It might constitute a third death threat.’ He gave Leeming a playful pat on the shoulder. ‘While I travel to the south coast again, you can search for the other people whose names on our list – Jack Rye and Dick Chiffney. Do you have addresses for them?’
‘Yes, Inspector,’ said Leeming. ‘They both live in London.’
‘That will save you the ordeal of a train journey then.’
‘Thank the Lord for small mercies!’
‘I’ll speak to Mr Thornhill and, while I’m in Brighton, I might even take the opportunity to call on the Reverend Ezra Follis.’ He moved to the door. ‘Off we go, Victor. We must not slacken the pace.’
‘One moment, sir,’ said Leeming, blocking his path, ‘I wonder if I might ask your advice on a personal matter.’
‘What is it?’
‘Estelle’s birthday is only a week away but I’ve no idea what I should buy her. Do you have any suggestions?’
‘I know what your wife would appreciate most.’
‘Well?’
‘The company of her loving husband for the entire day,’ said Colbeck. ‘Solve this crime quickly and that’s exactly what she will get.’
Leeming needed no more incentive than that.
The train crash had filled pews throughout Brighton that Sunday but nowhere more so than at St Dunstan’s, a small church on the very edge of the town. News of the tragedy brought people in from far and wide to pray for the victims and to view the man who had made a miraculous escape from the disaster. They could not believe that their rector would be able to take the service but there he was, standing before them, ignoring the obvious discomfort from his wounds and managing to produce his customary beatific smile.
The Reverend Ezra Follis was determined not to let his parishioners down. Over his cassock, he wore a spotless white linen surplice with a stole draped around his shoulders. People gasped when they saw the scars on his face and the bandaging on his head and his hands. He looked so small and frail. There was no frailty in his voice, however, and it rose to full power when he struggled up into the pulpit and delivered his sermon.
Follis was a born orator, able to inspire the minds and arouse the emotions of those who heard him. As he described the way in which – it was his unshakable conviction – he had been saved from death by the compassionate hand of the Almighty, he had several people reaching for their handkerchiefs. It was a powerful sermon, lucid, thoughtful, well-phrased and pitched at exactly the right level. Follis did not indulge in high-flown rhetoric. He knew how to make important points simply and effectively.
Among those hanging on his words was a woman in her late twenties who sat in one of the front pews with her two elderly aunts. Plain, plump and dressed with the utmost respectability, Amy Walcott stared at him with a mixture of wonder and adoration. She knew that Ezra Follis was a great scholar – he was a former chaplain of an Oxford college – but he showed no disdain or condescension to those of lesser intelligence. He had the gift of reaching everyone in the church both individually and as a group. Amy watched him intently, admiring his resilience yet noting undeniable signs of the physical strain he was under.
When morning service was over, Follis took up his usual position at the church door so that he could have a brief word with each member of his congregation as he bade them farewell. The effort of standing on his feet for so long slowly began to tell on him. Leaving the churchwardens to tidy everything away, he waved off the last of his parishioners then adjourned to the vestry. Alone at last, he sank down on a chair and gritted his teeth as he felt sharp twinges in his legs and hips and back. All of his bruises throbbed simultaneously.
Staring at the crucifix on the wall, he offered up a prayer of thanks for being given the strength to get through the service without collapsing. It was several minutes before he felt well enough to rise to his feet again. He crossed to a desk, unlocked a drawer with a key and took out a bottle of brandy. After pouring a generous amount into a small glass, he took a sip and let it course through him. Then he locked the bottle away again. Another sip of brandy was even more restorative and gave him the energy to remove his stole and surplice. When they had been put away in a cupboard, he sat down again to rest and to reflect on his sermon.
The churchwardens and the verger had been told not to disturb him once he retired to the vestry so they went about their business then let themselves out of the church. Follis heard the latch click as the door closed behind them. With nobody else there, he felt able to relax completely, stretching himself and reaching for the brandy. It was almost a quarter of an hour before he was finally ready to depart. Opening the vestry door, he stepped out into the chancel.
Expecting to find the church empty, he was surprised to see that someone was still there, using a metal can to pour fresh water into the vases. Amy Walcott, responsible for organising the flower rota, made sure that her own name was on it with increasing frequency.
‘I didn’t realise you were still here, Amy,’ he said, wearily.
‘I needed to rearrange some of the flowers,’ she explained, ‘and I wanted to thank you for the sermon you gave today. It was uplifting.’
Follis nodded gratefully. ‘I try my best.’
‘It was very brave of you even to turn up at church today. You should have been lying in bed back in the Rectory. I couldn’t help noticing how exhausted you looked at times.’
‘Oh dear!’ he exclaimed. ‘And there I was, thinking that I had contrived to deceive everybody. On the other hand,’ he added, taking a step closer to her, ‘you are far more perceptive than anyone else in the congregation. You have a sharp eye, Amy.’
‘I was worried about you, Mr Follis.’
‘There’s no need to be – I’m fine now.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ she asked.
‘I don’t think so. I must get on home. Mrs Ashmore will have luncheon waiting for me.’
‘There must be
It was a heartfelt plea and Follis could not ignore it. He was fond of Amy Walcott and had given her unfailing support during the long period of mourning after her mother’s death. From that time on, she had dedicated herself to the church and its rector, giving freely of her time and energy. Tired as he was, Follis believed that it would be cruel to refuse her offer.
‘Perhaps there is something you could do, after all,’ he said.
She smiled eagerly. ‘Is there?’
‘You have such a beautiful voice, Amy.’
‘Thank you.’
‘The tragedy is that I never get to hear it reading beautiful words. It’s the harsher voices of men that read the epistle and the gospel, and I sometimes long for the softer tones of a woman. It would please me greatly if you could read something to me.’
‘Gladly, Mr Follis,’ she said with delight. ‘What shall I read?’
‘Let’s start with one of the Psalms, shall we?’ he decided, opening his Book of Common Prayer and leafing through the pages with a bandaged hand. ‘And where better to begin than with the first of them?’
Finding the page, he handed the book to her then motioned for her to stand at the lectern. As he settled into the front pew, he gazed up at Amy Walcott and raised a hand.
‘Whenever you’re ready,’ he said. ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’
Giles Thornhill lived in a palatial country mansion a few miles outside Brighton. Set in rolling countryside, it commanded glorious views on every side. After admiring it from afar, Robert Colbeck was driven up to the gatehouse in a cab and had to identify himself before he was allowed into the property. As the cab rolled up the long drive, he saw the gates being locked behind them by a man with a rifle slung across his back. The house was being guarded like a fortress.
Seated at a table in his library, Thornhill made no attempt to get up when Colbeck was shown into the room. The politician’s arm was still in a sling and the black eye was still acting as a focal point on his face. He looked as haughty and cold as the marble busts that were dotted between the rows of bookshelves. Thornhill was disappointed that a detective inspector had been sent to interview him.
