‘Horace Bardwell should be in prison for what he did.’
‘Was there some other crime in addition to the fraud?’
Shanklin composed himself before speaking. ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘He was making wrong decisions about the running of the company and bullying the rest of the board into accepting them. We had to implement those decisions even though we knew that they were detrimental to the LB&SCR.’
‘Such decisions were not exactly criminal, sir.’
‘They were to me.’
Leeming wrote something in his notebook then changed his tack. He watched Shanklin closely as he fired a question at him.
‘Have you ever met a man named Dick Chiffney, sir?’
‘I don’t believe that I have, Sergeant.’
The reply was too quick and defensive for Leeming and it was accompanied by a shifty look in Shanklin’s eye. Realising that he had aroused suspicion, he tried to negate it at once.
‘I may have met someone of that name,’ he confessed, ‘especially if the man worked for the LB&SCR. The names of hundreds of our employees used to pass before my eyes and I met several of them in person, far too many to remember individually. Well,’ he said with a feeble attempt at jocularity, ‘can you recall the names of everyone you’ve arrested?’
‘As a matter of fact, I can,’ attested Leeming.
‘Then you have a better memory than I, Sergeant.’
‘I need it where villains are concerned.’ The pencil was poised over the notebook again. ‘Let’s go back to Horace Bardwell, shall we?’
Horace Bardwell had slowly improved, gathering strength, sleeping less and finally managing to get a grasp of what had happened. By the time that Ezra Follis got to him that morning, Bardwell was sitting up in bed and looking more alert. A large number of cards and letters lay on his bedside table, most of them unopened. After asking his health, Follis volunteered to open his mail for him.
‘I’d be most grateful,’ croaked Bardwell. ‘I still can’t see. My wife read some of them to me but I can only concentrate for a little while. So many friends have sent their best wishes.’
‘They have, indeed,’ said Follis.
‘Read very slowly, if you please.’
‘I will, Mr Bardwell. The moment you tire, tell me to stop.’
Follis took a card from the first envelope and read the message inside. Bardwell was touched. Next came a short letter from his nephew, sending him love and praying for his speedy recovery. Other letters were from friends or business associates, all expressing sorrow at his injuries and hope that he would soon be fully fit again. Follis then extracted a black-edged card from an envelope. Startled by the message inside, he elected not to read it out.
‘What does it say?’ asked Bardwell.
‘Nothing at all,’ replied Follis.’ Someone was so keen to send you his best wishes that, in his haste, he forgot to write anything. Now this one is very different,’ he went on, unfolding three pages from the next envelope he opened. ‘We have a veritable novel, here.’
Bardwell did not get to hear it. Halfway through the recitation, he fell gently asleep. Follis slipped the letter back into its envelope and replaced it on the table but he made sure that he took the funeral card with him. After speaking to all the other patients in the ward, he went back out into the corridor. The first person he saw was Amy Walcott, carrying a large basket filled with posies of flowers. Her face lit up when she recognised him.
‘I came here because of that sermon you gave yesterday,’ she said. ‘When you told us about the survivors of the crash, I had to do something to ease their suffering.’
‘So you brought some flowers for the ladies,’ he noted. ‘That was very kind of you, Amy. You have such a sweet disposition.’
‘Some of the injuries I’ve seen are frightening.’
‘Not everyone was as fortunate as I, alas.’
‘I thank God that you were not badly hurt,’ said Amy. ‘I couldn’t bear it if you’d been seriously wounded like some of the other victims. As it is, those bandages of yours distress me. You must be in such pain, Mr Follis.’
‘It’s nothing that I can’t happily endure.’
‘Oh, by the way,’ she went on, brightening, ‘I’ve had so much pleasure from that book you gave me.’
‘Tennyson is a magical poet.’
‘I’ve read some of the poems time and time again.’
‘Good,’ he said, beaming at her. ‘I’m glad you appreciated them, Amy. You must read them to me some time.’
