Murder on the Brighton Express irc-5

by Edward Marston

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Look at the message, Victor.’

  Taking the card, Leeming read it aloud. ‘Please die soon and make me happy.’ He looked up. ‘I’d hate to get something like that if I was lying in hospital. It must have been a real shock to Mr Bardwell.’

  ‘Fortunately,’ said Colbeck, ‘he never read it. Mr Follis was able to keep it from him. It looks as if I shall have to go to Brighton yet again,’ he decided. ‘According to the letter, Mr Bardwell is able to sit up and talk now. I need to speak to him.’

  Until she had met Colbeck, Madeleine Andrews had never imagined that she had anything more than a facility for drawing. Her sketches were merely a pleasant way of spending what little leisure time she had. As soon as Colbeck saw them, however, he discerned signs of a real artistic talent and urged her to develop it. Where other artists might favour portraits, landscapes or seascapes, Madeleine’s preferred subject was the steam locomotive. If nothing else, it helped her to stand out from the main pack.

  Over a period of a couple of years, she had refined her technique, extended her range and gained confidence. To discover that her work actually had a commercial value gave her an immense fillip. It was one of many reasons she had for being grateful to Robert Colbeck. Standing at her easel, she was so absorbed in her work on the Round House that she did not hear the cab pull up outside. It was only when Colbeck’s face appeared at the window that she realised she had a visitor.

  Breaking away excitedly from her work, she ran to open the door. Colbeck took her hands in his and kissed her.

  ‘Am I interrupting you, Madeleine?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes – but it’s a very welcome interruption. Are you coming in?’

  ‘I’m rather hoping that you’d come out.’

  ‘Now?’ she said in amazement.

  ‘Unless you have a dislike of Brighton,’ he said. ‘If you can give yourself a rest from your easel, I’ll take you to the seaside. I’ll explain why on the way.’

  Waving aside her excuses about not being properly dressed, Colbeck went into the house and admired the painting while she was getting ready. Minutes later, they were climbing into the cab and heading for London Bridge station. Colbeck linked arms with her.

  ‘This is the last thing I expected, Robert,’ she said.

  ‘I’m glad that I still have the capacity to surprise you.’

  ‘Why do you need to go to Brighton?’

  ‘It’s the latest stage in our investigation, Madeleine. There are certain people I need to see.’

  ‘Are they suspects?’

  ‘Quite the reverse – both gentlemen were victims of the train crash. I have to question them.’

  ‘Won’t I be in the way?’ she asked, worriedly.

  ‘You could never be in the way,’ he said, gallantly. ‘Besides, while I’m busy with one of the gentlemen, I’m hoping that you’ll be having tea with the other one.’

  Madeleine was puzzled. ‘Who might that be?’

  ‘The Rector of St Dunstan’s.’

  Since the accident, Ezra Follis had learnt to conserve his energy, balancing the need to appear alert in public by snatching regular periods of rest in private. His housekeeper had to do some shopping in the market that afternoon. The moment that Mrs Ashmore had left the house, Follis sat down in an armchair and drifted immediately off to sleep. It was over half an hour before he was roused from his slumbers by the insistent tinkle of the doorbell, though it seemed like a matter of minutes to him. Shaking himself fully awake, he opened the front door and saw Amy Walcott, standing there with a smile on her face and a book under her arm.

  ‘I wondered if this was a good time to read to you,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not the ideal time, Amy,’ he said then he relented, ‘but why don’t you come in for a moment?’

  He stood back to let her in then closed the door behind her. Clutching the book, Amy moved to the centre of the room. The sun slanted through the window to make her hair glisten and to lend her dull features an attractive sheen.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough for these poems,’ she said with a nervous laugh. ‘This is the best book you’ve ever given me, Mr Follis.’

  ‘There is a much better one,’ he said, teasingly.

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Yes, Amy.’ He picked up a copy of the Bible from the table. ‘This is the best book ever written – though Tennyson has his own charms. I’ll be the first to concede that.’

  ‘His poems have such feeling.’

  ‘Perhaps you could read just one to me.’

  She was elated. ‘Which one shall it be?’

  ‘Choose your favourite,’ he said, resuming his seat. ‘As long as it’s not In Memoriam – I don’t think I’m in the right mood for that at this precise moment.’

  ‘Then I’ll read you The Lady of Shalott.’

  Amy was to be cruelly disappointed. Before she could even find the page, someone rang the doorbell. She was deeply hurt.

  ‘That can’t be Mrs Ashmore already,’ she said, flustered. ‘She always goes to the market on a Monday.’

