Murder on the Brighton Express

MURDER ON THE

BRIGHTON EXPRESS

EDWARD MARSTON

To

Peter James,

my Brighton peer

CHAPTER ONE

1854

Hands on hips, Frank Pike stood on the platform at London Bridge station and ran an approving eye over his locomotive. He had been a driver for almost two years now but it was the first time he had been put in charge of the Brighton Express, the fast train that took its passengers on a journey of over fifty miles to the increasingly popular town on the south coast. Because it did not stop at any of the intervening stations, it could reach its destination in a mere seventy-five minutes. Pike was determined that it would arrive on time.

A big, sturdy, shambling man in his thirties, he was a dutiful and conscientious employee of the London Brighton and South Coast Railway. His soft West Country burr and gentle manner made him stand out from the other drivers. Pike was a serious man who derived immense satisfaction from his work. Arriving at the shed an hour before the train was due to leave, he had read the notices of speed limits affecting his shift then carefully examined all the working parts of his locomotive, making sure they had been properly lubricated. Everything was in order. Now, minutes before departure, he felt a quiet excitement as he stepped on to the footplate beside his fireman.

‘How fast are we going to go, Frank?’ asked John Heddle.

‘We keep strictly to the recommended speeds,’ replied Pike.

‘Why not try to break the record?’

‘It’s not a race, John. Our job is to get the passengers there swiftly and safely. That’s what I intend to do.’

‘I’ve always wanted to push an express to the limit.’

‘Then you can do so without me,’ said Pike, firmly, ‘because I’m not taking any chances, especially on my first run. Excessive speeds are irresponsible and dangerous. You should know that.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Heddle, ‘but think of the excitement.’

John Heddle was a short, skinny, animated man in his twenties. He had a mobile face that featured a bulbous nose, a failed attempt at a moustache, a lantern jaw and a permanent gap-toothed grin. Having worked with the fireman before, Pike was fond of him though troubled by Heddle’s impulsiveness and lust for speed. They would be glaring defects in the character of a driver. Pike had impressed that fact upon him a number of times.

After a final check of his instruments, Pike awaited the signal to leave. It was Friday evening and the train was filled with people who either lived in Brighton or wished to spend the weekend there. One of the passengers, a clergyman, suddenly materialised beside them.

‘Good evening to both of you,’ he said, amiably. ‘Do excuse me. I’ve just come to bless the engine.’

‘Bless it?’ said Heddle with a laugh. ‘It’s the first time I’ve heard of anyone doing that, sir. What about you, Frank?’

‘It’s been sworn at before now,’ said Pike, ‘but never blessed.’

‘Then you can’t have driven the Brighton Express,’ decided the newcomer, ‘because I travel on it regularly and always bestow a blessing on the engine before departure.’

He closed his eyes and began to offer up a silent prayer. Driver and fireman exchanged a glance. Pike was mystified but Heddle was highly amused. The clergyman on the platform was a diminutive figure of middle years, jaunty, dapper and good-humoured. He had long, wavy, greying hair and a goatee beard. Even in repose he seemed to be bristling with energy. Pike was afraid that the blessing would go on too long but the clergyman knew exactly how much time he had at his disposal. Opening his eyes, he gave them a broad smile of gratitude then stepped smartly into a first class carriage near the front of the train. Thirty seconds later they were in motion.

‘There you are,’ said Heddle, nudging the driver. ‘You’ve got the Church’s blessing now, Frank. You can go hell for leather.’

Pike was circumspect. ‘We’ll maintain the speeds advised,’ he said, solemnly. ‘Then we can be sure to arrive in one piece.’

The Reverend Ezra Follis was comfortably ensconced in his seat. He was on nodding terms with two of the male passengers and recognised another, Giles Thornhill, a tall, spare, beak-nosed man with pursed lips and an air of supreme arrogance, as a Member of Parliament for Brighton. Having severe reservations about the man’s suitability as a politician, Follis had never voted for him nor tried, on the few earlier occasions when they shared a carriage, to engage him in conversation.

Two people caught Follis’s attention. One was a big, solid, red-faced fellow with mutton-chop whiskers decorating both cheeks like ivy spreading across the walls of a house. When he realised that he was being scrutinised, the man gave a loud sniff of protest before disappearing behind his newspaper. Diagonally opposite Follis was an altogether more interesting subject of study, a slim, attractive, auburn-haired young woman, impeccably dressed and well-groomed. What diverted the clergyman was the fact that some of the other men in the carriage were pretending to read or stare through the window while shooting her surreptitious glances of admiration. Smiling tolerantly, Follis opened his Bible and searched for the text on which he would base his sermon the following Sunday.

Driving an engine was a test of concentration. Since the footplate was unprotected, Frank Pike and his fireman were exposed to the elements and to the clouds of thick, black smoke bursting rhythmically out of the funnel. As well as listening for any defects in the operation of the engine, the driver had to keep a wary eye on the line ahead for any potential hazards. Even on such a clear, warm summer’s evening, visibility over the engine from a juddering footplate was not ideal. There was an additional problem. Those who designed locomotives had somehow never thought to provide seating. Both men had to stand throughout the entire journey.

The route took them almost directly southward across the grain of the Weald. It was undulating landscape. When they steamed through Norwood, they had to climb a seven-mile rise towards a gap in the crest of the North Downs. There was a long cutting through the chalk before they plunged into the Merstham Tunnel, over a mile in length. Emerging back into the light of day, the train had over seven miles of down grade, easing the strain on its engine and effortlessly gathering speed. After shooting past Horley, they began another gradual climb to a summit pierced by the Balcombe Tunnel.

Pike knew every station by heart, having stopped at them regularly when in charge of slower trains. Stationmasters and porters gave him a friendly wave as he rattled past. He felt an upsurge of pride at being on the footplate of the Brighton Express. When it was first built, almost the entire line passed through open country with only a few cottages punctuating the scene. Signs of habitation had slowly increased now as people sought a rural escape that was yet within easy reach of a railway station. Cows, sheep and crops, however, still dominated the fields on both sides of the line.

Out of the Balcombe Tunnel they hurtled and started another descent, speeding on until they crossed the thirty-seven arches of the Ouse Viaduct, one of the engineering marvels of the day. Pike was enjoying his initial run on the Brighton Express so much that he released one of his rare smiles. The thunder of the train and the fierce rush of wind precluded any conversation at normal volume. When his sharp eyes spotted something ahead of them, therefore, Pike had to shout to make himself heard. There was a note of panic in his voice.

‘Can you see that, John?’ he yelled, shutting off the steam and applying the brakes. ‘Can you see that?’

‘What?’ asked Heddle, peering hard through the swirling smoke. ‘All I can see is a clear line. Is there a problem?’

What the fireman could not see, he soon felt. Within a hundred yards, the wheels of the locomotive left the rails with an awesome thud and pulled the string of carriages behind it. Heddle and Pike were thrown sideways and had to hold on to the tender to steady themselves. Surging on and quite unable to check its momentum, the train miraculously stayed fairly upright as it ploughed a deep furrow in the ground and ripped up the track behind it with ridiculous ease. They had completely lost control. At that speed and on that gradient, it would take them the best part of a mile to stop. All they could do was to hang on tight.

Gibbering with fear, Heddle pointed ahead. A ballast train was puffing towards them on the adjacent line. They could both see the continuous firework display under its wheels as the brakes fought in vain to slow it down. A collision was inevitable. There was no escape. Pike’s immediate thought was for the safety of his young fireman. Turning to Heddle, he grabbed him by the shoulder.

‘Jump!’ he bellowed. ‘Jump while you can, John!’

‘This bloody train was supposed to be blessed!’ cried Heddle.

‘Jump off!’

Taking his advice, the fireman hurled himself from the footplate and rolled over and over in the grass before hitting his head on a small boulder and being knocked unconscious. Pike stayed where he was, like the captain of a doomed ship remaining on the bridge. As the two trains converged in a shower of sparks, he braced himself for the unavoidable crash. He was writhing with guilt, convinced that the accident was somehow his fault and that he had let his passengers down. Fearing that there would be many deaths and serious injuries, he was overwhelmed by remorse. A sense of helplessness intensified his anguish.

When the engines finally met, there was a deafening clash and the Brighton Express twisted and buckled, tipping its carriages on to the other line and producing a cacophony of screams, howls of pain and groans from the passengers. Both locomotives were toppled by the sheer force of the impact. The long procession of wagons behind the other engine leapt madly off the rails and broke up like matchwood, scattering their ballast far and wide in a vicious hailstorm of stone. It was a scene of utter devastation.

Somewhere beneath the engine he had driven with such pride and pleasure was Frank Pike, crushed to a pulp and wholly unaware of the catastrophe left behind him. His first ever run on the Brighton Express had also been his last.

CHAPTER TWO

Alerted by telegraph, Detective Inspector Robert Colbeck left his office in Scotland Yard at once and caught the first available train on the Brighton line. His companion, Detective Sergeant Victor Leeming, was not at all sure that they would be needed at the site of the accident.

‘We’ll only be in the way, Inspector,’ he said.

