Murder on the Brighton Express

by Edward Marston

  There would be repercussions. Colbeck would be dogged by reporters from other newspapers, mocked anew in their columns and denied complete freedom of movement. From now on, he would be watched. There would also be one or two colleagues at the Detective Department who, jealous of his reputation, would derive great joy from the public censure of him. Not everyone at Scotland Yard was ready to join in the general adulation of Robert Colbeck.

  As the cab rolled to a halt, he got out and paid the driver, only to be set upon immediately by half a dozen reporters who had been lying in ambush. In answer to a salvo of questions, he told them that he had no comment to make and went swiftly into the building. The real torment was yet to come. Colbeck would now have to face a gruelling interrogation by Edward Tallis and would be reprimanded for not having made more progress in the case. Continuing success was the only way to keep bad headlines at bay. Colbeck would be blamed for the hostile article in the newspaper.

  He went straight to the superintendent’s office and tapped on the door before opening it. Anticipating a barrage of abuse, he was amazed to find Tallis quiescent for once, seated at his desk in a cloud of cigar smoke. Colbeck’s first thought was that his superior had not yet read the article then he saw the newspaper lying open on the desk. As Tallis drew deep on his cigar, it glowed with life and the swirling cloud of smoke was thickened as he exhaled with calculated slowness. When he spoke, his voice was eerily soft.

  ‘Have you read the newspaper, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Colbeck.

  ‘Do you have any comment to make?’

  ‘I’m saddened that Captain Ridgeon saw fit to criticise us in such a public way, though I daresay he feels that the very fact of a police investigation is an implied criticism of his work.’

  ‘That’s exactly what he feels,’ said Tallis, ‘even if he didn’t put it in those exact words. I’ve not long come back from seeing him.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Among other things, he told me that you and he had discussed the whole business in some depth but that you had failed to persuade him that the train crash was a criminal act.’

  ‘That’s true, Superintendent.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going to see him?’

  ‘I felt that you might advise against it,’ said Colbeck. ‘At the start of the investigation, you warned us to work alongside Captain Ridgeon without causing any friction. When you met him, however, you objected to his tone and refused to obey the orders he unwisely tried to give you. Victor and I expressed thanks for your support.’

  ‘I find this very alarming, Inspector Colbeck,’ said Tallis, voice still uncharacteristically soft. ‘Is it your habitual practice to do things to which you know I would object?’

  ‘Not at all, sir – this was an isolated instance.’

  ‘What was the motive behind it?’

  ‘I hoped that I could get Captain Ridgeon on our side.’

  Tallis picked up the newspaper. ‘This is the result,’ he said. ‘The other result is that I am made to look foolish because I was unaware that you had paid a visit to the captain earlier. Do I have to remind you that there’s a chain of command here?’

  ‘It’s not possible to clear everything with you beforehand, sir,’ argued Colbeck. ‘Some decisions have to be made in response to a given situation. If I had to get your approval for every move I make, then my hands would be tied. That would be intolerable.’

  Tallis puffed on his cigar again, filling his lungs with the smoke before blowing it out again in a series of rings. He studied Colbeck in silence through the fug. While it was too much to ask him ever to like the man, he had to respect his achievements over the years. The Railway Detective’s record was unrivalled even if some of his methods were not endorsed by the superintendent. Nobody, however, was infallible. In trusting Captain Ridgeon, Colbeck had made a serious misjudgement. Tallis wondered if it was the only one.

  ‘Are you sure that crash was caused by someone?’ he said.

  ‘I’d stake every penny I possess on it,’ affirmed Colbeck.

  ‘The Detective Department does not take gambles, Inspector. We deal only in certainties. Give me some of them. How, for instance, have you spent today – after you left Captain Ridgeon, that is?’

  Colbeck told him about his visit to Chalk Farm and about the funeral card that had sent him haring off to Brighton. He said nothing about Madeleine Andrews, however, or her strange experience at the lectern in St Dunstan’s church. It was not relevant and it would only serve to inflame Tallis. Colbeck’s conclusion was that Horace Bardwell definitely had to be considered the most likely target of those who had caused the disaster on the Brighton line.

