Murder on the Brighton Express (17 page)

On the journey back home, neither Madeleine nor her father spoke a single word. The bruising experience of the funeral had left them feeling hurt and bereft. Madeleine had been uncomfortably reminded of the death of her own mother and of its destructive impact on the family. Years after the event, it remained fresh and unbearably painful. She could understand the searing anguish that Rose Pike must be feeling and vowed to offer what succour she could in the future. Widowhood was a trial for any woman. The circumstances of her husband’s death intensified the ordeal for Rose Pike.

Andrews was lost in his own grief, calling to mind cherished memories of a man who had died a cruel death beneath the very locomotive he was driving. The worst of it was that he was now being hounded beyond the grave, made to bear responsibility for something he did not do. Andrews’s grief was mingled with a seething fury. He yearned to clear his friend’s name and defy Pike’s detractors. When they reached the house, he was still deep in thought.

Madeleine led the way in, removing her black hat with its thick veil and hanging it on a peg. She reached out to take her father’s hat from him. Andrews grabbed her hand.

‘When will you see Inspector Colbeck again, Maddy?’

‘I don’t know, father,’ she said.

‘Tell him to catch the monster who caused that crash,’ he said with sudden urgency. ‘Until that’s done, poor Frank will never be able to rest in peace.’

The security arrangements were still in place when Colbeck returned to Thornhill’s estate but at least he did not have to identify himself again. Broken arm back in its sling, the politician was seated at the table in his library, reading some correspondence. He looked up as Colbeck entered the room.

‘Do you have anything to report?’ he asked.

‘I feel that I made some progress,’ said Colbeck, ‘especially after my talk with the Reverend Follis.’

‘Don’t listen to that meddling fool.’

‘I found him anything but foolish, sir.’

‘He should stick to what he’s supposed to do,’ said Thornhill, ‘and not interfere in political matters about which he knows absolutely nothing. I only have to open my mouth and the Rector of St Dunstan’s is writing to the newspapers.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘I’ve seen one of his letters.’

‘His comments are quite uncalled for, Inspector.’

‘I don’t see why – he’s one of your constituents.’

Thornhill’s laugh was hollow. ‘If I had to rely on the votes of men like Ezra Follis,’ he said, ‘my Parliamentary career would have been woefully short. Fortunately, I have a number of like-minded supporters in Brighton. That’s why it’s such a pleasure to represent the town.’

‘But you don’t actually represent them,’ argued Colbeck. ‘Only a small percentage of the population is registered to vote. The only thing you represent is a minority.’

‘That’s because most people in the town lack the necessary property qualification. Brighton is besieged by newcomers and by foreign riffraff. They don’t deserve the vote. Anyway,’ he went on, testily, ‘why are we talking about Ezra Follis?’

‘He was able to give me some pertinent information.’

‘Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.’

‘As you wish, Mr Thornhill,’ said Colbeck, easily. ‘What I really came back to ask is if you had changed your mind about the speaking engagement tomorrow evening.’

‘It would be sheer madness to attend.’

‘I disagree.’

‘You have not been shot at, Inspector.’

‘As a matter of fact, I have sir – and on more than one occasion. To be frank, it’s an occupational hazard for which I don’t much care.’ He stepped closer. ‘Supposing that you were
not
in any danger? Would you consider fulfilling your commitment then?’

‘That question is purely hypothetical.’

‘I’d nevertheless be interested in your answer.’

‘Then I’d answer in the affirmative,’ said Thornhill, stoutly. ‘A broken arm would not stop me from expressing my views on a public platform. People look to me to shape their opinions.’

‘In that case, you mustn’t disappoint them.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Instruct your secretary to have your name reinstated at once in the advertisements,’ advised Colbeck. ‘At the moment, someone else is stepping into the breach to speak on the
same subject. It might aid your decision if I tell you that your replacement is the Reverend Follis.’

Thornhill was stung. ‘I won’t stand for that!’

‘Someone has to address that meeting.’

‘What are you trying to do, Inspector – get me killed?’

‘No, sir,’ replied Colbeck, ‘I’m trying to ensure the arrest of the man who fired that shot at you. If you do as I say, you won’t even have to leave the house tomorrow evening – until it’s safe to do so, that is.’

