Murder on the Brighton Express

‘Yes, Captain – in spite of jibes from ill-informed sources.’

‘Are you referring to my comments in the newspaper?’

‘They were both harsh and unjust.’

‘I was quoted incorrectly, Sergeant Leeming.’

‘Does that mean you actually approve of what we’re doing?’

Ridgeon stifled a smile. ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ he said, ‘but I would ask you to believe that my remarks were not as intemperate as they appeared to be in that article.’

‘It all hangs on the interpretation of the evidence,’ said Leeming, ‘and, in my opinion, there’s nobody alive who does that better than Inspector Colbeck.’

‘Unfortunately, some of that “evidence” has now disappeared.’

‘Has it?’

‘I can see that you haven’t been to Brighton recently,’ said Ridgeon. ‘Once I had made my decision about the cause of the crash, it was vital to open the two lines again as quickly as possibly. Crews worked twenty-four hours a day to clear the debris and repair the track. As from yesterday, the Brighton Express is running again in both directions.’

‘I wondered how the Inspector got back so early yesterday.’

Ridgeon was curious. ‘What was he doing in Brighton?’

‘Exactly the same as I’m doing now, sir,’ said Leeming, looking him in the eye. ‘He’s doing his damnedest to prove you wrong.’

He went into the building, introduced himself to one of the clerks and asked to see Matthew Shanklin. After disappearing for a couple of minutes, the man returned and shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Mr Shanklin is not here.’

‘Is he still indisposed?’

‘Yes, sir – he’s too ill to come into work this morning.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The manager says that he sent a letter to that effect.’

Leeming’s eye lit up. ‘Was it written by Mr Shanklin himself?’

‘I think so, Sergeant.’

‘Then I should very much like to see it.’

While nothing could have endeared the politician to Colbeck, he had to admire Giles Thornhill’s industry. The man was quite indefatigable, addressing public meetings on issues of the day with a frequency that was breathtaking. When he was not facing an audience in a hall, Thornhill was, more often than not, expressing his opinions as an after-dinner speaker at various functions. Most of his work had been done in London but there were enough occasions when he had spoken in his constituency to send Colbeck to the offices of one of the local newspapers, the Brighton Gazette.

The editor, Sidney Weaver, was an anxious little man in his forties, his brow furrowed and his hands twitching nervously. The Railway Detective, it turned out, was a man for whom he had the highest respect.

‘I’ve followed your career carefully,’ said Weaver, gesticulating at him. ‘I know what you did on Derby Day this year and how you solved the murder of that man thrown from the Sankey Bridge. You’ll get all the help you need from me.’

‘Thank you,’ said Colbeck, finding his praise rather tiresome. ‘All I want is somewhere quiet to read back copies of your newspaper.’

‘Is there anything in particular that you’re looking for, sir? If so, I might be able to save you the time. I’ve got an encyclopaedic mind where the Gazette is concerned. Mr Bardwell calls me a marvel.’

‘I gather that he often writes for you.’

‘We always accept copy from someone of his eminence. Mark you,’ Weaver went on, closing an eye, ‘he’s not so ready to offer an opinion when there’s been an accident and that’s happened once too often.’ The lines in his face multiplied and deepened. ‘Do you remember when the Jenny Lind came into service?’

‘Of course,’ replied Colbeck. ‘It was seven years ago. She was a beautiful locomotive with those huge six-foot driving wheels and that classical fluted dome.’

‘I was travelling on the express when Jenny Lind got into trouble. Her leading axle broke and tore off a wheel. The driver had no idea what had happened so he kept up full speed, unaware that he was ripping up the track behind him. We were aware of it,’ said Weaver, hands semaphoring wildly, ‘because we were shaken about every inch of the way. We were lucky to come out of it alive.’

‘What was Mr Bardwell’s reaction?’

‘He went strangely quiet for once.’

‘That same can’t be said of the gentleman in whom I’m interested,’ said Colbeck, taking out a piece of paper. ‘These are the editions I’d like to see, Mr Weaver,’ he continued, handing the list over. ‘Is there somewhere private where I can study them?’

‘Have the use of my office,’ said Weaver, moving various items off his desk. ‘It’s a privilege to have the Railway Detective here.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll get one of my lads to find these for you.’

Weaver opened the door, beckoned a young man over and gave him the list. While they were waiting, he gave Colbeck a brief history of the Gazette and how he had come to edit it. The newspapers arrived and Weaver took them from the young man before putting them in the middle of the desk.

‘If there’s anything I can do, Inspector, just call me.’

‘I will, Mr Weaver.’

Grateful to be left alone at last, Colbeck worked through the newspapers chronologically, searching for reports of public meetings that Giles Thornhill had addressed. Occasionally, he had shared a platform with the other sitting Member of Parliament for Brighton but Thornhill’s had always been the more dominant voice. He was an unrepentant reactionary, defending the status quo and resisting any hint of radical reform. Chartists were treated with especial scorn.

In almost every speech, Thornhill had stressed his pride in his country, arguing that the British Empire was a wondrous achievement that acted as a civilising influence all over the world. On the subject of immigration – and he spoke on it more than once – his patriotism had taken on a sharper edge. His most recent speech on the subject had been quoted in some detail. Colbeck could almost hear him declaiming the words from a platform. Folding over the page, he got up and opened the door. Sidney Weaver scurried across to him like a spaniel.

‘Did you want to see anything else, Inspector Colbeck?’ he said.

‘It’s possible,’ replied Colbeck. ‘There’s a speech here that Giles Thornhill made about immigration.’

‘He’s always had great distaste for foreigners.’

‘This is more than distaste, Mr Weaver.’ He showed the report to the editor. ‘Did you have any response to this?’

‘We had a very strong response,’ said Weaver with an abrupt laugh. ‘Some of the letters were far too offensive to print.’

Colbeck smiled. ‘I don’t suppose you kept any of them, did you?’

‘I kept them all, Inspector – including the one from the Rector of St Dunstan’s. He was outraged by what Mr Thornhill had said.’

A meeting with the churchwardens was always an essay in sustained boredom but Ezra Follis endured it without demur. Retired, worthy, staid and lacking in anything resembling lightness of touch, the two men were pillars of the community who took their duties with a seriousness matched only by their solemnity. A couple of hours in their presence taxed even Follis’s nerves and he waved them off with more than usual alacrity. The moment they disappeared, Mrs Ashmore bustled out of the kitchen.

‘Is there anything I can get you?’ she offered.

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘you can untie the bandage on the other hand.’