Murder on the Brighton Express

come to nothing. The thrill he had felt as the body dropped down in the carriage was replaced by a sense of dread. He would now have to face trial without the satisfaction of knowing that he had killed his intended victim.

Letting go of his collar, Leeming prodded him over the last thirty yards with the telescope. Head down and shamefaced, the man could not even bring himself to look at the person he had tried to shoot. Colbeck took over.

‘I’m pleased to meet you at last,’ he said, suavely. ‘My name is Detective-Inspector Colbeck and I was the man at whom you mistakenly fired the shot. I’m very grateful to you for missing me. You were arrested by my colleague, Detective-Sergeant Leeming, who was posing as a gardener. I can see that the two of you have become closely acquainted.’

‘He tried to take my head off, sir,’ said Leeming.

‘That makes two attempted murders in one day.’ Colbeck gestured at his companion. ‘I don’t think there’s any need to introduce Mr Thornhill, is there?’ he said. ‘Well, now that you know our names, perhaps you’d be good enough to tell us yours.’

The young man raised his head. ‘My name is Heinrich Freytag,’ he said, defiantly, ‘and I have no regrets for what I try to do.’ His English was good but his accent guttural. ‘Mr Thornhill, he does not deserve to live for what he did.’

‘And what did I do?’ asked Thornhill, bemused.

‘You kill my father.’

‘That’s absolute nonsense. I’ve never even heard of him.’

‘You didn’t need to know him,’ said Freytag, angrily. ‘He was a foreigner and that was enough to make you hate him.’

‘When did you come to Brighton?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Six years ago. We were living in Berlin when riots broke out. Our house was burnt to the ground so my father decided to bring us here. He said that England was a civilised country and we would be safe.’ He shot Thornhill a look of disgust. ‘That was before he heard about men like this one.’

‘I’m entitled to my opinions about immigrants,’ said Thornhill, ‘and I won’t be dissuaded from expressing them.’

‘I know,’ said Colbeck. ‘I studied reports of your speeches when I was at the offices of the Brighton Gazette. Your views on foreigners cropped up time and again.’

‘I don’t want them here, Inspector.’

‘What right have you to keep us out?’ demanded Freytag. ‘What harm have we done to you? We fled Germany to start a new life here. Do you think we wanted to leave our own country?’

‘That’s no concern of mine,’ said Thornhill.

‘It sounds as if it might be, sir,’ observed Leeming.

‘All I did was to address a few public meetings.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Freytag with feeling, ‘you did a lot more than that. You made people angry. You made them think that we do not deserve to live in Brighton. One night, after you speak at a meeting, a drunken mob came looking for foreigners. They saw the name of Freytag over our shop and they smashed all the windows. My father came out to protest and was hit by a stone. A week later, he died in hospital from a heart attack.’

‘I take no responsibility for that,’ said Thornhill.

‘You sent those men to the shop.’

‘I deny that.’

‘You build up their hate and let them loose on my father,’ said Freytag, pulsing with resentment. ‘He died because of cruel words you say against all foreigners. You should pay with your life.’

‘Did you bring this to the attention of the police?’ said Colbeck.

‘They would not listen. They say my father died of a heart attack because he was getting old, not because he was hit by the stone. They tell me that Mr Thornhill is an important man in Brighton and that I am wrong to say bad things about him.’

‘I’ve heard enough of this balderdash,’ announced Thornhill. ‘This man is a potential killer. Take him away and charge him, Inspector. You’re welcome to have use of the landau for the purpose. I’ll ride into town.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Colbeck nodded to Leeming who pushed the prisoner towards the carriage then helped him unceremoniously into it. Freytag looked back sourly at Thornhill. The politician was unrepentant.

‘I shall enjoy giving evidence at his trial,’ he said.

‘Do you still intend to speak to that meeting?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Of course, I do. Now that the danger has been removed, I can fulfil the engagement without fear of attack.’

‘Nothing that Herr Freytag said has changed your mind, then?’

‘Why should it?’

‘You heard him, sir. Indirectly, you may have played a part in his father’s death. That’s why he sought revenge.’

‘His father died of heart failure.’

‘It could have been brought on by the attack on him.’

‘I had no part in that.’

‘If the young man is correct, the people responsible heard you speak that night.’

‘Whose side are you on, Inspector?’ said Thornhill, hotly. ‘I won’t be put in the dock. I’m the victim here. That rogue tried to shoot me. He’s the criminal.’

‘I agree, sir,’ said Colbeck, ‘and he’ll pay for his crime. Nothing can excuse what he did. I just think that you might consider the motive that impelled him. In your position, I’d feel sobered.’

‘But you’re not in my position, are you?’ retorted Thornhill. ‘There’s no room for sentiment in politics, Inspector. It’s a hard world. A politician must have the courage of his convictions. I don’t repudiate anything I’ve said. Please don’t ask me to mourn Freytag’s father,’ he went on, glancing towards the landau. ‘He shouldn’t have been here in the first place. One less foreigner in Brighton is a cause for celebration in my eyes.’

He turned away and marched off to the house. Colbeck could imagine all too easily how Thornhill’s rhetoric could incite the wilder element in his audience to violence. It made him decide to attend the meeting that evening. His first priority, however, was to deal with Heinrich Freytag. He strolled across to the carriage.

‘Leave him to me, Victor,’ he said. ‘You’d better go back into the house to change or Mr Thornhill will think I’ve abducted his gardener.’

‘Watch him carefully, sir,’ advised Leeming, getting out of the landau. ‘After I’d caught him, he tried to make a run for it.’

Handing him the rifle and the telescope, the sergeant headed for the door. Colbeck examined the weapon and saw the name on a metal plaque. It had been made in Berlin. Climbing into the carriage, he sat opposite Freytag and patted the rifle.

‘This is very old,’ he noted. ‘Did it belong to your father?’

‘Yes,’ replied the German.

‘You were not used to firing it, were you?’

‘No, Inspector. That’s why I miss. Mr Thornhill is an evil man. I’ll never forgive myself for not killing him.’

‘How many times did you try?’

‘Twice – and both times I miss.’

‘So you didn’t try to kill him another way?’ said Colbeck. ‘You didn’t want him to die in a train crash, for instance?’

‘No,’ said Freytag, his face a mask of hatred. ‘I want to kill him myself and watch him die. When I hear that he is injured in that crash, I am angry that he might have been snatched away from me. Mr Thornhill took my father’s life so I need to take his. I despise you and the sergeant for stopping me.’

Colbeck sighed. Their success was tinged with failure. They had saved a politician’s life by capturing his would-be assassin but they were no nearer finding the person who had caused the disaster on the Brighton line. He was still at large.

Sturdy, upright and of medium height, the man was impeccably well-dressed. His full beard of black, curling