.

They went into a drawing room that was cosy and inviting rather than elegant. It had a dated feel to it. Everything in it had been bought by Amy’s mother before she had followed her husband to the grave. The passion for flowers was reflected in the floral pattern on the wallpaper and the landscapes on the wall, replete with fields of bluebells, daffodils and other
flowers.

‘Your mother left her mark on this room, Amy,’ he observed.

‘I try to keep it exactly as Mother left it.’

‘That’s why I feel so comfortable in here.’ She indicated the sofa and he sat down. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’m sorry that I was in the way yesterday.’

‘Don’t talk such nonsense!’

‘Inspector Colbeck came to talk about the train crash.’

‘He gave me no warning of his arrival,’ said Follis. ‘Since he was there, I could hardly turn him away.’

‘Is Miss Andrews his…fiancée?’ she probed.

‘I fancy that she will be in time – they are very close.’

Amy was relieved to hear it. The fact that he had taken her into the church had set off a faint pang of jealousy. At the rectory, she had felt ousted by a much prettier young woman.

‘You have your own charms,’ he said, settling back, ‘and not even Miss Andrews could compete with you in some ways. Have you been reading Tennyson again?’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I know some of the smaller poems by heart.’

‘You’ve always been quick to learn, Amy.’

She almost blushed. ‘I’ve had a good teacher.’

‘Then let me hear how well I’ve taught you.’ He looked towards the door. ‘Are we alone in the house?’

‘The maid is in the kitchen. We’ll not be disturbed.’

‘Good.’

‘Shall I fetch the book, Mr Follis?’

‘Where is it?’

‘On the table beside my bed,’ she replied.

‘Let it stay there for a while, Amy,’ he said, using his right hand to stroke his chin. ‘Why don’t you recite the poems that you’ve learnt by heart? At this moment in time, I can’t think of anything in the world I’d rather hear.’

Amy Walcott glowed with delight.

Victor Leeming had hoped that he could slip back to Scotland Yard without being spotted by the superintendent but Edward Tallis had an uncanny knack of knowing which of his officers was on the premises at any given time. No sooner had Leeming crept into Colbeck’s office than the shadow of his superior fell across him. He quailed.

‘Do you have the inspector’s permission to come in here while he’s away?’ enquired Tallis.

‘Yes, Superintendent, I do.’

‘For what purpose, may I ask?’

‘He wanted me to compare some handwriting, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘I believe that he showed you the funeral card received at the hospital by Mr Bardwell.’

‘Yes – it was an appalling thing to send.’

‘Thank heaven Mr Bardwell didn’t actually know what it said. The Reverend Follis had the presence of mind to keep it from him and pass it on to us instead.’

‘Everything I learn about this clergyman is to his credit,’ said Tallis, warmly. ‘I should like to meet the fellow some time.’

‘I’d like to hear him preach in church. I fancy that he’d
deliver a lively sermon. Oh, that reminds me, sir,’ Leeming continued, seizing his opportunity. ‘I’d very much like to have next Sunday free, if it’s at all possible.’

‘That depends on the state of this investigation.’

‘Whatever its state, I need to be at home.’

‘Why – is there some kind of domestic emergency?’

‘We’re having an important family event.’

‘Dear God!’ cried Tallis with dismay, ‘are you telling me that your wife is about to give birth to
another
child? Learn to contain yourself, man,’ he said, reproachfully. ‘Control your animal urges. You were not put on this earth to people it indiscriminately.’

Leeming was embarrassed. ‘We’re not expecting an addition to the family, sir.’

‘I’m relieved to hear it.’

‘Estelle and I are happy with the two children we already have.’

‘My opinion remains unchanged,’ said Tallis. ‘Children are a grave distraction for any police officer.’

‘You were a child once, Superintendent.’

‘Don’t be impertinent.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘What exactly is this important family event?’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Leeming, not wishing to invite derision by explaining his request. ‘I’ll do whatever needs to be done to bring this investigation to a conclusion.’

‘That’s the attitude I expect of my men. You must have seen that vicious article in the newspaper yesterday,’ said Tallis, still smarting at the personal attack on him. ‘We need to vindicate our reputation and do so quickly. I rely on you and Colbeck to put the Inspector General of Railways in his
place.’

‘As it happens, I met Captain Ridgeon this morning.’

‘Oh – where was that?’

‘At the offices of the LNWR,’ said Leeming.

‘Did he say anything to you?’

‘Yes, sir – he was crowing over us.’

‘We must put a stop to that,’ said Tallis, vengefully. ‘What were you doing there, Sergeant?’

‘I’d hoped to speak to Mr Shanklin, sir. Inspector Colbeck had intended to do so but he was called away to Brighton. I went in his stead. For the second day running, Mr Shanklin was not there. But I managed to get what I went for,’ said Leeming, taking a letter from his pocket. ‘It’s a sample of his handwriting.’