‘Not at all, Victor,’ argued Colbeck. ‘It’s important for us to see the full extent of the damage and to glean some idea of what might have caused the crash.’

‘That’s a job for the Railway Inspectorate. They’re trained in that sort of work. All that we’re trained to do is to catch criminals.’

‘Did it never occur to you that this accident may be a crime?’

‘There’s no proof of that, Inspector.’

‘And no evidence to the contrary, Victor. That’s why we must keep an open mind. Unfortunately, the telegraph gave us only the barest details but it was sent by the LB&SCR and made a specific request for our help.’

‘Your help,’ said Leeming with a sigh of resignation. ‘I’m not the Railway Detective. I hate trains. I distrust them and, from what we’ve heard about this latest disaster, I’ve every reason to do so.’

Leeming was a reluctant passenger, glancing nervously through the window as the train clattered into Reigate station and shuddered to a halt. Colbeck, on the other hand, had a deep affection for the railway system matched by a wide knowledge of its operation. As a result of his success in solving a daring train robbery and a series of related crimes, newspapers had christened him the Railway Detective and subsequent triumphs had reinforced his right to the nickname. Whenever there was a crisis on the line, the first person to whom railway companies turned was Robert Colbeck.

He knew why Leeming was so disaffected that evening. The sergeant was a married man with a wife he adored and two small children on whom he doted. Being parted from them for a night was always a trial to him and he sensed that that was about to happen. A train crash on the scale described would need careful investigation and it could not be completed in the failing light. He and Colbeck might well have to spend the night near the scene before continuing their enquiries on the following day.

After stopping at Horley station, the train set off again and soon entered the county of Sussex. More passengers alighted at Three Bridges station then they chugged on for over four miles until they reached Balcombe. Amid a hiss of steam, they came to a halt.

‘Out we get, Victor,’ said Colbeck, rising to his feet and reaching for his bag. ‘This is the end of the line.’

‘Thank heavens for that, sir!’

‘No down trains can go beyond this point. No up trains from Brighton can get beyond Hayward’s Heath. The timetable has been thrown into complete disarray by the accident.’

‘How do we get to the scene?’

‘We take a cab.’

‘I like the sound of that,’ said Leeming, brightening at once.

Colbeck opened the carriage door. ‘I thought you might.’

‘You know where you are with horses. They’re sensible animals. They don’t run into each other.’

‘Neither do trains, for the most part.’

They stepped on to the platform and made their way towards a waiting line of cabs. Mindful of the great disruption caused by the accident, the railway company had tried to lessen its impact by arranging for a fleet of hansom cabs to be hastened to Balcombe station. Passengers destined for Burgess Hill, Hassocks Gate or Brighton itself would be driven to Hayward’s Heath where a train awaited them. The detectives were going on a shorter journey.

‘That’s better,’ said Leeming, settling gratefully into the back of a cab as it moved away. ‘I feel safe now.’

‘My only concern is for the safety of the passengers on the Brighton Express,’ said Colbeck, worriedly. ‘The train was almost full. According to the telegraph, there have been some fatalities. The chances are that others may die of their injuries in due course.’

‘You know my opinion, Inspector. Railways are dangerous.’

‘That’s not borne out by the statistics, Victor. Millions of passengers travel by rail each year in complete safety. Of the accidents reported, the majority are relatively minor and involve no loss of life.’

‘What about the engine that exploded last year, Inspector?’

‘It was a regrettable but highly unusual incident.’

‘The driver and his fireman were blown to pieces.’

‘Yes, Victor,’ admitted Colbeck. ‘And so was an engine fitter.’

He remembered the tragedy only too well. A locomotive due to take an early train to Littlehampton had exploded inside the engine shed at Brighton. The building had been wrecked, paving stones had been uprooted and one wall of an adjacent omnibus station had been shaken to its foundations. The three men beside the locomotive had been blown apart. The head of the engine fitter had been discovered in the road outside and one of the driver’s legs was hurled two hundred yards before smashing through a window and ending up on the breakfast table of a boarding house.

‘The boiler burst,’ recalled Leeming, gloomily. ‘I read about it. This company has had a lot of accidents in the past.’

‘It was a tank engine that exploded,’ explained Colbeck, ‘and it had run over 90,000 miles without a problem. When it was built, however, its boiler plates were thinner than has now become standard. Over the years, they’d been patched up. Under extreme pressure, they finally gave way.’

‘What a horrible death!’

‘It’s a risk that railwaymen have to take, Victor. Boilers burst far more often in the early days of steam transport. There have been vast improvements since then.’

‘I’ve never known a horse blow up,’ said Leeming, pointedly.

‘Perhaps not but they have been known to bolt before now and overturn cabs or carts. Also, of course,’ Colbeck reminded him, ‘even the largest coach can only carry a limited number of passengers. When the London to Brighton line first opened, four trains pulled a string of carriages containing 2000 people – and they arrived at their destination without any mishap.’

‘What do you think happened in this case, Inspector?’

‘It’s too early to speculate.’

‘The telegraph said that two trains had collided head-on.’

‘One of them, fortunately, was carrying no passengers.’

‘We’re going to find the most terrible mess when we get there.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, looking up at the sky. ‘And the light is fading fast. That will hamper rescue efforts.’

‘What exactly are we looking for?’

‘What we always look for, Victor – the truth.’

It was like the aftermath of a battle. Mangled iron and shattered wood were spread over a wide area. Bodies seemed to be littered everywhere. Some were being lifted onto stretchers while others were being examined then treated on the spot. Dozens of people were using shovels and bare hands as they tried to clear the wreckage from the parallel tracks. The listless air of the wounded was offset by the frenetic activity of the railway employees. Carts were waiting to carry more of the injured away.

By the time that Colbeck and Leeming arrived at the site, lanterns and torches had been lit to illumine the scene. A few bonfires had also been started, burning the wood from the fractured carriages and the ruined wagons. Having met in a fatal collision, the two locomotives lay on their sides like beached whales, badly distorted, deprived of all power and dignity as they waited for cranes to shift their carcases. A knot of anxious people had gathered around each iron corpse, men for whom the destruction of a locomotive was tantamount to a death in the family.

As they picked their way through the debris, the detectives presented a curious contrast. Colbeck, the unrivalled dandy of Scotland Yard, was a tall, handsome, elegant man who might have stepped out of a leading role on the stage. Leeming, however, was shorter, stockier, lumbering and decidedly ugly. While the inspector looked as if he had been born in a frock coat, cravat, well-cut trousers and a top hat, the sergeant seemed to have stolen similar clothing without quite knowing how to wear it properly.

They soon identified the man they had come to see. Captain Harvey Ridgeon was the Inspector General of Railways, a job that consisted largely of investigating accidents throughout the system. He was standing near the two locomotives, talking to one of the many railway policemen on duty. Colbeck was surprised to see how young he was for such an important role. Ridgeon’s predecessor had been a Lieutenant-Colonel who, in turn, had been preceded by a Major-General, both in their fifties and at the end of their military careers.

Ridgeon, however, was still in his thirties, a fresh-faced man of middle height with an almost boyish appearance. Yet he also possessed a soldier’s bearing and a quiet, natural, unforced authority. Like all inspector generals, he had come from the Corps of Royal Engineers and thus had a good understanding of how the railways were built, maintained and run. When the detectives reached him, he had just parted company with the railway policeman. Colbeck performed the introductions. Though he gave them a polite greeting, Ridgeon was less than pleased to see them.

‘It’s good to meet you at last, Inspector Colbeck,’ he said. ‘Your reputation goes before you. But I fail to see why you made the effort to get here. What we need are doctors, nurses and stretcher-bearers, not a couple of detectives, however distinguished their record.’

‘We were summoned by the company itself, Captain Ridgeon.’

‘Then you must feel free to look around – as long as you don’t impede the railway policemen. They can be very territorial.’

‘We’ve found that in the past, sir,’ noted Leeming.

‘I’ve had occasional difficulties with them myself.’

‘I have to admire the way you got here so promptly,’ observed Colbeck, weighing him up with a shrewd gaze. ‘I didn’t expect you to turn up before morning.’

‘This was a dire emergency,’ said Ridgeon, taking in the whole scene with a gesture, ‘and I reacted accordingly. As luck would have it, I was staying with friends in Worthing so I was able to respond quickly when the alarm was raised. Had I still been in Carlisle, where I investigated an accident at the start of the week, then it would have been a very different matter. Before that, I was in Newcastle.’

‘You’re very ubiquitous, Captain Ridgeon.’

‘I have to be, Inspector. Accidents occur all over the country.’

‘That’s my complaint,’ Leeming put in. ‘There are far too many of them. Step into a train and you put your life in peril.’

‘Part of my job is to eliminate peril,’ said Ridgeon. ‘I only have powers to inspect and advise but they are important functions. Each accident teaches us something. My officers and I make sure that the respective railway companies learn their lesson.’

‘Then why do accidents keep on happening?’ Leeming saw two men vainly trying to lift a section of a wrecked carriage. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, moving away. ‘Someone needs a helping hand.’