‘I’d love that, Mr Follis.’
‘Then it must be very soon.’
Amy bade him farewell and went off to visit another of the female wards. After watching her go, Follis took out the funeral card sent to Horace Bardwell. He looked at the message once more and gave a shiver.
CHAPTER NINE
In view of Victor Leeming’s experience with her, Colbeck did not feel he could ask his sergeant to pay a second visit to Josie Murlow. It would not have been a tempting assignment for him. Showing his habitual compassion, Colbeck therefore took on the task himself, travelling to Chalk Farm by cab and alighting outside the little hovel. When he knocked on the door, there was no reply. After waiting a couple of minutes, he used a fist to pound on the timber. Still there was no response. Colbeck was on the point of leaving when a window creaked open above his head and an angry female face appeared.
‘Who the hell is that?’ she roared.
Colbeck looked up. ‘Am I speaking to Josie Murlow?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘My name is Detective Inspector Colbeck,’ he told her. ‘I believe that you spoke to a colleague of mine yesterday.’
She peered at him through bleary eyes. Having been roused from a drunken stupor, she needed time to understand what he had said. As the fog in her brain cleared a little, she recalled the visit of Sergeant Leeming. The memory made her grimace.
‘I got nothing to say to you,’ she told him.
‘All I ask is a chance to speak to you briefly,’ he said, removing his top hat so that she could see him properly. ‘You’re not in any trouble, I assure you. I just need to ask a few questions.’
‘The other one did that. You’ll get no more from me.’
His voice hardened. ‘I’m making a polite request, Miss Murlow,’ he warned. ‘If you spurn it, I’ll have to get a warrant to enter your premises and, if you refuse to speak to me then, I’ll have no option but to place you under arrest.’
‘I done nothing!’ she clucked, indignantly.
‘Then you have nothing to fear.’
Josie’s eyes were fully open now and she was able to take a better look at the man on her doorstep. He was far more handsome than his predecessor from Scotland Yard and he had none of the other’s diffidence. What worried her was his rank. Josie had had enough brushes with the law to know that someone who had risen to the level of an inspector would not bother with trivial offences. He was there in connection with a serious crime.
‘Well,’ he called up to her, ‘are you going to let me in?’
The fact that he was willing to come into the house set him immediately apart from Leeming. She had unsettled the first detective. Josie could see that she would not have the same effect on the second one. After weighing up the possibilities, she capitulated.
‘Wait there,’ she said at length. ‘I need to dress.’
Colbeck stood patiently outside the door. When it eventually opened, Josie was wearing a voluminous gown of pink satin, badly faded and speckled with food and other stains. Her feet were bare, her face flushed and her red hair was an unkempt torrent surging over one shoulder and disappearing down her cleavage like water gurgling between two giant boulders.
He could see why Leeming had found her overwhelming. At a glance, he was also able to make certain assumptions about Dick Chiffney. Only a hefty man with boundless energy and strength of character could partner such a forbidding creature for any length of time. Lids narr
owed, Josie regarded him suspiciously.
‘There’s nothing I can tell you,’ she said, stubbornly.
‘May we talk inside, please?’ asked Colbeck.
‘What are you after?’
‘I think you know that.’
‘Dick is not here.’
‘I’d still like to speak to you.’
After looking him up and down, she stood reluctantly aside and let him step into the house. The first thing he noticed was the stink, a compound of rancid food, household filth and the reek from the vast unwashed body of Josie Murlow. The room was small, cluttered and sparsely furnished. A tattered carpet lay over the flagstones. Colbeck had to duck under the cobweb-covered beam.
‘Well, now,’ she said, tossing her hair back over her shoulder to expose her new necklace, ‘you are a fine gentleman and no mistake. Josie Murlow doesn’t have many like you under her roof.’
‘When did you last see Mr Chiffney?’
‘I told the sergeant that – it was over a week ago.’
‘Did he give any indication where he was going?’
