Murder on the Brighton Express

rely on you and Colbeck to put the Inspector General of Railways in his place.’

‘As it happens, I met Captain Ridgeon this morning.’

‘Oh – where was that?’

‘At the offices of the LNWR,’ said Leeming.

‘Did he say anything to you?’

‘Yes, sir – he was crowing over us.’

‘We must put a stop to that,’ said Tallis, vengefully. ‘What were you doing there, Sergeant?’

‘I’d hoped to speak to Mr Shanklin, sir. Inspector Colbeck had intended to do so but he was called away to Brighton. I went in his stead. For the second day running, Mr Shanklin was not there. But I managed to get what I went for,’ said Leeming, taking a letter from his pocket. ‘It’s a sample of his handwriting.’

‘Do you think that he might have sent that funeral card?’

‘Why don’t we find out, sir?’

Opening a drawer in the desk, Leeming took out the envelope containing the funeral card and put it side by side with the letter written by Matthew Shanklin. The looping calligraphy was almost identical. Tallis picked up both items and looked from one to the other in quick succession. He sounded a note of triumph.

‘We’ve got him!’

‘They do look very similar,’ said Leeming.

‘They should do, Sergeant – they’re the work of the same man.’ He took out the funeral card to compare it with the letter. ‘There’s no doubt about it. Matthew Shanklin sent this card.’

‘He may have done a lot more than that, sir.’

‘I’m sure that he did,’ said Tallis, grimly. ‘He caused that crash deliberately then sent that card to Mr Bardwell as a taunt. He was gloating.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘We need a warrant for his arrest. You can go to his home this morning.’

‘That won’t be possible, Superintendent.’

‘Why not?’

‘I called there on my way back from his office,’ said Leeming. ‘His wife told me that her husband had gone out. That was very odd because his letter claims that he was too ill to go to work. Mr Shanklin is deceiving his employers.’

‘Find him, Sergeant,’ ordered Tallis. ‘Find him at once.’

The Brighton line was one on which Matthew Shanklin had travelled many times when he worked for the company but the present journey was different from the others. He was smouldering with residual anger at his dismissal from a post that he had expected to hold until his retirement. As the train puffed its way past the site of the crash, he was astonished to see how much of the debris had been cleared away. The scarred embankment still bore testimony to the disaster, as did the bushes flattened during the derailment but the place was no longer littered with mangled iron and shattered timber.

What did catch his eye were the wreaths that had been placed beside the line, marking the spot where lives had been lost. From the newspaper he had bought at the station, Shanklin had learnt that the death toll had now reached a dozen. His one regret was that a particular name was missing from the list. The train raced on to Brighton where it disgorged several passengers taking advantage of a glorious day to visit the seaside.

Surging out of the railway station, the crowd was oblivious to its arresting architecture. Shanklin, however, paused to look back at the magnificent classical facade, worthy of an Italianate palace and a symmetrical tribute to the vital importance of the terminus. He had always admired stations that were both imposing and functional, soaring works of art that could yet be used daily by untold thousands of people. Brighton was a perfect example.

Cabs, omnibuses and the occasional carriage stood on the forecourt but Shanklin chose to walk. He was in no hurry. Having the day to himself, he could take his time and see some of the sights that had made Brighton so appealing. It was over an hour before he turned towards the county hospital. Shanklin was forced to wait. The person he wanted to see was being examined by a doctor. When the patient was left alone, Shanklin was thrilled to see how poorly he was. He leaned over the bed.

‘Do you remember me?’ he asked with a smirk.

Horace Bardwell began to quiver uncontrollably.

Colbeck had some difficulty in breaking free from the attentions of the over-helpful Sidney Weaver. The visit to the offices of the Brighton Gazette had, however, been very rewarding and its editor had been a mine of information. Among other things, he told Colbeck where to find the best gunsmith in the town. It was there that the detective took the bullet he had retrieved from the back of Thornhill’s settee. Having been given a professional opinion by the gunsmith, Colbeck decided to pay another call on someone else whose opinion he valued highly. The Reverend Ezra Follis was as cordial as ever.

‘This is becoming a habit, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Hardly a day passes when you don’t come to see me. This time, alas, you’ve not brought the charming Miss Andrews.’

‘Madeleine is working back home in London,’ said Colbeck.

‘Yes, she told me that she was an artist. I found it extraordinary that such a beautiful young woman should want to sketch steam locomotives.’ He raised a palm. ‘That’s not a criticism, I hasten to say. I applaud her talent. At least,’ he added with a laugh, ‘I would do if I were able to clap with both hands.’

They were in the rectory and it was only a matter of minutes before Mrs Ashmore appeared magically from the kitchen with a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits. Colbeck thanked her, realising for the first time that he had not eaten since having an early breakfast.

‘I’d like to think you came back to Brighton with the sole pleasure of seeing me,’ said Follis, wryly, ‘but I’m sure it was for a much more important reason.’

‘Someone tried to shoot Mr Thornhill,’ explained Colbeck.

‘Saints preserve us!’

‘It happened yesterday, Mr Follis.’

‘Was he hurt?’

‘Luckily, the bullet missed him.’

Colbeck told the rector what had happened and how he had found both the place from which the shot was fired and the bullet itself. Follis was shocked. While he was no friend of Giles Thornhill, he was distressed to hear of the attack and said that he would pray for the politician’s safety.

‘That explains why Mr Thornhill has withdrawn from a meeting he was due to address tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I thought it was because of his injuries. In view of the attempt on his life, I can appreciate the real reason why he’s not willing to appear in public.’

‘If he won’t speak, the meeting will have to be cancelled.’

‘One can’t disappoint an audience, Inspector. The town hall is booked and tickets have been sold. Another speaker has been found at short notice. I could not recommend him more highly.’

‘Who is going to replace Mr Thornhill?’

Follis chortled. ‘As luck would have it – I am.’

‘What’s the title of your talk?’

‘The one already advertised – The Future of Brighton.’

‘I’ve heard rather a lot on that topic in the last couple of hours,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’ve been doing some research at the offices of the Brighton Gazette. The editor had much to say about the town’s future.’

‘How did you get on with Sidney Weaver?’

‘He was extremely helpful, though inclined to fuss over me like a mother hen. I’ve never seen anyone look so worried.’

‘Sidney is always afraid that the Gazette is not as good as it should be and that the next edition may be the last. He’s a slave to his anxiety. After successful years in charge of the newspaper, he still lacks confidence.’

‘His knowledge of the town’s history is amazing.’

‘Incomparable,’ said Follis. ‘I’ve urged him to write a book about it. And, as you discovered, he has opinions