Taking off his coat, Leeming was soon lending his considerable strength to the two men. The timber was easily moved. Ridgeon and Colbeck watched as the sergeant started to clear away more debris.

‘We could have done with Sergeant Leeming’s assistance when the accident actually happened,’ said Ridgeon. ‘It was a case of all hands to the pumps then. Believe it or not, things are much better now. It was chaos when I first arrived. Those with the most serious injuries have all been taken away now.’

‘There still seem to be plenty of walking wounded,’ said Colbeck, looking around. ‘Who is that gentleman over there, for instance?’

He pointed towards a man in clerical garb whose hands and head were heavily bandaged yet who was helping an elderly woman to her feet. Having got her upright, he went off to console a man who was sitting on the grass and weeping copiously into a handkerchief.

‘That’s the Reverend Ezra Follis,’ explained Ridgeon. ‘He’s a remarkable fellow. He was injured in the crash but, as soon as he was bandaged up, he did his best to offer comfort wherever he could.’

‘He obviously has great resilience.’

‘He also has a strong stomach, Inspector Colbeck. When they hauled out the driver of the ballast train, he was in such a hideous condition that some people were promptly sick. That little clergyman is made of sterner stuff,’ Ridgeon went on with admiration. ‘He didn’t turn a hair. He threw a blanket over the remains then helped to lift them on to a cart, saying a prayer for the salvation of the man’s soul.’

‘How many fatalities have there been so far?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Six.’

Colbeck was surprised. ‘Is that all?’

‘Yes, Inspector,’ replied Ridgeon. ‘Given the circumstances, it’s a miracle. Mind you, some of the survivors have terrible injuries and are being treated in hospital. According to the Reverend Follis, the Brighton Express left the track and careered alongside it for a couple of minutes before hitting the other train.’

‘In other words, the passengers had time to brace themselves.’

‘Exactly.’

‘I must speak to the Reverend Follis myself.’

‘He’s an interesting character.’

‘I assume that the driver and fireman of both locomotives died in the crash,’ said Colbeck, sadly.

‘Those on the footplate of the ballast train were killed outright. The driver of the express must also be dead because he’s buried beneath his engine. Until a crane arrives, we can’t dig him out.’

‘What about his fireman?’

‘John Heddle was more fortunate,’ said Ridgeon. ‘He jumped from the footplate before the collision took place. He sustained a nasty head injury during the fall and was still very dazed when I spoke to him, but at least he survived and will be able to give us confirmation.’

‘Confirmation?’ echoed Colbeck.

‘Yes – of what actually happened. The general feeling among the passengers is that the express went too fast around a bend and jumped off the track. In short, the driver was at fault.’

‘That’s a rather hasty verdict to bring in, Captain Ridgeon. It’s very unfair to blame the driver before all the evidence has been gathered, especially as he’s not alive to defend himself.’

‘I’m not sure that he has a defence.’

‘There are recommended speeds for every stretch of the track.’

‘Everyone I’ve spoken to says the same thing,’ argued Ridgeon. ‘The speed was excessive. They were there, Inspector. These people were in the Brighton Express at the time.’

‘That’s precisely the reason I’d doubt their word,’ said Colbeck. ‘Oh, I’m sure they gave an honest opinion and I’m not criticising them in any way. But all the passengers have been through a terrible experience. They’ll be in a state of shock. You have to allow for a degree of exaggeration.’

‘I talk to survivors of accidents all the time,’ Ridgeon told him, eyes blazing, ‘and I know how to get the truth out of them. I won’t have you casting aspersions upon my methods.’

‘I’m not doing so, Captain Ridgeon.’

‘Well, it sounds to me as if you are.’

‘I’d merely point out that there are no bends of any significance on this stretch of line. Indeed, on the whole journey from London to Brighton, you won’t find dangerous curves or problematical gradients.’

Ridgeon stuck out a challenging chin. ‘Are you trying to teach me my job, Inspector?’

‘No, sir,’ said Colbeck, trying to smooth his ruffled feathers with an emollient smile. ‘I simply think that it would be unwise to rush to judgement when you’re not in full possession of the facts.’

‘I’ve garnered rather more of them than you.’

‘That’s not in dispute.’

‘Then have the grace to bow to my superior expertise.’

‘I’ll be interested to read your report,’ said Colbeck, meeting his stern gaze without flinching. ‘Meanwhile, I’d be grateful for the names of the two drivers and the fireman who died.’

‘Why?’ asked Ridgeon.

‘Because, over the years, I’ve become acquainted with many people who work on the railway,’ came the reply. ‘I’ve been summoned twice before by the LB&SCR and got to know a number of their staff.’

Ridgeon consulted the pad he was holding. ‘The driver of the ballast train was Edmund Liversedge and his fireman was Timothy Parke.’ He glanced up at Colbeck who shook his head. ‘The driver of the other locomotive, presumed dead, was in charge of the Brighton Express for the first time, another factor that I have to take into account. Inexperience on the footplate can be fatal.’

‘What was the man’s name, sir?’

‘Frank Pike.’ He saw Colbeck heave a sigh. ‘You know him?’

‘I knew him quite well at one time,’ said Colbeck, coming to a decision and taking a step backward. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Captain Ridgeon, the sergeant and I will get back to London at once. I’ll take upon myself the duty of informing Mrs Pike of the death of her husband. It’s the least I can do for her.’

‘There’s nothing to keep you here, Inspector. The investigation is in safe hands and will not need to involve the Detective Department in any shape or form.’ He flicked a hand. ‘Good day to you.’

‘Oh, we’ll be back first thing tomorrow,’ said Colbeck, resenting the curt dismissal. ‘I want to make a closer examination of the site.’ He gave a disarming smile. ‘You’ll be amazed how different things can look in daylight.’

CHAPTER THREE

The Round House was a vast and intricate structure of wrought iron and brick, built to accommodate the turntable used by trains belonging to the London and North Western Railway. Situated in Chalk Farm Road, it was always filled with clamour and action. Since its erection in 1847, it had attracted many visitors but few of them were female and fewer still were as handsome as Madeleine Andrews. In effect, she was a human turntable, making the head of every man there veer round sharply when she entered.

Many engine drivers had taken their young sons to view the interior of the Round House. Caleb Andrews, a short, wiry man whose fringe beard was speckled with grey, was the only one who had taken a daughter armed with a sketch pad. Taller than her father, Madeleine was an alert, intelligent, spirited young woman who had taken over the running of their Camden house when her mother died. Andrews was known at work for his acid tongue and trenchant opinions but his daughter had tamed him at home, coping easily with his shifting moods and taking the edge off his irascibility.

‘There you are, Maddy,’ he said, raising his voice over the din and making a sweeping gesture. ‘What do you think of it?’

She gave a shrug. ‘It’s magnificent,’ she agreed, running her eye over the interior. ‘It’s like an industrial cathedral. It’s even bigger than it looks from outside.’

‘Bigger and noisier – I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve driven on to that turntable. It must be hundreds.’

‘Do you think anyone would mind if I made a few sketches?’

‘They wouldn’t dare to mind,’ said Andrews, distributing a warning glare around the circle of railwaymen. ‘Any daughter of mine has special privileges.’

‘Does that mean I can stand on the footplate while an engine is being turned?’ she teased.

He laughed. ‘Even I can’t arrange that for you, Maddy.’

Fiercely proud of her, Andrews stood there with arms akimbo as she began her first quick sketch. Her interest in locomotives was not a casual one. Having discovered an artistic talent, Madeleine had developed it to the point where it had become a source of income. Prints of her railway scenes had been bought by several people. What she had never drawn before, however, was a turntable in action. That was why she had asked her father to take her to the Round House.

Aware of the attention she was getting, she kept her head down and worked swiftly. It was left to Andrews to explain what she was doing and to boast about her modest success as an artist. Any talent she possessed, he was keen to point out, must have been inherited from him. While he chatted to his friends, Madeleine was sketching the locomotive that had just been driven on to the turntable before being swung round so that it could leave frontward. A simple, necessary, mechanical action was carried out with relative ease then the locomotive left with a series of short, sharp puffs of smoke.

Madeleine’s pencil danced over the paper and she scribbled some notes beside each lightning sketch. When she turned her attention to the structure itself, she craned her neck to look up at the domed roof. It was inspiring. The fact that the whole place was bathed in evening shadows somehow made the scene more magical and evocative. She was so absorbed in her work that she did not notice the man who came into the building and spoke earnestly to her father. After his jocular conversation with the others, Andrews was now tense and concerned, plying the newcomer with questions until he had extracted every last detail from him.

On their walk home through the gathering gloom, Madeleine noticed the radical change in her father’s manner. Instead of talking incessantly, as he usually did, he lapsed into a brooding silence.

‘Is anything wrong, Father?’ she asked.

‘I’m afraid that it is.’

She was worried. ‘You’re not in trouble for taking me there, are you? I’d hate to think that I made things awkward for you.’

‘It’s nothing like that, Maddy,’ he told her with an affectionate squeeze of her arm. ‘In fact, it’s nothing whatsoever to do with the LNWR. While you were drawing in there, Nat Ruggles passed on some disturbing news to me. There’s been a bad accident.’

