‘Has he come yet, Victor?’ he asked. ‘Is Chiffney here?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then he will be any minute. He’s just shot the Reverend Follis.’
‘Never!’
‘Chiffney escaped on foot, apparently, so I’ll have overtaken him in the cab. Besides, he won’t run all the way here for fear of arousing suspicion.’
‘How do we know he’s coming to the station?’
‘Josie Murlow is waiting for him. I’ll wager that’s why she’s in Brighton today.’ He glanced around. ‘Let’s separate so that he has to pass between us.’
‘Yes, Inspector,’ said Leeming, pleased at the prospect of action.
‘Don’t move until I give the signal. With luck, he might even make contact with his paymaster. We can arrest both of them.’
‘Mr Tallis may yet have good news from Brighton.’
‘Take up your position, Victor, and be very careful.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Chiffney is armed.’
They parted company and moved to either side of the entrance. Both had their backs to Josie so there was no danger of their being recognised. People were streaming into the station and going to their respective platforms. None of them realised what was about to happen. The detectives did not have long to wait. As more people converged on the terminus, Colbeck and Leeming both noticed the strapping man with a hunted look. The pronounced squint and the hideous face left them in no doubt. It was Dick Chiffney.
They let him walk past them into the station. He was tense and agitated, looking around with great anxiety as if expecting to see someone. What the detectives could not understand was why he ignored Josie Murlow and why she made no attempt to speak to him. Chiffney’s interest was in someone else but that person was nowhere to be seen. He became desperate, breaking into a trot as he searched every corner of the station, bumping into people in his haste. As he looped back towards the entrance, Colbeck and Leeming could see the sweat glistening on his face.
Josie Murlow was on her feet now, watching him as intently as the detectives yet hesitating to approach him. Seeing the anguished state he was in, she held back. When she heard another train clanking towards the station, she looked over her shoulder. Chiffney also registered it, torn between wanting to find someone and needing to escape from Brighton. Colbeck had waited long enough. Whoever Chiffney had expected was obviously not there. It was time to strike.
Colbeck gave the signal and both detectives started to move towards Chiffney. Their determination was so evident and their walk so purposeful that they gave themselves away. An innate sense of survival made Chiffney look up at them. He was a killer on the run and he knew he must not be taken. As they got within ten yards, he pulled out the pistol and brandished it.
‘Keep back,’ he said, ‘or I’ll shoot.’
‘You can’t kill both of us with one bullet,’ said Colbeck, calmly. ‘In any case, you can’t shoot straight, Mr Chiffney. You only managed to hit the Reverend Follis in the shoulder.’
Chiffney was in a panic. They not only knew his name, they were aware of his crime. Worst of all, he had not killed his target. That explained why the man who had retained him was not there. He would never pay Chiffney for a bungled murder.
Colbeck extended a palm. ‘Hand the gun over, sir,’ he said.
‘If you come any closer,’ warned Chiffney, ‘I’ll kill you.’
‘I doubt very much if you’ve had time to reload in the rush to get here. Now, are you going to hand it over or shall we take it from you?’
Chiffney looked helplessly down at the weapon, confirming that it was not loaded. When he saw Leeming edging forward, he flung the pistol at him and caught him in the chest. The sergeant reeled back in pain. Colbeck stayed long enough to make sure that Leeming was not seriously injured. He then looked up to see Chiffney running away. Discarding his top hat, Colbeck gave chase. He was not simply after a man who had shot Ezra Follis. He was pursuing a callous villain who had deliberately caused a train crash that led to many deaths. It put extra speed into Colbeck’s legs.
The crowd parted as the two men hurtled across the station. Realising that he might soon be caught, and wearied from his earlier run through the Lanes, Chiffney tried to elude Colbeck by jumping down on to the track. He was oblivious to the fact that the oncoming train was now steaming towards the platform. Josie Murlow saw the danger only too clearly. Throwing back her veil, she yelled at the top of her voice.
‘Look out, Dick – the train is coming!’
