Murder on the Brighton Express irc-5

by Edward Marston

  She was surly. ‘Dick said he had a job to do.’

  ‘Did he tell you what that job entailed?’

  ‘No – he wouldn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘Then let me enlighten you,’ Colbeck continued. ‘Mr Chiffney was lurking outside the town hall so that he could shoot a clergyman named Mr Follis. He fired a pistol at him from close quarters.’

  She was jolted. ‘Dick would never do a thing like that.’

  ‘There were several witnesses, Miss Murlow. I was close to the scene myself. That’s why I hailed a cab and hurried to the station. We’d seen you waiting there and knew that Mr Chiffney would come.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ she said, waving an arm. ‘Dick didn’t even know that I was in Brighton. He told me to keep away.’

  ‘Why did he do that?’ asked Tallis.

  ‘He thought I’d distract him from…what he had to do.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  Josie shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘I fancy that you do. You’re an accessory to attempted murder.’

  ‘I’m not, sir, I swear it!’

  ‘Who was Mr Chiffney working for?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘He never told me the man’s name.’

  ‘But you did know he was being paid by someone?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘Dick showed me the money he got for the first job he did though he wouldn’t tell me what it was. As for that man’s name, I don’t think Dick knew it himself.’

  ‘So you’re not aware what that “first job” actually was?’

  ‘No – Dick vanished and I thought he’d run out on me. When he came back, he had lots of money. He said there’d be even more when he did something else in Brighton.’

  ‘It’s time you learnt what Chiffney did first of all,’ said Tallis, ‘then you might not hold his memory so dear. Did you know that there was a train crash on the Brighton line last week?’

  ‘Of course – everyone was talking about it.’

  ‘The man who engineered that crash was Chiffney.’

  ‘No!’ she exclaimed, refusing to believe it. ‘Dick would never cause a train crash. I know him. He liked working on the railway. Why should he want to do something as terrible as that?’

  ‘You’ve already given us the answer,’ said Colbeck. ‘He did it for money. He did it because he was out of work. He did it because he was dismissed by the company and wanted to get his own back.’ Josie staggered back in horror. ‘There seem to be lots of things that Mr Chiffney forgot to tell you, don’t there?’

  Josie’s mind was racing. They had no reason to lie to her. The man she had been mourning had set off to commit murder for their mutual benefit. The thought that he had already caused the deaths of several other people turned him into a complete monster and she quailed as she recalled the intimacies they had shared in the wake of the train disaster. Josie had coupled with the Devil himself. She felt ashamed and corrupted. The sight of Chiffney, carved to pieces on a railway line, no longer enraged her. In the light of his crime, it was a fitting end. She elected to forget Chiffney altogether. He belonged to her past. All she worried about now was saving her own skin.

  ‘It’s not very much,’ she said, ingratiatingly, ‘but I’ll tell you all I know.’

  Victor Leeming was in good spirits. Now that the investigation was nearing its end, his chances of being at home for his wife’s birthday had improved. Despatched to the Navy Office by Colbeck, he had gathered the information they needed and could now return. Before he did so, however, there were still gifts to be bought for Sunday and he might never have such a good opportunity again. It would not take long. If he were caught attending to family business while still on duty, Leeming knew that Superintendent Tallis would suspend him instantly. Colbeck would take a more tolerant view. He realised how much the sergeant loved his wife.

  Leeming consulted a list he drew from his pocket. It had been compiled from records at the Navy Office. Somewhere on the list, he believed, was the name of the man who had hired Dick Chiffney to orchestrate a train crash. The consequences had been horrendous. The sergeant had visited the scene with Colbeck. Both men had been shocked by the scale of the disaster. Leeming remembered the sight of the wreckage, the smell from the bonfires and the groans of agony from the remaining victims. Suddenly, the purchase of his wife’s birthday presents no longer seemed important. It was put aside until after the arrest of the man who had conceived the tragedy. His capture was paramount.