  ‘What does that tell you?’ asked Tallis.

  ‘Matthew Shanklin is a prime suspect,’ said Colbeck. ‘If, that is, my supposition is correct. Should Mr Thornhill’s death turn out to be the object of the crash, then Shanklin will be exonerated. I have grave doubts that that will happen.’

  ‘Why is that, Inspector?’

  ‘I told Victor to speak to him again.’

  He recounted the details of Leeming’s visit, stressing Shanklin’s reaction to the name of Dick Chiffney. The possession of a telescope was also viewed as strong evidence. He reminded the superintendent of Bardwell’s bitter remarks about Shanklin. Mutual hatred existed between the two men.

  ‘I think that Matthew Shanklin may well have sent the macabre message to the hospital,’ said Colbeck.

  ‘How can you prove that?’

  ‘I’ll compare his handwriting with that on the card, sir.’

  Resting his cigar in the astray, Tallis sat back pensively in his chair. Ever since he had entered the room, Colbeck had been waiting for him to explode and to unleash the kind of vituperation for which he was so well-known. Instead, he was unusually subdued. He had been sobered by the personal attack in the newspaper and was desperate for reassurance that the crime could indeed be solved before too long.

  ‘The first thing you must do,’ he said at length, ‘is to establish a connection between Shanklin and this other fellow, Chiffney.’

  ‘Victor is trying to do that at this moment, sir.’

  ‘Why – where is he?’

  ‘Somewhere in Chalk Farm,’ said Colbeck. ‘He’s keeping watch on the home of Josie Murlow.’

  Victor Leeming had retreated to the end of the street, feeling that he was too conspicuous if he stayed too long in the same place. He was still chiding himself for confusing one of Josie Murlow’s clients with Dick Chiffney. The confrontation with Luke Watts had made him feel stupid but he had at least learnt something about Chiffney. The man was ugly and cross-eyed. He wished he had known that before he accosted the wrong person. Leeming had lost all track of time. It seemed as if he had been there for hours and all he had seen of Josie was a fleeting glimpse. He began to despair of catching sight of her again and wondered if he should accept defeat and leave.

  He decided to stroll down the street for the last time, taking a final look at the house from close quarters before quitting his vigil. Hands thrust into his pockets and head down, he walked slowly along and hoped that his next assignment would not be so boring and so fruitless. His feet were hurting, his shoulders were aching and the smell from his coat was increasingly offensive. He longed to get back into clean clothing once more.

  Leeming was only twenty yards from the hovel when a small boy ran past him to slip an envelope through the letterbox before dashing away. Within a matter of minutes, the door opened and out stepped Josie Murlow. He did not recognise her at first. She had been transformed. Wearing a dark dress that verged on respectability, she had somehow tamed her hair, swept it up and hidden it completely beneath her hat. She moved along with a measure of dignity. If he had not known her true calling, he would have taken her for a servant from a large establishment.

  He felt a stab of fear, thinking that she would recognise him but Josie did not even glance in his direction. Wherever s
he was going, she was eager to get there, ignoring everything else on the way. It made it much easier for Leeming to follow her. Turning at the corner, she went on down the main road, never once looking over her shoulder. Leeming was tingling with excitement. He believed she had received word from Chiffney and was going to meet him. All of his recriminations vanished. His visit to Chalk Farm had, after all, been supremely worthwhile.

  Given her size, Josie could not walk fast but she kept up a reasonable speed as she picked her way through pedestrians coming towards her. After going for a couple of hundred yards, she turned into a side-road and continued on her way. Leeming came around the corner, checked that she was not looking back then kept up his pursuit. Confident that she was leading him to a main suspect in the investigation, he squeezed the handcuffs in his pocket, certain that they would be needed on Chiffney. A man ruthless enough to bring an express train off the rails was unlikely to surrender meekly. Even the presence of Josie did not deter Leeming now. If necessary, he would take them both on.

