‘Do you think that he might have sent that funeral card?’
‘Why don’t we find out, sir?’
Opening a drawer in the desk, Leeming took out the envelope containing the funeral card and put it side by side with the letter written by Matthew Shanklin. The looping calligraphy was almost identical. Tallis picked up both items and looked from one to the other in quick succession. He sounded a note of triumph.
‘We’ve got him!’
‘They do look very similar,’ said Leeming.
‘They should do, Sergeant – they’re the work of the same man.’ He took out the funeral card to compare it with the letter. ‘There’s no doubt about it. Matthew Shanklin sent this card.’
‘He may have done a lot more than that, sir.’
‘I’m sure that he did,’ said Tallis, grimly. ‘He caused that crash deliberately then sent that card to Mr Bardwell as a taunt. He was gloating.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘We need a warrant for his arrest. You can go to his home this morning.’
‘That won’t be possible, Superintendent.’
‘Why not?’
‘I called there on my way back from his office,’ said Leeming. ‘His wife told me that her husband had gone out. That was very odd because his letter claims that he was too ill to go to work. Mr Shanklin is deceiving his employers.’
‘Find him, Sergeant,’ ordered Tallis. ‘Find him at once.’
The Brighton line was one on which Matthew Shanklin had travelled many times when he worked for the company but the present journey was different from the others. He was smouldering with residual anger at his dismissal from a post that he had expected to hold until his retirement. As the train puffed its way past the site of the crash, he was astonished to see how much of the debris had been cleared away. The scarred embankment still bore testimony to the disaster, as did the bushes flattened during the derailment but the place was no longer littered with mangled iron and shattered timber.
What did catch his eye were the wreaths that had been placed beside the line, marking the spot where lives had been lost. From the newspaper he had bought at the station, Shanklin had learnt that the death toll had now reached a dozen. His one regret was that a particular name was missing from the list. The train raced on to Brighton where it disgorged several passengers taking advantage of a glorious day to visit the seaside.
Surging out of the railway station, the crowd was oblivious to its arresting architecture. Shanklin, however, paused to look back at the magnificent classical façade, worthy of an Italianate palace and a symmetrical tribute to the vital importance of the terminus. He had always admired stations that were both imposing and functional, soaring works of art that could yet be used daily by untold thousands of people. Brighton was a perfect example.
Cabs, omnibuses and the occasional carriage stood on the forecourt but Shanklin chose to walk. He was in no hurry. Having the day to himself, he could take his time and see some of the sights that had made Brighton so appealing. It was over an hour before he turned towards the county hospital. Shanklin was forced to wait. The person he wanted to see was being examined by a doctor. When the patient was left alone, Shanklin was thrilled to see how poorly he was. He leaned over the bed.
‘Do you remember me?’ he asked with a smirk.
Horace Bardwell began to quiver uncontrollably.
Colbeck had some difficulty in breaking free from the attentions of the over-helpful Sidney Weaver. The visit to the offices of the Brighton Gazette had, however, been very rewarding and its editor had been a mine of information. Among other things, he told Colbeck where to find the best gunsmith in the town. It was there that the detective took the bullet he had retrieved from the back of Thornhill’s settee. Having been given a professional opinion by the gunsmith, Colbeck decided to pay another call on someone else whose opinion he valued highly. The Reverend Ezra Follis was as cordial as ever.
‘This is becoming a habit, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Hardly a day passes when you don’t come to see me. This time, alas, you’ve not brought the charming Miss Andrews.’
‘Madeleine is working back home in London,’ said Colbeck.
‘Yes, she told me that she was an artist. I found it extraordinary that such a beautiful young woman should want to sketch steam locomotives.’ He raised a palm. ‘That’s not a criticism, I hasten to say. I applaud her talent. At least,’ he added with a laugh, ‘I would do if I were able to clap with both hands.’
They were in the rectory and it was only a matter of minutes before Mrs Ashmore appeared magically from the kitchen with a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits. Colbeck thanked her, realising for the first time that he had not eaten since having an early breakfast.
‘I’d like to think you came back to Brighton with the sole pleasure of seeing me,’ said Follis, wryly, ‘but I’m sure it was for a much more important reason.’
‘Someone tried to shoot Mr Thornhill,’ explained Colbeck.
‘Saints preserve us!’
‘It happened yesterday, Mr Follis.’
‘Was he hurt?’
‘Luckily, the bullet missed him.’
Colbeck told the rector what had happened and how he had found both the place from which the shot was fired and the bullet itself. Follis was shocked. While he was no friend of Giles Thornhill, he was distressed to hear of the attack and said that he would pray for the politician’s safety.
‘That explains why Mr Thornhill has withdrawn from a meeting he was due to address tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I thought it was because of his injuries. In view of the attempt on his life, I can appreciate the real reason why he’s not willing to appear in public.’
‘If he won’t speak, the meeting will have to be cancelled.’
‘One can’t disappoint an audience, Inspector. The town hall is booked and tickets have been sold. Another speaker has been found at short notice. I could not recommend him more highly.’
‘Who is going to replace Mr Thornhill?’
