Murder on the Brighton Express (15 page)

‘It’s time for me to go.’

‘You’re not going to leave me here alone, are you?’ she protested.

‘I have to,’ he explained. ‘There’s breakfast waiting for you in the kitchen downstairs and I’ve left money if you want to send out for drink. My friend’s name is Walter, by the way. Ask him for anything you need. Walter will look after you.’

‘I’d rather
you
did that,’ she grumbled.

Josie looked around the room with a mixture of interest and distrust. It was bigger, better furnished and very much cleaner than her bedroom at home. They were obviously in a sizeable house. The bed was extremely comfortable. She and Chiffney had tested the mattress to the limit. She watched him as he put on his jacket and did up the buttons. The new suit made him look so much smarter. She wanted to believe that the two of them were going up in the world but she was haunted by doubts.

‘Everything is going to be all right, Dick, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Put your faith in me, my love.’

‘I want to come with you.’

‘No, Josie,’ he said, restraining her as she tried to clamber out of bed. ‘I’ve got business I can only do on my own. In any case, I don’t want us to be seen in public again.’

She bristled. ‘Are you ashamed of me, then?’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘Have you got someone else, Dick?’ she said, accusingly.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’ve got a gentleman who’ll pay me more money than I’ve ever earned before to do one small job. You’ll be fine here, my love,’ he said, jokingly. ‘If you have any fears for your virginity, there’s a rifle under the bed. I don’t need that today.’

He picked up the pistol that lay on the table and opened his coat to tuck the weapon into his belt. Slipping some ammunition into his pocket, he reached for his hat. Josie was concerned.

‘How long will you be?’ she asked.

‘I could be away for most of the day.’

‘Why – where are you going?’

‘Brighton,’ he said.

Robert Colbeck was away for such a long time that Thornhill assumed that he was not coming back to the house. He was already composing a letter of complaint to Scotland Yard when the detective was finally shown back into the library.

‘I thought you’d abandoned me, Inspector,’ he said.

‘I’d never do that, sir,’ Colbeck told him. ‘There was a large area to search but it was worthwhile. I found the exact spot from which that shot was fired at you.’ He held up a tiny piece of cloth. ‘Your attacker was hiding behind a bramble bush some fifty yards away. His jacket must have caught on the spikes.’

‘There’s no guarantee that the material came from his clothing,’ Thornhill contended. ‘It might have come from anyone else who’d walked that way – from my gamekeeper, for instance.’

‘I think your gamekeeper would have more sense than to stand in a bramble patch, sir. Besides, there are clear footprints there. From that position, he had a good view of the terrace.’

‘What use is that information now?’

‘I thought it might reassure you.’

Thornhill was perplexed. ‘How could it possibly do that?’

‘It proves that your would-be assassin was no marksman, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘From fifty yards away, a trained rifleman would have been confident of hitting you when you were sitting down. This man waited until you got up so that you presented a larger target – and yet still he missed.’

‘Only by a matter of inches,’ said Thornhill.

‘Someone who knew how to handle a rifle could have shot you dead from hundreds of yards away. This man had to get close and even then he failed. In your position,’ said Colbeck, ‘I’d draw comfort from that fact.’

‘The only comfort I get is when the house is properly guarded and I’m locked up safely inside.’

‘I meant to speak to you about that, sir. After today, I suggest that you stand down some of the men at the gate and those patrolling the estate.’

‘That’s an insane suggestion, Inspector.’

‘If you want the man caught, it’s the best thing to do.’

‘Lay myself open to the possibility of a
second
attack?’ cried Thornhill in disbelief. ‘What on earth is the point of that?’

‘It will tempt him to come back.’

‘That’s the last thing I want to do, man.’

‘Then we may never find him,’ warned Colbeck. ‘He’ll melt into the crowd and stay there until you’re sufficiently recovered to leave the safety of your home. It may take weeks, even months, before he strikes again – and it will be when you least expect it. If we can lure him into making a second attempt, however,’ he went on, ‘we can bait the trap.’

‘I won’t be used as target practice,’ said Thornhill, hotly.

‘There’s no danger of that, sir. Now, you have a reputation as a public speaker. As well as taking part in Parliamentary debates, you’ve addressed meetings on a regular basis.’

