Murder on the Brighton Express

by Edward Marston

  ‘They’re not going very well, sir.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Mr Tallis will expect me on duty next Sunday unless we can bring this investigation to a close. And, no matter how much I fret about it, I still can’t decide what to buy Estelle.’

  ‘Do you have any ideas at all?’

  ‘I thought about artificial flowers in a glass case.’

  ‘Women always love flowers, Victor – though I think your wife might prefer real ones on her birthday. You could get them at the market.’

  ‘They wouldn’t last, sir, that’s the trouble. Anyway, that’s only one present and I have to buy two – one from me and one from the children. I’ve been racking my brain for days.’ He became tentative. ‘I wonder if I might ask you something personal.’

  ‘Ask whatever you wish.’

  ‘What did you buy for Miss Andrews when it was her birthday?’

  ‘If you must know,’ said Colbeck, laughing, ‘I bought her a new easel and some artist’s materials. Not very feminine, I know, but that was what Madeleine wanted me to get her. Mind you, there were a few other gifts as well by way of a surprise.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The item that really pleased her was a new bonnet.’

  ‘Now that’s just what Estelle needs,’ said Leeming in delight.

  ‘There you are – one of the birthday presents is decided.’

  ‘If I let the children give her the bonnet, I could give her a new shawl. It won’t be long before autumn is here and she’ll need one. Thank you, Inspector. You’ve taken a load off my mind.’

  ‘If you want more suggestions,’ said Colbeck as a memory surfaced, ‘you might get them from the Reverend Follis.’

  Leeming was baffled. ‘What does he know about buying gifts for a wife, sir? You told me that Mr Follis was a bachelor.’

  ‘He is, Victor, but I have a strong feeling that he’s a man of vision where women are concerned.’

  While he waited, Ezra Follis looked at the books on the shelf. He had given them to Amy Walcott in a particular order so that her reading was carefully controlled. Most were anthologies of poetry and he knew how diligently she had studied them. Amy was an apt pupil. She was happy to let him make all the decisions about her education. He selected a volume and leafed through the pages, an action that was much easier to perform now that both hands had been freed from their bandages. His eye settled on a particular page. After making a note of it, he closed the book again.

  He was in Amy’s house but he moved around it with easy familiarity. Leaving the drawing room, he went along the corridor and ascended the stairs to the first landing. Follis walked across to the main bedroom and tapped gently on the door.

  ‘May I come in yet, Amy?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not ready,’ she said from the other side of the door.

  ‘I’ve been waiting some time.’

  ‘I know that, Mr Follis.

  ‘The servants will be back before too long.’ There was a lengthy pause. ‘Perhaps you’ve changed your mind,’ he said, tolerantly. ‘That’s your privilege. I didn’t mean to trouble you, Amy. I’ll let myself out and we’ll forget all about this, shall we?’

  ‘No, no,’ she said in desperation. ‘I want you to come in.’

  ‘Are you happy about that?’

  ‘I’m very happy.’

  ‘You have to be certain about this.’

  ‘I am, Mr Follis. I’m ready for you now.’

  Turning the knob, he opened the door and stepped into the room. Amy Walcott was standing nervously in the middle of the carpet. Her feet were bare and she was wearing a long dressing gown. Pathetically eager to please, she managed a fraught smile.

  ‘There’s no need to be frightened,’ he said, moving away so that they were yards apart. ‘No harm will come to you, Amy. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world – you know that.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Follis, I do.’

  ‘I’ll sit here.’ He lowered himself on to the ottoman near the window then made a gesture. ‘If you feel embarrassed, you can keep the dressing gown on.’

  ‘I don’t want to let you down.’

  ‘There’s no way that you could do that. The very fact that we’re alone here together is a joy to me, Amy. You mustn’t feel constrained to do anything that you don’t want to do.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘You look beautiful enough, as it is.’

  ‘Nobody ever thought I was beautiful before.’

  ‘That’s because they don’t see you through my eyes. I know the full truth about you. You’re a good woman, Amy Walcott, beautiful on the inside and lovely on the outside.’

  The compliment made her blush. ‘Thank you, Mr Follis.’

  ‘Will you read something to me?’

  ‘In a moment,’ she said, finding some confidence at last. ‘I want to please you first. I’ve never done this before so you must excuse me if I don’t do it properly.’ She screwed up her courage. ‘I’m going to take it off for you now.’

  Undoing the belt, she opened her dressing gown and let it fall to the floor. She stood there sheepishly in a white nightdress with bows at the neck and sleeves. After feasting his eyes on her, Follis gave her a warm smile of appreciation. Her confidence began to rise.

  ‘What have you chosen for me this time?’ she said.

  ‘Keats,’ he replied, holding out the book. ‘Page sixty-six. It’s a beautiful poem for a very beautiful woman to read to me.’

  Amy Walcott was suffused with a radiant glow. He loved her.

  Josie Murlow was jaded. It was scarcely an hour since Chiffney had gone and she was already chafing with boredom. There was nothing to do and nobody with whom she could talk. Walter, the old man who owned the house, was willing to give them temporary shelter but they were confined to the bedroom and the kitchen. The remainder of the property was reserved for his family. Had she been allowed to go into the garden, Josie might have been less restless. As it was, she was pacing up and down like a tiger in a cage, picking her way through the relics of her old life that had been rescued from her hovel.

  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.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  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.