  Leeming hurried away. The investigation took precedence. He and Colbeck had to return to Brighton. Besides, the town did not merely harbour a wanted man. It had shops.

  Until he woke up the next morning, Ezra Follis had not realised he had so many friends. Cards, flowers and gifts of all kinds had flooded in from the most unlikely sources and there was an endless queue of people waiting to see him. Since he was still weak, he only agreed to see selected visitors and limited their time at the bedside. The bishop, the dean and the churchwardens were the first to be allowed in. Of the others, only Ellen Ashmore, Amy Walcott and a handful of close friends were permitted a few minutes each.

  By late morning, Robert Colbeck arrived and he was conducted straight to the patient. Follis was pleased to see him.

  ‘There’s a rumour that you caught the man who shot me,’ he said, hopefully. ‘Is that true, Inspector?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ replied Colbeck. ‘Sergeant Leeming and I accosted him at the railway station but he tried to run away. In doing so, he managed to get himself run over by an incoming train.’

  Follis shuddered. ‘What a gruesome death!’

  ‘I shouldn’t waste too much sympathy on him, sir. He was the person responsible for the train crash. He levered a section of line away so that the Brighton Express would be derailed. That’s why this hospital is filled to capacity.’

  ‘Who was the villain, Inspector?’

  ‘His name was Dick Chiffney.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him,’ said Follis, mystified. ‘Why should he want to harm so many people in that crash then try to shoot me?’

  ‘The two events are complementary,’ explained Colbeck. ‘They were both intended to bring about your death. When the first failed to do so, a more direct approach was taken.’

  ‘This is all about me?’ gasped Follis, shaken to the core. ‘Was it because of me that people were killed and maimed in that disaster? I find that horrifying. In effect, all that suffering was my fault.’

  ‘No, sir – you were a victim of the crash.’

  ‘But it might never have taken place had I not been aboard that train. Are you certain about this, Inspector?’ Colbeck nodded. ‘Then I’ll have it on my conscience for the rest of my life. I’m beginning to wish that I’d never survived that crash.’

  ‘It’s only because you did,’ said Colbeck, ‘that we’re able to get to the truth. Had you perished, we’d never have connected you with the people who committed the crime. The Brighton Express was not chosen lightly, Mr Follis. In the mind of the man who was behind the disaster, it had a great significance. That’s what made us believe that an individual passenger was the target.’

  Colbeck told him about the evidence that led them to think that Horace Bardwell or Giles Thornhill might be that individual passenger, recounting how both Matthew Shanklin and Heinrich Freytag had been subsequently arrested. Follis was only half-listening. He was still trying to grapple with the fact that he had indirectly brought about so many deaths and injuries. He was eaten up with guilt.

  ‘We need your help, sir,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘Haven’t I done enough damage already?’ moaned Follis.

  ‘Chiffney was hired to kill you. Now that he’s dead, we must find his paymaster. That’s where you can be of assistance.’

  ‘I fail to see how, Inspector.’

  ‘Do you know of anyone – anyone at all – who had made threats against you or is nursing a deep hatred of you?’

  ‘Yes,’ sai
d Follis, ‘I could give you several names. The first one is my bishop. He’s threatened many times to have me ousted from the rectory and must loathe the very sight of me.’

  ‘I’m being serious, sir.’

  ‘Then the simple answer is that I’ve offended a lot of people in the course of my ministry but I don’t think that any of them would go to such lengths to wreak their revenge.’

  ‘We have one important clue,’ said Colbeck. ‘We’re fairly certain that the man in question has a naval background. Can you think of any sailor who might hold a grudge against you?’

  ‘No,’ said Follis, eyelids flickering rapidly, ‘I can’t.’

  Colbeck knew that he was lying.

  Ellen Ashmore had been crying. Though she had wiped away the tears and done her best to appear composed, Victor Leeming could tell that the housekeeper had been weeping. When he had introduced himself, she let him into the rectory and they went into the drawing room.

  ‘Mr Follis won’t be out of hospital for days,’ she said. ‘I saw him earlier and he’s very poorly.’