‘Do you think that
he
might have sent that funeral card?’

‘Why don’t we find out, sir?’

Opening a drawer in the desk, Leeming took out the envelope containing the funeral card and put it side by side with the letter written by Matthew Shanklin. The looping calligraphy was almost identical. Tallis picked up both items and looked from one to the other in quick succession. He sounded a note of triumph.

‘We’ve got him!’

‘They do look very similar,’ said Leeming.

‘They should do, Sergeant – they’re the work of the same man.’ He took out the funeral card to compare it with the letter. ‘There’s no doubt about it. Matthew Shanklin sent this card.’

‘He may have done a lot more than that, sir.’

‘I’m sure that he did,’ said Tallis, grimly. ‘He caused that crash deliberately then sent that card to Mr Bardwell as a
taunt. He was gloating.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘We need a warrant for his arrest. You can go to his home this morning.’

‘That won’t be possible, Superintendent.’

‘Why not?’

‘I called there on my way back from his office,’ said Leeming. ‘His wife told me that her husband had gone out. That was very odd because his letter claims that he was too ill to go to work. Mr Shanklin is deceiving his employers.’

‘Find him, Sergeant,’ ordered Tallis. ‘Find him at once.’

The Brighton line was one on which Matthew Shanklin had travelled many times when he worked for the company but the present journey was different from the others. He was smouldering with residual anger at his dismissal from a post that he had expected to hold until his retirement. As the train puffed its way past the site of the crash, he was astonished to see how much of the debris had been cleared away. The scarred embankment still bore testimony to the disaster, as did the bushes flattened during the derailment but the place was no longer littered with mangled iron and shattered timber.

What did catch his eye were the wreaths that had been placed beside the line, marking the spot where lives had been lost. From the newspaper he had bought at the station, Shanklin had learnt that the death toll had now reached a dozen. His one regret was that a particular name was missing from the list. The train raced on to Brighton where it disgorged several passengers taking advantage of a glorious day to visit the seaside.

Surging out of the railway station, the crowd was oblivious to its arresting architecture. Shanklin, however, paused to look back at the magnificent classical façade, worthy of
an Italianate palace and a symmetrical tribute to the vital importance of the terminus. He had always admired stations that were both imposing and functional, soaring works of art that could yet be used daily by untold thousands of people. Brighton was a perfect example.

Cabs, omnibuses and the occasional carriage stood on the forecourt but Shanklin chose to walk. He was in no hurry. Having the day to himself, he could take his time and see some of the sights that had made Brighton so appealing. It was over an hour before he turned towards the county hospital. Shanklin was forced to wait. The person he wanted to see was being examined by a doctor. When the patient was left alone, Shanklin was thrilled to see how poorly he was. He leaned over the bed.

‘Do you remember
me
?’ he asked with a smirk.

Horace Bardwell began to quiver uncontrollably.

Colbeck had some difficulty in breaking free from the attentions of the over-helpful Sidney Weaver. The visit to the offices of the
Brighton Gazette
had, however, been very rewarding and its editor had been a mine of information. Among other things, he told Colbeck where to find the best gunsmith in the town. It was there that the detective took the bullet he had retrieved from the back of Thornhill’s settee. Having been given a professional opinion by the gunsmith, Colbeck decided to pay another call on someone else whose opinion he valued highly. The Reverend Ezra Follis was as cordial as ever.

‘This is becoming a habit, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Hardly a day passes when you don’t come to see me. This time, alas, you’ve not brought the charming Miss Andrews.’

‘Madeleine is working back home in London,’ said Colbeck.

‘Yes, she told me that she was an artist. I found it extraordinary that such a beautiful young woman should want to sketch steam locomotives.’ He raised a palm. ‘That’s not a criticism, I hasten to say. I applaud her talent. At least,’ he added with a laugh, ‘I would do if I were able to clap with both hands.’

They were in the rectory and it was only a matter of minutes before Mrs Ashmore appeared magically from the kitchen with a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits. Colbeck thanked her, realising for the first time that he had not eaten since having an early breakfast.

‘I’d like to think you came back to Brighton with the sole pleasure of seeing me,’ said Follis, wryly, ‘but I’m sure it was for a much more important reason.’

‘Someone tried to shoot Mr Thornhill,’ explained Colbeck.

‘Saints preserve us!’

‘It happened yesterday, Mr Follis.’

‘Was he hurt?’

‘Luckily, the bullet missed him.’

Colbeck told the rector what had happened and how he had found both the place from which the shot was fired and the bullet itself. Follis was shocked. While he was no friend of Giles Thornhill, he was distressed to hear of the attack and said that he would pray for the politician’s safety.

‘That explains why Mr Thornhill has withdrawn from a meeting he was due to address tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I thought it was because of his injuries. In view of the attempt on his life, I can appreciate the real reason why he’s not willing to
appear in public.’

‘If he won’t speak, the meeting will have to be cancelled.’

