Murder on the Brighton Express

by Edward Marston

  All that she could do was to walk, watch, rest and take occasional refreshment. Josie saw the Royal Pavilion, the town hall, the assembly rooms, the baths, the theatre and some of the finest hotels in the kingdom. She waddled through the Lanes, the oldest quarter of the town, a rabbit warren of narrow, twisting, brick paved passages lined with fisherman’s cottages. She was also astounded by the number of schools, almshouses, infirmaries and other charities. Brighton was a fine town in which to live. It was not, however, the ideal place to visit in tight clothing on a summer’s day.

  Whenever she stopped to take tea at a small restaurant or sat down from exhaustion on a bench, a compassionate citizen would offer his or her condolences and oblige her to invent either a dead husband whom she had never had, a mother whom she did not, in fact, remember or – by way of variation – a daughter who had been knocked down in London by a runaway horse. While she got some cruel amusement out of deceiving people so plausibly, it did not atone for the pain and boredom from which she was suffering.

  She struggled back to the railway station three times in a row, intending to abandon her scheme and return to London. What held her back on each occasion was the thought that her efforts would have come to nought. Josie had gone to Brighton to be there when Chiffney committed murder and created a happy life for them. She had fantasies about intercepting him at the station, or even travelling on the same train as him without revealing her identity until they reached London. Even now, as the early evening brought no relief from the heat, she somehow felt that she had to stay until he came.

  Dick Chiffney was her man. They belonged together.

  Heinrich Freytag caused no trouble. Though he continued to rail against Giles Thornhill, he made no attempt to escape. Accepting that his plan had failed, he was resigned to his fate. After charging him, Colbeck and Leeming were driven into Brighton so that their prisoner could be placed in custody at the police station. The landau then returned to Thornhill’s estate, leaving the detectives still in the town. Leeming could not understand Colbeck’s desire to attend the meeting.

  ‘It’s the last thing I’d wish to do, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to hear Mr Thornhill talking down his beaky nose at me.’

  ‘Yes, he has cultivated a patrician air, hasn’t he?’

  ‘If you stay for the meeting, you’ll have to catch a later train.’

  ‘I’m in no hurry to get back to Scotland Yard,’ Colbeck confided. ‘The superintendent is relying on good news from Brighton.’

  ‘We arrested a man for attempted murder.’

  ‘But he had nothing to do with the train crash.’

  ‘Mr Tallis should be impressed by what we did, Inspector.’

  ‘Not when we’re under siege from the press. The only thing that would impress him is the capture of Dick Chiffney. That will get us favourable headlines in the newspapers and force Captain Ridgeon to eat some humble pie. We’ll have to begin a new search for Chiffney tomorrow. Meanwhile,’ Colbeck went on, ‘there’s no need for you to stay here, Victor. I’m sure you’d much rather get home to your family.’

  ‘I would, sir – thank you.’

  ‘We’ll share a cab and it can drop you off at the railway station.’

  Leeming was able for once to look forward to a train journey. It would take him back to his wife and children without the intervening torment of delivering a report to Edward Tallis. They hailed a cab and climbed into it. The horse set off at a steady trot in the direction of the station, its hooves clip-clopping on the hard surface. Colbeck was preoccupied. It was the sergeant who eventually spoke.

  ‘I’m sorry that we gained nothing at all from our visit,’ he said.

  ‘But we did,’ said Colbeck with amusement. ‘If nothing else, we discovered an alternative career for you. Mr Thornhill will always readily employ you as a gardener.’

  ‘No, he won’t – pulling out those weeds made my back ache.’

  ‘I was only joking. You’re too good a detective to lose.’

  ‘I don’t feel that I’ve been at my best in this investigation, sir.’

  ‘That’s largely my fault, Victor.’

  ‘I don’t agree with that,’ said Leeming. ‘You put us on the right track from the very start.’

  ‘Your loyalty is gratifying,’ said Colbeck, ‘but the truth is that I made mistakes. A moment ago, I was just thinking about a painting that Madeleine is working on at present. The subject is the Round House. I fancy it might have relevance to our present situation.’