  ‘I see that you know our domestic routine here at the rectory,’ said Follis with a fond smile. ‘Mrs Ashmore has a key, of course, so she would never ring the bell. Excuse me a moment.’

  Getting up from his chair, he went out to answer the door. Amy heard him talking to someone then he reappeared with a tall, elegant man and a pretty young woman. Resenting the strangers, she was at the same time relieved to see that they were not fellow-parishioners.

  ‘Allow me to introduce our Flower Lady,’ said Follis, indicating her. ‘Thanks to Amy Walcott, our church is always a floral delight.’

  ‘We’re pleased to meet you, Miss Walcott,’ said Colbeck, noting the absence of a ring on her left hand. ‘We’re sorry to intrude. My name is Robert Colbeck and this,’ he went on, turning to his companion, ‘is Miss Madeleine Andrews.’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Madeleine.

  ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance,’ mumbled Amy, nodding at them and wishing that she had such a lovely complexion as Madeleine’s. ‘I didn’t know that the rector was expecting visitors.’

  ‘Nor more did I,’ said Follis with a chuckle. ‘I’m afraid that we’ll have to postpone the reading until a more appropriate time, Amy. What Mr Colbeck failed to mention is that he’s a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard. He’s doubtless come to discuss the train crash with me so The Lady of Shalott will have to wait her turn.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Amy, moving to the door. ‘I understand. Don’t bother about me. I’ll let myself out.’

  She left the room so swiftly that none of them had time to see the tears forming in her eyes. By the time she walked past the church, they were streaming down her cheeks.

  Dick Chiffney used a piece of chalk to draw the rough outline of a man on the trunk of the tree. A crude circle was placed where he thought the heart might be. Walking thirty paces away, he picked up the rifle and went down on one knee. He put the butt of the weapon into his shoulder and took aim, making sure that he was steady before he pulled the trigger. When he did so, the bullet missed the tree altogether and spent its fury in the undergrowth.

  ‘You need more practice,’ said his companion.

  ‘I’m much better with the pistol.’

  ‘Whichever weapon it is, there must be no mistake. He’s escaped with his life once already. That must never happen again.’

  ‘It won’t, sir,’ said Chiffney, obsequiously.

  ‘Bide your time until you find the right moment.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And don’t fail me,’ warned the man. ‘I take a poor view of people who let me down.’

  ‘You can count on me.’

  ‘Then why wasn’t he killed in the train crash?’

  ‘He was lucky, sir. Next time it will be different.’

  The man pointed to the target. ‘Keep practising,’ he ordered. ‘I want to see you hit that tree time and again.’


  Chiffney licked his lips. ‘When do I get paid, sir?’

  ‘When he’s dead,’ was the reply.

  Having left Madeleine Andrews at the rectory, Colbeck went off to the county hospital. He first sought out the doctor in charge of Horace Bardwell and discussed the case with him. It emerged that the patient would be there for at least a week before being allowed home. There was a degree of safety in a crowded hospital but not enough to discourage a determined assassin. Colbeck realised why Giles Thornhill, under threat, had been so keen to return to his own house.

  Though Bardwell was awake, he looked pale and distraught. It took him a few moments to gather his thoughts when Colbeck spoke to him. He wondered why a detective had come to see him.

  ‘This is our second conversation, sir,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘Is it? I don’t remember you.’

  ‘I’m trying to find out what actually happened,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘A goods train collided with the express,’ muttered Bardwell. ‘At least, that’s what they tell me. It’s all rather hazy to me.’

  ‘How do you feel now, Mr Bardwell?’

  ‘I’m so tired. My wife, my son and some of my friends have been here to see me. It was very heartening but it’s left me so weary.’

  ‘Then I won’t stay too long,’ promised Colbeck. ‘Last time I was here, I mentioned a name that appeared to upset you.’

  ‘Did it? Who was it?’

  ‘Matthew Shanklin.’

  Bardwell shuddered. ‘Don’t mention that fiend!’ he gasped.

  ‘Why is that, sir?’

  ‘Because he did everything he could to ruin me.’

  ‘I believe that he used to work for the LB&SCR.’

  ‘Then you’re mistaken – Shanklin worked against the company. You must have men under you, Inspector.’

  ‘Several of them,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘Then you’ll know that the first thing you demand of them is unquestioning loyalty. It’s an essential prerequisite, don’t you agree? Matthew Shanklin betrayed me.’

  ‘In what way, sir?’

  ‘I don’t want to go into the details,’ said Bardwell, plucking at the bandage around his eyes. ‘It would only distress me. Suffice it to say that he made false allegations against me that led, in time, to the loss of my position as Managing Director of the Board.’

