Murder on the Brighton Express

particular route so that anyone following her could be seen. She was probably told to look back outside that public house so that you would instinctively try to hide somewhere. Someone was waiting for you.’

‘I think it was Dick Chiffney.’

‘There’s a strong possibility that it was, Victor.’

‘Then I need to go back and search for him,’ said Leeming. ‘I have a score to settle with Chiffney.’

‘The only place you’re going this evening,’ said Colbeck, ‘is home to Estelle. You need rest. My advice is that you don’t buy a newspaper on the way there.’

‘Why not, sir?’

Colbeck told him about the article concerning the train crash and how Tallis had responded to it. He also talked about the visit to Brighton where he had spoken to Horace Bardwell and learnt more about his relationship with Matthew Shanklin. Leeming was cynical.

‘One of them is lying, Inspector,’ he argued. ‘Mr Shanklin reckons that Mr Bardwell is a crook yet you heard him claim that Mr Shanklin is the troublemaker. Which one should we believe?’

‘I’ll let you know when I’ve talked to Mr Shanklin tomorrow.’

‘At least, we know one thing for certain. The target of the train crash was Horace Bardwell.’

‘That’s what I thought, Victor,’ admitted Colbeck, ‘but I’ve been forced to reconsider. In the last hour, we received another message from Giles Thornhill – someone tried to kill him earlier today.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

There was still good light when Madeleine Andrews arrived home so she began work at her easel immediately. Though she did her best to concentrate, however, her mind kept straying back to the excursion she had been on with Colbeck. She still could not understand why he wished her to meet the Rector of St Dunstan’s, nor could she see why she had been asked to read a specific passage from the Bible. Colbeck had not explained his theory about the choice. Madeleine did not expect him to divulge details of his cases to her because she had no right or need to know them but there were times – this was one of them – when his reticence was irritating. She wanted to know exactly what he had meant.

She was so distracted that she eventually abandoned her work and took the Bible from a bookshelf. The well-thumbed volume had been passed down through generations of the Andrews’ family and there was a long list at the front of all of her forbears. The name of her late mother had joined the list years earlier. Turning to the New Testament, she found the passage she had read in church and went through it again in search of a clue as to why Ezra Follis had chosen it. She could find none.

Madeleine was still pondering when her father came home from work. Letting himself into the house, Caleb Andrews was surprised to see his daughter reading the Bible.

‘Is there something you haven’t told me, Maddy?’ he teased.

‘Of course not, Father.’

‘You don’t want to enter a convent, then?’

‘Heaven forbid!’ she cried, laughing as she realised that it was not perhaps the most appropriate exclamation. ‘I just wanted to look at something, that’s all. Could you read this for me, Father?’

‘No,’ he said, firmly.

‘But I’d like your opinion.’

‘The time for studying the Bible is on a Sunday. That’s why your mother and I always read bits of it to you when we got back from church. At this moment,’ he went on, hanging his cap on a peg and flopping into his armchair, ‘the only thing I want to read is the evening paper I’ve just bought.’

Madeleine put the Bible back on the shelf, deciding that her father would, in any case, be unlikely to help. She went into the kitchen to prepare his supper. After a short time, a howl of rage sent her rushing back into the living room.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

‘This nonsense,’ he replied, shaking the newspaper violently. ‘There’s an article here, laying the blame for the crash on Frank Pike.’

‘But that’s untrue.’

‘I know it’s untrue, Maddy. It’s also unfair on a man who’s not here to speak up for himself. John Heddle was on the footplate with Frank and he told me the train was going at the proper speed.’

‘Does it say anything about Robert?’

‘It says rather a lot,’ he noted as he read through the rest of the article, ‘and none of it very kind.’

‘Why not?’

‘According to this, there was no crime involved.’

Madeleine stiffened. ‘Who’s decided that?’

‘Someone called Captain Harvey Ridgeon – he’s the Inspector General of Railways and he has a lot to say for himself. What does he know about driving an express train? Precious little, I’ll wager.’

‘Let me see it.’

‘No, Maddy, I don’t think you should.

‘If there’s criticism of Robert, I want to read it.’

‘It would only upset you.’

‘Please, Father,’ she insisted. ‘I’m not a child. I want to see exactly what the article says about Robert and about the crash.’

‘Very well,’ he said, yielding up the newspaper with a long sigh, ‘but don’t say I didn’t warn you. I think you’d be far better off reading the Bible again.’

Security at the house had been visibly improved. Colbeck arrived at Giles Thornhill’s estate next morning to find three armed men on duty at the gate as well as a policeman from the local constabulary. As the cab took him up the drive, Colbeck noticed a man patrolling the grounds with a mastiff on a leash. When he reached the front door of the mansion, he was asked for proof of his identity yet again before he was permitted to enter. Thornhill was in his library once more but this time he was reclining in a leather armchair, well away from the window. His black eye had faded a little and he had slipped his broken arm and its splint out of its sling to rest in his lap. There was a crackle of deep dissatisfaction in his voice.

‘You came on your own?’ he asked.

‘What did you expect, sir?’

‘At the very least, I thought you’d bring a team of detectives. Someone tried to kill me in my own home, Inspector. Doesn’t that merit a proper response?’

‘I represent that response, Mr Thornhill,’ said Colbeck, evenly. ‘Our manpower is very limited and is fully deployed fighting the tide of crime in London. Besides, you seem to be extremely well guarded here so additional men are not needed.’

‘I don’t expect them to guard me,’ Thornhill retaliated. ‘What I want is to see is the villain caught and arrested. In short, I require more resources than the service of a single detective.’

‘You’ll be surprised what one person can achieve, sir.’

‘It’s what you can’t achieve that concerns me.’

Colbeck ignored the slighting comment and sought a full account of what had taken place. Thornhill provided every detail, including the position he was in when the shot was fired. Even though the bullet had been so perilously close, he had not lost his nerve. He had taken cover and waited until some of his employees had come to his rescue. The grounds had been searched but no trace of the attacker had been found.

‘What about the bullet, sir?’ asked Colbeck.

‘The bullet?’

‘Do you still have it?’

‘No, Inspector – I’m just grateful that it missed its target.’

‘So it must be here on the premises.’

‘Yes,’ said Thornhill, ‘I suppose that it must. It smashed through the drawing room window and ended up in there somewhere. I had the window boarded up immediately and have not ventured outdoors.’

‘May I see the drawing room, please?’