  She eventually stopped outside the Shepherd and Shepherdess, an incongruous name for a public house in an urban district. Then, for the first time, she turned round. Leeming took evasive action, diving sideways into an alleyway. When he peeped around the corner, he saw that Josie was walking further on. He tried to follow her but it was in vain. Before he even stepped back out into the road, he was hit on the back of head and plunged helplessly into unconsciousness.

  Dick Chiffney unlocked the door and hustled her into the bedroom. Josie Murlow was so pleased at their reunion that she threw her arms around him and held him tight. Taking off her hat, he let her hair cascade down then kissed her full on the lips. It was minutes before they finally broke apart.

  ‘I was beginning to think you’d run out on me again,’ she said.

  ‘I gave you my promise I’d send for you.’

  ‘Where did you spend last night?’

  ‘Right here,’ he said, indicating the room. ‘This house belongs to an old friend. He let me in as a favour.’

  ‘Why didn’t you send for me earlier?’

  ‘I had someone to see, Josie – the gentleman I’m working for.’

  ‘Has he paid you yet?’

  ‘I have to do the job first.’

  ‘Well, be quick about it, Dick,’ she urged. ‘The police are sniffing about. I had another one banging on my door today. They want you.’

  ‘That’s why I took precautions.’

  ‘Them instructions you give me, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, Josie. I had a feeling you might be followed. My note told you to stop at the Shepherd and Shepherdess to look round.’

  ‘I saw nobody,’ she said. ‘Not a bleeding soul.’

  ‘Well, I did,’ he said with a chuckle, taking out his pistol, ‘and I give him a sore head with this.’ He mimed the action of striking with the butt of the weapon. ‘That will teach him not to mess with Dick Chiffney.’

  Josie was anxious. ‘Where did you get that gun?’

  ‘The gentleman give it to me.’

  ‘What for – you’re not going to shoot someone, are you?’

  ‘I told you before, Josie – you don’t need to know what’s going on. I’ve got a job to do, that’s all. When it’s done, I get the rest of the money and I can hand back both of the guns.’

  ‘Both of them?’ she echoed.

  ‘I’ve got this as well,’ he boasted, lifting the overhanging coverlet to reveal the rifle under the bed. She gasped in alarm. ‘Don’t get so upset, my old darling,’ he said, letting the coverlet go and putting an arm around her. ‘Everything will be all right.’

  ‘What have you got yourself into, Dick?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ she said. ‘You told me that there was no danger at all then I get two detectives coming to my house. When I try to leave it, I’m followed by someone.’

  ‘He was a police spy, Josie.’

  ‘That’s dreadful! I don’t want policemen camped outside my house, watching everything I do. What will happen now that you attacked the man following me?’ A worrying thought struck her. ‘You didn’t kill him, did you?’

  ‘No,’ he said, airily, ‘I didn’t hit him hard enough. I should’ve done really. The more coppers we can get rid of, the better.’ He took her by the shoulders. ‘Try to stay calm, my love,’ he urged. ‘I’m doing this for us.’

  ‘All you’ve done so far is to bring the law down on me and I’m scared. What’s happening, Dick? I don’t like being kept in the dark. Most of all,’ she went on, ‘I don’t like having my house watched.

  ‘Then you’ve no need to go back there, Josie.’

  ‘Where else can I go?’

  ‘You can stay here, my darling,’ he said, nodding at the flagon on the table, ‘for the time being, anyway. We’ve got plenty of gin and a nice big bed – what more do we need?’

  When he regained consciousness, Victor Leeming found himself lying on the ground in an alleyway close to some animal excrement. His face and body had been bruised in the fall and his head felt as if it were about to explode. It took him a little while to work out what had happened. His thick cap had prevented a bad scalp wound, leaving him with a large bump that throbbed insistently. Most people who had passed by took him for a drunk who had passed out. Nobody came to his aid. It was only when he dragged himself painfully to his feet that an old man stopped to help him.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, looking at the grazes on his face.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Leeming, wincing at the pain. ‘Find a policeman.’

