Murder on the Brighton Express

‘I’ve been amply rewarded by your service to me.’

‘I’d do anything for you, sir. You must know that.’

‘You’ve been a rock, Mrs Ashmore,’ he said. ‘You’re much more than a housekeeper to me. You’re a friend, a companion, a nurse and I don’t know what else. When the world turns against me – or when the bishop admonishes me – I always have you to offer love and support. That means a great deal to me.’

She was deeply moved. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘Your devotion has been heartening.’

‘I don’t ever want to leave this place.’

‘We shall both have to leave one day,’ he said, cheerily, ‘when old age prevents me from climbing up into that pulpit. This rectory has been a source of continuing joy to me but that will not go on forever. In the fullness of time, I shall have to retire.’

‘Where will you go, sir?’ she asked, apprehensively. ‘I know that you have a house in London and that you own property here as well. Will you stay in Brighton?’

Follis was struck by the combination of tenderness and hope in her eyes. Within her limitations, she had been a godsend to him. When he had lost his previous housekeeper, Follis did not think he would ever find anyone as compatible and understanding. In Ellen Ashmore, he had done just that. Removing his hat, he laid it on the table then he took her by the shoulders to pull her close.

‘Wherever I go,’ he promised, ‘you’ll come with me.’

‘Do you mean that?’ she cried with delight.

‘Of course, I do. We’ve been through so much together that I’ll never part with you now. You’re mine, Ellen – you always will be.’

Then he kissed her full on the lips.

Dick Chiffney was determined not to fail this time. There was far too much at stake. All that he had to do was to fire one shot and make his escape. That would not be difficult. The town hall was close to the Lanes, the labyrinth of passageways built way back in the seventeenth century. Chiffney had familiarised himself with the quarter. There would be lots of people outside the town hall but, in the confusion caused by the gunshot, he felt confident of getting away through the Lanes. His employer would be there to watch the murder take place. Once he saw that the victim was dead, he would meet Chiffney at the railway station and pay him the agreed amount. The two men would never see each other again.

A single criminal act could secure Chiffney’s future. While the crowd was still clustered around the dead man outside the town hall, he would be running for an express train. Back in London, he would shower Josie Murlow with money. She had finally accepted that what he was doing was for the benefit of both of them. Any scruples she had about the way his payment was obtained had now vanished. Chiffney and she were accomplices, drawn together by lust and united by someone else’s death. They were well-matched.

People had already started to arrive for the meeting. Outside the town hall, a magnificent edifice with a classical facade, was a poster bearing the name of Giles Thornhill. Dozens of citizens wanted to know his opinion about the future of Brighton. Since the advent of the railways, it had become a much larger and more boisterous place than hitherto, invaded by holidaymakers in the warmer months. There were many residents who disliked this regular influx of what they saw as the lower orders and they wondered if their Member of Parliament could do something about it.

Chiffney knew nothing of politics. Since he would never have a vote, he took no interest in who actually ran the country. He had never even heard of Thornhill but was impressed by the size of the audience that the man was drawing. That pleased Chiffney. The bigger the crowd in the street, the greater would be the commotion. When the pistol went off, everyone would be too busy trying to take cover to notice him haring off to the Lanes. Shoot, run, collect his money – it was as simple and straightforward as that. All fear had left him now. He was supremely ready.

Knowing the direction from which his target would arrive, he positioned himself in a doorway and used the telescope to scrutinise each cab that approached and each group of people coming on foot. The man he wanted was nowhere to be seen. Time was slowly running out. It would not be long before the meeting started. Chiffney began to worry that his victim might not turn up. It was absurd. He had seen the man half-a-dozen times during the day yet had been unable to shoot. Now that he was eager to pull the trigger, he had no target.

Cold fear seized him. He might not, after all, have the chance to earn his reward. At the last moment, Chiffney had been thwarted. He had been misinformed. The man was not coming. He had cheated death. Just as he was about to give up all hope, he saw another cab turn into the road. Even with the telescope, he could not identify its occupant but he somehow knew that his target had come. Stuffing the telescope into his pocket, he unbuttoned his coat so that he could put his hand around the pistol. It was already loaded. Murder was only seconds away.

The cab drew up outside the town hall and a man got out. He reached up to pay the driver. Chiffney darted across to him with the pistol drawn. He got within yards of the dapper figure.

‘Ezra Follis?’ he shouted.

‘Yes,’ said Follis, turning. ‘Who wants me?’

‘I do!’

Chiffney fired the gun and saw him recoil as the bullet struck him. Before the rector had even hit the ground, his attacker was running away as fast as his legs would carry him.

Robert Colbeck was inside the town hall when he heard the gunshot and the screams that followed it. Rushing out into the road, he saw people sheltering in doorways or crouched down on their knees. Right in front of him was a small group of men, bending over a body on the pavement. Colbeck went over to them and saw Ezra Follis, his face contorted with agony as he clutched the wound in his shoulder. Colbeck took charge at once.

‘Someone fetch a doctor!’ he ordered. As a man hurried off, Colbeck took out a handkerchief, put it over the wound. ‘Press down on this to stem the bleeding,’ he told one of the bystanders before speaking to Follis. ‘Can you hear me, sir?’

‘Yes, Inspector,’ murmured Follis.

‘What happened?’

‘Thornhill stopped me going to the meeting.’

‘I’ll tell you what happened,’ said one of the men. ‘The Reverend Follis got out a cab when someone jumped forward and shot him.’

‘Is that correct?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Yes,’ replied Follis. ‘It was over in an instant.’

‘Can you describe the man?’

‘He was as ugly as sin, Inspector. He had the face of Satan.’

‘Dick Chiffney!’ said Colbeck to himself.

Victor Leeming had kept her under observation from behind the newspaper he had bought at the railway station. Josie Murlow was seated on a bench from which she could see the main entrance. Every so often, she glanced up at the clock. When a train came in, she got up as if about to catch it. At the last moment, however, she changed her mind and went back to the bench. Leeming could not see her face but he could sense her irritation. The train pulled out and she watched it go. Seeing her distracted, the sergeant drifted closer to the entrance so that he would be in a better position to intercept Chiffney.

In the event, it was not Dick Chiffney who came but Colbeck. A cab came towards the station with the horse at a gallop. When the animal was reined in by the driver, the cab came to an abrupt halt and out leapt Colbeck. After handing some coins to the driver, he strode briskly over to Leeming.

‘Has he come yet, Victor?’ he asked. ‘Is Chiffney here?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then he will be any minute. He’s just shot the Reverend Follis.’

‘Never!’

‘Chiffney escaped on foot, apparently, so I’ll have overtaken him in the cab. Besides, he won’t run all the way here for fear of arousing suspicion.’