Murder on the Brighton Express (5 page)

‘Then you are supremely fortunate.’

‘You say that with some bitterness, sir.’

‘I’ve good cause to do so.’

Leeming waited for him to explain what he meant but Shanklin remained silent. Sitting back in his chair, he folded his arms in what looked like a mild show of defiance. He was clearly unwilling to talk about his past. Leeming had to chisel the facts out of him.

‘You were well-regarded at the LB&SCR, I hear,’ said Leeming.

‘I earned that regard.’

‘Six months ago, you had another promotion.’

‘Deservedly,’ said Shanklin.

‘Then it’s odd that the company should let you go.’

‘It was odd and unjust.’

‘Why was that, sir?’

Shanklin flicked a hand. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It does to me,’ insisted Leeming.

‘I’d rather forget the whole thing, Sergeant. It was painful at the time, especially as I was given no chance to defend myself. I have a new job in another company now and that’s where my loyalties lie.’

‘What did you think when you heard the news of the crash?’

‘I was profoundly shocked,’ said Shanklin, ‘as anyone would be at such horrific news. Deaths and injuries on the railway always disturb me.’

‘The very thought of them terrifies me,’ said Leeming.

‘When I worked for the LB&SCR, my job entailed responsibility for safety on the line. If there was even the slightest mishap, I felt it as a personal failure.’ He bit his lip. ‘I’m just relieved that I was not still with the company when this disaster occurred.’

‘Did you know anyone who might have travelled on the express?’

‘Probably.’

‘Could you give me their names, please?’

‘No,’ said Shanklin, curtly.

‘But you do know people who travel on that train regularly?’

‘What are you trying to get at, Sergeant Leeming?’

‘Could one of them, perhaps, be Mr Horace Bardwell?’

Shanklin took refuge in silence once more, staring fixedly at his desk and fiddling nervously with a sheet of paper. Leeming could see how concerned the man was. He did not, however, press him. He watched and waited until Shanklin was ready to speak.

‘Tell me, Sergeant,’ he began, turning to look up at him.

‘Have you ever been certain of a man’s guilt yet unable to prove it?’

‘That’s happened to me a number of times, sir,’ said Leeming, ruefully. ‘I’ve often had to watch guilty men walk free from court because I was unable to find enough evidence to convict them.’

‘Then you’ll understand
my
position with regard to Mr Bardwell.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘I lacked sufficient evidence.’

Leeming blinked. ‘Are you accusing Mr Bardwell of a crime?’

‘Yes,’ said Shanklin, gloomily, ‘and a lot of good it did me. I lost my job, my friends and my reputation at the LB&SCR. Mr Bardwell saw to that.
He’s
the person who should have been ousted – not me.’

‘What charge would you lay against him, sir?’

‘Fraud.’

‘That’s a very serious accusation.’

‘I had good reason to make it, believe me. It was my misfortune to stumble upon a document written by Horace Bardwell, a man whom I had always respected. Well,’ said Shanklin, grinding his teeth, ‘I don’t respect him now.’

‘Why is that, sir?’

‘What I had seen was an attempt to falsify our share prospectus, to lure investors into parting with their money on the strength of bogus promises. I need hardly tell you that the Railway Mania of the last decade led to all kinds of financial upheavals.’

‘Yes,’ said Leeming. ‘People no longer think that investing in a railway company is a licence to print money.’

‘Dividends are shrinking on all sides, Sergeant. I doubt if the LB&SCR will be able to pay its shareholders more than six per cent next year, possibly less.’

‘I assume that Mr Bardwell was offering much more.’

‘He was trying to defraud people,’ said Shanklin with disgust. ‘The prospectus was full of misleading statements and downright lies. I was so outraged that I confronted him about it.’

‘How did he react?’ wondered Leeming.

‘First of all, he pretended that it was not his handwriting. Then, when that excuse wouldn’t work, he claimed that it was a first draft that he intended to change substantially. I refused to accept that and Mr Bardwell became angry. He threatened to ruin me.’

‘Why didn’t you report your findings to the other directors?’

‘That’s exactly what I did, Sergeant,’ replied Shanklin. ‘They asked me to produce evidence but the document in question had already been destroyed by Mr Bardwell. It was his word against mine.’ He ran a hand over his bald pate. ‘I was dismissed on the spot.’

While he was not convinced that he had heard the whole story, Leeming did not ask for more detail. What he had uncovered was a justifiable grudge against Bardwell, one strong enough, perhaps, to impel Shanklin to seek revenge against the man.