‘I’d have stopped the bastard if he had. Dick was my man.’
‘Had he ever gone off before?’ said Colbeck.
‘He wouldn’t have dared to,’ she said, huffily, ‘because he knew what would happen when I caught up with him.’
‘Yet he had the courage to go this time. Why did he do that?’
She became defensive. ‘Well, it wasn’t because of anything I did or said, Inspector,’ she insisted. ‘I gave him everything a man wants. We lived here as close together as any man and wife – a lot closer, judging by some of the miserable faces on the men I see in this part of the city,’ she went on, meaningfully. ‘Their wives keep a cold bed. My bed is as warm as toast.’
‘Did Mr Chiffney always work on the railway?’
‘When he could get a job,’ she replied. ‘Dick worked for a lot of different railway companies over the years. He’s good at what he does, Inspector, there’s no two ways about that. But he hates taking orders and always has a row with someone or other. Dick is a bit too ready to use his fists. Mind you,’ she stipulated, ‘he was always provoked.’
‘How long had he worked on the Brighton line?’ said Colbeck.
‘I think it was a year or more.’
‘If he had such a record of violence, why did they employ him?’
‘He knew someone who got him the job,’ she explained. ‘Dick liked the work so he was on his best behaviour. It was only when that foreman hit him that Dick lost his temper.’
‘Has he tried to work on the railways since then?’
‘Nobody would touch him now the word’s got round about him looking for a fight. Listen,’ she said, squaring up to him, ‘why are you and that Sergeant Leeming so interested in Dick Chiffney? What’s he supposed to have done?’
‘He may have done nothing at all,’ Colbeck assured her. ‘We just need to eliminate him from our enquiries. That’s why we’re so anxious to speak to him – as I’m sure you are.’
‘I’m very anxious, Inspector.’
She spoke with feeling but with none of the raging fury that Victor Leeming had reported. Colbeck wondered what had brought about the change in her manner. Josie Murlow had softened in a way that could not wholly be attributed to the effect of gin, the fumes of which he could still detect. He moved slightly so that he could look into the kitchen, noting the cheese left on the table along with two plates. Somebody else had been there recently.
‘May I ask you a favour?’ he said.
‘You can ask anything you like, Inspector,’ she replied, running both hands over the contours of her body, ‘and it won’t cost you a penny. I’d have charged the sergeant but he ran away. I’ve got a flagon of gin upstairs if that takes your fancy.’
‘As it happens,’ said Colbeck, meeting her bold gaze, ‘I never touch it. You’re obviously a woman of experience in these matters so I don’t need to remind you of the penalty of offering blandishments to a member of the Metropolitan Police.’
She was defiant. ‘They don’t all refuse, I can tell you!’
‘The favour I wish to ask is this. If and when Mr Chiffney does return, please advise him that it’s in his best interests to get in touch with me at Scotland Yard. That way, his name can be cleared.’
‘You still haven’t told me what you think he’s done.’
‘It’s a railway matter.’
‘Has Dick been punching another foreman, then?
‘No,’ answered Colbeck, ‘it’s a little more serious than that.’
Dick Chiffney loaded the pistol again and took careful aim at the empty bottle standing on the tree stump. When he pulled the trigger, there was a loud report then the glass exploded into a thousand shards. Birds took wildly to the sky in an unrehearsed symphony of protest. Chiffney grinned at his success and set another bottle on the stump.
He was deep in the woods, far away from the nearest human habitation and therefore free from the possibility of any interruption. This time, he stood a few yards farther away from his target. Apart from his companion, his only witnesses were the birds. When he had loaded the weapon again, he took aim, peered along the barrel then fired. The bullet struck its target a glancing blow, detaching a small piece of glass and causing the bottle to spin crazily round before falling on to the ground. Chiffney was annoyed at his failure.
The man who had been watching him handed over a rifle.
‘Try with this next time,’ he ordered. ‘You may not get close enough to use the pistol.’
