Murder on the Brighton Express (20 page)

During the long reaches of the night, when she and Chiffney were entwined in carnal lust, everything had 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
was
a way to get what she wanted without putting herself and Chiffney in danger. Perhaps she had a means of fulfilling her desire to go to Brighton, after all. She had the money, the urge and the perfect disguise. Josie doubted if Chiffney himself would recognise her. All it required from
her was the courage to implement the plan. The prospect of escape was too tempting to resist. She made the decision in a second and let out a whoop of joy.

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 à 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
two
of you? How can you possibly do that?’

‘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 where he would be speaking. The stable block was off to the right. When the vehicle drew up outside the portico, Thornhill would be obscured as he came out of the door. It was when he stepped up into the open carriage that he would present a target. That moment was crucial. The man simply had to fire with deadly accuracy and the job was done.

He moved from place to place before he settled on the exact spot from which he would shoot. Shielded by thick bushes, he had an excellent view of the forecourt. There were hours to go yet. He was able to retrieve his rifle, take it to his
chosen position and settle down. Since there would be a long wait, he had brought bread and cheese to eat. In case his nerve faltered, he had a small flask of brandy but he did not think it would be required.

It was early evening before there was any sign of movement. The doors of the stable block were opened and a horse was led out. It had already been harnessed. Two men pulled out a landau from the stable and fitted the shafts into the harness. One of the men disappeared for a minute then emerged again in a frock coat and top hat. He climbed up onto the driving seat and picked up the reins, flicking them and calling out a command to the horse. The landau headed towards the house. The gardener, now weeding a flowerbed, waved to the driver.

Watching it all from his vantage point, the man held his weapon ready. His heart was pumping and sweat was starting to break out on his forehead. As his hands trembled a little, he felt that he needed the brandy, after all, and gulped it swiftly down. It gave him courage and stiffened his resolve. His moment had finally come. Raising the weapon, he put the butt into his shoulder, crooked his finger around the trigger and took aim. After rumbling across the gravel, the landau pulled up outside the house.

There was a momentary wait then the front door opened and a tall figure stepped out, one arm in a sling. He opened the door of the carriage and took a firm grip so that he could pull himself up with his other hand. In that instant, with Giles Thornhill completely exposed, the man tried to control the tremble that had come back into his hands and pulled the trigger. His victim collapsed in a heap.

It was only a single shot but its effects were remarkable. A man collapsed in the landau, birds took to the air in fright and the horse reared and pulled with such force between the shafts that the driver had difficulty in controlling it. Perhaps the most remarkable thing was that the gardener leapt over his wheelbarrow and sprinted towards the bushes in the distance as if he had been waiting for a signal to do so. The assassin had already taken to his heels. Convinced that his mission had been successful, he gathered up his telescope and weapon before running off into the undergrowth.

The sharp crack of the rifle shot seemed to resonate for an age, rising above the squawking of the birds and the frantic neighing of the horse. Happy and exhilarated, the assassin ran on until the noises began to fade behind him. They were replaced by another sound and it made his blood congeal. He could hear a body crashing through the bushes behind him. Somebody was chasing hard and seemed to be gaining on him. He tried to quicken his pace but he was hampered by the heavy rifle and troubled by cramp from having stood in the same position for so many hours.

He was still hundreds of yards from the edge of the estate.
There was no way he could outrun the pursuit. When he came to a clearing, therefore, he stopped and waited. Breathing hard and gripped by panic, he turned round. He tossed the telescope to the ground. Since he had no time to reload the rifle, he grabbed it by the barrel to use as a club. He could hear running feet getting closer all the time, swishing their way rhythmically through the grass. Whoever was following him had to be stopped or even killed.

He began to shiver with fear. Shooting a man from a distance had been easy. Confronting and overpowering someone prepared for action was a very different matter. There would be a fight. If his pursuer were armed, he would have the advantage. The assassin was no longer in control and that was frightening. Holding the rifle, he stood ready to strike. He then got a first glimpse of the man, coming through the trees at a steady pace. The next second, the gardener burst into the clearing and saw him.