Follis chortled. ‘As luck would have it – I am.’
‘What’s the title of your talk?’
‘The one already advertised – The Future of Brighton.’
‘I’ve heard rather a lot on that topic in the last couple of hours,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’ve been doing some research at the offices of the Brighton Gazette. The editor had much to say about the town’s future.’
‘How did you get on with Sidney Weaver?’
‘He was extremely helpful, though inclined to fuss over me like a mother hen. I’ve never seen anyone look so worried.’
‘Sidney is always afraid that the Gazette is not as good as it should be and that the next edition may be the last. He’s a slave to his anxiety. After successful years in charge of the newspaper, he still lacks confidence.’
‘His knowledge of the town’s history is amazing.’
‘Incomparable,’ said Follis. ‘I’ve urged him to write a book about it. And, as you discovered, he has opinions about the future of the town as well. If he were not so dreadfully nervous in public, Sidney might have been approached to deputise for Mr Thornhill tomorrow.’ He reached for a scone. ‘Did you tell him about the shooting?’
‘No,’ said Colbeck. ‘Neither Mr Thornhill nor I want it splashed across the newspaper. I only confided in you because I know that you’ll be discreet. Also,’ he went on, ‘you needed to be told the truth before you can assist me.’
‘How can I help you this time, Inspector?’
‘I believe you wrote to the Gazette a couple of weeks ago.’
‘I’m always writing to newspapers,’ said Follis. ‘I’m a great believer in healthy debate. If there’s an issue that interests me, I make sure that I offer an opinion on it. That’s why I took on that speaking engagement tomorrow.’ He took a first bite of the scone. ‘Can you remind me about this particular letter?’
‘It was on the subject of immigration.’
‘Ah, yes – that dreadful speech by Mr Thornhill.’
‘You
took strong exception to what he said.’
‘I was disgusted, Inspector,’ said Follis. ‘I was sorry that I was not actually at the meeting or I’d have stood up and denounced him. Did you see what he was preaching?’
‘He objects to foreigners settling in this country.’
‘It’s more specific than that. Though he spoke in general terms, his poisonous arguments had a very specific target. The foreigners he was attacking live right here in Brighton.’
‘The town is not noted for its immigrants.’
‘Mr Thornhill doesn’t work in numerical terms. The fact that we have any foreigners at all here is enough to arouse him, especially when they better themselves by dint of sheer hard work.’ He put his scone back on the plate. ‘Do you remember 1848?’
‘I remember it very well,’ said Colbeck. ‘Sergeant Leeming and I were in uniform at the time, deployed, along with the rest of the Metropolitan Police Force, to resist the threat of a Chartist uprising. Happily, that threat never materialised.’
‘It did elsewhere in Europe, Inspector. There were revolutions in France, Germany, Austria and elsewhere. Countries were in turmoil, governments were overthrown and the streets ran with blood.’
‘I know, Mr Follis. Many people fled to this country for safety.’
‘Some of them came to Brighton and liked it so much that they settled here. These are frightened refugees whom we should welcome with open arms,’ said Follis with passion. ‘All that Mr Thornhill can do is to stir up hatred against them. He has two main arguments. The first is that they are simply not British – an accident of Fate over which they have no control – and the second is that they’ve prospered in their new country. Foreigners, he argues, are taking opportunities that rightly belong to people who were born here.’
‘Judging by the report, his speech was almost inflammatory.’
‘It arose from a twisted patriotism, Inspector, and more or less incited people to join in a witch hunt. The wonder is that it didn’t provoke our immigrant population to react.’
‘I suspect that it did,’ said Colbeck, taking the bullet from his pocket and holding it on his palm. ‘This was intended to kill Giles Thornhill. According to the gunsmith I consulted, it did not come from a British rifle. It was fired from a foreign weapon.’
The funeral was a sombre affair. It was at Kensal Green Cemetery that Frank Pike was laid to rest. Wearing mourning dress, Caleb Andrews held back tears as he watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. The wooden box contained the unrecognisable remains of a friend he had loved and respected for many years. The thought that he would never see him again was like a bonfire in his brain. Andrews was grateful that Rose Pike was not there to see the last agonising minutes of her husband’s funeral.
Dressed in black like the others, Madeleine had stayed at the Pike household to make refreshments for those returning from the cemetery. She could see how deeply moved her father was. He was one of a number of railwaymen who had forfeited a day’s wages to pay their last respects to Pike. Now recovered, John Heddle was among them. All of them offered commiserations to the widow. What nobody did, Madeleine was relieved to see, was to refer to the newspaper article blaming the dead man for the train crash. To draw that to the attention of the widow would be like driving a stake through her heart.
On the journey back home, neither Madeleine nor her father spoke a single word. The bruising experience of the funeral had left them feeling hurt and bereft. Madeleine had been uncomfortably reminded of the death of her own mother and of its destructive impact on the family. Years after the event, it remained fresh and unbearably painful. She could understand the searing anguish that Rose Pike must be feeling and vowed to offer what succour she could in the future. Widowhood was a trial for any woman. The circumstances of her husband’s death intensified the ordeal for Rose Pike.
