Murder on the Brighton Express irc-5

by Edward Marston

  ‘I won’t be used as target practice,’ said Thornhill, hotly.

  ‘There’s no danger of that, sir. Now, you have a reputation as a public speaker. As well as taking part in Parliamentary debates, you’ve addressed meetings on a regular basis.’

  ‘One has to spread the word.’

  ‘Do you keep a record of such meetings?’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Thornhill. ‘Everything is listed in my diary. As it happens, I was due to speak here in Brighton tomorrow evening.’

  Colbeck was pleased. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you must honour the commitment.’

  ‘How can I when someone out there is waiting to shoot me? I’ve instructed my secretary to say that I’ve had to withdraw.’

  ‘Has he done so yet, Mr Thornhill?’

  ‘Yes, he’s advised them to find another speaker.’

  ‘I think you should rescind that instruction and announce that you’ll address the meeting, after all. It would impress your audience greatly that you’ve made light of your injuries.’

  ‘I’ve no wish to appear in public.’

  ‘You may not have to, sir – just do as I ask.’

  Thornhill was reluctant. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘Meanwhile, I’d be most grateful to see the list of public meetings you’ve addressed in recent months. When I have that in my possession, I’ll go back into Brighton.’

  ‘Why is that, Inspector?’

  ‘I need to look at some newspapers, sir.’

  If nothing else, the visit to Chalk Farm had confirmed the fact that it was Dick Chiffney who had knocked Victor Leeming unconscious in an alleyway. It served to concentrate the victim’s mind. Leaving the Shepherd and Shepherdess, he turned to the next task assigned to him by Colbeck and headed for the offices of the LNWR. As he was about to go in, he met Captain Ridgeon on his way out.

  ‘Good morning, Sergeant,’ said Ridgeon, brightly.

  ‘Good morning to you, sir,’ returned Leeming.

  ‘Are you still persisting in your unnecessary inquiry?’

  ‘Yes, Captain – in spite of jibes from ill-informed sources.’

  ‘Are you referring to my comments in the newspaper?’

  ‘They were both harsh and unjust.’

  ‘I was quoted incorrectly, Sergeant Leeming.’

  ‘Does that mean you actually approve of what we’re doing?’

  Ridgeon stifled a smile. ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ he said, ‘but I would ask you to believe that my remarks were not as intemperate as they appeared to be in that article.’

  ‘It all hangs on the interpretation of the evidence,’ said Leeming, ‘and, in my opinion, there’s nobody alive who does that better than Inspector Colbeck.’

  ‘Unfortunately, some of that “evidence” has now disappeared.’

  ‘Has it?’

  ‘I can see that you haven’t been to Brighton recently,’ said Ridgeon. ‘Once I had made my decision about the cause of the crash, it was vital to open the two lines again as quickly as possibly. Crews worked twenty-four hours a day to clear the debris and repair the track. As from yesterday, the Brighton Express is running again in both directions.’

  ‘I wondered how the Inspector got back so early yesterday.’

  Ridgeon was curious. ‘What was he doing in Brighton?’

  ‘Exactly the same as I’m doing now, sir,’ said Leeming, looking him in the eye. ‘He’s doing his damnedest to prove you wrong.’

  He went into the building, introduced himself to one of the clerks and asked to see Matthew Shanklin. After disappearing for a couple of minutes, the man returned and shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Mr Shanklin is not here.’

  ‘Is he still indisposed?’

  ‘Yes, sir – he’s too ill to come into work this morning.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The manager says that he sent a letter to that effect.’

  Leeming’s eye lit up. ‘Was it written by Mr Shanklin himself?’

  ‘I think so, Sergeant.’

  ‘Then I should very much like to see it.’

  While nothing could have endeared the politician to Colbeck, he had to admire Giles Thornhill’s industry. The man was quite indefatigable, addressing public meetings on issues of the day with a frequency that was breathtaking. When he was not facing an audience in a hall, Thornhill was, more often than not, expressing his opinions as an after-dinner speaker at various functions. Most of his work had been done in London but there were enough occasions when he had spoken in his constituency to send Colbeck to the offices of one of the local newspapers, the Brighton Gazette.

  The editor, Sidney Weaver, was an anxious little man in his forties, his brow furrowed and his hands twitching nervously. The Railway Detective, it turned out, was a man for whom he had the highest respect.

