Murder on the Brighton Express

‘He probably wouldn’t print it.’

‘Someone needs to stand up for Robert.’

‘Oh,’ said Andrews with a grin, ‘I think that Inspector Colbeck can do that for himself. He doesn’t need your help, Maddy. The press have thrown stones at him before and they never seem to hurt him.’

‘They hurt me,’ she said, ‘and I don’t like it.’

‘What I don’t like is the slur they’re casting on Frank Pike’s name. Unless that official report is shown up for the nonsense that it is, Frank will be blamed for the crash. I want the truth to come out.’

Madeleine was positive. ‘It will, Father,’ she said, ‘I’m sure. Robert won’t let us down. No matter how long it takes and no matter how much criticism he gets, Robert will carry on with the investigation until everything is brought to light.’

In the circumstances, Victor Leeming was happy to accompany Colbeck back to Scotland Yard. They had substantial progress to report and that would gladden even the flint heart of Edward Tallis. If there was approbation on offer, Leeming wanted his share of it. When the detectives entered the superintendent’s office, they were not met by the pungent odour of his cigars. The air in the room seemed fresh for a change. Tallis was standing at the window. He swung round to face them.

‘Don’t you dare tell me that you’ve drawn another blank,’ he said with quiet menace. ‘Bring some cheer into my life.’

‘I think we can contrive to do that, sir,’ said Colbeck, smoothly.

‘Yes,’ agreed Leeming. ‘We had an interesting day in Brighton.’

‘But did you make any arrests?’ asked Tallis.

‘We have two people in custody.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Inspector Colbeck will explain.’

‘I wish that somebody would. I need to hear good tidings.’

‘If you’d care to sit down,’ said Colbeck, ‘I’ll do my best to give them to you.’

After all three of them had taken a seat, Colbeck delivered his report with characteristic aplomb. The superintendent’s face was a block of ice that slowly melted into something recognisably human. A fleeting smile actually appeared beneath his moustache.

‘You captured the man who tried to shoot Mr Thornhill?’

‘Yes,’ replied Colbeck. ‘Strictly speaking, I was the person that Herr Freytag tried to kill and Victor was the arresting officer. He showed great bravery in tackling an armed man.’

‘Well done, Sergeant,’ said Tallis.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Leeming, savouring the moment.

‘As for that rogue, Dick Chiffney, death under the wheels of a locomotive was poetic justice. Now he knows what it’s like to be killed in a railway accident.’ His gaze shifted to Colbeck. ‘I take it that you got full details of the crime from this harlot of his.’

‘Not yet,’ said Colbeck. ‘Josie Murlow was in such a state of hysteria when we arrested her that we could get nothing coherent out of the woman. The only thing she admitted was that she was expecting Chiffney to make a lot of money in Brighton that day.’

‘Yes – by shooting the Reverend Follis.’

‘Why would anyone want to kill a clergyman?’ asked Leeming.

‘We’ll discover that when we catch Chiffney’s paymaster,’ said Colbeck. ‘As I told you, Victor, we were looking in the wrong direction. We thought that Mr Bardwell or Mr Thornhill had been the target on that express. Instead of looking at business and politics, we should have used a turntable and swung round to examine religion.’

Tallis was perplexed. ‘What’s this about a turntable?’

‘Don’t ask me, sir,’ said Leeming, helplessly.

‘It’s just a metaphor,’ explained Colbeck. ‘The thing we don’t yet have, of course, is the name of the man behind it all. It may be that Chiffney himself didn’t know it and neither does Josie Murlow. She swore that she had no idea who employed Chiffney.’

‘What about the Reverend Follis himself?’ asked Tallis. ‘Surely, he knows who his enemies are.’

‘He was unable to help us, Superintendent. By the time we’d finished at Brighton station, Mr Follis was in hospital, having the bullet taken out of his shoulder. Because he was in such pain,’ said Colbeck, ‘they’d used chloroform. I’ll speak to him tomorrow though it’s not certain that he’ll give us the name we want. In his own way, the Rector of St Dunstan’s has upset as many people as Mr Bardwell and Mr Thornhill put together. With so many people wishing him ill, he may have great difficulty identifying the right one.’

‘In short,’ said Tallis, glowering, ‘you have absolutely no clue as to who this man might be.’

‘That’s not true, sir. We have this.’ Colbeck opened the leather satchel he was carrying and took out a telescope. ‘Chiffney also had a weapon in his possession but it was crushed beneath the train. This, however,’ he continued, ‘was not damaged. As you can see, it’s a fine instrument and hardly the thing that Chiffney would own himself. It must have been loaned to him by his paymaster.’ He passed it over to Tallis, who extended it to its full length then inspected it. ‘That’s the best clue we have, Superintendent.’

‘It may be the only one we need,’ said Tallis, excitedly. ‘It’s got his name engraved on the side here – he’s a Mr Grampus.’

‘With respect, sir,’ said Colbeck, taking the telescope back from him, ‘Grampus is not the name of a man. It’s the name of a ship. Our suspect was in the navy.’

Word of the attempt on Ezra Follis’s life spread like wildfire around Brighton. Before he had even recovered from the effects of the chloroform, friends and well-wishers were calling at the county hospital. Sidney Weaver was the first there. Having been at the town hall for the meeting, he felt that he had a more dramatic event to report in the road outside. Ellen Ashmore and Amy Walcott were only two of the women who rushed to the hospital. Other female parishioners also wanted the latest news of their beloved rector. They joined the churchwardens, the verger and many others who tried to get to the victim’s bedside. A hospital already filled with survivors of the train crash was now even more overcrowded.

A senior doctor told them that the patient’s condition was now stable and that, in spite of a loss of blood, he was in no imminent danger. However, he insisted, Ezra Follis would not be strong enough to see anyone until the morning. Reluctantly, people slowly drifted away. The only person who lingered was the editor of the Brighton Gazette, wanting more detail about the seriousness of the injury so that he could include it in his newspaper report.

Giles Thornhill arrived later in the evening. Because of his status and because he had donated generously to the hospital coffers, his request to see the patient was treated with more respect. When told of his visitor, Follis, though still drowsy, nevertheless agreed to see him. Thornhill came into the ward and felt a pang of sympathy when he observed the clergyman’s condition. Heavily bandaged, Follis lay in bed with his face as white as the sheets covering him. He looked impossibly small and fragile. His voice was a mere croak.

‘I’m sorry I missed your talk,’ he said.

‘Half of the audience did so as well,’ said Thornhill, resignedly. ‘When they heard that someone was firing a gun outside, they got up and fled.’ There was the hint of a smile. ‘Was it a deliberate trick on your part to interrupt the meeting?’

‘Even I wouldn’t go to that extreme, Mr Thornhill.’

‘How are you?’

‘I’m still in pain and feeling very sleepy.’

‘Then I won’t hold you up,’ said Thornhill. ‘I just wanted to say how sorry I am that this happened. It’s ironic that we have something in common at last.’

‘Yes,’ said Follis, ‘someone tried to kill you as well.’

‘The young man is now in custody. Inspector Colbeck set a trap for him and he fell into it. But yours is a very different case,’ he went on. ‘I was shot at from a distance. From what I gather, you were only yards away from the man who fired at you.’

‘Luckily, he was a bad shot. He was aiming at my head but the bullet hit my shoulder.’ Follis quivered at the