‘Horace Bardwell was injured in that crash,’ said Leeming. ‘How would you feel if you learnt that he had, in fact, been killed?’

Shanklin was forthright. ‘I’d be absolutely delighted.’

During his visit to the hospital, Colbeck took the opportunity to speak to a number of the survivors of the crash, comparing their estimates of the speed at which the train was travelling and the way they had reacted when it came off the rails. Several spoke gratefully of the way that the Reverend Ezra Follis had helped them in the immediate aftermath, though one man had been highly alarmed by the sight of the clergyman, fearing that he had come to perform last rites. Colbeck found two people who had actually shared Follis’s carriage. Terence Giddens, the red-faced banker, was still desperate to be discharged from the hospital. He kept glancing anxiously at the door as if afraid that an unwanted visitor would walk through it.

Daisy Perriam had been the only woman in the carriage but the beauty that had attracted her travelling companions was now masked by ugly facial cuts and bruises. She had sustained cracked ribs during the crash and a broken wrist. The injury that really distressed her, however, was the crushed foot. She would never walk properly again. When Colbeck pointed out that she was lucky to survive, she burst into tears.

‘I’d rather have died,’ she wailed, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘What kind of a life do I face now? It will be a nightmare.’

‘Do your family know what happened to you?’ asked Colbeck.

‘No, Inspector, and I hope that they never do.’

On that mystifying note, Colbeck left the hospital and made his way to the railway station, a striking piece of architecture. It was late in the evening when he at last returned to Scotland Yard. The distinctive whiff of cigar smoke from the superintendent’s office told him that Edward Tallis was still there. A confirmed bachelor with scant interest in a
social life, Tallis had dedicated himself completely to the never-ending fight against crime. Colbeck tapped on his door, entered in response to a brusque command and caught the superintendent in the act of stubbing out his cigar in an ashtray.

‘Ah,’ said Tallis, sarcastically, ‘the Prodigal Son returns!’

‘Does that mean you have a fatted calf roasting on the spit, sir?’

‘No, Inspector.’

‘Then perhaps you should read your Bible,’ suggested Colbeck.

Tallis sat up indignantly. ‘I study it every day and am well-acquainted with its contents,’ he affirmed. ‘If everyone in this blighted city was as devout and God-fearing as me, there’d be no need for a Metropolitan Police Force.’

‘I beg to differ, sir. You’d need hundreds of constables to control the masses fighting to get into the churches.’

‘Are you being facetious, Colbeck?

‘Light drollery was the most I was attempting.’

‘It has no place whatsoever in a criminal investigation.’

While Colbeck disagreed, he knew that it was not the moment to debate the subject. Tallis believed that a sense of humour was a sign of weakness in a man’s character. If he ever found something even remotely amusing, the superintendent made sure that nobody else ever found out about it. Waving Colbeck to a chair, he picked up a sheet of paper from his desk.

‘This is a report from Sergeant Leeming,’ he declared.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Colbeck, taking it from him. ‘I’ll be very interested to see it. Victor and I were dealing with two ends of a problematical relationship. While he was calling
on Matthew Shanklin, I was visiting Horace Bardwell at the county hospital in Brighton.’

‘How is he?’

‘He’s very poorly, I’m afraid. He’s lost his sight as a result of the accident and took such a blow to the head that he’s in a state of great confusion.’ As he was talking, Colbeck was reading Leeming’s account of the interview with Shanklin. ‘This could be significant,’ he went on. ‘Victor has probed quite deeply.’

‘I want to hear about Mr Bardwell.’

‘Then you shall, superintendent.’

Colbeck told him about his fleeting encounter with Bardwell and what he had gleaned from other patients. He emphasised the number of people who had praised the work of Ezra Follis.

‘Disasters produce victims,’ said Tallis, grimly, ‘but they also create heroes. It sounds to me as if the Reverend Follis is one of them.’

‘There’s no question of that, sir. One of the doctors told me that he should be in hospital himself instead of carrying on as if nothing had happened to him.’

‘Christian stoicism – we can all learn from his example.’

‘Strictly speaking,’ said Colbeck, ‘Stoics were members of an ancient Greek school of philosophy, holding that virtue and happiness can only be attained by submission to destiny and natural law. I’m not sure that it can be aligned to Christianity.’

‘Don’t be so pedantic!’

‘Nevertheless, I see and appreciate what you were trying to say.’

‘I was not
trying
to say anything, Inspector – I was saying
it.’