Intended to save his life, the warning actually condemned him to death. Chiffney was so astonished to hear her voice that he stood still and turned around. When he saw her dressed in black, he was utterly bewildered. He had no idea what Josie was doing there in such unlikely attire. By the time he tried to move, it was too late. Tripping over the rail in his urgency, he fell directly across the path of the locomotive. Its large, merciless, revolving, cast-iron wheels sliced through him and rolled on uncaringly past the blood-covered remains.
Josie’s Murlow’s howl of despair reverberated around the whole station. Unwittingly, she had worn the appropriate dress, after all.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Coming off duty that evening, Caleb Andrews went straight home for once. Ordinarily, he would have joined his fireman for a drink in the tavern near Euston station but he chose to avoid the jocular company of other railwaymen. Since they knew of his friendship with Robert Colbeck, some of them were bound to tease him about the Railway Detective’s apparent failure and Andrews did not wish to give them that opportunity. He still had faith that Colbeck would prove that a crime had taken place and clear Frank Pike’s name in the process.
Even though natural light was fading, Madeleine was still at her easel when he got back. She broke off to give him a welcoming kiss.
‘Are you still working this late, Maddy?’
‘I enjoy it,’ she replied.
‘There’s not another woman in the whole country who’d look twice at the Round House,’ he said, inspecting the painting. He let out a whistle of admiration. ‘It’s good,’ he went on, ‘it’s very good. Your mother would’ve been so proud to know our little girl would grow up to be an artist.’
‘I’m not a real artist, Father.’
‘Yes, you are. You’re as good as any of them that hang their paintings in art galleries. This is one of your best,’ he went on, still gazing at it. ‘I’ve driven that locomotive more than once and I can see that you’ve got every single detail right.’
‘That’s why I’ve taken so much time over it.’
‘I wouldn’t mind putting it on the wall in here.’
‘There’s no chance of that, Father,’ she said. ‘This is a present for Robert – even though he doesn’t know it yet. It was Robert who really made me believe that I had some talent.’
‘I was the one who suggested taking you to the Round House,’ he reminded her. ‘By rights, that painting is mine.’
‘If you’re so fond of it, I’ll do a copy when I’ve finished this one.’
‘Why don’t you do a copy for Inspector Colbeck?’
‘He deserves the original.’
‘So do I, Maddy.’
It was only a token protest. Andrews pulled the newspaper from his pocket and unfolded it. He turned to the relevant page. By way of warning, he rolled his eyes.
‘I glanced at this before I left the station,’ he said, offering it to her. ‘There’s a cartoon about Inspector Colbeck.’
It was not a flattering one. Taking the newspaper, Madeleine looked at it with annoyance and concern. The cartoon depicted Colbeck, groping around a railway line in the gloom with a magnifying glass. There was a look of desperation on his face as he said “There must be a crime around here somewhere!” The caption was unkind – The Railway Detective Is Still In The Dark. Madeleine closed the paper angrily and thrust it back at her father.
‘It’s so spiteful,’ she complained. ‘This was
the newspaper that called him the Railway Detective in the first place. They were full of praise for him then. Have they forgotten all the cases he’s solved?’
‘Don’t get so upset, Maddy.’
‘I feel like writing a letter to the editor.’
‘He probably wouldn’t print it.’
‘Someone needs to stand up for Robert.’
‘Oh,’ said Andrews with a grin, ‘I think that Inspector Colbeck can do that for himself. He doesn’t need your help, Maddy. The press have thrown stones at him before and they never seem to hurt him.’
‘They hurt me,’ she said, ‘and I don’t like it.’
‘What I don’t like is the slur they’re casting on Frank Pike’s name. Unless that official report is shown up for the nonsense that it is, Frank will be blamed for the crash. I want the truth to come out.’
Madeleine was positive. ‘It will, Father,’ she said, ‘I’m sure. Robert won’t let us down. No matter how long it takes and no matter how much criticism he gets, Robert will carry on with the investigation until everything is brought to light.’
