Murder on the Brighton Express

illustrious tradition.’

‘Yet your own name is not here, Mr Follis,’ she noted.

‘I have to move on or die before that happens.’

‘But that means you never get to see it.’

He laughed. ‘Oh, I’m sure that sheer vanity will make me look down from heaven to take a peep at it.’ He gestured at the flowers in the chancel. ‘What do you think of Amy’s handiwork?’

‘What lovely arrangements!’ she said, admiringly. ‘It’s not simply a question of putting flowers into a vase. There’s a real art to it.’

‘Amy Walcott is on her way to perfecting that art.’

‘I agree.’

‘This is where I address my flock,’ he said, patting one of the elaborate carvings on the front of the pulpit. ‘When I climb up there I’m four feet above contradiction. It gives me a wonderful sense of power and responsibility. Over here,’ he continued, moving across to it, ‘is our lectern, donated to the church in 1755 so it’s almost a hundred years old.’

Made of brass that glinted in the sunlight, the lectern was in the shape of an eagle with its wings spread wide to hold the Bible. Madeleine was struck by the sharpness of the bird’s beak and the ferocity in its eyes. Follis stepped up behind it.

‘Read something to me,’ he invited.

She was taken aback. ‘But I’ve never read in church before.’

‘That’s because you’ve never been given the opportunity. You have a lovely voice, Miss Andrews, soft and melodic. It’s well-suited to Holy Writ. Here,’ he said, flipping over the pages with some difficulty. ‘Let me hear you read from the First Epistle of Paul the Apostle to the Corinthians. Chapter Thirteen will, I’m sure, be familiar to you.’

Madeleine was discomfited. Though she attended church every Sunday, she was accustomed to sitting in a pew at the rear of the nave with her father. Like other women there, she had taken no active part in the service itself. To be asked to read from the Bible – albeit with a congregation of one – was unsettling. At the same time, she did not feel that she could refuse. Ezra Follis had been kind and charming to her. In obeying his wish, she would be thanking him for his hospitality.

While the rector sat down a few yards away, she took her place at the lectern. Madeleine needed a little time to read through the passage and to control the sudden beating of her heart. After using her tongue to moisten a dry mouth, she began. Her voice trembled at first but quickly grew in confidence. Madeleine read clearly and mellifluously without fully understanding the import of the words. Follis watched her intently throughout. When she came to the final verse, he spoke it in unison with her.

‘And now abideth faith, hope and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.’

Relieved to have got through it, Madeleine raised her eyes. The person who caught her attention, however, was not Ezra Follis, seated contentedly before her, but Robert Colbeck, striding down the aisle.

‘Thank you, Madeleine,’ he said, ‘It was a privilege to have heard that. I’m glad that I arrived in time.’

‘So am I, Inspector,’ declared Follis, getting up and turning round. ‘The passage was beautifully read. The female voice is so much kinder on the ear than the rasping diction of men. Thank you for lending me such a delightful reader.’

Madeleine was embarrassed. ‘I don’t think I read it that well.’

‘Let us be the judge of that, my dear.’

Follis led them out of the church and swung the heavy oak door shut behind them. Sensing that Colbeck wanted to speak to the rector alone, Madeleine drifted away to examine the inscriptions on some of the tombstones. She was also grateful for some time alone to reflect on what had happened in church. Reading from the Bible had been both a trial and a pleasure. It had left her heart beating louder than ever.

Colbeck, meanwhile, was telling Follis about his visit to the county hospital. He described Bardwell’s reaction to the name of Matthew Shanklin. Follis shook his head.

‘I’ve never heard that name before,’ he said.

‘He worked as a manager for the LB&SCR,’ Colbeck told him. ‘He made an allegation of impropriety against Mr Bardwell.’

‘Well, he won’t have been the only one, Inspector.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve only seen the man in a hospital bed. Any of us would look rather pitiable in that state. Until last Friday,’ said Follis, ‘Horace Bardwell was a robust gentleman with a fondness for throwing his considerable weight around. Since he lives here in Brighton, his antics are often reported in the local newspaper.’

‘What sort of antics?’

‘He’s always complaining about the speed at which the town is growing – we have a population of almost 70,000 now – even though his railway is chiefly responsible for the growth. He’s always thrusting his opinions down everyone’s throat. To his credit,’ he pointed out, ‘Mr Bardwell has always been a generous man. He’s given thousands of pounds to worthy causes. The problem is that he thinks his money also buys him influence.’

‘What allegations have been made against him?’

‘There are strong rumours of bribery and corruption – not that I’ve seen any proof of either myself. People claim that Mr Bardwell has some civic leaders in his pocket, and he certainly exerts power over the Brighton Herald. His articles appear in it so often that you’d think he was the editor. What I’m telling you, Inspector,’ he went on, ‘is that Horace Bardwell is a deeply unpopular man here.’

‘He and Giles Thornhill are birds of a feather, then.’

‘In one sense, yes,’ agreed Follis. ‘But they’re hardly kindred spirits. Mr Thornhill has lofty aspirations, grappling with national problems. He despises Mr Bardwell for dabbling in local politics.’

‘From what you say,’ remarked Colbeck, ‘he does more than dabble. As for the funeral card, you didn’t send me the envelope in which it came. From where was it sent, Mr Follis?’

‘It had a London post mark.’

‘I’ll keep the card, if you don’t mind.’

‘I can give you the envelope as well,’ said Follis. ‘The main thing is that Mr Bardwell doesn’t hear about it. More than one person in Brighton would approve of the sentiments in it but that card would upset him greatly when he’s feeling so weak and vulnerable.’

‘One last question,’ said Colbeck.

‘Ask as many as you wish, Inspector.’

‘Which man is the more unpopular here – Horace Bardwell or Giles Thornhill?’

‘There’s a simple answer to that.’

‘Is there?’

‘Yes,’ said Follis with a merry chortle. ‘The most hated man in this whole county is, without a shadow of doubt, Mr Thornhill.’

Tempted by the warm weather, Giles Thornhill sat at a table on the terrace and dictated letters to his secretary, a tall, angular man in his thirties. Though Parliament was in recess, there was much for the politician to do as he sought support for various Bills that were in the offing or looked for opportunities to attack the coalition government in power at the time. His final letter was destined for the Sussex Express, a newspaper that was used to printing his trenchant views. When his secretary had finished penning it, he exchanged a few pleasantries with his employer before taking his leave.

Thornhill was left alone to bask in the sun and wonder how long it would take his broken arm to heal. The inconvenience of being unable to use it was frustrating and the nagging pain never went away. It was not long before the gentle breeze stiffened and made the flowers dance. Leaves began to rustle in the wind and the weathervane on the roof of the gazebo twisted to and fro. Thornhill decided that it was time to go indoors.

He stood up and turned sideways just in time. At that very moment, a shot rang out and a bullet whistled past, missing him by inches before hitting the window behind him and shattering the glass.

CHAPTER TEN

Disguise was a weapon that Colbeck had used many times and he had taught Victor Leeming its value.