‘And your point was crystal clear,’ said Colbeck, suppressing a smile. ‘To return to Horace Bardwell, do you accept that his presence on that express train may – and I put it no higher than that – have been the reason it was derailed?’

‘I reserve my judgement.’

‘You’ve read Victor’s report and heard how Mr Bardwell reacted when I mentioned the name of Matthew Shanklin to him. Are you still not persuaded, sir?’

‘I’m persuaded that there might, after all, be something in your extraordinary notion that the train crash was intended to kill a particular individual,’ said Tallis, eyebrows forming a bushy chevron, ‘but I very much doubt if his name was Horace Bardwell.’

‘Who else could it possibly be?’ said Colbeck.

‘The gentleman who sent me this letter earlier today,’ replied the other, jabbing a finger on the missive. ‘According to this, he’s had two death threats to date and is sure that he is being followed. When he discharged himself from hospital, he did so under police guard.’

‘May I know his name, Superintendent?’

‘It’s Giles Thornhill, a Member of Parliament for Brighton.’

Colbeck was decisive. ‘I’ll call on him tomorrow morning, sir.’

When he finished his shift that Saturday evening, Caleb Andrews had left Euston station with his fireman, drunk a reviving pint of beer in his favourite public house then walked briskly home to Camden. His daughter, as usual, was waiting to make his supper.

‘Have you had a good day, Father?’ asked Madeleine.

‘No,’ he answered, removing his cap and hanging it on a peg. ‘I keep thinking about Frank Pike. I miss him, Maddy. I like a man who takes his job as seriously as he did. Frank
listened
to me. He was ready to learn.’ He nestled into his armchair. ‘How was Rose today?’

‘I only spent an hour with her. Rose’s parents were there and so was Frank’s mother. The house was rather crowded.’

‘Is she bearing up?’

‘She’s trying to be brave,’ said Madeleine with a sigh, ‘but, every so often, the pain is too much for her and she breaks down. I’ve told her that she can call on me at any hour of the day or night.’

‘It’s Sunday tomorrow – my rest day. I’ll pay Rose another visit myself. She needs someone to tell her what a good man Frank was.’

‘She found that out for herself, Father.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m sure that she did.’ He looked up quizzically. ‘Is there any word from Inspector Colbeck?’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘but that’s not surprising. You know how busy Robert always is. He works all the hours God sends him. I imagine that he’s still looking into the accident.’

‘That’s why I asked, Maddy. There’s a nasty rumour flying around that it might not have been an accident. I mean, why should the Railway Detective take an interest in it unless a crime had been committed?’

‘Robert said nothing about a crime when he was here.’

‘He’d only paid a short visit to the site and had no time to find out what really happened. If it turns out that some black-hearted devil caused that crash,’ he went on with sudden rage, ‘then he should be hanged, drawn and quartered. And
I’d
volunteer to do it.’

Madeleine was shocked. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say!’

‘It’s a terrible thing to do, Maddy. Can you think of anything worse than derailing a train like that? Supposing it had happened on the LNWR,’ he said, hauling himself to his feet. ‘Supposing that
I
was driving an express when it came off the line and was hit by another train. Rose Pike would have been here to comfort
you
then.’

‘Perish the thought!’

‘This monster must be caught and put to death.’

‘It’s not even certain that someone
did
cause the crash,’ she said, trying to calm him down. ‘I think you should wait until we know the truth.’

‘I already know it,’ he asserted. ‘I feel it in my bones.’

‘It’s only a rumour.’

‘Look at the facts. Trains come off the track for three main
reasons – the driver makes a bad mistake, there’s a landslip or a stray animal on the rails, or someone sets out to cause a disaster. You can forget the first reason,’ he said, dismissively, ‘because Frank Pike never made mistakes. As for the second, Inspector Colbeck made no mention of an obstruction on the line. In other words, this simply
has
to be the work of some villain.’

‘That’s a frightening thought.’

‘It’s one we’re going to have to get used to, Maddy.’

‘Well, I hope, for Rose’s sake, that you’re wrong,’ she said, concerned for the stricken widow. ‘If she found out that Frank and the others had been deliberately killed, Rose would be in despair.’

Andrews was disgusted. ‘I can’t think of any crime worse than this,’ he said with vehemence. ‘As long as this man is at large, we’re all in danger. He could strike anywhere on the railway. Doesn’t he have a conscience? Doesn’t he have any human decency?’

‘There’s no point in getting yourself worked up, Father.’

‘There’s every point. What he did was pure evil.’