  ‘It’s you that I came to see, Mrs Ashmore.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I want to ask you a few questions,’ said Leeming. ‘Shall we sit down?’ When they had settled down opposite each other, he tried to reassure her. ‘There’s no need to look so anxious.

  You’re not in any kind of trouble.’

  ‘I’m not worried about myself, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘The only person I’m thinking about at the moment is the rector.’

  ‘That’s only right, Mrs Ashmore. You’ve been his housekeeper for some time now, I hear.’

  ‘I’ve been here for years.’

  ‘And is Mr Follis a good employer?’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to work for him,’ she said, brightening for an instant. ‘Mr Follis is a wonderful man.’

  ‘Not everyone shares your high opinion, I’m afraid,’ observed Leeming. ‘Someone was hired to kill him. As it happens, that person later lost his life. But the man who hired him is still at liberty and still poses a threat to the rector.’

  She blanched. ‘Do you mean that someone else will try to kill him?’ she cried. ‘Please – you must stop them!’

  ‘Inspector Colbeck is at the hospital now. One of his main concerns will be Mr Follis’s safety. He’ll organise protection for him. But what I want to ask you is this,’ he went on. ‘Someone was waiting to ambush the rector outside the town hall. How many people knew that Mr Follis would be going to that meeting?’

  ‘Lots of them,’ she said. ‘At one point, he was due to replace Mr Thornhill as the speaker. People would have seen his name on the posters. When he was told that he wasn’t needed, he insisted on going even though I felt that he should rest. He usually goes to any meeting that Mr Thornhill addresses. Mr Follis can’t resist an argument.’

  ‘So people who know the rector would expect him to be there.’

  ‘Yes, they would.’

  ‘Let me ask another question – did you see anything recently that aroused your suspicion?’

  ‘Well, I did see something odd yesterday,’ she recalled, ‘but I thought nothing of it at the time. There was a man in the churchyard. People come in regularly to leave flowers by a grave or simply to pay their respects. Over the years, I’ve got to know them by sight. This man was a stranger,’ she said. ‘When he saw me looking, he bent down as if he was reading the inscription on a headstone.’

  ‘Can you describe him in any way, Mrs Ashmore?’

  ‘I only had a glimpse of him.’

  ‘Was he big or little, old or young?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘he was a big man and near your age, I suppose. And there was something else about him,’ she added. ‘I remember seeing his eyes. He had a squint.’

  ‘It must have been Dick Chiffney,’ said Leeming. ‘He was the man who shot Mr Follis.’

  She was scandalised. ‘He was here in the churchyard?’

  ‘So it appears.’

  ‘I should have warned Mr Follis. He’ll never forgive me.’

  ‘You weren’t to know who the man was or what he had in mind.’

  ‘I feel dreadful.’

  ‘There’s no need for you to get upset, Mrs Ashmore,’ he told her. ‘Nobody could accuse you of putting the rector’s life in jeopardy. Inspector Colbeck has told me how well you look after Mr Follis.’

  ‘That’s all I want to do,’ she said.

  ‘Then let’s see if you can help to identify the man who hired Chiffney.’ He took a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘This is a list of names I’d like you to look at. The Inspector has a copy and will be showing it to Mr Follis. Since you’ve been here so long,’ he continued, handing her the list, ‘I’d like you to look at the names as well.’

  ‘Who are these people, Sergeant?’

  ‘They’re officers from HMS Grampus. It docked in Portsmouth for repair recently so these men are on leave. We think that one of them may have a connection with St Dunstan’s. Do you recognise any of those gentlemen?’

  ‘Let me see.’ She ran her eye down the list and stopped at the last name. ‘This one,’ she said, pointing to it. ‘Alexander Jamieson.’

  ‘And is Mr Jamieson a parishioner?’

  ‘It’s Captain Jamieson and he’s away at sea a great deal. But his wife used to worship at St Dunstan’s regularly.’ She looked up. ‘We haven’t seen her for some time.’