‘Where?’

‘On the Brighton line.’

‘What happened?’

‘According to Nat, there was a collision between two trains the other side of the Balcombe tunnel. I suppose the only consolation is that it happened in open country and not in the tunnel itself.’

‘Nor on the Ouse Viaduct,’ she noted.

‘That would have been a terrible calamity, Maddy. If the viaduct was destroyed in a crash, the line would be closed indefinitely. Nobody would be able to take an excursion train to the seaside,’ he pointed out. ‘As it is, there are bound to be deaths and serious injuries. The Brighton Express would have been going at a fair speed and you know how poor the braking system is.’ He showed a flash of temper. ‘All that those brainless engineers think about is making trains go faster and faster. It’s high time someone designed a means of stopping them.’

He fell silent again and Madeleine left him to his thoughts. She knew how upset he was at the news of any railway accidents. He was always uncomfortably reminded of how hazardous his own job was. Andrews had courted disaster on more than one occasion but always escaped it. There was a camaraderie among railwaymen that meant a tragedy on one line was mourned by every rival company. There was no gloating. With regard to the LB&SCR, Caleb Andrews had even more reason for alarm. He had many friends who worked for the company and feared that one or more of them had been involved.

When they reached the house, they let themselves in. Having met his daughter at the end of his day’s shift, Andrews was still in his working clothes. He removed his cap and slumped into a chair.

‘I’ll make some supper,’ offered Madeleine.

‘Not for me.’

‘You have to eat something, Father. You must be starving.’

‘I couldn’t touch a thing, Maddy,’ he said with a grimace. ‘I don’t think I’d be able to keep it down. Just leave me be, there’s a good girl. I have too many things on my mind.’

It was late evening when Robert Colbeck arrived at the house and he was pleased to see a light in the living room. After paying the cab driver and sending him on his way, he knocked on the door. When it was opened by Madeleine, she let out a spontaneous cry of delight.

‘Robert! What are you doing here?’

‘At the moment,’ he said with a warm smile, ‘I’m enjoying that look of surprise on your face.’ He gave her a token kiss. ‘I’m sorry to turn up on your doorstep so late, Madeleine.’

‘You’re welcome whatever time you come,’ she said, standing back so that he could step into the house. She closed the front door behind him. ‘It’s lovely to see you so unexpectedly.’

‘Good evening, Mr Andrews,’ he said, doffing his top hat.

Deep in thought, the engine driver did not even hear him.

‘You must excuse Father,’ said Madeleine in a whisper. ‘He’s been upset by news of an accident on the Brighton line. Let’s go on through to the kitchen, shall we?’

‘But it was the accident that brought me here,’ explained Colbeck. ‘As it happens, I’ve just returned from the site.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Andrews, hearing him this time and getting up instantly from his chair. ‘You know something about the crash?’

‘Yes, Mr Andrews.’

‘Tell me everything.’

‘Give Robert a proper greeting first,’ chided Madeleine.

‘This is important to me, Maddy.’

‘I appreciate that, Mr Andrews,’ said Colbeck, ‘and that’s why I came. If we could all sit down, I’ll be happy to give you the full details. I don’t think you should hear them standing up.’

‘Why not?’

‘Just do as Robert suggests, Father,’ said Madeleine.

‘Well?’ pressed Andrews as he resumed his seat.

Sitting on the sofa, Colbeck took a deep breath. ‘It was a head-on collision,’ he told them. ‘Six people were killed and dozens were badly injured.’

‘Do you know who was on the footplate at the time?’

‘Yes, Mr Andrews. The driver of the ballast train was Edmund Liversedge. His fireman was Timothy Parke.’

Andrews shook his head. ‘I don’t know either of them.’

‘Their families are being informed of their deaths, as we speak.’

‘What about the express?’

‘The fireman was the only survivor on the footplate. He managed to jump clear before the crash. His name is John Heddle.’

‘Heddle!’ repeated the other. ‘That little monkey. I remember him when he was a cleaner for the LNWR. He was always in trouble. In the end, he was sacked.’ He scratched his beard. ‘So he’s made something of himself, after all, has he? Good for him. I never thought John Heddle would become a fireman.’

‘What about the driver?’ said Madeleine.

‘It appears that he was killed instantly,’ said Colbeck.

After looking from one to the other, he lowered his voice. ‘I’m afraid that I have some distressing news for you. The driver was Frank Pike.’

Madeleine was shocked and her father turned white. Frank Pike was more than a friend of the family. Andrews had been seriously injured during the train robbery that had brought Robert Colbeck into his life. The fireman that day had been Frank Pike and Colbeck had been impressed by his loyalty and steadfastness. He had been even more impressed by Madeleine Andrews and what had begun as a meeting in disturbing circumstances had blossomed over the years into something far more than a mere friendship.

‘I felt that you ought to know as soon as possible,’ Colbeck went on. ‘It seemed to me that you and Madeleine might prefer to be there when I break the news to his wife. Mrs Pike is sure to be sitting at home, wondering why her husband has not come back from work. She’s going to need a lot of support.’

‘Then Rose will get it from us,’ promised Madeleine. ‘This will be a crushing blow. She was so proud when Frank became a driver.’

‘It’s the reason he left the LNWR,’ recalled Andrews, sorrowfully. ‘They refused to promote him. The only way he could be a driver was to move to another company so that’s what he did. Frank Pike was the best fireman I ever had,’ he said, wincing. ‘I’ll miss him dreadfully.’ His eyes flicked to Colbeck. ‘Do you know what caused the accident?’

‘No,’ replied the detective, ‘and I was very sceptical about the one theory that was put forward. It was suggested that the express train went too fast around a bend and came off the rails as a result. Is that the kind of thing you’d expect of Frank Pike?’

‘Not in a hundred years!’ said Andrews, red with anger. ‘Frank would always err on the side of safety. I should know – I taught him.’ He jumped up and struck a combative pose. ‘Who’s been spreading lies about him?’

‘It’s just a foolish idea starting to take root.’

‘It’s more than foolish – it’s an insult to Frank!’

‘Don’t shout, Father,’ said Madeleine, trying to calm him.

‘Isn’t it enough that the poor man has been killed doing his job?’ yelled Andrews. ‘Why do they have to blacken his name by claiming that the accident was his fault? It’s wrong, Maddy. It’s downright cruel, that’s what it is.’

‘I agree with you wholeheartedly, Mr Andrews,’ said Colbeck, ‘and I’m sure that Pike will be exonerated when the full truth is known. Meanwhile, however, I don’t believe you should let this idle speculation upset you and I strongly advise you against making any mention of it to his widow.’

‘That’s right,’ said Madeleine. ‘We must consider Rose’s feelings.’

‘Shall we all go there together? I know that she lives nearby.’

‘It’s only minutes away, Robert.’

‘This is a job for Maddy and me,’ announced Andrews, making an effort to control himself. ‘It was good of you to come, Inspector, and I’m very grateful. But I know Rose Pike well. She’ll be upset by the sight of a stranger. She’d much rather hear the news from friends.’

‘I accept that,’ said Colbeck.

‘Before we go, I’d like to hear more detail of what actually happened. Don’t worry,’ Andrews continued, holding up a palm, ‘I won’t pass any of it on to Rose. I just want to know whatever you can tell me about the accident. You don’t have to listen to this, Maddy,’ he said. ‘If it’s going to upset you, wait in the kitchen.’

‘I’ll stay here,’ she decided. ‘I want to hear everything.’

‘In that case,’ said Colbeck, weighing his words carefully, ‘I’ll tell you what we discovered when we got to the scene.’

Since he had been spared the ordeal of spending a night way from his family, Victor Leeming made no complaint about the early start. He and Colbeck were aboard a train that took them to Balcombe not long after dawn. It was a fine day and the sun was already painting the grass with gold. Watching the fields scud past, Leeming thought about the present he ought to buy for his wife’s forthcoming birthday, hoping that he would be able to spend some of the occasion with her instead of being sent away on police business. Colbeck was reading a newspaper bought at London Bridge station. As he read an account of the train crash, his jaw tightened.

‘Someone has been talking to Captain Ridgeon,’ he said.

The sergeant turned to him. ‘What’s that, Inspector?’

‘This report lays the blame squarely on the shoulders of Frank Pike. I just hope that his widow doesn’t read it.’

‘Isn’t it possible that the driver of the Brighton Express was at fault?’ suggested Leeming.

‘I think it highly unlikely, Victor.’

‘Why?’

‘Pike had an unblemished record,’ said Colbeck. ‘If there had been any doubts at all about his skill as an engine driver, he would never have been allowed to take charge of the Brighton Express.’

‘We all make mistakes from time to time, sir.’

‘I’m not convinced that a mistake was made in this case.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I don’t,’ admitted Colbeck. ‘I’m working on instinct.’

‘Well,’ said Leeming, ‘for what it’s worth, my instinct tells me that we’re on a wild goose chase. In my view, we could be more usefully employed elsewhere. We should let the railway company do their job while we get on with ours.’