‘Then leave the police to deal with it,’ she urged. ‘If there’s even a suspicion of a crime, Robert will investigate it thoroughly. He loves the railway as much as you do. You could see how troubled he was about this crash.’

‘Every railwayman in the country is troubled.’

‘Our job is to help Rose Pike through her torment. She doted on her husband. Now that he’s gone, Rose is in a dreadful state.’

‘We owe it to Frank to find his killer.’

‘There were other people on that train,’ she reminded him, ‘and some of them died horrible deaths in the crash.’

‘Frank is the only one that matters to me.’

Madeleine was roused. ‘Then you should be ashamed of yourself, Father. Have you no sympathy for the families and friends of the other victims? And what about all those who were badly injured? Some have been maimed for life,’ she said, reproachfully, ‘yet you don’t care a jot about them.’

‘Of course, I do, Maddy,’ he said, apologetically.

‘As for the person who may or may not have been responsible for the crash, leave Robert to worry about that. He’s a detective. He knows what to do. If the crash was deliberate,’ she assured him, ‘then Robert will be searching for the man who caused it right this minute.’

Crime had no respect for the Sabbath. Since villains continued unabated, the Metropolitan Police could not afford to take a day off and let it thrive unchecked. Robert Colbeck had long ago learnt that, if an investigation demanded it, he would be required to work on the Lord’s Day with the same application as in the rest of the week. It was an aspect of his job that he had accepted without complaint. Victor Leeming, by contrast, never ceased to moan about it.

‘I should be taking my family to church,’ he grumbled.

‘I’m sure they’ll say a prayer on your behalf, Victor.’

‘It’s not the same, Inspector. They want me
there
.’

‘Given the importance of this case,’ said Colbeck, ‘I’m certain that they’ll understand your absence. And in the fullness of time, your wife and children will be very proud of you for helping to catch a ruthless criminal. With luck, he should be in custody before too long, allowing you to have next Sunday free.’

‘I hope so,’ said Leeming. ‘It’s Estelle’s birthday.’

‘Then I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that you’ll be able to share it with her. A word of warning, however,’ Colbeck went on with a twinkle in his eye. ‘It might be more tactful not to mention the forthcoming event to the superintendent. He doesn’t believe in family celebrations.’

‘But he must have a birthday of his own, sir.’

‘Must he?’ asked Colbeck with a wicked smile. ‘To tell you the truth, Victor, I have grave doubts about that. Superintendent Tallis was not born by natural means. I fancy that he was issued like a military regulation.’ Leeming burst out laughing. ‘I trust you to keep that idea to yourself.’

It was early in the morning and the two men were in Colbeck’s office at Scotland Yard. The aggrieved sergeant had just arrived to get his instructions. A full day’s work lay ahead of them. Having read his colleague’s report of the interview with Matthew Shanklin, Colbeck pressed for more detail. As Leeming gave him an account of what had transpired, he interrupted with pertinent questions. At the end of it all, there was only one thing he wanted to know.

‘Should we regard him as a suspect?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Yes and no, sir.’

‘The two are quite different, Victor.’

‘Let me explain,’ said Leeming. ‘Yes, Mr Shanklin despises Horace Bardwell enough to want him dead but no, he did not lever that rail out of position. He never left his office on Friday. I made a point of checking that. If he did plan the collision, then he employed a confederate to do his dirty work.’

‘So we should keep an eye on Matthew Shanklin?’

‘Most definitely.’

‘Then we’ll do so,’ said Colbeck. ‘We may, of course, be barking up the wrong tree altogether.’

‘What do you mean, Inspector?’

‘It seems that Mr Bardwell was not the only man aboard that train to provoke extreme hatred. Someone travelling, coincidentally, in the same carriage had actually received death threats.’

‘Who was that?’

‘Mr Giles Thornhill.’

Leeming’s brow creased. ‘That name sounds familiar.’

‘It should do, Victor. It often appears in the newspapers. Mr Thornhill is a Member of Parliament and a fairly outspoken one at that. He’s always championing causes of one kind or another.’

‘You know my view of politicians, sir. They’re all as bad as each other. If ever I’m allowed to vote, I’ll try my best to put an honest man into Parliament for a change.’

‘That’s what those of us who
do
have a vote attempt to do,’ said Colbeck. ‘But I agree that the system might work better if it were truly democratic instead of being based simply on property.’

‘We arrested two politicians for embezzlement last year and one for assault. That shows you the kind of people who get elected.’’