  ‘I’ve followed your career carefully,’ said Weaver, gesticulating at him. ‘I know what you did on Derby Day this year and how you solved the murder of that man thrown from the Sankey Bridge. You’ll get all the help you need from me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Colbeck, finding his praise rather tiresome. ‘All I want is somewhere quiet to read back copies of your newspaper.’

  ‘Is there anything in particular that you’re looking for, sir? If so, I might be able to save you the time. I’ve got an encyclopaedic mind where the Gazette is concerned. Mr Bardwell calls me a marvel.’

  ‘I gather that he often writes for you.’

  ‘We always accept copy from someone of his eminence. Mark you,’ Weaver went on, closing an eye, ‘he’s not so ready to offer an opinion when there’s been an accident and that’s happened once too often.’ The lines in his face multiplied and deepened. ‘Do you remember when the Jenny Lind came into service?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Colbeck. ‘It was seven years ago. She was a beautiful locomotive with those huge six-foot driving wheels and that classical fluted dome.’

  ‘I was travelling on the express when Jenny Lind got into trouble. Her leading axle broke and tore off a wheel. The driver had no idea what had happened so he kept up full speed, unaware that he was ripping up the track behind him. We were aware of it,’ said Weaver, hands semaphoring wildly, ‘because we were shaken about every inch of the way. We were lucky to come out of it alive.’

  ‘What was Mr Bardwell’s reaction?’

  ‘He went strangely quiet for once.’

  ‘That same can’t be said of the gentleman in whom I’m interested,’ said Colbeck, taking out a piece of paper. ‘These are the editions I’d like to see, Mr Weaver,’ he continued, handing the list over. ‘Is there somewhere private where I can study them?’

  ‘Have the use of my office,’ said Weaver, moving various items off his desk. ‘It’s a privilege to have the Railway Detective here.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll get one of my lads to find these for you.’

  Weaver opened the door, beckoned a young man over and gave him the list. While they were waiting, he gave Colbeck a brief history of the Gazette and how he had come to edit it. The newspapers arrived and Weaver took them from the young man before putting them in the middle of the desk.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do, Inspector, just call me.’

  ‘I will, Mr Weaver.’

  Grateful to be left alone at last, Colbeck worked through the newspapers chronologically, searching for reports of public meetings that Giles Thornhill had addressed. Occasionally, he had shared a platform with the other sitting Member of Parliament for Brighton but Thornhill’s had always been the more dominant voice. He was an unrepentant reactionary, defending the status quo and resisting any hint of radical reform. Chartists were treated with especial scorn.

  In almost every speech, Thornhill had stressed his pride in his country, arguing that the British Empire was a wondrous achievement that acted as a civilising influence all over the world. On the subject of immigra
tion – and he spoke on it more than once – his patriotism had taken on a sharper edge. His most recent speech on the subject had been quoted in some detail. Colbeck could almost hear him declaiming the words from a platform. Folding over the page, he got up and opened the door. Sidney Weaver scurried across to him like a spaniel.

  ‘Did you want to see anything else, Inspector Colbeck?’ he said.

  ‘It’s possible,’ replied Colbeck. ‘There’s a speech here that Giles Thornhill made about immigration.’

  ‘He’s always had great distaste for foreigners.’

  ‘This is more than distaste, Mr Weaver.’ He showed the report to the editor. ‘Did you have any response to this?’

  ‘We had a very strong response,’ said Weaver with an abrupt laugh. ‘Some of the letters were far too offensive to print.’

  Colbeck smiled. ‘I don’t suppose you kept any of them, did you?’

  ‘I kept them all, Inspector – including the one from the Rector of St Dunstan’s. He was outraged by what Mr Thornhill had said.’

  A meeting with the churchwardens was always an essay in sustained boredom but Ezra Follis endured it without demur. Retired, worthy, staid and lacking in anything resembling lightness of touch, the two men were pillars of the community who took their duties with a seriousness matched only by their solemnity. A couple of hours in their presence taxed even Follis’s nerves and he waved them off with more than usual alacrity. The moment they disappeared, Mrs Ashmore bustled out of the kitchen.

  ‘Is there anything I can get you?’ she offered.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘you can untie the bandage on the other hand.’

  ‘The doctor said that you had to keep it on.’

  ‘It’s so inconvenient.’

  ‘Your other hand is now free,’ she pointed out.

  ‘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.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  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.