‘I think you’ll find that the two jobs may overlap.’

‘Is that what Captain Ridgeon told you?’

‘Far from it, Victor,’ said the other with a grim chuckle. ‘The inspector general inclined to your view that we have no business at all being there. It was a polite way of saying that we were treading on his toes.’

‘So why are we bothering to go back, sir?’

‘We need to find out the truth – and if that involves stamping hard on both of the captain’s feet, so be it. We must establish whether the crash was accidental or deliberate.’

‘How do we do that?’

‘In two obvious ways,’ said Colbeck. ‘First, we inspect the point at which the express actually left the track to see if there’s any sign of criminal intent. Second, we speak to John Heddle. He was on the footplate at the time so will be an invaluable witness.’

‘I wonder why the driver didn’t have the sense to jump off.’

‘We may never know, Victor.’

Transferring to a cab at Balcombe station, they spent the rest of the journey in a more leisurely way. When they reached the site of the accident, they saw that considerable changes had taken place. Passengers were no longer strewn across the grass and all the medical assistance had disappeared. Work had continued throughout the night to clear the line so that it could be repaired. Fires were still burning and timber from the wreckage was being tossed on to them. Hoisted upright by cranes, the two battered locomotives stood side by side like a pair of shamefaced drunkards facing a magistrate after a night of mayhem. The body of Frank Pike had been removed.

Picking a way through the vestigial debris, the detectives reached the track for the up trains and walked along it in the direction of Balcombe. Beside them was a deep channel that had been gouged out of the earth by the rampaging Brighton Express. The rails of the parallel track had been ripped up and bent out of shape.

‘You can see what happened,’ noted Colbeck. ‘One side of the train was running on bare earth while the wheels on the other side were bouncing over the sleepers.’

‘It must have been a very bumpy ride, sir.’

‘Yes, Victor. On the other hand, the ground did act as a primitive braking system, slowing the express down a little and lessening the force of impact. This long furrow saved lives.’

‘But not enough of them,’ said Leeming under his breath.

They strolled on for over a quarter of a mile before they came to the point where the train had first parted company with the track. Four men in frock coats and top hats were clustered around the spot. As the detectives approached, the youngest of the men broke away to exchange greetings with them. Captain Ridgeon forced a smile.

‘Your journey is in vain, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘As we suspected, the Brighton Express left the rails here. It is, you’ll observe, on the crown of a bend. The indications are that the train was travelling too fast to negotiate the bend properly.’

‘This is not what I’d call a real bend,’ said Colbeck, studying the broken rail then looking up the line beyond it. ‘It’s no more than a gentle curve. High speed would not have caused a derailment.’

‘Then what would have done so?’ challenged Ridgeon.

‘The most likely thing is an obstacle on the line.’

‘Where is it? We’d surely have found it by now. Besides, John Heddle, the fireman, would have noticed any obstacle in the path of the train and he swears that he saw nothing.’

‘I’d like to speak to Heddle myself.’

‘He’ll only tell you what he told us, Inspector. Nothing was blocking the line. We had an accident near here some years ago when a goods train hit a cow that had strayed on to the track. Since then, both sides have been fenced off.’

Colbeck was not listening to him. Crouching down, he ran a hand along the section of flat-bottomed, cast iron rail that had sprung away at an acute angle from the track. The section was curved but more or less intact. Colbeck stood up and gazed around.

‘What are you looking for, Inspector?’ asked Leeming.

‘The fishplates that held this rail in place,’ said Colbeck.

‘They would have been split apart when the train left the track,’ said Ridgeon, irritated by what he saw as the detective’s unwarranted interference. ‘It was going at high speed, remember.’

‘In that case, they would have been bent out of shape but still fixed to the sleeper. Yet there’s no sign of them, Captain Ridgeon.’ Colbeck pointed a finger. ‘You can see the holes in the timber where the bolts used to be.’

‘Then they were obviously ripped out by the train.’

‘I disagree. I fancy that they were removed beforehand.’

‘That’s a preposterous notion!’ said Ridgeon with scorn. ‘You’ll be telling me next that someone deliberately levered the rail away.’

‘I may be telling you exactly that, sir,’ said Colbeck.

After examining the rail again with great care, he signalled to Leeming and the two of them began to scour the immediate area. Ridgeon and the other men looked on with ill-concealed disdain. Having made up their minds about the cause of the accident, they resented being told that they might have made a mistake. The search was thorough but fruitless and Leeming spread his arms wide in despair. It was a cue for Ridgeon to resume his conversation with the others. They turned their back on the two interlopers.

Colbeck, however, did not give up easily. Widening the search, he removed his hat so that he could poke his head into the thick bushes that bordered the track on one side. Leeming joined him with patent reluctance. They burrowed away in the undergrowth. While the inspector made sure that he did not damage his clothing in any way, the sergeant scuffed the knees of his trousers and snagged his coat on a sharp twig. Leeming was also stung by a lurking nettle.

Captain Ridgeon, meanwhile, finished his discussion with his colleagues and made some notes on a pad as the others walked away. He was still writing when he heard footsteps approaching and he looked up to see Colbeck coming towards him. The inspector was holding a fishplate in each hand.

‘We found these,’ he said, passing them to Ridgeon. ‘As you’ll see, they’re not bent or damaged in any way. That’s because the bolts were removed so that these plates could be lifted away and tossed into the bushes.’

‘That proves nothing,’ said Ridgeon, defiantly.

‘It proves that they were not torn apart by the force of the train. Victor found one of the bolts. That, too, was undamaged. It was taken out by someone who knew what he was doing. My guess is that the section of line was then prised away, making a derailment inevitable.’

Ridgeon was icily polite. ‘I’m grateful to you for your opinion, Inspector Colbeck,’ he said, ‘but, in essence, that’s all it is – a personal, unsought, uninformed opinion. On the basis of what I’ve seen and heard, I still believe that a fatal error was made by the driver, Frank Pike.’

‘How can I change your mind?’

‘It would be foolhardy of you even to try.’

‘A crime was committed here.’

‘Yes – and the man who perpetrated it was a careless driver.’

‘Inspector!’ bellowed Leeming.

The two men looked across at a large bush that was shaking violently. After a moment, the sergeant emerged out of it, scratched and dishevelled but wearing a triumphant grin. In his hands, he was carrying a pickaxe. He waved it in the air.

Colbeck turned slowly to confront the inspector general.

‘Perhaps you can explain that away, sir,’ he said.

CHAPTER FOUR

John Heddle was a restless patient. Propped up on two pillows, he sat in bed and constantly shifted his position. His head was swathed in blood-stained bandaging, his face covered with abrasions, his body bruised all over and one of his ankles was badly sprained. Aching and itching, he was in continual discomfort but the main source of his pain was the memory of what had happened the previous day. He was tormented by guilt. Heddle could not forgive himself for abandoning the Brighton Express and letting Frank Pike go on alone to a hideous death.

His wife, Mildred, a pale, thin, nervous, wide-eyed young woman, stood beside the bed and watched him with growing alarm. Her pretty face was disfigured by a frown and every muscle was tense. She indicated the large cup on the bedside table.

‘Drink some tea, John,’ she pleaded.

‘Take it away.’

‘Your mother said it would do you good.’

‘I spent years being forced to drink my mother’s beef tea,’ he said with disgust, ‘and it tasted like engine oil. I never want to touch a drop of that foul poison ever again.’

‘Then why don’t you try to get some sleep?’

‘How can I, Mill? I’m hurting all over.’

‘If only there was something I could do,’ she said, wringing her hands. ‘Can I put some more ointment on your face?’

‘Just leave me alone,’ he advised with distant affection. ‘I know you mean well but I’d rather suffer on my own. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of housework to do.’

‘I want to look after you, John. I want to help.’

‘Then take that beef tea away. The very sight of it scares me.’

She picked up the cup and saucer then ventured to give him a tender kiss on the side of his head. Heddle managed a wan smile of gratitude. He could not have had a more loving and attentive nurse. When there was a knock on the front door, his smile became a scowl.

‘If that’s my mother,’ he instructed, ‘tell her I’m asleep.’

‘I can’t lie to her,’ she said.

‘Protect me from her, Mill. I can’t face Mother today.’

Biting her lip, Mildred gave him a sympathetic stare then went out of the room. He heard her clack down the wooden steps. The house was in a backstreet in Southwark. Though it was small, neglected and part of a dismal terrace, it had seemed like a haven when they moved in six months earlier to escape the ordeal of living with Mildred’s parents. Heddle had been full of plans to improve their home but long working hours for the LB&SCR had left him little time to start on the house. He had not even mended the broken window or repaired the roof over the privy at the end of the tiny garden.

Voices rose up from below. Since one of them belonged to a man, he was at once relieved and wary, glad that it was not his mother yet afraid that it might be someone from the railway company, demanding that he return to his duties. Two pairs of feet began to ascend the staircase. Mildred entered the bedroom first, shaking with fear. She touched her husband softly on the shoulder.

‘This gentleman is a policeman, John,’ she said, voice trembling. ‘Whatever have you done wrong?’

