about the future of the town as well. If he were not so dreadfully nervous in public, Sidney might have been approached to deputise for Mr Thornhill tomorrow.’ He reached for a scone. ‘Did you tell him about the shooting?’
‘No,’ said Colbeck. ‘Neither Mr Thornhill nor I want it splashed across the newspaper. I only confided in you because I know that you’ll be discreet. Also,’ he went on, ‘you needed to be told the truth before you can assist me.’
‘How can I help you this time, Inspector?’
‘I believe you wrote to the
‘I’m always writing to newspapers,’ said Follis. ‘I’m a great believer in healthy debate. If there’s an issue that interests me, I make sure that I offer an opinion on it. That’s why I took on that speaking engagement tomorrow.’ He took a first bite of the scone. ‘Can you remind me about this particular letter?’
‘It was on the subject of immigration.’
‘Ah, yes – that dreadful speech by Mr Thornhill.’
‘You took strong exception to what he said.’
‘I was disgusted, Inspector,’ said Follis. ‘I was sorry that I was not actually at the meeting or I’d have stood up and denounced him. Did you see what he was preaching?’
‘He objects to foreigners settling in this country.’
‘It’s more specific than that. Though he spoke in general terms, his poisonous arguments had a very specific target. The foreigners he was attacking live right here in Brighton.’
‘The town is not noted for its immigrants.’
‘Mr Thornhill doesn’t work in numerical terms. The fact that we have any foreigners at all here is enough to arouse him, especially when they better themselves by dint of sheer hard work.’ He put his scone back on the plate. ‘Do you remember 1848?’
‘I remember it very well,’ said Colbeck. ‘Sergeant Leeming and I were in uniform at the time, deployed, along with the rest of the Metropolitan Police Force, to resist the threat of a Chartist uprising. Happily, that threat never materialised.’
‘It did elsewhere in Europe, Inspector. There were revolutions in France, Germany, Austria and elsewhere. Countries were in turmoil, governments were overthrown and the streets ran with blood.’
‘I know, Mr Follis. Many people fled to this country for safety.’
‘Some of them came to Brighton and liked it so much that they settled here. These are frightened refugees whom we should welcome with open arms,’ said Follis with passion. ‘All that Mr Thornhill can do is to stir up hatred against them. He has two main arguments. The first is that they are simply not British – an accident of Fate over which they have no control – and the second is that they’ve prospered in their new country. Foreigners, he argues, are taking opportunities that rightly belong to people who were born here.’
‘Judging by the report, his speech was almost inflammatory.’
‘It arose from a twisted patriotism, Inspector, and more or less incited people to join in a witch hunt. The wonder is that it didn’t provoke our immigrant population to react.’
‘I suspect that it did,’ said Colbeck, taking the bullet from his pocket and holding it on his palm. ‘This was intended to kill Giles Thornhill. According to the gunsmith I consulted, it did not come from a British rifle. It was fired from a foreign weapon.’
The funeral was a sombre affair. It was at Kensal Green Cemetery that Frank Pike was laid to rest. Wearing mourning dress, Caleb Andrews held back tears as he watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. The wooden box contained the unrecognisable remains of a friend he had loved and respected for many years. The thought that he would never see him again was like a bonfire in his brain. Andrews was grateful that Rose Pike was not there to see the last agonising minutes of her husband’s funeral.
Dressed in black like the others, Madeleine had stayed at the Pike household to make refreshments for those returning from the cemetery. She could see how deeply moved her father was. He was one of a number of railwaymen who had forfeited a day’s wages to pay their last respects to Pike. Now recovered, John Heddle was among them. All of them offered commiserations to the widow. What nobody did, Madeleine was relieved to see, was to refer to the newspaper article blaming the dead man for the train crash. To draw that to the attention of the widow would be like driving a stake through her heart.
On the journey back home, neither Madeleine nor her father spoke a single word. The bruising experience of the funeral had left them feeling hurt and bereft. Madeleine had been uncomfortably reminded of the death of her own mother and of its destructive impact on the family. Years after the event, it remained fresh and unbearably painful. She could understand the searing anguish that Rose Pike must be feeling and vowed to offer what succour she could in the future. Widowhood was a trial for any woman. The circumstances of her husband’s death intensified the ordeal for Rose Pike.
Andrews was lost in his own grief, calling to mind cherished memories of a man who had died a cruel death beneath the very locomotive he was driving. The worst of it was that he was now being hounded beyond the grave, made to bear responsibility for something he did not do. Andrews’s grief was mingled with a seething fury. He yearned to clear his friend’s name and defy Pike’s detractors. When they reached the house, he was still deep in thought.
Madeleine led the way in, removing her black hat with its thick veil and hanging it on a peg. She reached out to take her father’s hat from him. Andrews grabbed her hand.
‘When will you see Inspector Colbeck again, Maddy?’
‘I don’t know, father,’ she said.
‘Tell him to catch the monster who caused that crash,’ he said with sudden urgency. ‘Until that’s done, poor Frank will never be able to rest in peace.’
The security arrangements were still in place when Colbeck returned to Thornhill’s estate but at least he did not have to identify himself again. Broken arm back in its sling, the politician was seated at the table in his library, reading some correspondence. He looked up as Colbeck entered the room.
‘Do you have anything to report?’ he asked.
‘I feel that I made some progress,’ said Colbeck, ‘especially after my talk with the Reverend Follis.’
‘Don’t listen to that meddling fool.’
‘I found him anything but foolish, sir.’
‘He should stick to what he’s supposed to do,’ said Thornhill, ‘and not interfere in political matters about which he knows absolutely nothing. I only have to open my mouth and the Rector of St Dunstan’s is writing to the newspapers.’
‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘I’ve seen one of his letters.’
‘His comments are quite uncalled for, Inspector.’
‘I don’t see why – he’s one of your constituents.’
Thornhill’s laugh was hollow. ‘If I had to rely on the votes of men like Ezra Follis,’ he said, ‘my Parliamentary career would have been woefully short. Fortunately, I have a number of like-minded supporters in Brighton. That’s why it’s such a pleasure to represent the town.’
‘But you don’t actually represent them,’ argued Colbeck. ‘Only a small percentage of the population is registered to vote. The only thing you represent is a minority.’
‘That’s because most people in the town lack the necessary property qualification. Brighton is besieged by newcomers and by foreign riffraff. They don’t deserve the vote. Anyway,’ he went on, testily, ‘why are we talking about Ezra Follis?’
‘He was able to give me some pertinent information.’
‘Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.’
‘As you wish, Mr Thornhill,’ said Colbeck, easily. ‘What I really came back to ask is if you had changed your mind about the speaking engagement tomorrow evening.’
‘It would be sheer madness to attend.’
‘I disagree.’
‘You have not been shot at, Inspector.’
‘As a matter of fact, I have sir – and on more than one occasion. To be frank, it’s an occupational hazard for