‘One has to spread the word.’

‘Do you keep a record of such meetings?’

‘Naturally,’ said Thornhill. ‘Everything is listed in my diary. As it happens, I was due to speak here in Brighton tomorrow evening.’

Colbeck was pleased. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you must honour the commitment.’

‘How can I when someone out there is waiting to shoot me? I’ve instructed my secretary to say that I’ve had to withdraw.’

‘Has he done so yet, Mr Thornhill?’

‘Yes, he’s advised them to find another speaker.’

‘I think you should rescind that instruction and announce that you’ll address the meeting, after all. It would impress your audience greatly that you’ve made light of your injuries.’

‘I’ve no wish to appear in public.’

‘You may not have to, sir – just do as I ask.’

Thornhill was reluctant. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘Meanwhile, I’d be most grateful to see the list of public meetings you’ve addressed in
recent months. When I have that in my possession, I’ll go back into Brighton.’

‘Why is that, Inspector?’

‘I need to look at some newspapers, sir.’

If nothing else, the visit to Chalk Farm had confirmed the fact that it was Dick Chiffney who had knocked Victor Leeming unconscious in an alleyway. It served to concentrate the victim’s mind. Leaving the Shepherd and Shepherdess, he turned to the next task assigned to him by Colbeck and headed for the offices of the LNWR. As he was about to go in, he met Captain Ridgeon on his way out.

‘Good morning, Sergeant,’ said Ridgeon, brightly.

‘Good morning to you, sir,’ returned Leeming.

‘Are you still persisting in your unnecessary inquiry?’

‘Yes, Captain – in spite of jibes from ill-informed sources.’

‘Are you referring to my comments in the newspaper?’

‘They were both harsh and unjust.’

‘I was quoted incorrectly, Sergeant Leeming.’

‘Does that mean you actually approve of what we’re doing?’

Ridgeon stifled a smile. ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ he said, ‘but I would ask you to believe that my remarks were not as intemperate as they appeared to be in that article.’

‘It all hangs on the interpretation of the evidence,’ said Leeming, ‘and, in my opinion, there’s nobody alive who does that better than Inspector Colbeck.’

‘Unfortunately, some of that “evidence” has now disappeared.’

‘Has it?’

‘I can see that you haven’t been to Brighton recently,’ said
Ridgeon. ‘Once I had made my decision about the cause of the crash, it was vital to open the two lines again as quickly as possibly. Crews worked twenty-four hours a day to clear the debris and repair the track. As from yesterday, the Brighton Express is running again in both directions.’

‘I wondered how the Inspector got back so early yesterday.’

Ridgeon was curious. ‘What was he doing in Brighton?’

‘Exactly the same as I’m doing now, sir,’ said Leeming, looking him in the eye. ‘He’s doing his damnedest to prove you wrong.’

He went into the building, introduced himself to one of the clerks and asked to see Matthew Shanklin. After disappearing for a couple of minutes, the man returned and shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Mr Shanklin is not here.’

‘Is he still indisposed?’

‘Yes, sir – he’s too ill to come into work this morning.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The manager says that he sent a letter to that effect.’

Leeming’s eye lit up. ‘Was it written by Mr Shanklin himself?’

‘I think so, Sergeant.’

‘Then I should very much like to see it.’

While nothing could have endeared the politician to Colbeck, he had to admire Giles Thornhill’s industry. The man was quite indefatigable, addressing public meetings on issues of the day with a frequency that was breathtaking. When he was not facing an audience in a hall, Thornhill was, more often than not, expressing his opinions as an after-dinner speaker at
various functions. Most of his work had been done in London but there were enough occasions when he had spoken in his constituency to send Colbeck to the offices of one of the local newspapers, the
Brighton Gazette
.

The editor, Sidney Weaver, was an anxious little man in his forties, his brow furrowed and his hands twitching nervously. The Railway Detective, it turned out, was a man for whom he had the highest respect.

‘I’ve followed your career carefully,’ said Weaver, gesticulating at him. ‘I know what you did on Derby Day this year and how you solved the murder of that man thrown from the Sankey Bridge. You’ll get all the help you need from me.’

