Murder on the Brighton Express

by Edward Marston

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.

  Expecting to find the church empty, he was surprised to see that someone was still there, using a metal can to pour fresh water into the vases. Amy Walcott, responsible for organising the flower rota, made sure that her own name was on it with increasing frequency.

  ‘I didn’t realise you were still here, Amy,’ he said, wearily.

  ‘I needed to rearrange some of the flowers,’ she explained, ‘and I wanted to thank you for the sermon you gave today. It was uplifting.’

  Follis nodded gratefully. ‘I try my best.’

  ‘It was very brave of you even to turn up at church today. You should have been lying in bed back in the Rectory. I couldn’t help noticing how exhausted you looked at times.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ he exclaimed. ‘And there I was, thinking that I had contrived to deceive everybody. On the other hand,’ he added, taking a step closer to her, ‘you are far more perceptive than anyone else in the congregation. You have a sharp eye, Amy.’

  ‘I was worried about you, Mr Follis.’

  ‘There’s no need to be – I’m fine now.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think so. I must get on home. Mrs Ashmore will have luncheon waiting for me.’

  ‘There must be something I can do.’

  It was a heartfelt plea and Follis could not ignore it. He was fond of Amy Walcott and had given her unfailing support during the long period of mourning after her mother’s death. From that time on, she had dedicated herself to the church and its rector, giving freely of her time and energy. Tired as he was, Follis believed that it would be cruel to refuse her offer.

  ‘Perhaps there is something you could do, after all,’ he said.

  She smiled eagerly. ‘Is there?’

  ‘You have such a beautiful voice, Amy.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘The tragedy is that I never get to hear it reading beautiful words. It’s the harsher voices of men that read th
e epistle and the gospel, and I sometimes long for the softer tones of a woman. It would please me greatly if you could read something to me.’

  ‘Gladly, Mr Follis,’ she said with delight. ‘What shall I read?’

  ‘Let’s start with one of the Psalms, shall we?’ he decided, opening his Book of Common Prayer and leafing through the pages with a bandaged hand. ‘And where better to begin than with the first of them?’

  Finding the page, he handed the book to her then motioned for her to stand at the lectern. As he settled into the front pew, he gazed up at Amy Walcott and raised a hand.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready,’ he said. ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’

  Giles Thornhill lived in a palatial country mansion a few miles outside Brighton. Set in rolling countryside, it commanded glorious views on every side. After admiring it from afar, Robert Colbeck was driven up to the gatehouse in a cab and had to identify himself before he was allowed into the property. As the cab rolled up the long drive, he saw the gates being locked behind them by a man with a rifle slung across his back. The house was being guarded like a fortress.

  Seated at a table in his library, Thornhill made no attempt to get up when Colbeck was shown into the room. The politician’s arm was still in a sling and the black eye was still acting as a focal point on his face. He looked as haughty and cold as the marble busts that were dotted between the rows of bookshelves. Thornhill was disappointed that a detective inspector had been sent to interview him.

  ‘I expected Superintendent Tallis,’ he said, frostily, ‘if not the commissioner himself.’

  ‘I’m in charge of the investigation into the train crash, sir,’ said Colbeck, firmly, ‘and I’m interested in anything whatsoever that may have a bearing on it. I’ve already established to my satisfaction that the collision was no accident so I’ve turned my attention to the likely motive behind this crime.’

  ‘You may be looking at it, Inspector.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Sit down and I will explain.’

  Colbeck took a chair at the other end of the table and glanced around the library. It was a large, rectangular, high-ceilinged room with bookshelves on three walls. Light flooded in through the windows on the other wall and made the marble busts gleam and the crystal chandelier above Colbeck’s head sparkle. Before resuming, Thornhill subjected his guest to a searching glare.

  ‘The true motive for what happened on Friday will not even have crossed your mind, Inspector,’ he said, ‘because it would never occur to you for a moment that the accident was intended to kill someone who was travelling on the express.’

  ‘You malign me, I fear,’ Colbeck told him. ‘I considered that possibility as soon as I learnt that Mr Horace Bardwell was a passenger on the train. He struck me as being a potential target for someone in search of revenge.’

  Thornhill was peeved. ‘Bardwell was not the target,’ he insisted, resenting the very notion of a competitor. ‘That crash was engineered to kill me. Don’t you understand, Inspector Colbeck? It was a clear case of attempted murder.’

  ‘Attempted and actual murder, sir,’ corrected the other. ‘To date, there have been nine murder victims.’

  ‘They were incidental casualties.’

  ‘I don’t think their friends and families will take any comfort from that thought,’ said Colbeck, pointedly.

  ‘If anyone was supposed to die, it was me.’

  ‘Do you have any evidence to support that, sir?’

  ‘You must have read my letter to the superintendent. I laid out the evidence in that. I’ve had two death threats. Whenever I’ve been in London, I’ve been followed, and I always travel on the Brighton Express on Friday evenings. I’m a creature of habit,’ said Thornhill. ‘Somebody must have been studying those habits.’

  ‘May I see the death threats you received?’

  ‘No, Inspector – I tore them to pieces.’

  ‘That was unwise of you, sir. They could have been valuable evidence. Were they both written by the same hand?’

  ‘Yes – and it was elegant calligraphy at that. It made them even more menacing somehow.’

  ‘Can you remember the actual wording of the missives?’