‘One can’t disappoint an audience, Inspector. The town hall is booked and tickets have been sold. Another speaker has been found at short notice. I could not recommend him more highly.’

‘Who is going to replace Mr Thornhill?’

Follis chortled. ‘As luck would have it – I am.’

‘What’s the title of your talk?’

‘The one already advertised – The Future of Brighton.’

‘I’ve heard rather a lot on that topic in the last couple of hours,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’ve been doing some research at the offices of the
Brighton Gazette
. The editor had much to say about the town’s future.’

‘How did you get on with Sidney Weaver?’

‘He was extremely helpful, though inclined to fuss over me like a mother hen. I’ve never seen anyone look so worried.’

‘Sidney is always afraid that the
Gazette
is not as good as it should be and that the next edition may be the last. He’s a slave to his anxiety. After successful years in charge of the newspaper, he still lacks confidence.’

‘His knowledge of the town’s history is amazing.’

‘Incomparable,’ said Follis. ‘I’ve urged him to write a book about it. And, as you discovered, he has opinions about the future of the town as well. If he were not so dreadfully nervous in public, Sidney might have been approached to deputise for Mr Thornhill tomorrow.’ He reached for a scone. ‘Did you tell him about the shooting?’

‘No,’ said Colbeck. ‘Neither Mr Thornhill nor I want it splashed across the newspaper. I only confided in you because I know that you’ll be discreet. Also,’ he went on, ‘you needed
to be told the truth before you can assist me.’

‘How can I help you this time, Inspector?’

‘I believe you wrote to the
Gazette
a couple of weeks ago.’

‘I’m always writing to newspapers,’ said Follis. ‘I’m a great believer in healthy debate. If there’s an issue that interests me, I make sure that I offer an opinion on it. That’s why I took on that speaking engagement tomorrow.’ He took a first bite of the scone. ‘Can you remind me about this particular letter?’

‘It was on the subject of immigration.’

‘Ah, yes – that dreadful speech by Mr Thornhill.’

‘You took strong exception to what he said.’

‘I was disgusted, Inspector,’ said Follis. ‘I was sorry that I was not actually at the meeting or I’d have stood up and denounced him. Did you see what he was preaching?’

‘He objects to foreigners settling in this country.’

‘It’s more specific than that. Though he spoke in general terms, his poisonous arguments had a very specific target. The foreigners he was attacking live right here in Brighton.’

‘The town is not noted for its immigrants.’

‘Mr Thornhill doesn’t work in numerical terms. The fact that we have any foreigners at all here is enough to arouse him, especially when they better themselves by dint of sheer hard work.’ He put his scone back on the plate. ‘Do you remember 1848?’

‘I remember it very well,’ said Colbeck. ‘Sergeant Leeming and I were in uniform at the time, deployed, along with the rest of the Metropolitan Police Force, to resist the threat of a Chartist uprising. Happily, that threat never materialised.’

‘It did elsewhere in Europe, Inspector. There were revolutions in France, Germany, Austria and elsewhere.
Countries were in turmoil, governments were overthrown and the streets ran with blood.’

‘I know, Mr Follis. Many people fled to this country for safety.’

‘Some of them came to Brighton and liked it so much that they settled here. These are frightened refugees whom we should welcome with open arms,’ said Follis with passion. ‘All that Mr Thornhill can do is to stir up hatred against them. He has two main arguments. The first is that they are simply not British – an accident of Fate over which they have no control – and the second is that they’ve prospered in their new country. Foreigners, he argues, are taking opportunities that rightly belong to people who were born here.’

‘Judging by the report, his speech was almost inflammatory.’

‘It arose from a twisted patriotism, Inspector, and more or less incited people to join in a witch hunt. The wonder is that it didn’t provoke our immigrant population to react.’

‘I suspect that it did,’ said Colbeck, taking the bullet from his pocket and holding it on his palm. ‘This was intended to kill Giles Thornhill. According to the gunsmith I consulted, it did not come from a British rifle. It was fired from a foreign weapon.’

The funeral was a sombre affair. It was at Kensal Green Cemetery that Frank Pike was laid to rest. Wearing mourning dress, Caleb Andrews held back tears as he watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. The wooden box contained the unrecognisable remains of a friend he had loved and respected for many years. The thought that he would never see him again was like a bonfire in his brain. Andrews was grateful
that Rose Pike was not there to see the last agonising minutes of her husband’s funeral.

Dressed in black like the others, Madeleine had stayed at the Pike household to make refreshments for those returning from the cemetery. She could see how deeply moved her father was. He was one of a number of railwaymen who had forfeited a day’s wages to pay their last respects to Pike. Now recovered, John Heddle was among them. All of them offered commiserations to the widow. What nobody did, Madeleine was relieved to see, was to refer to the newspaper article blaming the dead man for the train crash. To draw that to the attention of the widow would be like driving a stake through her heart.