  ‘Well, I can’t see the slightest connection.’

  ‘Inside the Round House is a turntable. Locomotives go in one way and come out the other. We failed to do that, Victor. Once we decided to go one particular way, we pressed on regardless in the same direction. What we really needed,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘was a sort of mental turntable – something that rotated our minds so that we viewed this crime in a different way.’

  ‘I wish I knew what you meant, Inspector,’ said Leeming.

  ‘We were too blinkered,’ admitted Colbeck. ‘Once we concluded that the train crash was a vengeful act against a single individual, we set about looking for possible targets. Horace Bardwell was an obvious possibility.’

  ‘And so was Giles Thornhill.’

  ‘Yet in both cases we were misled. It’s time to get on a turntable and swing round so that we can look at the situation from another angle. It’s something for you to think about on the train.’

  ‘I would if I had a clue what you were talking about, sir.’ The cab drew up outside the station. Leeming was on the point of getting out when he saw someone and stiffened. ‘It can’t be her,’ he said, staring at a figure walking towards the entrance. ‘And yet it looks so much like her.’ He pointed a finger. ‘Do you see that woman, Inspector?

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I think it’s Josie Murlow.’

  ‘No,’ said Colbeck, studying her. ‘She might have the same shape but what would Josie Murlow be doing in mourning?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, sir, but that’s definitely her. I’d put money on it.’

  ‘I can’t be that certain, Victor.’

  ‘That’s because you didn’t walk behind her for as long as I did,’ said Leeming. ‘I’d know that rolling gait of hers anywhere.’

  At that moment, the woman turned around and lifted her black veil so that she could dab at her forehead with a handkerchief. It was all the confirmation the two detectives needed.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Colbeck, excitedly. ‘It is Josie Murlow.’

  ‘Why has she come to Brighton?’

  ‘I don’t know but I suspect that Chiffney won’t be too far away. We must have a change of plan. Instead of going home, I think you should stay and watch her. I hope you don’t mind, Victor.’

  ‘I’d insist on it, sir,’ said Leeming with enthusiasm. ‘If it’s a choice between watching her and sitting on a train trying to put my brain on a turntable, I know which one I’d prefer.’

  ‘Make sure you’re not caught unawares this time.’

  ‘Chiffney won’t be allowed to creep up on me twice. Anyway, he doesn’t know what I look like. I was in disguise when he hit me.’

  ‘Josie Murlow might recognise you.’

  ‘How well can she see through that black veil?’

  ‘Take no chances.’

  ‘I promise you that she won’t lay eyes on me,’ said Leeming, confidently, ‘until I have to arrest her, that is.’

  Ezra Follis had had a burdensome day but he only allowed himself a nap late in the afternoon. As soon as he woke up, he prepared to go out. Mrs Ashmore came into the drawing room of the rectory as he was putting on his hat in front of the mirror.

  ‘You’re never going to that meeting at the town hall, are you?’ she said with disapproval.

  ‘That’s exactly where I’m going, Mrs Ashmore.’

  ‘But I thought they didn’t need you any more.’

  ‘They always need me – especially if Gile
s Thornhill is speaking. The good people of Brighton need someone to talk common sense. They’ll certainly get none from the platform.’

  ‘You’d be far better off resting, Mr Follis.’

  ‘I can’t rest while that man is preaching his vile gospel,’ said Follis, resolutely. ‘I’ll heckle him every inch of the way.’

  She was concerned. ‘I don’t want you to get into trouble again.’

  ‘Don’t fret about me, Mrs Ashmore,’

  ‘I’m bound to fret,’ she said. ‘Mr Thornhill has too many friends in high places. He can turn them against you. I haven’t forgotten the last time you went to a meeting of his.’

  Follis cackled. ‘Neither have I,’ he said, gleefully. ‘I challenged almost every statement he made that evening and got loud applause for doing so.’