‘Nothing at all, Mrs Heddle,’ Colbeck assured her, stepping into the room. ‘I just need to speak to your husband about the accident.’

He introduced himself to the patient then shepherded Mildred gently out of the room. After asking Heddle how he was feeling, Colbeck lowered himself on to the chair beside the bed.

‘How much do you remember of what happened?’ he asked.

‘Not very much, sir,’ confessed Heddle. ‘I had a bang on the head and I still can’t think straight. All I remember is that Frank yelled at me to jump and I did.’

‘So it was Mr Pike’s suggestion, was it?’

‘He stayed on the footplate. Nothing would have made Frank abandon the train. He’d have seen that as a betrayal.’ Heddle hunched his shoulders. ‘That’s why I feel so bad about it. I mean, when I leapt off like that, I betrayed him.’

‘That’s not true at all,’ said Colbeck. ‘You obeyed his order so you have no need to reproach yourself.’ He leant in closer. ‘Let’s go back to the moment when you first realised there was danger.’

‘But I didn’t, Inspector.’

‘Oh?’

‘To be honest, I’m still in the dark.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well,’ said Heddle, rubbing a sore elbow, ‘it was like this, see. We’d crossed the Ouse Viaduct and were steaming along nicely when Frank saw something ahead that frightened him.’

‘What was it?’

‘That’s the trouble, sir, I’ve no idea. I just couldn’t see what Frank had seen but I knew we had a big problem. I could tell by the tone of his voice. The next minute, we’d left the track and all we could do was to pray. Then we both saw another train coming towards us. Frank saved my life. When he told me to jump, I hurled myself off the footplate straight away.’ His eyes moistened. ‘If only Frank had done the same. I loved working with him. He was a good driver and one of the kindest men I know.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘I met Frank Pike. He seemed a thoroughly decent man. Everyone speaks well of him, especially Caleb Andrews.’

Heddle gave an involuntary shiver. ‘Have you been talking to that old tyrant?’ he said. ‘When I worked for the LNWR, Mr Andrews put the fear of death into me. He was always boxing my ears if I didn’t clean his engine the way he wanted. I’ll tell you something, Inspector, I’d hate to have been his fireman. Though fair’s fair,’ he added, ‘Frank used to worship Caleb Andrews.’

‘So you saw no obstruction on the line?’

‘No, sir, and that’s what I told Captain Ridgeon.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘I’ve encountered the inspector general. He and I take a rather different view of what happened.’

‘He thinks Frank was driving too fast,’ said Heddle, defensively, ‘but that wasn’t true at all. He never went above the speed limits. I was the one who wanted to go faster, not Frank Pike.’ He narrowed his lids to peer at Colbeck. ‘What’s going on, Inspector? Why are you so interested in the crash? Accidents happen on the railway all the time but we don’t usually get anyone from Scotland Yard involved.’

‘This was no accident, John.’

‘Then what was it? I wish someone would tell me.’

‘What I believe Pike saw,’ explained Colbeck, ‘was a section of rail that had been levered away on purpose so that the train would come off the line.’

Heddle was aghast. ‘That’s dreadful!’ he exclaimed.

‘It was a criminal act.’

‘Why would anyone do such a vile thing?’

‘That’s what we intend to find out,’ said Colbeck with quiet determination. ‘Pike and the others were not killed in an unfortunate accident. They were, in effect, murder victims.’

Heddle was on the verge of tears. Unable to cope with the news, he quaked and gibbered. It was bad enough to lose a dear friend in an accident. The thought that someone had deliberately set out to kill and maim innocent people was utterly appalling. Engines, carriages and rolling stock had also been destroyed. Heddle was rocked. As he tried to take in the sheer magnitude of the crime, his head pounded. Horror eventually gave way to a deep bitterness.

‘That was no blessing,’ he said, curling his lip.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There was this clergyman on the platform at London Bridge. Before we set off, he told us he wanted to bless the train. He said that he always did that when catching the express.’

‘That must have been the Reverend Follis,’ decided Colbeck.

‘I don’t know what his name was and I don’t want to know. He was a holy menace. That wasn’t a blessing he gave us,’ said Heddle with rancour. ‘If you ask me, it was a bleeding curse.’

The Reverend Ezra Follis was a regular visitor to the county hospital in Brighton. Whenever one of his parishioners spent time there, he made a point of calling on them to check on their condition and to bring them some cheer. What made his visit different on this occasion was that he looked as if he himself should have been detained in the hospital as a patient. His clothing hid most of his cuts and bruises but his hat failed to conceal the bandaging around his skull, and his face still bore some livid scars. A blow to the hip received during the crash had left him with a pronounced limp. He refused to use a walking stick, however, and, in spite of his aches and pains, he was as affable as ever.

He arrived at the main entrance as one of the patients was about to leave. Giles Thornhill was in a frosty mood. One arm in a sling and with a black eye as the central feature in a face that was liberally grazed, he was moving very slowly towards a waiting cab, each step a physical effort. Standing beside him was a member of the local constabulary.

‘Good morning, Mr Thornhill,’ said Follis, chirpily. ‘I’m glad to see that you’re well enough to be discharged.’

‘I prefer to rest in my own bed,’ said Thornhill. ‘There’s no privacy in the hospital. I was made to share a ward with the most unspeakable people. It was so noisy that I didn’t get a wink of sleep.’

‘Then you’re in a position to institute some improvements. As a Member of Parliament, you have a lot of influence here. You could put pressure on the Board of Trustees to provide additional funds for the hospital so that they can build an annexe with single rooms. While patients are recovering, they need peace and quiet.’

‘I have other things to worry about at the moment.’

There was a muted resentment in his voice. While Thornhill had sustained a broken arm and picked up some ugly gashes in the crash, Follis had been relatively unscathed. The politician had been knocked unconscious. The first thing he saw when he came to was the face of the little clergyman, bending over him and muttering words of comfort in his ear. It had irritated him. In intense pain and a degree of panic, all that Thornhill had wanted was to be taken to hospital instead of being bothered by Ezra Follis.

When he reached the cab, however, he felt obliged to turn back.

‘How are your own injuries?’ he asked with formal politeness.

‘Oh,’ replied Follis, displaying his bandaged hands. ‘My head and my hands took the punishment so I came off rather lightly. God moves in mysterious ways, Mr Thornhill. I believe that I was spared in order to help others. Divine intervention was at work.’

Thornhill grunted. ‘I saw no sign of it,’ he said.

‘You survived. Isn’t that a reason to be grateful to the Almighty?’

‘I’d have been more grateful if He’d kept the train on the rails.’

Helped by the policeman, Thornhill got into the cab. Both men were then driven away. Follis waved them off before going into the hospital. One of the nurses directed him to a ward where some of the other survivors were being kept. Sweeping off his broad-brimmed hat, he went into the room and looked along the beds. The patients were subdued and two of them, with appalling injuries, were comatose. Of the other six, most had splints on their arms or legs. One man, in the first bed, had broken both lower limbs. The clergyman recognised the red face and mutton-chop whiskers.

‘Good day to you, my friend,’ he said, pleasantly. ‘My name is Ezra Follis, Rector of St Dunstan’s. We sat opposite each other on the train – at least, we did until our seating positions were suddenly rearranged by the crash. To whom am I speaking?’

‘Terence Giddens,’ said the other, grasping him by the wrist. ‘Do you know what’s going on in here?’

‘The hospital is doing its best to cope with victims of the worst train crash in years, that’s what is going on, my good sir. Everyone is working at full stretch.’

‘They won’t tell me anything, Mr Follis.’

‘What is it that you’d like to know?’

‘I’m not even sure if everyone in our carriage survived,’ said Giddens. ‘All I’ve gathered is that six people were killed.’

‘Seven,’ corrected Follis. ‘A young lady died from her wounds shortly after reaching the hospital. I was here when it happened.’

Giddens blanched. ‘It was not the young lady from our carriage, I trust?’

‘No, no, she was badly injured but, as I understand it, her life is not in danger. None of our other travelling companions met their deaths, Mr Giddens. Most are in here or being looked after elsewhere. In fact,’ he recalled, ‘Mr Thornhill, one of Brighton’s two Members of Parliament, felt well enough to go home.’

‘That’s what I must do.’

‘You’re hardly in a condition for release,’ said Follis, detaching the man’s hand from his wrist and glancing at the broken legs. ‘You need the kind of care that only a trained medical staff can give.’

‘I can’t stay here,’ insisted Giddens.

‘You have no choice.’

‘There must be some way to get me back to London.’

‘Well, it certainly won’t be by train. The line is still well and truly blocked. And a coach would turn the journey into an ordeal for you as it bounced and bucked its way over the roads. I’m sorry, Mr Giddens, you’ll just have to resign yourself to staying here.’

‘Can’t you persuade them to discharge me?’

‘The hospital has a good reputation. You’ll be safe here.’

‘But I need to be in London as a matter of urgency.’

‘Why is that, may I ask?’

‘I’m the manager of a large bank,’ said Giddens, pompously. ‘I have important decisions to make. I can’t instruct my clerks from fifty miles away.’

