seemed perfect. They would have enough money to flee London and set up a home in another city where they were unknown. It would be a new departure for both of them, an affirmation of their commitment to each other. The fact that it would be bought with blood money, and that a man had to be murdered first, was never discussed.
In daylight, alone and feeling sorely neglected, Josie began to see it all differently. She would be sharing her life with a killer, a man who was on the run. If the police ever caught Chiffney, they would catch her, too, and she would suffer the same fate as him. There was also a new fear. She had never been afraid of Chiffney before, knowing how to handle him and bend him to her will. What would happen if they fell out? A man who had killed once would not hesitate to do so again. Josie had traded blows with him in the past but the fights had always ended in a drunken reconciliation. Chiffney might end the next one in a more final way.
But it was too late now. She had to trust him. The police were searching for her as well as Chiffney. It never even crossed her mind to inform against him. Her whole life had been spent in skirting the law. Josie could simply not side with the police for any reason. What she really wanted was to be with Dick Chiffney, to enjoy a day in Brighton where she could walk freely by the seaside. She also wanted to know exactly what he was doing there. Who was paying him to kill another man and what crime had Chiffney already committed in order to get the money to pay for her necklace and his new suit?
Spending another day in self-imposed solitary confinement was anathema to her. Josie Murlow was a gregarious woman. She thrived on company. Without it, she was lost. Chiffney had left her money to send out for drink and she also had her own not inconsiderable savings, retrieved from a hiding place in her house. Reaching into her purse, she took out a handful of sovereigns and let them fall through her fingers on to the bed. It was ironic. With all that cash at her disposal, she was nevertheless unable to buy the human company she craved. It was insufferable.
She looked around the room with something akin to despair. Then she noticed something draped over a chair beside the wardrobe. Josie’s manner changed in an instant. Perhaps there
Josie Murlow began to tear off her clothes as fast as she could.
Victor Leeming was so over-awed by the opulence of the mansion that he was tongue-tied. The marble- floored hall of Giles Thornhill’s house was larger than the whole area of the sergeant’s modest dwelling. He had never seen so many sculptures before and the wide, curved staircase seemed to sweep up to eternity. Valise in one hand, he stood there and marvelled. When he and Colbeck eventually went into the library, Leeming was still open-mouthed.
Thornhill was seated at the table with a decanter of sherry and a half-filled glass in front of him. He did not bother to get up as they came in. When Colbeck introduced his companion, Leeming was given only a cursory glance.
‘I’m pleased to see that you took my advice, sir,’ said Colbeck.
‘Against my better judgement,’ remarked Thornhill.
‘Apart from the man at the gate, there were no other guards and I caught no glimpse of the mastiff either. He’d frighten anybody away.’
‘That was the intention, Inspector.’
‘We drove past the town hall,’ Leeming put in. ‘We saw your name on the poster outside.’
‘I’ll not be displaced by the Rector of St Dunstan’s.’
‘Why is that, sir?’
‘The man is a thorough nuisance, Sergeant,’ said Thornhill, nastily. ‘He’s caused no end of trouble to me and to many others in the town. If there’s anything I loathe, it’s a turbulent priest.’
‘The Reverend Follis looked harmless enough to me.’
‘I believe that Mr Thornhill was referring to Thomas a Becket,’ said Colbeck, stepping in. ‘As well as being Archbishop of Canterbury, he was Chancellor, the equivalent of today’s Prime Minister. Becket then fell out with Henry II and was duly exiled. When he returned to England, the people welcomed him but the king did not. “Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?” the king is supposed to have cried. Four knights responded by murdering Becket in Canterbury Cathedral.’ He turned to Thornhill. ‘Am I misinterpreting you, sir?’
‘Not at all,’ said Thornhill. ‘Becket’s story showed the idiocy of combining Church and State. It’s a fatal compound. Politics and religion should be kept separate. Unfortunately, nobody seems to have told that to Ezra Follis.’
‘Even if they did,’ said Colbeck, ‘he’d probably ignore them.’
‘The fellow is a law unto himself. He’s a renegade priest.’
‘Wait a moment, sir,’ said Leeming, entering the debate. ‘I thought that you wanted to close all the shops and public houses on a Sunday.’
‘I have been involved in drafting an early version of the Sunday Trading Bill,’ admitted Thornhill. ‘That’s quite true, Sergeant.’
‘You just told us that politics and religion should be separate.’
‘I stand by that.’
‘Then why do politicians want to interfere with Sunday?’
‘We’re not interfering with it – we want to protect it. We believe that the Lord’s Day should be properly observed.’
‘But that’s religion, sir,’ Leeming contended.
‘It’s a political decision.’
‘Yet you want to take it for religious reasons.’
‘It’s a valid point, Victor,’ said Colbeck, cutting the argument short, ‘but this is perhaps not the ideal time to discuss the matter. We have more immediate concerns.’ He indicated the valise. ‘The sergeant has brought a change of clothing with him, Mr Thornhill. Is there somewhere for him to put it on?’
Thornhill got up and crossed to the bell rope. Shortly after it had been pulled, a servant appeared. In response to his orders, he led Victor Leeming out of the library.
‘Your sergeant is unduly argumentative,’ said Thornhill. ‘To be candid, I really don’t know why either of you is here. I still have the strongest reservations about this whole business.’
‘We’re here to save your life, sir.’
‘When there are only
‘Watch us,’ said Colbeck.
Having checked to see how many people were on guard at the gate, he walked around the perimeter of the estate to find the point of access he had used before. After climbing a fence, he was confronted by a high, thick hedge and had to go along it before he found the gap. Once through it, he moved stealthily in the direction of the house, stopping from time to time to look round and listen. He saw nobody patrolling the grounds and sensed that he was in luck. Emboldened, he crept on through the undergrowth with the rifle slung across his back. He felt certain of success this time.
The secret lay in meticulous preparation. Hiding the rifle behind a yew tree, he went on unencumbered until the house finally came into view. Approaching it from the rear, he used his telescope to view the terrace where Giles Thornhill had been sitting before the first attempt on his life. The window shattered by the bullet had now been boarded up and the myriad glass fragments swept away. Whichever exit Thornhill chose from the house, it would not be that one.
He worked his way around to the front of the house in a wide circle. There was good cover among the trees and bushes. It allowed him to get within seventy yards of the front entrance. He peered through the telescope again. Outside the portico with its matching fluted columns, he had expected at least one armed guard but the house seemed unprotected. The only person he could see was a gardener, ambling across the forecourt with a wooden wheelbarrow. The man vanished behind some shrubs. Buttered by the sun, Giles Thornhill’s mansion looked serene and majestic.
If he left by the front door, as was most likely, Thornhill would be taken by his private carriage to the hall