  ‘But look what happened afterwards. Mr Thornhill made sure that nasty things were written about you in the newspapers and he reported you to the bishop. You were warned.’

  ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times the bishop has warned me and I daresay that he’s done so as well. There are times when the Church of England must speak out, Mrs Ashmore. We shouldn’t stand by when an elected Member of Parliament is using his position to incite hatred and distort people’s minds. We must fight against bigots like Thornhill.’ He took her by the hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, gently. ‘I shouldn’t bore you with my opinions. You know them well enough by now.’

  ‘I know them and I respect them,’ said the housekeeper, ‘but they do worry me sometimes.’

  Ellen Ashmore was disturbed. While she admired the rector for his outspokenness, she feared its consequences. He was always being given severe reprimands from the bishop and urged to amend his behaviour. Only that morning, the dean had come to remonstrate with him yet again. Hearing the two men argue, the housekeeper could not resist putting her ear to the door of the drawing room. Though she could not pick up every word, she heard enough to alarm her. The dean was chastising Follis over an article he had written about what he perceived as the shortcomings of the Church. If he did not recant, the Rector of St Dunstan’s was threatened with the loss of his living.

  ‘I’d hate to leave here,’ she confessed.

  ‘There’s no reason why you should,’ he assured her.

  She gave a pained smile. ‘When my husband died,’ she recalled, ‘I thought that I’d never be happy again. But you rescued me, Mr Follis. You taught me that I had to go on. It was almost as if I was dead and you brought me back to life. I’ll never forget that.’

  ‘I’ve been amply rewarded by your service to me.’

  ‘I’d do anything for you, sir. You must know that.’

  ‘You’ve been a rock, Mrs Ashmore,’ he said. ‘You’re much more than a housekeeper to me. You’re a friend, a companion, a nurse and I don’t know what else. When the world turns against me – or when the bishop admonishes me – I always have you to offer love and support. That means a great deal to me.’

  She was deeply moved. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Your devotion has been heartening.’

  ‘I don’t ever want to leave this place.’

  ‘We shall both have to leave one day,’ he said, cheerily, ‘when old age prevents me from climbing up into that pulpit. This rectory has been a source of continuing joy to me but that will not go on forever. In the fullness of time, I shall have to retire.’

  ‘Where will you go, sir?’ she asked, apprehensively. ‘I know that you have a house in London and that you own property here as well. Will you stay in Brighton?’

  Follis was struck by the combination of tenderness and hope in her eyes. Within her limitations, she had been a godsend to him. When he had lost his previous housekeeper, Follis did not think he would ever find anyone as compatible and understanding. In Ellen Ashmore, he had done just that. Removing his hat, he laid it on the table then he took her by the shoulders to pull her close.

  ‘Wherever I go,’ he promised, ‘you’ll come with me.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’ she cried with delight.

  ‘Of course, I do. We’ve been through so much together that I’ll never part with you now. You’re mine, Ellen – you always will be.’

  Then he kissed her full on the lips.

  Dick Chiffney was determined not to fail this time. There was far too much at stake. All that he had to do was to fire one shot and make his escape. That would not be difficult. The town hall was close to the Lanes, the labyrinth of passageways built way back in the seventeenth century. Chiffney had familiarised himself with the quarter. There would be lots of people outside the town hall but, in the confusion caused by the gunshot, he felt confident of getting away through the Lanes. His employer would be there to watch the murder take place. Once he saw that the victim was dead, he would meet Chiffney at the railway station and pay him the agreed amount. The two men would never see each other again.

  A single criminal act could secure Chiffney’s future. While the crowd was still clustered around the dead man outside the town hall, he would be running for an express train. Back in London, he would shower Josie Murlow with money. She had finally accepted that what he was doing was for the benefit of both of them. Any scruples she had about the way his payment was obtained had now vanished. Chiffney and she were accomplices, drawn together by lust and united by someone else’s death. They were well-matched.