After his long, tiring vigil on the previous day, Victor Leeming did not look forward to repeating the experience but there were extenuating aspects of his present assignment. He could expect no violence from Matthew Shanklin and there was no possibility of being lured into an alleyway so that he could be clubbed to the ground. The street in which he was standing consisted of matching rows of terraced houses. It was a district in which he did not look out of place in his normal apparel. Instead of staying in the same place, he patrolled up and down the street, one eye kept on the Shanklin residence at all times.

By mid-afternoon, his wait was over. A cab came round the corner and rolled past him before stopping a short distance away. Matthew Shanklin got out, paid the driver and turned to go towards his house. Leeming moved smartly. After ordering the driver to wait, he intercepted Shanklin.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, ‘I’d like a word with you.’

‘I’m afraid that I don’t have time to talk now, Sergeant,’ said Shanklin, walking away until Leeming grabbed his arm. ‘Take your hands off me!’

‘When I called at your office this morning, they told me that you were ill for the second day running.’

‘That’s quite true. I’ve just been to see my doctor.’

‘What’s his name, sir?’

‘That’s immaterial.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘I think you know, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘There’s no illness and no doctor. When I spoke to Mrs Shanklin this morning, she seemed totally unaware that you were supposed to be unwell.’

‘I told you before,’ protested Shanklin, a hand to his brow, ‘that I’m a martyr to migraine attacks.’

‘Then you’ll have another one very shortly, sir.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I have a warrant for your arrest,’ said Leeming, taking the paper from his pocket to show him. ‘You must come with me.’

Shanklin was rocked. ‘On what charge am I being arrested?’

‘We have reason to believe that you are party to a conspiracy to cause a train crash on the Brighton line.’ Shanklin’s eyes darted to his house. ‘No, sir, I’m afraid that I can’t let you go in there first. You’ll have to accompany me to Scotland Yard.’

‘But I’ve done nothing wrong,’ bleated the other.

‘You can tell that to Superintendent Tallis.’

Accepting that there was no escape, Shanklin gave in. He gulped in air and looked around guiltily. Leeming saw no need to put handcuffs on him. Easing him back into the cab, he stepped in after him. The driver, who had watched the arrest with fascination, did not need instructions.

‘Scotland Yard, is it, guv’nor?’ he said, snapping the reins to
set the horse in motion. ‘I thought there was something funny about him when I picked him up at the railway station.’

Leeming spent the journey trying to find out where Shanklin had been all day but the man refused to tell him. On the orders of the superintendent, Leeming said nothing about the handwriting on the letter and the funeral card. It was a revelation Tallis wanted to keep for himself. On arrival at their destination, Leeming paid the driver and hustled his prisoner into the building. They went straight to the superintendent’s office.

Edward Tallis was so pleased with the arrest that he permitted Leeming to stay while he questioned the suspect. His technique differed radically from that favoured by Colbeck. While the inspector was effortlessly polite, drawing out information slowly by the most subtle means, Tallis chose a more direct and intimidating approach. After the preliminaries, he made Shanklin sit down so that he could loom over him.

‘Did you send Mr Bardwell a funeral card?’ he demanded.

‘No,’ replied Shanklin, caught off-balance.

‘Did you send a note to your office this morning, explaining that you were to unwell to go to work?’

‘Yes, Superintendent – I had a migraine.’

‘It did not prevent you writing this letter,’ said Tallis, snatching it off his desk to wave in front of him. ‘Do you recognise this as yours?’

‘Yes, I do. Where did you get it from?’

‘We wanted an example of your handwriting, sir, so that we could compare it with this.’

Picking up the funeral card in the other hand, Tallis held it beside the letter and watched the suspect’s reaction. After
swallowing hard, Shanklin tried to talk his way out of the situation.

‘The writing is similar, I grant you,’ he said, ‘but not the same.’

Tallis grinned wolfishly. ‘I can explain the slight discrepancy,’ he said, shaking the letter. ‘
This
one was written when you were troubled by a migraine. Your hand trembled. The only thing that afflicted you when you scribbled the message on the card was cold malevolence.’

‘Fortunately,’ said Leeming, ‘Mr Bardwell never saw the card.’

‘Leave this to me, Sergeant,’ warned Tallis.