In the circumstances, Victor Leeming was happy to accompany Colbeck back to Scotland Yard. They had substantial progress to report and that would gladden even the flint heart of Edward Tallis. If there was approbation on offer, Leeming wanted his share of it. When the detectives entered the superintendent’s office, they were not met by the pungent odour of his cigars. The air in the room seemed fresh for a change. Tallis was standing at the window. He swung round to face them.
‘Don’t you dare tell me that you’ve drawn another blank,’ he said with quiet menace. ‘Bring some cheer into my life.’
‘I think we can contrive to do that, sir,’ said Colbeck, smoothly.
‘Yes,’ agreed Leeming. ‘We had an interesting day in Brighton.’
‘But did you make any arrests?’ asked Tallis.
‘We have two people in custody.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Inspector Colbeck will explain.’
‘I wish that somebody would. I need to hear good tidings.’
‘If you’d care to sit down,’ said Colbeck, ‘I’ll do my best to give them to you.’
After all three of them had taken a seat, Colbeck delivered his report with characteristic aplomb. The superintendent’s face was a block of ice that slowly melted into something recognisably human. A fleeting smile actually appeared beneath his moustache.
‘You captured the man who tried to shoot Mr Thornhill?’
‘Yes,’ replied Colbeck. ‘Strictly speaking, I was the person that Herr Freytag tried to kill and Victor was the arresting officer. He showed great bravery in tackling an armed man.’
‘Well done, Sergeant,’ said Tallis.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Leeming, savouring the moment.
‘As for that rogue, Dick Chiffney, death under the wheels of a locomotive was poetic justice. Now he knows what it’s like to be killed in a railway accident.’ His gaze shifted to Colbeck. ‘I take it that you got full details of the crime from this harlot of his.’
‘Not yet,’ said Colbeck. ‘Josie Murlow was in such a state of hysteria when we arrested her that we could get nothing coherent out of the woman. The only thing she admitted was that she was expecting Chiffney to make a lot of money in Brighton that day.’
‘Yes – by shooting the Reverend Follis.’
‘Why would anyone want to kill a clergyman?’ asked Leeming.
‘We’ll discover that when we catch Chiffney’s paymaster,’ said Colbeck. ‘As I told you, Victor, we were looking in the wrong direction. We thought that Mr Bardwell or Mr Thornhill had been the target on that express. Instead of looking at business and politics, we should have used a turntable and swung round to examine religion.’
Tallis was perplexed. ‘What’s this about a turntable?’
‘Don’t ask me, sir,’ said Leeming, helplessly.
‘It’s just a metaphor,’ explained Colbeck. ‘The thing we don’t yet have, of course, is the name of the man behind it all. It may be that Chiffney himself didn’t know it and neither does Josie Murlow. She swore that she had no idea who employed Chiffney.’
‘What about the Reverend Follis himself?’ asked Tallis. ‘Surely, he knows who his enemies are.’
‘He was unable to help us, Superintendent. By the time we’d finished at Brighton station, Mr Follis was in hospital, having the bullet taken out of his shoulder. Because he was in such pain,’ said Colbeck, ‘they’d used chloroform. I’ll speak to him tomorrow though it’s not certain that he’ll give us the name we want. In his own way, the Rector of St Dunstan’s has upset as many people as Mr Bardwell and Mr Thornhill put together. With so many people wishing him ill, he may have great difficulty identifying the right one.’
‘In short,’ said Tallis, glowering, ‘you have absolutely no clue as to who this man might be.’
‘That’s not true, sir. We have this.’ Colbeck opened the leather satchel he was carrying and took out a telescope. ‘Chiffney also had a weapon in his possession but it was crushed beneath the train. This, however,’ he continued, ‘was not damaged. As you can see, it’s a fine instrument and hardly the thing that Chiffney would own himself. It must have been loaned to him by his paymaster.’ He passed it over to Tallis, who extended it to its full length then inspected it. ‘That’s the best clue we have, Superintendent.’