  ‘Mr Shanklin claims that you caused him to lose his job.’

  ‘That was the least he deserved.’

  ‘Were you dissatisfied with his work?’

  ‘He should never have been employed by the company.’

  ‘Yet he held a post with you for some years,’ argued Colbeck, ‘so he must have been competent. My colleague, Sergeant Leeming, spoke to some of those who worked alongside Mr Shanklin. To a man, they said that he had been a very able manager.’

  ‘They didn’t know him as well as I did!’

  ‘You parted on bad terms, by the sound of it.’

  ‘The worst kind,’ said Bardwell, shaking with anger.

  ‘When I got him dismissed, the fellow had the gall to threaten me with violence. That’s the kind of person Matthew Shanklin is.’

  Even though it was a hot summer’s day, Madeleine Andrews felt a slight chill as they stepped into the church. It was alleviated by the warm sunshine streaming in through the magnificent stained glass window above the door. Ezra Follis guided his visitor to a spot where she could bathe in the sunlight while carrying out her inspection. The interior of St Dunstan’s was larger than she had imagined. The nave was bisected by a wide aisle separating ranks of oak pews. There were two lady chapels, a large vestry at the rear of the chancel and a bell tower that housed five large cast iron bells.

  Follis was in his element, describing the main features of the church and giving Madeleine a concise architectural history. In a medieval building that had survived well over the centuries, the item of which he was proudest was, paradoxically, a modern one. It was a list of former incumbents, drawn up like an illuminated manuscript and framed to hang on a stone pillar.

  ‘You see,’ he said, pointing to the first name on the list, ‘it all started way back in 1244 when Ebenezer Marmion became rector and there’s been continuous worship here ever since. I’m honoured to be part of such an illustrious tradition.’

  ‘Yet your own name is not here, Mr Follis,’ she noted.

  ‘I have to move on or die before that happens.’

  ‘But that means you never get to see it.’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, I’m sure that sheer vanity will make me look down from heaven to take a peep at it.’ He gestured at the flowers in the chancel. ‘What do you think of Amy’s handiwork?’

  ‘What lovely arrangements!’ she said, admiringly. ‘It’s not simply a question of putting flowers into a vase. There’s a real art to it.’

  ‘Amy Walcott is on her way to perfecting that art.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘This is where I address my flock,’ he said, patting one of the elaborate carvings on the front of the pulpit. ‘When I climb up there I’m four feet above contradiction. It gives me a wonderful sense of power and responsibility. Over here,’ he continued, moving across to it, ‘is our lectern, donated to the church in 1755 so it’s almost a hundred years old.’

  Made of brass that glinted in the sunlight, the lectern was in the shape of an eagle with its wings spread wide to hold the Bible. Madeleine was struck by the sharpness of the bird’s beak and the ferocity in its eyes. Follis stepped up behind it.

  ‘Read something to me,’ he invited.

  She was taken aback. ‘But I’ve never read in church before.’

  ‘That’s because you’ve never been given the opportunity. You have a lovely voice, Miss Andrews, soft and melodic. It’s well-suited to Holy Writ. Here,’ he said, flipping over the pages with some difficulty. ‘Let me hear you read from the First Epistle of Paul the Apostle to the Corinthians. Chapter Thirteen will, I’m sure, be familiar to you.’

  Madeleine was discomfited. Though she attended church every Sunday, she was accustomed to sitting in a pew at the rear of the nave with her father. Like other women there, she had taken no active part in the service itself. To be asked to read from the Bible – albeit with a congregation of one – was unsettling. At the same time, she did not feel that she could refuse. Ezra Follis had been kind and charming to her. In obeying his wish, she would be thanking him for his hospitality.

  While the rector sat down a few yards away, she took her place at the lectern. Madeleine needed a little time to read through the passage and to control the sudden beating of her heart. After using her tongue to moisten a dry mouth, she began. Her voice trembled at first but quickly grew in confidence. Madeleine read clearly and mellifluously without fully understanding the import of the words. Follis watched her intently throughout. When she came to the final verse, he spoke it in unison with her.

  ‘And now abideth faith, hope and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.’

  Relieved to have got through it, Madeleine raised her eyes. The person who caught her attention, however, was not Ezra Follis, seated contentedly before her, but Robert Colbeck, striding down the aisle.

  ‘Thank you, Madeleine,’ he said, ‘It was a privilege to have heard that. I’m glad that I arrived in time.’

  ‘So am I, Inspector,’ declared Follis, getting up and turning round. ‘The passage was beautifully read. The female voice is so much kinder on the ear than the rasping diction of men. Thank you for lending me such a delightful reader.’

  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 h
ad 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.’