  ‘You stay here.’

  When the old man went off, Leeming leant against the wall for support, annoyed that he had let himself be caught off guard. He took off his cap and ran a hand gingerly over the bump on his head. The assault had not been the work of a thief. Nothing had been taken from his pockets. Given the fact that Leeming was trailing Josie Murlow, the most likely assailant, he guessed, was Dick Chiffney.

  A policeman eventually arrived and was astonished when he heard that the scruffy man in the alleyway was a detective sergeant. He hailed a cab on Leeming’s behalf, helped him into it and told the driver to go to Scotland Yard as fast as he could. The juddering movement of the carriage made Leeming’s head pound even more and the clatter of the horse’s hooves resounded painfully in his eardrums. He could not wait to reach his destination.

  By the time he finally got to Colbeck’s office, he was still a little unsteady on his feet. Colbeck took charge at once, sitting him down, pouring him a glass of whisky from a bottle concealed in his desk then gently bathing his face with cold water.

  ‘I hate to send you home to your wife in this state,’ he said.

  ‘Estelle is used to seeing me with a few bruises, sir,’ said Leeming, bravely. ‘Her father was a policeman, remember. She knows that it’s a dangerous job.’

  ‘You were lucky, Victor.’

  ‘I don’t feel lucky.’

  ‘No,’ said Colbeck, sympathetically, ‘I’m sure you don’t but it could have been far worse. If you were knocked out, somebody might have taken the opportunity to inflict serious wounds. Tell me exactly what happened.’

  ‘I’m not certain that I remember it all, Inspector.’

  After another restorative drink of whisky, Leeming gave a halting account of his time outside Josie Murlow’s house, recalling his folly in accosting Luke Watts and his lack of concentration when he stepped into the alleyway. Colbeck seized on one detail.

  ‘The boy delivered a warning to the house,’ he decided. ‘Josie Murlow was told that she should take a particular route so that anyone following her could be seen. She was probably told to look back outside that public house so that you would instinctively try to hide somewhere. Someone was waiting for you.’

  ‘I think it was Dick Chiffney.’

  ‘There’s a strong possibility that i
t was, Victor.’

  ‘Then I need to go back and search for him,’ said Leeming. ‘I have a score to settle with Chiffney.’

  ‘The only place you’re going this evening,’ said Colbeck, ‘is home to Estelle. You need rest. My advice is that you don’t buy a newspaper on the way there.’

  ‘Why not, sir?’

  Colbeck told him about the article concerning the train crash and how Tallis had responded to it. He also talked about the visit to Brighton where he had spoken to Horace Bardwell and learnt more about his relationship with Matthew Shanklin. Leeming was cynical.

  ‘One of them is lying, Inspector,’ he argued. ‘Mr Shanklin reckons that Mr Bardwell is a crook yet you heard him claim that Mr Shanklin is the troublemaker. Which one should we believe?’

  ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve talked to Mr Shanklin tomorrow.’

  ‘At least, we know one thing for certain. The target of the train crash was Horace Bardwell.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, Victor,’ admitted Colbeck, ‘but I’ve been forced to reconsider. In the last hour, we received another message from Giles Thornhill – someone tried to kill him earlier today.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  There was still good light when Madeleine Andrews arrived home so she began work at her easel immediately. Though she did her best to concentrate, however, her mind kept straying back to the excursion she had been on with Colbeck. She still could not understand why he wished her to meet the Rector of St Dunstan’s, nor could she see why she had been asked to read a specific passage from the Bible. Colbeck had not explained his theory about the choice. Madeleine did not expect him to divulge details of his cases to her because she had no right or need to know them but there were times – this was one of them – when his reticence was irritating. She wanted to know exactly what he had meant.