  Dorothea Jamieson could not believe what had happened to her. Ten days earlier, she had been living in a large house with servants at her beck and call. She was a handsome woman in her late thirties, noted for her elegance and widely respected in the community. All that now seemed like a dream. Instead of enjoying the comforts of her home, she was locked in a filthy, evil-smelling outhouse with only mice and spiders for company. An old mattress had been dragged in, a rickety chair had been provided and – the greatest humiliation of all – a wooden bucket stood in a corner for when she had to answer the calls of nature.

  There was no hope of escape. The door was securely locked, and the narrow windows, set high in the wall, were barred. Even with the help of the various implements stored there, she could not force a way out. The only saving grace was that it had not rained during the time of her incarceration or the holes in the roof would have let in the water. As it was, she had had to endure stifling heat on most days. Nights alone in the dark had been terrifying.

  Hearing footsteps approach in the courtyard, she stood up and waited tremulously. A key turned in the lock and the heavy door swung open. Dorothea shielded her eyes against the bright sunlight that poured in. Her husband stepped into the outhouse and shut the door behind him. He looked at her with disgust. The beautiful young woman he had married almost twenty years ago looked haggard and unappealing. Her hair was tousled, her skin blotched and her dress crumpled from having been slept in.

  ‘How much longer is this going to go on, Alexander?’ she asked.

  ‘As long as I choose,’ he replied.

  ‘I’ll do anything to win back your good favour.’

  ‘You’re doing it, Dorothea – by suffering.’

  ‘You can’t keep me here forever.’

  ‘I can do whatever I like with you.’

  ‘But I’m your wife,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Oh, you’ve remembered that, have you?’ he said with sarcasm. ‘You always do when I come ashore. It’s a pity you don’t remember it when I’m away at sea.’

  ‘But I do – I’m proud that Captain Jamieson is my husband.’

  ‘My name is simply a shield behind which you hide.’

  She spread her arms. ‘What am I supposed to have done?’

  ‘You know quite well what you did and, until you confess it, you’ll stay locked up here like an animal. I want to hear you tell me the truth, Dorothea. I want to know what happened.’

  ‘Nothing happened!’ she wailed.

  ‘Don’t lie to me!’

  He raised his hand to strike her then held back
at the last moment. Dorothea cringed in front of him. She looked wretched. Her time in the outhouse had robbed her of her good looks, her dignity and her confidence. Jamieson felt no compassion for her. As he stroked his beard and gazed down at her, his only emotion was a deep hatred. He would keep her locked up indefinitely.

  ‘I prayed that you’d come home safely from your voyage,’ she said, ‘but, when you did, you flew into such a rage. I’ve been trapped in here for over a week now. It’s cruel, Alexander. My only sustenance has been bread and water.’

  ‘That’s all you deserve.’

  ‘Do you despise your wife so much?’

  ‘What I despise,’ he said, ‘is the woman who’s been posing as my wife while acting as someone else’s mistress.’

  Dorothea backed away. She knew that he had a temper but she had never been its victim before. She still had the bruises on her arms where he had grabbed her before pulling her across the courtyard to the outhouse. Confronted with his accusations, she had thought it best to say nothing for fear of stoking his rage. Dorothea had hoped that her husband might calm down as the days passed and even allow her back into the house. If anything, his fury had intensified.

  ‘I suspected something the last time I was home,’ he said, ‘but I was unable to prove anything. Before I sailed, I engaged a private detective to keep an eye on you.’

  ‘That was an appalling thing to do,’ she said with as much indignation as she could gather. ‘What sort of husband stoops to spying on his wife?’

  ‘One who fears that he’s being cuckolded, Dorothea. It was, alas, no groundless fear. When I saw the report about you, I refused to accept it at first. Then I read the damning evidence.’

  ‘What evidence, Alexander? Am I not entitled to defend myself against it? Will you really accept someone else’s word against mine?’

  ‘The evidence concerned Thursday of every week.’