‘It may be the only one we need,’ said Tallis, excitedly. ‘It’s got his name engraved on the side here – he’s a Mr Grampus.’
‘With respect, sir,’ said Colbeck, taking the telescope back from him, ‘Grampus is not the name of a man. It’s the name of a ship. Our suspect was in the navy.’
Word of the attempt on Ezra Follis’s life spread like wildfire around Brighton. Before he had even recovered from the effects of the chloroform, friends and well-wishers were calling at the county hospital. Sidney Weaver was the first there. Having been at the town hall for the meeting, he felt that he had a more dramatic event to report in the road outside. Ellen Ashmore and Amy Walcott were only two of the women who rushed to the hospital. Other female parishioners also wanted the latest news of their beloved rector. They joined the churchwardens, the verger and many others who tried to get to the victim’s bedside. A hospital already filled with survivors of the train crash was now even more overcrowded.
A senior doctor told them that the patient’s condition was now stable and that, in spite of a loss of blood, he was in no imminent danger. However, he insisted, Ezra Follis would not be strong enough to see anyone until the morning. Reluctantly, people slowly drifted away. The only person who lingered was the editor of the Brighton Gazette, wanting more detail about the seriousness of the injury so that he could include it in his newspaper report.
Giles Thornhill arrived later in the evening. Because of his status and because he had donated generously to the hospital coffers, his request to see the patient was treated with more respect. When told of his visitor, Follis, though still drowsy, nevertheless agreed to see him. Thornhill came into the ward and felt a pang of sympathy when he observed the clergyman’s condition. Heavily bandaged, Follis lay in bed with his face as white as the sheets covering him. He looked impossibly small and fragile. His voice was a mere croak.
‘I’m sorry I missed your talk,’ he said.
‘Half of the audience did so as well,’ said Thornhill, resignedly. ‘When they heard that someone was firing a gun outside, they got up and fled.’ There was the hint of a smile. ‘Was it a deliberate trick on your part to interrupt the meeting?’
‘Even I wouldn’t go to that extreme, Mr Thornhill.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m still in pain and feeling very sleepy.’
‘Then I won’t hold you up,’ said Thornhill. ‘I just wanted to say how sorry I am that this happened. It’s ironic that we have something in common at last.’
‘Yes,’ said Follis, ‘someone tried to kill you as well.’
‘The young man is now in custody. Inspector Colbeck set a trap for him and he fell into it. But yours is a very different case,’ he went on. ‘I was shot at from a distance. From what I gather, you were only yards away from the man who fired at you.’
‘Luckily, he was a bad shot. He was aiming at my head but the bullet hit my shoulder.’ Follis quivered at the memory. ‘It was like a red hot poker going into my flesh.’
‘I hope you make a complete recovery.’
‘Thank you, Mr Thornhill.’
‘Did you recognise the man?’
‘I’ve never seen him before in my life.’
‘What possible reason could he have to attack you?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Follis with weary humour. ‘My sermons are not that objectionable. It must have been someone with a grudge against religion, I suppose.’
‘The man who shot at me was driven by a grudge. It had become an obsession. He could think of nothing else. At least, I know that he’s safely under lock and key and has no accomplice. Unfortunately, that’s not the situation with you.’
‘I don’t follow you, Mr Thornhill.’
Well,’ said the other, ‘if your attacker escaped, he might come back to try again. Or he might have a confederate, sworn to the same foul purpose. Grudges never disappear – they get stronger with the passage of time. Acquire a bodyguard quickly,’ he urged. ‘You could be in serious danger.’
Follis felt as if the bullet had hit him all over again.
It was not the first time that Josie Murlow had spent the night in a police cell. On previous occasions, however, she had been hauled before a magistrate, fined then released. Legal process would take a very different route this time. Until her trial, she would remain behind bars. She had spent a miserable night, alternately bemoaning her fate and raging against the men who had, in her opinion, driven Dick Chiffney to his grotesque death. Her temper was fiery. When she was given food, she hurled it back at the policeman who had brought it.
Murder on the Brighton Express Page 23