‘Don’t forget Lord Hendry. When his horse lost the Derby at Epsom earlier this year, he not only shot one of his rivals dead, he committed suicide on the spot. That’s not something you expect of a peer of the realm.’

‘Guy Fawkes had the right idea,’ said Leeming with a rare mutinous glint. ‘The Houses of Parliament ought to be blown up.’

‘Not with Her Majesty, the Queen inside it, I trust?’

‘No, no, sir – it’s the politicians I loathe.’

‘That’s a rather unchristian thought for a Sunday, Victor. I don’t think I’ll bother to share it with Mr Thornhill. It might constitute a third death threat.’ He gave Leeming a playful pat on the shoulder. ‘While I travel to the south coast again, you can search for the other people whose names on our list – Jack Rye and Dick Chiffney. Do you have addresses for them?’

‘Yes, Inspector,’ said Leeming. ‘They both live in London.’

‘That will save you the ordeal of a train journey then.’

‘Thank the Lord for small mercies!’

‘I’ll speak to Mr Thornhill and, while I’m in Brighton, I might even take the opportunity to call on the Reverend Ezra Follis.’ He moved to the door. ‘Off we go, Victor. We must not slacken the pace.’

‘One moment, sir,’ said Leeming, blocking his path, ‘I wonder if I might ask your advice on a personal matter.’

‘What is it?’

‘Estelle’s birthday is only a week away but I’ve no idea what I should buy her. Do you have any suggestions?’

‘I know what your wife would appreciate most.’

‘Well?’

‘The company of her loving husband for the entire day,’ said Colbeck. ‘Solve this crime quickly and that’s exactly what she will get.’

Leeming needed no more incentive than that.

The train crash had filled pews throughout Brighton that Sunday but nowhere more so than at St Dunstan’s, a small church on the very edge of the town. News of the tragedy brought people in from far and wide to pray for the victims and to view the man who had made a miraculous escape from
the disaster. They could not believe that their rector would be able to take the service but there he was, standing before them, ignoring the obvious discomfort from his wounds and managing to produce his customary beatific smile.

The Reverend Ezra Follis was determined not to let his parishioners down. Over his cassock, he wore a spotless white linen surplice with a stole draped around his shoulders. People gasped when they saw the scars on his face and the bandaging on his head and his hands. He looked so small and frail. There was no frailty in his voice, however, and it rose to full power when he struggled up into the pulpit and delivered his sermon.

Follis was a born orator, able to inspire the minds and arouse the emotions of those who heard him. As he described the way in which – it was his unshakable conviction – he had been saved from death by the compassionate hand of the Almighty, he had several people reaching for their handkerchiefs. It was a powerful sermon, lucid, thoughtful, well-phrased and pitched at exactly the right level. Follis did not indulge in high-flown rhetoric. He knew how to make important points simply and effectively.

Among those hanging on his words was a woman in her late twenties who sat in one of the front pews with her two elderly aunts. Plain, plump and dressed with the utmost respectability, Amy Walcott stared at him with a mixture of wonder and adoration. She knew that Ezra Follis was a great scholar – he was a former chaplain of an Oxford college – but he showed no disdain or condescension to those of lesser intelligence. He had the gift of reaching everyone in the church both individually and as a group. Amy watched him intently, admiring his resilience yet noting undeniable signs of the
physical strain he was under.

When morning service was over, Follis took up his usual position at the church door so that he could have a brief word with each member of his congregation as he bade them farewell. The effort of standing on his feet for so long slowly began to tell on him. Leaving the churchwardens to tidy everything away, he waved off the last of his parishioners then adjourned to the vestry. Alone at last, he sank down on a chair and gritted his teeth as he felt sharp twinges in his legs and hips and back. All of his bruises throbbed simultaneously.

Staring at the crucifix on the wall, he offered up a prayer of thanks for being given the strength to get through the service without collapsing. It was several minutes before he felt well enough to rise to his feet again. He crossed to a desk, unlocked a drawer with a key and took out a bottle of brandy. After pouring a generous amount into a small glass, he took a sip and let it course through him. Then he locked the bottle away again. Another sip of brandy was even more restorative and gave him the energy to remove his stole and surplice. When they had been put away in a cupboard, he sat down again to rest and to reflect on his sermon.

The churchwardens and the verger had been told not to disturb him once he retired to the vestry so they went about their business then let themselves out of the church. Follis heard the latch click as the door closed behind them. With nobody else there, he felt able to relax completely, stretching himself and reaching for the brandy. It was almost a quarter of an hour before he was finally ready to depart. Opening the vestry door, he stepped out into the chancel.