Robert Colbeck arrived back at his office to find Victor Leeming waiting there for him. The sergeant described his second interview with Matthew Shanklin and added what he felt was a telling detail.
‘As I was shown out of the house,’ he said, ‘I spoke to the maid.’
‘Go on.’
‘I asked her if Mr Shanklin had ever possessed a telescope and she told me that he did.’
‘Good work, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘That was astute of you. I had a feeling that you’d unearth something interesting if you paid Shanklin a second visit. Did you believe his claim that he suffered from migraines?’
‘No, sir,’ replied Leeming. ‘I think he simply wanted a day off. It’s just as well that he isn’t a detective. The superintendent doesn’t believe in using sickness as an excuse. He’d have us on duty if we were suffering from double pneumonia.’
‘In fairness to Mr Tallis, he applies the same rule to himself. Nothing short of complete paralysis would keep him away from here. What you learnt this morning,’ Colbeck went on, ‘could be very significant. There’s patently a link between Shanklin and Chiffney.’
‘They could be accomplices, sir.’
‘It’s something we must bear in mind.’
‘Did you visit Chalk Farm?’ asked Leeming, eagerly.
‘Yes, Victor, I had a most diverting time.’
He gave a full account of his conversation with Josie Murlow. Leeming was astonished at his bravery in actually going into the hovel to question her. Colbeck made Josie sound like a different woman to the one who had unnerved him.
‘Didn’t she rant and rage, then?’ he said.
‘I think she’s mellowed since you were there, Victor.’
‘Mellow or not, sir, I’d rather steer clear of her.’
‘Unfortunately, you won’t be able to do that,’ said Colbeck. ‘I want you to keep a close watch on the lady.’ Leeming spluttered. ‘Have no fear – you won’t have to meet her face to face, and you certainly won’t go there dressed like that. You’ll be in disguise, Victor.’
‘I’ll need a suit of armour to feel safe near that woman.’
‘She was hiding something. When I mentioned Chiffney’s name, she didn’t curse and threaten as she did when you spoke to her. She was more concerned to find out why we were after him. Evidently, someone had been at the house recently,’ said Colbeck. ‘Two people had supper there and Josie Murlow was wearing a garnet
necklace. Do you think she usually goes to bed with that on?’
‘I’m not familiar with her sleeping habits, sir,’ said Leeming with a tremor, ‘and I’ve certainly no wish to be.’
‘She’s not the sort of person you’d expect to own an expensive piece of jewellery, and her clients are hardly likely to be able to afford such an item. So,’ asked Colbeck, ‘who do you think could have given her the necklace?’
‘Dick Chiffney must have been back there.’
‘That was my guess – the necklace was a peace offering.’
‘Then why wasn’t he still there this morning?’
‘For one simple reason,’ said Colbeck. ‘She warned him that you’d been looking for him. He probably fled at once.’
‘That proves he was involved in the crime.’
‘All that it proves is that he’s not willing to talk to us and there could be any number of reasons for that. We’ll only find out the truth when we run him to ground. That’s why I want you to keep Josie Murlow under surveillance. If Chiffney was there last night,’ he said, ‘it means that the two of them are reconciled. Since he won’t go to her house again, they’ll have to meet elsewhere. You’ll follow her.’
‘Well, it will be from a safe distance, Inspector.’
‘You’ll be dressed in rough clothing.’
‘I’m not looking forward to this,’ admitted Leeming, gritting his teeth ‘but I know it has to be done. I’ll get changed and make my way back to Chalk Farm.’
Before he could leave, however, there was a tap on the door and a constable entered with a letter that had just been delivered. Colbeck thanked him, sent him on his way then looked at the envelope.
‘It’s been sent by hand,’ he observed, opening it to take out a letter. He unfolded it swiftly. ‘It’s from the Reverend Follis,’ he said as he read the contents. ‘He must have dictated it because he could never write with that injured hand of his.’
Murder on the Brighton Express Page 11