‘There’s an excellent postal service between here and the capital,’ argued Follis. ‘Besides, you can’t possibly return to work when you’re unable to walk. I know that it’s difficult, Mr Giddens, but you have to accept the situation as it is. You’ll be here in Brighton for a little while yet.’

Terence Giddens bit back an expletive and turned his head away. Trapped and helpless, he frothed with impotent rage. The pain in both legs suddenly became a searing agony.

Superintendent Edward Tallis was seated at his desk in Scotland Yard, scrutinising a report. In response to a knock on his door, he barked a command and Robert Colbeck entered.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said.

‘Ah!’ said Tallis, looking up. ‘I was wondering when you would deign to appear, Inspector. I thought you had perhaps forgotten your way here.’

‘I was investigating the train crash, Superintendent, but I found time to write an interim report for you and made sure that it was delivered early this morning.’

‘It’s right here in front of me. Your handwriting is graceful as ever but that’s the only compliment I feel able to make. The report is full of unsubstantiated guesswork. What it lacks are hard facts.’

‘I’m here to present those to you now, sir.’

‘Not before time,’ said Tallis raising a censorious eyebrow. ‘Well, since you’re finally here, you may as well sit down.’

Colbeck sat on the chair in front of his desk and waited patiently while the superintendent pretended to read the report again. Relations between the two men had always been strained. Tallis was a thickset man in his fifties with short grey hair and a neat moustache. A military man with the habit of command, he expected instant obedience and did not always get that from the inspector. He disapproved of Colbeck’s flamboyant attire, his debonair manner and his idiosyncratic methods of detection. Tallis was also envious of the fact that Colbeck tended to receive adulation in the press while he, a senior officer, was rarely mentioned unless as a target for criticism.

‘Your report hints that a heinous crime has been committed,’ said Tallis, setting the paper aside and sitting back. ‘Is this another typically wild conjecture on your part?’

‘No, sir – Victor and I found proof positive of villainy.’

‘What is it?’

Colbeck told him about their discoveries at the site of the accident and about his conversation with John Heddle. He exonerated Frank Pike from the charge of speeding. The superintendent listened carefully, his face expressionless. When Colbeck had finished, Tallis fired questions at him like a stream of bullets.

‘Who was responsible for this outrage?’ he demanded.

‘A former employee of the railway,’ answered Colbeck.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Consider the choice of time and location, sir. Anyone could find out the departure time of the Brighton Express by looking at a copy of Bradshaw and could therefore estimate its likely arrival on the stretch of line concerned. But only someone who had worked for the LB&SCR would know when goods trains would be running on the up line. They were meant to collide. Whoever planned this crash wanted to achieve maximum death and destruction.’

‘Why?’

‘Revenge.’

‘Against what or whom?’

‘I fancy that the person we are after bears a grudge against the railway company.’

‘What sort of grudge?’

‘Perhaps he feels he was unfairly dismissed or has another reason for wanting to get his revenge. I’ve asked Victor to track down the names of anyone who may have left the company under a cloud in recent times. That’s our starting point, sir.’

Tallis stroked his moustache while he pondered. He shook his head. ‘I’m not entirely convinced that the culprit was a railwayman.’

‘That’s because you didn’t see the way that the bolts and fishplates had been removed so that a section of the rail could be levered away. It was the work of an expert,’ said Colbeck. ‘Anyone else wanting to derail a train would simply have put a large obstacle on the line. The problem with that was that it would have been seen by the driver from some distance away, allowing him to shut off steam and brake much earlier. Frank Pike only noticed the damaged rail when the express had almost reached it.’

‘Does the inspector general agree with your conclusions?’

‘No, sir – Captain Ridgeon is finding it difficult to abandon his earlier assessment that it was an accident caused by human error.’

‘His opinion should be treated with respect.’

‘He’s an army man,’ observed Colbeck, dryly. ‘Once he’s made a decision – however mistaken it may be – he defends it to the hilt.’

Tallis bristled. ‘There’s nothing wrong with service to Queen and Country,’ he said, huffily. ‘I was proud to do my duty and found it an excellent training for police work.’

‘That’s because you’re an exception to the rule, Superintendent. You are known and admired for the flexibility of your mind.’

Colbeck spoke with his tongue firmly in his cheek. Tallis, in fact, was renowned for his dogged inflexibility. Depending on the circumstances, it could be either his strength or his weakness, a single-mindedness that was a positive asset or an inability to look at a case from more than one angle. Unsure if he was being mocked or receiving a compliment, Tallis settled for a non-committal grunt.

‘I don’t think you should disregard Captain Ridgeon’s opinion altogether,’ he warned. ‘I’d be interested to meet the fellow.’

‘I’m certain that you will, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘Sooner or later, he’ll be coming here to complain about the way he believes Victor and I are hampering him. The captain is not accustomed to having any of his decisions questioned.’

‘That’s the privilege of being an officer.’

‘He’s no longer in the army, Superintendent. It’s time he adjusted to civilian life, as you have done so successfully.’ Tallis heard the light sarcasm in his voice and was about to interrupt. ‘There are, of course, two other possibilities,’ Colbeck added quickly. ‘The first has to be mentioned if only to be discounted.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s one that other people may seize upon without realising that it will only mislead them.’

‘What on earth are you talking about, man?’

‘The fact that the culprit may work for a rival company,’ said Colbeck, ‘and that he attacked the LB&SCR out of spite. It’s an obvious supposition.’

‘Then why dismiss it?’

‘There’s no precedent for rival companies stooping to such extreme methods. Passions run high among people vying for the right to control a particular line and they’ll resort to all manner of unfair tactics to secure their ends. But they’ll draw back from causing a serious accident,’ he continued. ‘Apart from anything else, a crash on one line affects the whole railway system. It makes the travelling public more wary of using trains. In short, it’s very bad publicity. It’s therefore in the interest of all companies to avoid accidents.’

‘You said that there were two other possibilities,’ noted Tallis. ‘What, pray, might the second one be?’

‘It’s a theory I have, Superintendent.’

‘Ah, I was waiting until you trotted out another of your famous theories. It was only a question of time.’

‘Actually, sir, it was Victor Leeming who had this idea.’

‘So you’ve infected the sergeant with your disease, have you?’ said Tallis with a sneer. ‘One theoretician is more than enough in the Detective Department. We can’t have two of you coming up with mad hypotheses that have no factual basis.’

‘This is not a mad hypothesis.’

‘Then what is it?’

‘An idea that merits consideration,’ said Colbeck. ‘What Victor suggested was that the crash was caused in order to kill a particular individual who was on the Brighton Express.’

‘But there’s no guarantee that the intended victim would be killed,’ contended Tallis. ‘There would, however, certainly be other deaths. If a man is set on murder, he would surely stalk and kill his victim instead of going to such elaborate lengths as this.’

‘I agree, sir, but take the idea a stage further.’

‘I’d rather disregard it entirely.’

‘It’s really an extension of my original belief that the LB&SCR was the designated target,’ reasoned Colbeck. ‘Supposing that the villain wished to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak?’

‘You’ve lost me, Inspector,’ complained Tallis.

‘The man wanted both to damage the railway company and cause the death of someone on that train, someone who was closely associated with the LB&SCR. Do you see what I mean, sir? What if, for the sake of argument, an individual embodied the railway company in some way? To murder him in a dark alley would have been far easier but it would have lacked any resonance. A public assassination was needed, involving widespread destruction in a train crash.’

‘Stop!’ ordered Tallis, slapping his desk with an angry palm. ‘I’ll hear no more of this fanciful nonsense. Such a person as you portray does not even exist.’

‘Then perhaps you will peruse this, sir,’ said Colbeck, extracting some sheets of paper from an inside pocket and placing them on the desk. ‘It’s a list of the passengers who were injured on that express.’ Tallis snatched it up. ‘It’s rather a long one, unfortunately. May I direct your attention to the names at the top of the first page? Among them you will find a gentleman called Horace Bardwell. Can you pick him out, Superintendent?’

‘Of course,’ growled Tallis, ‘but so what?’

‘Mr Bardwell is a former managing director of the LB&SCR. He still retains a seat on the board and acts as its spokesman. Kill him,’ said Colbeck meaningfully, ‘and you deprive the railway company of a man who personifies all that it stands for.’ Tallis began to grind his teeth. ‘Do you still think that it’s fanciful nonsense, sir?’

CHAPTER FIVE

Victor Leeming was nothing if not tenacious. Given a task, he stuck at it with unwavering commitment until it was completed. Since he had been told to find the names of anyone dismissed by the LB&SCR in recent months, he badgered the staff in the railway company’s London office until he had all the details available. On the cab ride to Scotland Yard, he reflected on how much his job had changed since he had joined the Detective Department. As a uniformed sergeant, he had seen and enjoyed a great deal of action on the dangerous streets of the capital. Catching thieves, arresting drunks, organising night patrols and keeping the peace had taken up most of his time.