Andrews was lost in his own grief, calling to mind cherished memories of a man who had died a cruel death beneath the very locomotive he was driving. The worst of it was that he was now being hounded beyond the grave, made to bear responsibility for something he did not do. Andrews’s grief was mingled with a seething fury. He yearned to clear his friend’s name and defy Pike’s detractors. When they reached the house, he was still deep in thought.
Madeleine led the way in, removing her black hat with its thick veil and hanging it on a peg. She reached out to take her father’s hat from him. Andrews grabbed her hand.
‘When will you see Inspector Colbeck again, Maddy?’
‘I don’t know, father,’ she said.
‘Tell him to catch the monster who caused that crash,’ he said with sudden urgency. ‘Until that’s done, poor Frank will never be able to rest in peace.’
The security arrangements were still in place when Colbeck returned to Thornhill’s estate but at least he did not have to identify himself again. Broken arm back in its sling, the politician was seated at the table in his library, reading some correspondence. He looked up as Colbeck entered the room.
‘Do you have anything to report?’ he asked.
‘I feel that I made some progress,’ said Colbeck, ‘especially after my talk with the Reverend Follis.’
‘Don’t listen to that meddling fool.’
‘I found him anything but foolish, sir.’
‘He should stick to what he’s supposed to do,’ said Thornhill, ‘and not interfere in political matters about which he knows absolutely nothing. I only have to open my mouth and the Rector of St Dunstan’s is writing to the newspapers.’
‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘I’ve seen one of his letters.’
‘His comments are quite uncalled for, Inspector.’
‘I don’t see why – he’s one of your constituents.’
Thornhill’s laugh was hollow. ‘If I had to rely on the votes of men like Ezra Follis,’ he said, ‘my Parliamentary career would have been woefully short. Fortunately, I have a number of like-minded supporters in Brighton. That’s why it’s such a pleasure to represent the town.’
‘But you don’t actually represent them,’ argued Colbeck. ‘Only a small percentage of the population is registered to vote. The only thing you represent is a minority.’
‘That’s because most people in the town lack the necessary property qualification. Brighton is besieged by newcomers and by foreign riffraff. They don’t deserve the vote. Anyway,’ he went on, testily, ‘why are we talking about Ezra Follis?’
‘He was able to give me some pertinent information.’
‘Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.’
‘As you wish, Mr Thornhill,’ said Colbeck, easily. ‘What I really came back to ask is if you had changed your mind about the speaking engagement tomorrow evening.’
‘It would be sheer madness to attend.’
‘I disagree.’
‘You have not been shot at, Inspector.’
‘As a matter of fact, I have sir – and on more than one occasion. To be frank, it’s an occupational hazard for which I don’t much care.’ He stepped closer. ‘Supposing that you were not in any danger? Would you consider fulfilling your commitment then?’
‘That question is purely hypothetical.’
‘I’d nevertheless be interested in your answer.’
‘Then I’d answer in the affirmative,’ said Thornhill, stoutly. ‘A broken arm would not stop me from expressing my views on a public platform. People look to me to shape their opinions.’
‘In that case, you mustn’t disappoint them.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Instruct your secretary to have your name reinstated at once in the advertisements,’ advised Colbeck. ‘At the moment, someone else is stepping into the breach to speak on the same subject. It might aid your decision if I tell you that your replacement is the Reverend Follis.’
Thornhill was stung. ‘I won’t stand for that!’
‘Someone has to address that meeting.’
‘What are you trying to do, Inspector – get me
killed?’
‘No, sir,’ replied Colbeck, ‘I’m trying to ensure the arrest of the man who fired that shot at you. If you do as I say, you won’t even have to leave the house tomorrow evening – until it’s safe to do so, that is.’
After his long, tiring vigil on the previous day, Victor Leeming did not look forward to repeating the experience but there were extenuating aspects of his present assignment. He could expect no violence from Matthew Shanklin and there was no possibility of being lured into an alleyway so that he could be clubbed to the ground. The street in which he was standing consisted of matching rows of terraced houses. It was a district in which he did not look out of place in his normal apparel. Instead of staying in the same place, he patrolled up and down the street, one eye kept on the Shanklin residence at all times.
By mid-afternoon, his wait was over. A cab came round the corner and rolled past him before stopping a short distance away. Matthew Shanklin got out, paid the driver and turned to go towards his house. Leeming moved smartly. After ordering the driver to wait, he intercepted Shanklin.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, ‘I’d like a word with you.’
‘I’m afraid that I don’t have time to talk now, Sergeant,’ said Shanklin, walking away until Leeming grabbed his arm. ‘Take your hands off me!’
‘When I called at your office this morning, they told me that you were ill for the second day running.’
‘That’s quite true. I’ve just been to see my doctor.’
‘What’s his name, sir?’
‘That’s immaterial.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘I think you know, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘There’s no illness and no doctor. When I spoke to Mrs Shanklin this morning, she seemed totally unaware that you were supposed to be unwell.’
Murder on the Brighton Express Page 17
