low his fortunes had fallen. It was a relief to cross one name off the list. Leeming was grateful to get clear of Seven Dials and of the jeering children who threw stones at his top hat.
Dick Chiffney was also elusive. A plate-layer for the LB&SCR, he had been sacked for punching his foreman. His address at the time was that of a hovel in Chalk Farm, a relic of the days when the area was predominantly agricultural. Industry had slowly encroached upon it, houses had been built for the burgeoning middle classes and the arrival of the railways had completed the dramatic change to an urban environment. Chiffney was no longer there but the little house did still have an occupant. Arms folded, she confronted Leeming at the door.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded.
‘My name is Detective Sergeant Leeming,’ he replied.
‘Is that why you’ve come – to tell me the bastard is finally dead?’
‘I’m looking for Dick Chiffney.’
‘And so am I,’ she said, baring the blackened remains of her teeth. ‘I’ve been looking for him all week.’
Josie Murlow was a fearsome woman in her thirties, tall, big-boned and with red hair plunging down her back like a hirsute waterfall. Her face had a ravaged prettiness but it was her body that troubled Leeming. She exuded a raw sexuality that seemed quite out of place on a Sunday. As a uniformed constable, he had arrested many prostitutes and had always been immune to their charms. Josie Murlow was different. He could not take his eyes off the huge, round, half-visible, heaving breasts. Leeming felt as if he were being brazenly accosted in broad daylight.
‘Are you Mrs Chiffney?’ he asked, making a conscious effort to meet her fiery gaze.
‘I’m Mrs Chiffney in all but name,’ she retorted. ‘I cooked for him, looked after him and shared his bed for almost two years then he walks out on me without a word of warning. It’s not bleeding right.’
‘I quite agree.’
‘Who gave him money when he lost his job? Who nursed him when he was ill? Who kept him in drink?
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Over a week ago.’
‘Did he have a job at the time?’
‘Dick’s been out of work since he knocked his foreman to the ground when he was laying some new track on the railway. We had to get by on what I bring in.’
Leeming did not have to ask what she did for a living. Even though she was now wearing crumpled old clothes and had no powder on her florid cheeks, Josie Murlow was patently a member of the oldest profession. He decided that she must have catered for more vigorous clients. Only big, strong, brave, virile men would have dared to take her on. Others would have found her far too intimidating.
‘Why are the police after Dick?’ she said, belligerently. ‘What’s the mad bugger been up to now?’
‘I just wished to talk to him.’
‘Don’t lie to me. I’ve had enough dealings with the law to know that you never simply want to talk to someone. There’s always some dark reason at the back of it. Dick is in trouble again, isn’t he?’
‘He might be,’ admitted Leeming.
‘What’s the charge this time?’
Leeming was evasive. ‘It’s to do with the railway.’
‘The foreman started the fight,’ she argued, leaping to Chiffney’s defence. ‘He threw the first punch so Dick had to hit him back. In any case,’ she added, sizing him up, ‘why is a detective from Scotland Yard bothering about a scuffle on a railway line? There’s something else, isn’t there?’ She glared at him. ‘What is it?’
‘It may be nothing at all and that’s the truth. I just need to speak to Mr Chiffney. Do you have any idea where he might be?’
‘If I did, I wouldn’t be standing here, would I? Josie Murlow is not a woman to give up easy. I’ve searched everywhere. What I can tell you,’ she conceded, ‘is where Dick likes to drink. I been to all the places but he must have seen me coming because he wasn’t in any of them. You might be luckier. Dick doesn’t know you.’
Taking out his notepad, Leeming jotted down the names of four public houses that Chiffney frequented. As he wrote, he kept his head down, glad of an excuse not to look at her surging bosom. Josie was well aware of his interest. When he looked up again, he saw that one flabby arm had dropped to her side while the other rested on the door jamb beside her head. Her crudely seductive pose made him take a step backwards.
‘Would you like to come in, Sergeant Leeming?’ she invited.
‘I…don’t have the time,’ he stammered.
‘I’ve got drink in the house – and a very empty bed.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Josie Murlow gives value for money, I can tell you.’
‘I’ve no reason to doubt that.’
‘Then why are you holding back?’ she said, putting both hands on her hips and turning sideways so that he saw her body in enticing profile. ‘What better way to spend a Sunday?’
‘I’m a married man,’ he said, indignantly.
‘So are most of them – they want something special for a change.’ She gave a low cackle. ‘I make sure they get it.’
‘You’ll have to excuse me. I’m still on duty.’
She became aggressive. ‘Are you turning me down?’
‘I have to find Mr Chiffney,’ he said, retreating from the door.
‘Well, when you do,’ she yelled, ‘drag him back here by the balls. I want a word with that swivel-eyed bastard.’
Returning to Brighton by cab, the first thing that Colbeck did was to find a hotel where he could buy himself a light luncheon. He then took time off to look at the town’s most famous sight, the Royal Pavilion with its strange but arresting mixture of neo-classical and oriental architecture. In the previous century, the restorative properties of its sea water had helped to turn Brighton from a small fishing port into a fashionable resort. The Pavilion had added to its appeal. Built over a period of many years, it had become a main attraction well before its completion in 1823.
The brainchild of the future King George IV, it had failed abysmally to exercise the same fascination for Queen Victoria and ceased to become a royal residence. Colbeck was glad that it had been purchased by the town in 1850, allowing the public to admire its unique design and its spacious gardens. Those who flocked to the seaside in warmer months did not merely come for the pleasure of walking along the promenade, enjoying the facilities on the Chain Pier or merely reclining on the beach and watching the waves roll in. They were there to view the majestic Pavilion and to get a privileged insight into how royalty lived and entertained.
After seeing his fill, Colbeck set off on his second visit of the day. St Dunstan’s Rectory was only a stone’s throw from the church itself and it had been built at roughly the same time, retaining its medieval exterior while undergoing many internal renovations. Shown into the drawing room by the housekeeper, Colbeck was given a cordial welcome by Ezra Follis who pulled himself out of his high-backed chair with barely concealed pain.
‘Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand, Inspector,’ he said. ‘My hands are still somewhat tender and I had difficulty turning the pages of my Prayer Book during the service this morning. Your visit is timely. I was just about to have my afternoon cup of tea.’
‘Then I’ll be happy to join you, Mr Follis.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Ashmore.’
A nod from the rector was all it took for the housekeeper to bustle out of the room. The two men, meanwhile, sat down opposite each other. After the grand proportions of the library he had visited earlier, Colbeck found the room small and cluttered. The low ceiling, thick roof beams and little mullioned windows contributed to the sense of restriction but the place had a snug, homely feeling about it. Follis had less than a quarter of the number of books owned by Giles Thornhill but Colbeck suspected that he had read far more of the contents of his library than the politician had of his.
‘What brings you to Brighton again?’ asked Follis.