It was no time to hesitate. Palms sweating, the man swung the rifle with vicious intent, hoping to knock out his adversary with a single blow. But the gardener was agile as well as fast. He ducked beneath the makeshift club and got in a solid punch to the other man’s stomach that made him gasp in pain. Dropping the rifle, the winded man tried to run away. Flight was in vain. The gardener was quicker and stronger than him. Overhauling him within seconds, he dived on the assassin’s back and forced him to the ground, sitting astride him while delivering a relay of punches to his head and body that took all resistance out of him.

Having subdued his man, he pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and clipped them on to the man’s wrist so that he was pinioned from behind. The gardener could afford
to relax. His quarry had been caught, pacified and restrained. It was time to roll him over.

‘Well,’ said Victor Leeming with a grin, ‘I was hoping that you and I would meet again, Mr Chiffney. You attacked me from behind the last time. We met on equal terms today.’

Leeming’s grin froze immediately. The person on the ground was not a cross-eyed ruffian with an ugly face but a fair-haired young man who was gibbering with terror. It was not Chiffney.

When he stepped back into the hall of the house, Robert Colbeck took off the sling he had been wearing to support his arm and handed it to a servant. Giles Thornhill looked on in admiration.

‘That was a very daring thing to do, Inspector,’ he said. ‘It was daring and extremely rash. I watched it all through the window. I thought you’d been hit.’

‘I only pretended to be, sir. I wanted him to think I’d been killed so that he’d run off. Sergeant Leeming will catch up with him.’

‘Why take such a risk?’

‘I didn’t think I could persuade you to do so, Mr Thornhill.’

‘It would have been suicide.’

‘No,’ said Colbeck. ‘He fired at you from fifty yards before and missed. He’d have been farther away this time. I was trading on the fact that he’s not a marksman and might therefore be nervous with a weapon in his hands. If he’d been a ruthless killer, you wouldn’t still be alive. I had to offer him a second chance to shoot you.’

‘Then I’m deeply grateful,’ said Thornhill, ‘and I’ll be
writing to your superiors to tell them so.’

‘Be sure to mention Sergeant Leeming, sir. He not only tended your garden for several hours, he was in the right place to give chase when the shot was fired. We knew it would come from those trees and they must be seventy yards away. From that distance,’ said Colbeck, ‘I had the feeling that I could pass for a Member of Parliament.’

‘Do you think the sergeant will have affected an arrest?’

‘I’m sure that he has, Mr Thornhill.’

‘What I want to know is who exactly that devil is.’

Colbeck indicated the door. ‘Let’s go and meet him.’

Victor Leeming did not waste any time trying to question his captive. Hauling him to his feet, he shoved him against a tree to take a close look at him. Pale-skinned and square-jawed, the prisoner was tall, well-favoured and in his early twenties. He wore old clothing that blended with the surroundings. Leeming retrieved the rifle and slung it over his shoulder. Holding the telescope in one hand, he used the other to take the man by the scruff of the neck and propel him along.

As they walked back towards the house, nothing was said. Glad to have captured him, the sergeant was disappointed that he had not caught Dick Chiffney. That would have been a real triumph. Though the man made one desperate attempt to break free, Leeming was too quick for him. He stuck out a foot and tripped him up. Pitching forward on to the ground, the captive bruised his forehead and dirtied his face. He got no sympathy from the sergeant. Pulling him to his feet again, Leeming took a firmer hold on his collar and hustled him along. Having tried to shoot a distinguished politician, the young man had also done his best to kill a Scotland Yard
detective. After the long walk back to the house, he would, in time, take a shorter one to the gallows.

Colbeck and Thornhill waited side by side on the forecourt. The horse had now calmed down, the birds were singing once again and peace had been restored. Leeming came out of the trees with his prisoner ahead of him. When the young man saw that Giles Thornhill was alive and unharmed, he let out a cry of dismay. All his efforts had 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 hair was salted
with grey. His deep voice had the rasp of authority.