‘I felt that he ought to be told.’

‘I can handle this interview.’

Leeming backed away. ‘Of course, sir.’

‘Well, Mr Shanklin,’ said the superintendent, ‘are you going to persist in your denial? We know that you had motive, means and opportunity to send this card. When you were first interviewed by Sergeant Leeming, you made no bones about your hatred of Mr Bardwell. You revelled in his pain.’

‘I had good cause to do so,’ argued Shanklin.

‘Then you did send that taunt to Mr Bardwell?’

Shanklin chewed his lip. Confronted with the evidence, there was no hope of evading the truth. ‘Yes, I did,’ he confessed.

‘Nothing can excuse the wording on that card. However, that’s a minor matter compared with the crime for which you’re charged.’ Tallis’s index finger was accusatory. ‘Did you or did you not conspire to derail the Brighton Express?’

‘I swear that I did not, Superintendent.’

‘The evidence indicates otherwise.’

‘What evidence?’ wailed Shanklin. ‘If everyone who has a grudge against Horace Bardwell is suspected, this room would be filled to capacity. He’s a loathsome human being. I admit freely that I’d derive immense satisfaction from reading his obituary – even though it would conceal the ugly truth and praise him to the skies. But I did not,’ he emphasised, ‘take any steps to cause a train crash that might have killed him.’

‘We believe you engaged someone else to do it,’ said Leeming.

‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ cautioned Tallis. ‘Don’t interrupt.’

‘Tell him, sir.’

‘All in good time,’ said the other.

He put the card and the letter aside then perched on the edge of the desk. He waited patiently. The superintendent might be relaxed but Shanklin was squirming in his seat. Tallis locked his eyes on the suspect and spoke with deliberate calm.

‘Do you understand the seriousness of the crime, sir?’

‘I did not commit it,’ retorted Shanklin.

‘That’s not what I asked you. Please answer my question.’

‘Yes, of course I understand how serious it is.’

‘Twelve people were killed and dozens were badly injured, Mr Bardwell among them. Would you agree that a man who connived at such a disaster is nothing short of a fiend?’

‘I could not agree more, Superintendent.’

‘Then why did you do it?’ snapped Tallis, moving to stand over him like a vulture over a carcass. ‘Why did you and your confederate commit that crime? Why did you kill and maim innocent people in the reckless pursuit of a private feud? You and Dick Chiffney will hang for what you did. The pair of you deserve no mercy.’

‘No!’ howled Shanklin in despair. ‘I’d never sink to anything like that. It’s downright evil. What sort of a man do you take me for? You must believe me, superintendent. I had nothing whatsoever to do with the crash. As for Dick,’ he said, ‘I haven’t seen him for months.’

‘Then you
do
know the man.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘That’s not what you told me,’ said Leeming.

‘We have a connection at last,’ said Tallis. ‘It needed one person to plan the crime and another to execute it, one person to spy out the right place with his telescope and another to act on his orders. I suggest that you, Matthew Shanklin, were in league with Chiffney.’

‘I’d never trust a man like Dick,’ said Shanklin.

‘Why not?’

‘He’s far too unreliable.’

‘Then you suborned someone else to help you.’

‘My only crime was to send that malicious card.’

‘Tell us how you know Chiffney,’ said Leeming, ‘and explain why you denied it earlier.’

Shanklin shook his head wearily. ‘I was too ashamed to admit it, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Dick is a distant relative of mine. I keep as far away from the rogue as possible. He prevailed upon me to get him a job with the LB&SCR then he lost it by knocking out the foreman’s teeth. That was typical of him. Dick Chiffney is a menace.’

Chiffney was frustrated. Having been unable to carry out his orders in Brighton, he returned by train to London that evening and went into a tavern near the station to have a few drinks before he felt able to face Josie Murlow’s cross-
examination. Instead of taking good news back to her, he had to admit failure. When he got back to the house, he went up the stairs and saw her waiting at the top, hands on her hips. She looked even more bellicose than usual.

‘Where’ve you been?’ she snarled.

‘You know that, my darling. I had to go to Brighton.’

‘You’ve been away all day, Dick.’

‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said, taking her by the arm to lead her back into their bedroom. ‘Let me explain.’