Murder on the Brighton Express

of those gentlemen?’

‘Let me see.’ She ran her eye down the list and stopped at the last name. ‘This one,’ she said, pointing to it. ‘Alexander Jamieson.’

‘And is Mr Jamieson a parishioner?’

‘It’s Captain Jamieson and he’s away at sea a great deal. But his wife used to worship at St Dunstan’s regularly.’ She looked up. ‘We haven’t seen her for some time.’

Dorothea Jamieson could not believe what had happened to her. Ten days earlier, she had been living in a large house with servants at her beck and call. She was a handsome woman in her late thirties, noted for her elegance and widely respected in the community. All that now seemed like a dream. Instead of enjoying the comforts of her home, she was locked in a filthy, evil-smelling outhouse with only mice and spiders for company. An old mattress had been dragged in, a rickety chair had been provided and – the greatest humiliation of all – a wooden bucket stood in a corner for when she had to answer the calls of nature.

There was no hope of escape. The door was securely locked, and the narrow windows, set high in the wall, were barred. Even with the help of the various implements stored there, she could not force a way out. The only saving grace was that it had not rained during the time of her incarceration or the holes in the roof would have let in the water. As it was, she had had to endure stifling heat on most days. Nights alone in the dark had been terrifying.

Hearing footsteps approach in the courtyard, she stood up and waited tremulously. A key turned in the lock and the heavy door swung open. Dorothea shielded her eyes against the bright sunlight that poured in. Her husband stepped into the outhouse and shut the door behind him. He looked at her with disgust. The beautiful young woman he had married almost twenty years ago looked haggard and unappealing. Her hair was tousled, her skin blotched and her dress crumpled from having been slept in.

‘How much longer is this going to go on, Alexander?’ she asked.

‘As long as I choose,’ he replied.

‘I’ll do anything to win back your good favour.’

‘You’re doing it, Dorothea – by suffering.’

‘You can’t keep me here forever.’

‘I can do whatever I like with you.’

‘But I’m your wife,’ she pleaded.

‘Oh, you’ve remembered that, have you?’ he said with sarcasm. ‘You always do when I come ashore. It’s a pity you don’t remember it when I’m away at sea.’

‘But I do – I’m proud that Captain Jamieson is my husband.’

‘My name is simply a shield behind which you hide.’

She spread her arms. ‘What am I supposed to have done?’

‘You know quite well what you did and, until you confess it, you’ll stay locked up here like an animal. I want to hear you tell me the truth, Dorothea. I want to know what happened.’

‘Nothing happened!’ she wailed.

‘Don’t lie to me!’

He raised his hand to strike her then held back at the last moment. Dorothea cringed in front of him. She looked wretched. Her time in the outhouse had robbed her of her good looks, her dignity and her confidence. Jamieson felt no compassion for her. As he stroked his beard and gazed down at her, his only emotion was a deep hatred. He would keep her locked up indefinitely.

‘I prayed that you’d come home safely from your voyage,’ she said, ‘but, when you did, you flew into such a rage. I’ve been trapped in here for over a week now. It’s cruel, Alexander. My only sustenance has been bread and water.’

‘That’s all you deserve.’

‘Do you despise your wife so much?’

‘What I despise,’ he said, ‘is the woman who’s been posing as my wife while acting as someone else’s mistress.’

Dorothea backed away. She knew that he had a temper but she had never been its victim before. She still had the bruises on her arms where he had grabbed her before pulling her across the courtyard to the outhouse. Confronted with his accusations, she had thought it best to say nothing for fear of stoking his rage. Dorothea had hoped that her husband might calm down as the days passed and even allow her back into the house. If anything, his fury had intensified.

‘I suspected something the last time I was home,’ he said, ‘but I was unable to prove anything. Before I sailed, I engaged a private detective to keep an eye on you.’

‘That was an appalling thing to do,’ she said with as much indignation as she could gather. ‘What sort of husband stoops to spying on his wife?’

‘One who fears that he’s being cuckolded, Dorothea. It was, alas, no groundless fear. When I saw the report about you, I refused to accept it at first. Then I read the damning evidence.’

‘What evidence, Alexander? Am I not entitled to defend myself against it? Will you really accept someone else’s word against mine?’

‘The evidence concerned Thursday of every week.’

‘I went up to London to see some friends,’ she explained.

Jamieson sneered. ‘One particular friend,’ he said.

‘I always came back late in the evening – ask the servants.’

‘I did ask them but they were ready to lie on your behalf. That’s why I dismissed them and why there’s nobody in the house to hear your cries for help. They said that you always came back home,’ he continued, ‘but the man following you is certain that you spent the night at a certain address on a number of occasions.’

‘I missed the train, that’s all.’

‘A woman like you never misses a train, Dorothea.’

‘I remember now,’ she said, lunging at the first excuse that came to mind. ‘The weather was inclement. I was forced to stay over.’

‘On every single occasion?’

‘Yes, Alexander.’

‘And always in the same house?’

‘My friend, Sophie, pressed me to stay. Why not ask her?’

‘Because I’m sure that she’d lie on your behalf as readily as the servants,’ he said. ‘Besides, she doesn’t live in that house. It’s owned by the Reverend Ezra Follis.’

‘That’s right,’ she said, changing her tack. ‘He offered me shelter on those nights when the weather turned nasty. Yes, that’s what really happened. Why not speak to Mr Follis himself?’

‘I never want to exchange another word with that philanderer. The man is a disgrace to the cloth,’ he said, contemptuously. ‘I’m sure that he made you feel that you were special to him but the hideous truth is that you were just the next in line, Dorothea. You shared a bed that had already been tainted by other women.’

‘I didn’t share a bed with anybody.’

‘Then you must be the only one of his victims who didn’t. The detective I hired was very thorough. He gave me all their names. He even tracked down Marion Inigo.’

She was stunned. ‘Mrs Inigo, who used to be his housekeeper?’

‘Yes, Dorothea,’ he replied, ‘except that she was never actually married. Marion Inigo used to spend Thursday night at that very same house with the Rector of St Dunstan’s. She lives in London now, bringing up their child in the cottage he bought her.’

‘I don’t believe this,’ she said, abandoning all pretence of innocence. ‘Ezra would never look at a woman like Marion Inigo. He got rid of her because she was becoming too familiar.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘She was nothing but a servant.’

‘That servant is the mother of his son.’

‘It’s impossible.’

‘I have incontrovertible proof.’

She was distraught. ‘Can this be true?’