‘Thank you,’ said Colbeck, finding his praise rather tiresome. ‘All I want is somewhere quiet to read back copies of your newspaper.’

‘Is there anything in particular that you’re looking for, sir? If so, I might be able to save you the time. I’ve got an encyclopaedic mind where the
Gazette
is concerned. Mr Bardwell calls me a marvel.’

‘I gather that he often writes for you.’

‘We always accept copy from someone of his eminence. Mark you,’ Weaver went on, closing an eye, ‘he’s not so ready to offer an opinion when there’s been an accident and that’s happened once too often.’ The lines in his face multiplied and deepened. ‘Do you remember when the
Jenny Lind
came into service?’

‘Of course,’ replied Colbeck. ‘It was seven years ago. She was a beautiful locomotive with those huge six-foot driving wheels and that classical fluted dome.’

‘I was travelling on the express when
Jenny Lind
got into trouble. Her leading axle broke and tore off a wheel. The
driver had no idea what had happened so he kept up full speed, unaware that he was ripping up the track behind him. We were aware of it,’ said Weaver, hands semaphoring wildly, ‘because we were shaken about every inch of the way. We were lucky to come out of it alive.’

‘What was Mr Bardwell’s reaction?’

‘He went strangely quiet for once.’

‘That same can’t be said of the gentleman in whom I’m interested,’ said Colbeck, taking out a piece of paper. ‘These are the editions I’d like to see, Mr Weaver,’ he continued, handing the list over. ‘Is there somewhere private where I can study them?’

‘Have the use of my office,’ said Weaver, moving various items off his desk. ‘It’s a privilege to have the Railway Detective here.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll get one of my lads to find these for you.’

Weaver opened the door, beckoned a young man over and gave him the list. While they were waiting, he gave Colbeck a brief history of the
Gazette
and how he had come to edit it. The newspapers arrived and Weaver took them from the young man before putting them in the middle of the desk.

‘If there’s anything I can do, Inspector, just call me.’

‘I will, Mr Weaver.’

Grateful to be left alone at last, Colbeck worked through the newspapers chronologically, searching for reports of public meetings that Giles Thornhill had addressed. Occasionally, he had shared a platform with the other sitting Member of Parliament for Brighton but Thornhill’s had always been the more dominant voice. He was an unrepentant reactionary, defending the status quo and resisting any hint of radical
reform. Chartists were treated with especial scorn.

In almost every speech, Thornhill had stressed his pride in his country, arguing that the British Empire was a wondrous achievement that acted as a civilising influence all over the world. On the subject of immigration – and he spoke on it more than once – his patriotism had taken on a sharper edge. His most recent speech on the subject had been quoted in some detail. Colbeck could almost hear him declaiming the words from a platform. Folding over the page, he got up and opened the door. Sidney Weaver scurried across to him like a spaniel.

‘Did you want to see anything else, Inspector Colbeck?’ he said.

‘It’s possible,’ replied Colbeck. ‘There’s a speech here that Giles Thornhill made about immigration.’

‘He’s always had great distaste for foreigners.’

‘This is more than distaste, Mr Weaver.’ He showed the report to the editor. ‘Did you have any response to this?’

‘We had a very strong response,’ said Weaver with an abrupt laugh. ‘Some of the letters were far too offensive to print.’

Colbeck smiled. ‘I don’t suppose you kept any of them, did you?’

‘I kept them all, Inspector – including the one from the Rector of St Dunstan’s. He was outraged by what Mr Thornhill had said.’

A meeting with the churchwardens was always an essay in sustained boredom but Ezra Follis endured it without demur. Retired, worthy, staid and lacking in anything resembling lightness of touch, the two men were pillars of the community
who took their duties with a seriousness matched only by their solemnity. A couple of hours in their presence taxed even Follis’s nerves and he waved them off with more than usual alacrity. The moment they disappeared, Mrs Ashmore bustled out of the kitchen.

‘Is there anything I can get you?’ she offered.

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘you can untie the bandage on the other hand.’

‘The doctor said that you had to keep it on.’

‘It’s so
inconvenient
.’

‘Your other hand is now free,’ she pointed out.