‘I cure men’s souls rather than their bodies so I can lay claim to being a medical man of sorts. We’ve travelled on the Brighton Express a number of times, Mr Bardwell, and exchanged a nod of greeting. I am Ezra Follis, by the way, Rector of St Dunstan’s. I’m trying to speak to everyone with whom I shared a carriage yesterday.’
Bardwell was bewildered. ‘Yesterday?’
‘Our train collided with another one.’
‘I remember nothing of that.’
‘Then a hideous memory has been kindly wiped from your mind by a benign Almighty. I wish that I, too, could forget it.’
‘I’m hurting all over,’ bleated Bardwell.
‘The doctor will give you something to soothe the pain.’
‘But how did I get it in the first place and why can’t I see?’
Follis knew the answers to both questions. Before talking to the patient, he had checked on his condition with a member of the medical staff. Bardwell had been unfortunate. Apart from taking punishment to his head and body, he had been blinded. Though a doctor had tried to explain to him the full extent of his injuries, Bardwell had been hopelessly unable to understand. Touched by the man’s plight, Follis sought only to offer solace and companionship. He talked softly until Bardwell drifted off to sleep again then offered up a prayer for the man’s recovery.
As he left the ward, he saw an imposing figure striding towards him. Colbeck recognised the wounded clergyman and introduced himself, explaining his reason for being there. Follis was surprised and deeply upset to hear that someone might have deliberately caused the accident.
‘That’s unforgivable!’ he exclaimed.
‘I agree, sir.’
‘It’s utterly sinful! Look at the devastation that was caused. I cannot believe that any human being could be capable of such wanton cruelty. So many lives were lost or wrecked.’
‘What you did yesterday was truly impressive,’ said Colbeck, recalling his visit to the site. ‘Though you had injuries of your own, you still found the strength and willpower to help others.’
Follis smiled. ‘I found nothing, Inspector,’ he argued, hand on heart. ‘In my hour of need, God came to my aid and enabled me to do what I did. As for my own scratches, they are very minor compared to the injuries of other passengers. Being so short and slight has its advantage. When the crash occurred, I presented a very small target.’
‘That should have made no difference.’
‘It’s an incontrovertible fact. Look at Mr Bardwell, for instance.’
‘Would that be Horace Bardwell?’
‘The very same,’ confirmed Follis, nodding. ‘He must be a foot taller and almost three times my size. In other words, there was more of him to hit. That’s why he suffered so badly.’ He sucked in air through his teeth. ‘In addition to his many other injuries, alas, the poor fellow has lost his sight.’
‘That must be very distressing for him.’
‘It will be when he finally comprehends it.’
‘Oh?’
‘Mr Bardwell doesn’t know what day it is, Inspector. I’ve just spent time at his bedside, trying to talk to him. His mind is so befuddled that it’s impossible to establish any real contact. When the truth does eventually dawn on him,’ he added with a sigh, ‘it will come as a thunderbolt.’
‘I was hoping to speak to Mr Bardwell myself,’ said Colbeck.
‘He’ll hear precious little of what you say.’
‘The doctor seemed to think he was slightly better today.’
‘Only in the sense that he is much more alive,’ said Follis. ‘Had you seen him immediately after the crash, you’d have thought he was at death’s door. Happily, he survived and his body will heal in time. Whether or not his mind will also heal is another matter.’
Follis stood aside so that the detective could see into the ward. The clergyman pointed Bardwell out. Since the patient’s eyes were covered by a bandage, it was difficult to determine if he was asleep but his body was motionless. Colbeck glanced around the ward and saw that everyone else there had serious injuries.
‘How many of them will make a complete recovery?’ he asked.
‘None of them, Inspector,’ said Follis. ‘The memory of the crash will be like a red-hot brand burnt into their brain. It will torture them for the rest of their lives.’
‘Have there been any more fatalities?’
‘Two people have died here in hospital.’
‘That will bring the total number to eight.’
‘I fear that it will climb higher than that.’ He noticed movement in Bardwell’s bed. ‘I fancy that he may be stirring again, Inspector. This may be your only chance to speak to him but be prepared for a disappointment.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s in a world of his own.’
Colbeck thanked him for his advice and went into the ward. A nurse was bending over one patient, trying to coax him to drink. In another bed, a man was coughing uncontrollably. A third patient was groaning aloud. Attended by a nurse, a doctor was examining someone in the far corner. When he eventually stood up, the doctor shook his head sadly and the nurse pulled the bed sheet over the patient’s face. Another victim of the crash had passed away.
Sitting beside Bardwell, Colbeck touched his shoulder.
‘Are you awake, Mr Bardwell?’ he enquired.
‘Who are you?’ muttered the other.
‘My name is Detective Inspector Colbeck and I’m investigating the crash that took place on the Brighton line yesterday.’
‘Give me something to take this pain away.’
‘I’m not a doctor, sir.’
‘What’s this crash you mentioned?’
‘You were on the train at the time, Mr Bardwell.’
‘Was I?’
‘That’s how you received your injuries.’
‘My mind is a blank,’ said Bardwell, piteously.
‘You must remember something.’
‘It’s all a blur. I feel as if I’ve broken every bone in my body. My head is on fire and I’ve got something tied over my eyes.’
‘You need rest, sir.’
‘I want a doctor.’
‘I’ll call one in a moment,’ Colbeck promised. ‘I just want to ask you one thing.’ Raising his voice, he spoke with deliberate slowness. ‘Do you recall a Matthew Shanklin?’
The question produced an instant reply. Bardwell let out a gasp of horror and his body started to twitch violently. Colbeck held him down with gentle hands until the convulsions had ceased. Then he summoned a doctor. His conversation with Bardwell had been brief but, as he left the hospital, Colbeck felt that his journey to Brighton had not been in vain.
Matthew Shanklin had been out of work for a couple of months before finding another post. Discharged by one railway company, he was now employed by another and it was in the main office of the London and North West Railway that Leeming tracked him down that evening. Shanklin gave him a guarded welcome. He was a bald-headed man in his forties, short, thin and stooping. On the desk in front of him were piles of documents.
‘You’re working late this evening, sir,’ observed Leeming.
‘I have no control over my hours, Sergeant,’ said Shanklin, coldly. ‘In my previous situation, I had a more senior position and a degree of autonomy. That, I regret to say, is no longer the case.’
‘It’s your previous job that brought me here, Mr Shanklin.’
‘What do you mean?’