  People had already started to arrive for the meeting. Outside the town hall, a magnificent edifice with a classical façade, was a poster bearing the name of Giles Thornhill. Dozens of citizens wanted to know his opinion about the future of Brighton. Since the advent of the railways, it had become a much larger and more boisterous place than hitherto, invaded by holidaymakers in the warmer months. There were many residents who disliked this regular influx of what they saw as the lower orders and they wondered if their Member of Parliament could do something about it.

  Chiffney knew nothing of politics. Since he would never have a vote, he took no interest in who actually ran the country. He had never even heard of Thornhill but was impressed by the size of the audience that the man was drawing. That pleased Chiffney. The bigger the crowd in the street, the greater would be the commotion. When the pistol went off, everyone would be too busy trying to take cover to notice him haring off to the Lanes. Shoot, run, collect his money – it was as simple and straightforward as that. All fear had left him now. He was supremely ready.

  Knowing the direction from which his target would arrive, he positioned himself in a doorway and used the telescope to scrutinise each cab that approached and each group of people coming on foot. The man he wanted was nowhere to be seen. Time was slowly running out. It would not be long before the meeting started. Chiffney began to worry that his victim might not turn up. It was absurd. He had seen the man half-a-dozen times during the day yet had been unable to shoot. Now that he was eager to pull the trigger, he had no target.

  Cold fear seized him. He might not, after all, have the chance to earn his reward. At the last moment, Chiffney had been thwarted. He had been misinformed. The man was not coming. He had cheated death. Just as he was about to give up all hope, he saw another cab turn into the road. Even with the telescope, he could not identify its occupant but he somehow knew that his target had come. Stuffing the telescope into his pocket, he unbuttoned his coat so that he could put his hand around the pistol. It was already loaded. Murder was only seconds away.

  The cab drew up outside the town hall and a man got out. He reached up to pay the driver. Chiffney darted across to him with the pistol drawn. He got within yards of the dapper figure.

  ‘Ezra Follis?’ he shouted.

  ‘Yes,’ said Follis, turning. ‘Who wants me?’

  ‘I do!’

  Chiffney fired the gun and saw him recoil as the bullet struck him. Before the rector had even hit the ground, his attacker was running away as fast as his legs would carry him.

  Robert Colbeck was inside the town hall when
he heard the gunshot and the screams that followed it. Rushing out into the road, he saw people sheltering in doorways or crouched down on their knees. Right in front of him was a small group of men, bending over a body on the pavement. Colbeck went over to them and saw Ezra Follis, his face contorted with agony as he clutched the wound in his shoulder. Colbeck took charge at once.

  ‘Someone fetch a doctor!’ he ordered. As a man hurried off, Colbeck took out a handkerchief, put it over the wound. ‘Press down on this to stem the bleeding,’ he told one of the bystanders before speaking to Follis. ‘Can you hear me, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector,’ murmured Follis.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Thornhill stopped me going to the meeting.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what happened,’ said one of the men. ‘The Reverend Follis got out a cab when someone jumped forward and shot him.’

  ‘Is that correct?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Follis. ‘It was over in an instant.’

  ‘Can you describe the man?’

  ‘He was as ugly as sin, Inspector. He had the face of Satan.’

  ‘Dick Chiffney!’ said Colbeck to himself.

  Victor Leeming had kept her under observation from behind the newspaper he had bought at the railway station. Josie Murlow was seated on a bench from which she could see the main entrance. Every so often, she glanced up at the clock. When a train came in, she got up as if about to catch it. At the last moment, however, she changed her mind and went back to the bench. Leeming could not see her face but he could sense her irritation. The train pulled out and she watched it go. Seeing her distracted, the sergeant drifted closer to the entrance so that he would be in a better position to intercept Chiffney.

  In the event, it was not Dick Chiffney who came but Colbeck. A cab came towards the station with the horse at a gallop. When the animal was reined in by the driver, the cab came to an abrupt halt and out leapt Colbeck. After handing some coins to the driver, he strode briskly over to Leeming.