Murder on the Brighton Express

‘Don’t look so anxious,’ said Colbeck, seated opposite him in an otherwise empty carriage. ‘There’s no danger. Lightning doesn’t strike twice in one place.’

‘Then the accident could happen at another spot on the line.’

‘There’ll be no accident, Victor.’

‘Then why do I feel so unsafe?’

‘You simply haven’t adjusted to rail travel as yet.’

‘I never will, Inspector,’ said Leeming, watching the fields scud past. ‘I can never understand why you like trains so much.’

‘They’re passports to the future. Railways are redefining the way that we live and I find that very exciting. The concept of steam power is so wonderfully simple yet so incredibly effective.’

‘You should have been an engine driver, sir.’

‘No,’ said Colbeck, wistfully. ‘I know my limitations. I’d love to work on the footplate but I lack the skill needed. I make my own small contribution to the smooth running of the railway system by trying to keep it free of criminals. However, let’s not harp on about a subject that tends to unsettle you,’ he went on. ‘How are preparations for your wife’s birthday?’

‘They’re not going very well, sir.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Mr Tallis will expect me on duty next Sunday unless we can bring this investigation to a close. And, no matter how much I fret about it, I still can’t decide what to buy Estelle.’

‘Do you have any ideas at all?’

‘I thought about artificial flowers in a glass case.’

‘Women always love flowers, Victor – though I think your wife might prefer real ones on her birthday. You could get them at the market.’

‘They wouldn’t last, sir, that’s the trouble. Anyway, that’s only one present and I have to buy two – one from me and one from the children. I’ve been racking my brain for days.’ He became tentative. ‘I wonder if I might ask you something personal.’

‘Ask whatever you wish.’

‘What did you buy for Miss Andrews when it was her birthday?’

‘If you must know,’ said Colbeck, laughing, ‘I bought her a new easel and some artist’s materials. Not very feminine, I know, but that was what Madeleine wanted me to get her. Mind you, there were a few other gifts as well by way of a surprise.’

‘Such as?’

‘The item that really pleased her was a new bonnet.’

‘Now that’s just what Estelle needs,’ said Leeming in delight.

‘There you are – one of the birthday presents is decided.’

‘If I let the children give her the bonnet, I could give her a new shawl. It won’t be long before autumn is here and she’ll need one. Thank you, Inspector. You’ve taken a load off my mind.’

‘If you want more suggestions,’ said Colbeck as a memory surfaced, ‘you might get them from the Reverend Follis.’

Leeming was baffled. ‘What does he know about buying gifts for a wife, sir? You told me that Mr Follis was a bachelor.’

‘He is, Victor, but I have a strong feeling that he’s a man of vision where women are concerned.’

While he waited, Ezra Follis looked at the books on the shelf. He had given them to Amy Walcott in a particular order so that her reading was carefully controlled. Most were anthologies of poetry and he knew how diligently she had studied them. Amy was an apt pupil. She was happy to let him make all the decisions about her education. He selected a volume and leafed through the pages, an action that was much easier to perform now that both hands had been freed from their bandages. His eye settled on a particular page. After making a note of it, he closed the book again.

He was in Amy’s house but he moved around it with easy familiarity. Leaving the drawing room, he went along the corridor and ascended the stairs to the first landing. Follis walked across to the main bedroom and tapped gently on the door.

‘May I come in yet, Amy?’ he asked.

‘I’m not ready,’ she said from the other side of the door.

‘I’ve been waiting some time.’

‘I know that, Mr Follis.

‘The servants will be back before too long.’ There was a lengthy pause. ‘Perhaps you’ve changed your mind,’ he said, tolerantly. ‘That’s your privilege. I didn’t mean to trouble you, Amy. I’ll let myself out and we’ll forget all about this, shall we?’

‘No, no,’ she said in desperation. ‘I want you to come in.’

‘Are you happy about that?’

‘I’m very happy.’

‘You have to be certain about this.’

‘I am, Mr Follis. I’m ready for you now.’

Turning the knob, he opened the door and stepped into the room. Amy Walcott was standing nervously in the middle of the carpet. Her feet were bare and she was wearing a long dressing gown. Pathetically eager to please, she managed a fraught smile.

‘There’s no need to be frightened,’ he said, moving away so that they were yards apart. ‘No harm will come to you, Amy. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world – you know that.’

‘Yes, Mr Follis, I do.’

‘I’ll sit here.’ He lowered himself on to the ottoman near the window then made a gesture. ‘If you feel embarrassed, you can keep the dressing gown on.’

‘I don’t want to let you down.’

‘There’s no way that you could do that. The very fact that we’re alone here together is a joy to me, Amy. You mustn’t feel constrained to do anything that you don’t want to do.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘You look beautiful enough, as it is.’

‘Nobody ever thought I was beautiful before.’

‘That’s because they don’t see you through my eyes. I know the full truth about you. You’re a good woman, Amy Walcott, beautiful on the inside and lovely on the outside.’

The compliment made her blush. ‘Thank you, Mr Follis.’

‘Will you read something to me?’

‘In a moment,’ she said, finding some confidence at last. ‘I want to please you first. I’ve never done this before so you must excuse me if I don’t do it properly.’ She screwed up her courage. ‘I’m going to take it off for you now.’

Undoing the belt, she opened her dressing gown and let it fall to the floor. She stood there sheepishly in a white nightdress with bows at the neck and sleeves. After feasting his eyes on her, Follis gave her a warm smile of appreciation. Her confidence began to rise.

‘What have you chosen for me this time?’ she said.

‘Keats,’ he replied, holding out the book. ‘Page sixty-six. It’s a beautiful poem for a very beautiful woman to read to me.’

Amy Walcott was suffused with a radiant glow. He loved her.

Josie Murlow was jaded. It was scarcely an hour since Chiffney had gone and she was already chafing with boredom. There was nothing to do and nobody with whom she could talk. Walter, the old man who owned the house, was willing to give them temporary shelter but they were confined to the bedroom and the kitchen. The remainder of the property was reserved for his family. Had she been allowed to go into the garden, Josie might have been less restless. As it was, she was pacing up and down like a tiger in a cage, picking her way through the relics of her old life that had been rescued from her hovel.

During the long reaches of the night, when she and Chiffney were entwined in carnal lust, everything had