  ‘Both were short and blunt, Inspector. The first simply warned me that I had weeks to live. The second told me to make my will.’

  ‘What precautions did you take?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘Only the obvious ones,’ replied Thornhill. ‘I made sure that I never travelled alone and remained vigilant at all times. The problem is that, until the train crash, I wasn’t entirely sure that the threats were serious. As a politician, I’m rather used to mindless abuse. Those were not the first unpleasant letters to be delivered here.’

  ‘So they were sent to your home?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector – that’s what unsettles me. Most of my mail is addressed to the House of Commons.’

  ‘Were the letters sent from Brighton?’

  ‘No – they bore a London postmark.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who may have written them?’

  ‘I have a lot of enemies, Inspector,’ said Thornhill with a touch of pride, ‘because I’m a man of principle and always speak robustly in Parliament. Politics, I daresay, is a closed world to you.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Colbeck, ‘a few years ago, it fell to me to arrest Sir Humphrey Gilzean, who organised a train robbery. I believe he was a close friend of yours.’ Thornhill shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Since then, I’ve taken a close interest in the activities of the House of Commons. I know, for instance, that you were highly critical of Sir Robert Peel when he repealed the Corn Laws and that you broke with his wing of the Conservative party. Since his death, you’ve aligned yourself with Mr Disraeli.’

  ‘What our late prime minister did was unpardonable,’ snapped Thornhill. ‘As for Gilzean, he was never more than an acquaintance who happened to share my views. He was certainly not an intimate of mine. I was thoroughly shocked by what he did.’

  ‘There may be something of a parallel here,’ suggested Colbeck, noting how keen he was to distance himself from Gilzean. ‘Sir Humphrey was so obsessed with his hatred of railways that he was driven to commit dreadful crimes. It could well be that we are dealing with another case of obsession – a person consumed with hatred of a particular individual.’

  ‘And that individual,’ said Thornhill, ‘appears to be me.’

  ‘I’d need more proof before I accepted that conclusion, sir.’

  ‘It’s as plain as this black eye of mine, Inspector. I’m warned, I’m watched then I’m wounded in that horrifying train crash.’

  ‘The same things may have happened to Mr Bardwell.’

  ‘This is nothing to do with him!’

  ‘He’s a director of the LB&SCR.’

  ‘I have the honour of representing Brighton in Parliament so I am identified far more closely with the town than Horace Bardwell. Also, I have political rivals who would be very happy to see me dead.’ He slid a piece of paper across to Colbeck. ‘I’ve made a list of them for you. Forgive my shaky writing. With my right arm in this sling, I had to use my left.’

  ‘The names are perfectly legible,’ observed Colbeck, eyeing them with interest. ‘It’s a rather long list of suspects, sir.’

  ‘I didn’t become a politician to make myself popular.’

  ‘That’s palpably true.’

  ‘I suggest you make discreet enquiries about every man there.’

  ‘I have my own methods,’ said Colbeck, evenly, ‘and I’ll stick to those, if you don’t mind. Meanwhile, you seem to be perfectly safe here. I can’t think you’ll be in any danger in your own home.’

  ‘That’s why I discharged myself from the county hospital. As long as I was there, I was vulnerable to attack. In the event,’ said Thornhill, ‘the attack turned out to be a written one.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘See for yourself, Inspector Colbeck.’ He slid another piece of paper acro
ss the table. ‘This was delivered to me in hospital. I regard it as incontestable proof that the train crash was arranged solely for my benefit.’

  Colbeck read the mocking obituary of the politician.

  Giles Thornhill MP was killed in a railway accident on Friday, August 15th, on his way back to his constituency in Brighton. His death will be mourned by his family but celebrated joyously by those of us who know what a despicable, corrupt and mean-spirited person he was. May his miserable body rot forever in a foul dunghill!

  ‘Well,’ said Thornhill, ‘have I convinced you now?’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Victor Leeming’s search began badly. The first person he had to find was Jack Rye, a porter from London Bridge station who had been dismissed on suspicion of theft in spite of vociferous protestations of innocence. The address that Leeming had been given was in one of the poorer quarters of Westminster. When he called there, he learnt that Rye had quit the premises months earlier. As the city echoed to the sound of church bells, a long, arduous trudge ensued through some of the rougher districts of the capital as the sergeant went from tenement to miserable tenement. Rye had kept on the move, changing his accommodation as often as his job. Time and again, he had departed with a landlord’s curse ringing in his ears.

  When Leeming finally tracked his man down to one of the rookeries in Seven Dials, he discovered that Jack Rye could not possibly have caused the train crash because he had been stabbed to death in a tavern brawl a week before the tragedy occurred. The very fact that Rye had ended up living in such a vile slum was an indication of how low his fortunes had fallen. It was a relief to cross one name off the list. Leeming was grateful to get clear of Seven Dials and of the jeering children who threw stones at his top hat.

  Dick Chiffney was also elusive. A plate-layer for the LB&SCR, he had been sacked for punching his foreman. His address at the time was that of a hovel in Chalk Farm, a relic of the days when the area was predominantly agricultural. Industry had slowly encroached upon it, houses had been built for the burgeoning middle classes and the arrival of the railways had completed the dramatic change to an urban environment. Chiffney was no longer there but the little house did still have an occupant. Arms folded, she confronted Leeming at the door.