Detective work tended to be slower and more painstaking. What it lacked in vigorous action, however, it atoned for in other ways, chief among them being the privilege of working beside Robert Colbeck. Every day spent with the Railway Detective was an education for Leeming and he relished it. He might have to travel on the trains he detested but he had the consolation of investigating crimes of a far more complex and heinous nature than hitherto. Breaking up a fight in a rowdy tavern could not offer him anything like the satisfaction he got from helping to solve cases that dealt with murder, arson, kidnap and other serious crimes. The present investigation promised to be the most challenging yet and he was not certain that the culprit would be found in due course.

Leeming arrived at Scotland Yard to find Colbeck in his office, poring over the list of casualties from the train crash. Pleased to see him, the inspector got to his feet at once.

‘Come on in, Victor. Did you discover anything of interest?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Leeming, taking a notepad from his pocket, ‘I discovered that I could never work for the LB&SCR – not that I’d even think of being employed by a railway company, mind you.’

‘What’s the problem? asked Colbeck.

‘There are too many ways to get sacked. Men have been booted out for being drunk, violent, lazy, slow, sleeping on duty, being late for work, not wearing the correct uniform, disobeying an instruction, telling lies, using bad language, playing cards, pretending to be ill, stealing company property and for dozens of other offences.’ Opening his notebook at the appropriate page, he handed it over. ‘As you’ll see, a porter at Burgess Hill was dismissed when ash from his pipe fell accidentally on to the stationmaster’s newspaper and set it alight.’

‘I think we can eliminate him from our enquiries,’ said Colbeck, scanning the list, ‘and most of these other names can be ruled out as well. The majority seem to have been with the company a very short time so they did not put down any roots in it.’

‘I wonder how some of them were taken on in the first place. I mean, there’s a fireman on that list who used to toss handfuls of coal off his engine at a place along the line then collect it later and take it home. That was criminal, Inspector.’

‘Caleb Andrews would never have allowed that. If any fireman of his tried to break the law, he’d have lashed the man to the buffers.’ Colbeck looked up. ‘Talking of Mr Andrews, you’ll recall that I asked him and his daughter to break the news of Frank Pike’s death to his wife.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘It was very considerate of you.’

‘You need good friends beside you at such a time.’

‘The widow must have been distraught.’

‘She was grief-stricken,’ said Colbeck, ‘but she did volunteer one useful piece of information.’ He indicated a letter on his desk. ‘Miss Andrews was kind enough to pass it on to me. Mrs Pike remembers her husband telling her that he saw a man using a telescope to watch the trains go past. The sun glinted off it, apparently.’

‘Where did this happen, sir?’

‘It was between Balcombe and Haywards Heath.’

‘That’s exactly where the accident happened.’

‘Frank Pike spotted the man on two separate occasions as he drove past,’ Colbeck went on, ‘and in two slightly different locations. He could well have been looking for the ideal point at which to bring the Brighton Express off the line.’ His eyes flicked back to the notepad. ‘You’ve done well, Victor. This list is very comprehensive.’

‘The trouble is,’ said Leeming, ‘it gives us too many suspects.’

‘I’m not so sure about that. Only three names look really promising to me. Their respective owners all left fairly recently and, according to your notes, may have cause to resent their dismissal.’

‘Who are they, Inspector?’

Colbeck picked them out with an index finger. ‘I’d plump for Jack Rye, Dick Chiffney and Matthew Shanklin.’

‘The one that I’d put first is Shanklin. Before he lost his job, he had a senior position in the company and had held it for a number of years. It must have been galling to be fired from such a well-paid post. Shanklin’s mistake was to fall out with one of the directors.’

Colbeck’s ears pricked up immediately. ‘Do you happen to know which director it was?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Leeming. ‘It was Horace Bardwell.’

Horace Bardwell still had no idea where he was and what had actually happened to him. Having suffered compound fractures, he lay in the county hospital with an arm and a leg in splints. Because of a severe head wound, his whole skull was covered in a turban of bandaging and his podgy face was largely invisible. Bardwell was a corpulent man whose massive bulk made the bed look far too small for him. Most of the day had been passed in a drowsy half-sleep. Whenever he surfaced, he was given a dose of morphine to deaden the pain. He began to believe that he had died and gone to Hell.

Someone sat beside his bed and leant in to speak to him.

‘Good evening,’ said Ezra Follis. ‘How are you feeling now?’

‘Are you a doctor?’ murmured Bardwell.

‘I cure men’s souls rather than their bodies so I can lay claim to being a medical man of sorts. We’ve travelled on the Brighton Express a number of times, Mr Bardwell, and exchanged a nod of greeting. I am Ezra Follis, by the way, Rector of St Dunstan’s. I’m trying to speak to everyone with whom I shared a carriage yesterday.’

Bardwell was bewildered. ‘Yesterday?’

‘Our train collided with another one.’

‘I remember nothing of that.’

‘Then a hideous memory has been kindly wiped from your mind by a benign Almighty. I wish that I, too, could forget it.’

‘I’m hurting all over,’ bleated Bardwell.

‘The doctor will give you something to soothe the pain.’

‘But how did I get it in the first place and why can’t I see?’

Follis knew the answers to both questions. Before talking to the patient, he had checked on his condition with a member of the medical staff. Bardwell had been unfortunate. Apart from taking punishment to his head and body, he had been blinded. Though a doctor had tried to explain to him the full extent of his injuries, Bardwell had been hopelessly unable to understand. Touched by the man’s plight, Follis sought only to offer solace and companionship. He talked softly until Bardwell drifted off to sleep again then offered up a prayer for the man’s recovery.

As he left the ward, he saw an imposing figure striding towards him. Colbeck recognised the wounded clergyman and introduced himself, explaining his reason for being there. Follis was surprised and deeply upset to hear that someone might have deliberately caused the accident.

‘That’s unforgivable!’ he exclaimed.

‘I agree, sir.’

‘It’s utterly sinful! Look at the devastation that was caused. I cannot believe that any human being could be capable of such wanton cruelty. So many lives were lost or wrecked.’

‘What you did yesterday was truly impressive,’ said Colbeck, recalling his visit to the site. ‘Though you had injuries of your own, you still found the strength and willpower to help others.’

Follis smiled. ‘I found nothing, Inspector,’ he argued, hand on heart. ‘In my hour of need, God came to my aid and enabled me to do what I did. As for my own scratches, they are very minor compared to the injuries of other passengers. Being so short and slight has its advantage. When the crash occurred, I presented a very small target.’

‘That should have made no difference.’

‘It’s an incontrovertible fact. Look at Mr Bardwell, for instance.’

‘Would that be Horace Bardwell?’

‘The very same,’ confirmed Follis, nodding. ‘He must be a foot taller and almost three times my size. In other words, there was more of him to hit. That’s why he suffered so badly.’ He sucked in air through his teeth. ‘In addition to his many other injuries, alas, the poor fellow has lost his sight.’

‘That must be very distressing for him.’

‘It will be when he finally comprehends it.’

‘Oh?’

‘Mr Bardwell doesn’t know what day it is, Inspector. I’ve just spent time at his bedside, trying to talk to him. His mind is so befuddled that it’s impossible to establish any real contact. When the truth does eventually dawn on him,’ he added with a sigh, ‘it will come as a thunderbolt.’

‘I was hoping to speak to Mr Bardwell myself,’ said Colbeck.

‘He’ll hear precious little of what you say.’

‘The doctor seemed to think he was slightly better today.’

‘Only in the sense that he is much more alive,’ said Follis. ‘Had you seen him immediately after the crash, you’d have thought he was at death’s door. Happily, he survived and his body will heal in time. Whether or not his mind will also heal is another matter.’

Follis stood aside so that the detective could see into the ward. The clergyman pointed Bardwell out. Since the patient’s eyes were covered by a bandage, it was difficult to determine if he was asleep but his body was motionless. Colbeck glanced around the ward and saw that everyone else there had serious injuries.

‘How many of them will make a complete recovery?’ he asked.

‘None of them, Inspector,’ said Follis. ‘The memory of the crash will be like a red-hot brand burnt into their brain. It will torture them for the rest of their lives.’

‘Have there been any more fatalities?’

‘Two people have died here in hospital.’

‘That will bring the total number to eight.’

‘I fear that it will climb higher than that.’ He noticed movement in Bardwell’s bed. ‘I fancy that he may be stirring again, Inspector. This may be your only chance to speak to him but be prepared for a disappointment.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s in a world of his own.’

Colbeck thanked him for his advice and went into the ward. A nurse was bending over one patient, trying to coax him to drink. In another bed, a man was coughing uncontrollably. A third patient was groaning aloud. Attended by a nurse, a doctor was examining someone in the far corner. When he eventually stood up, the doctor shook his head sadly and the nurse pulled the bed sheet over the patient’s face. Another victim of the crash had passed away.

Sitting beside Bardwell, Colbeck touched his shoulder.

‘Are you awake, Mr Bardwell?’ he enquired.

‘Who are you?’ muttered the other.

‘My name is Detective Inspector Colbeck and I’m investigating the crash that took place on the Brighton line yesterday.’

‘Give me something to take this pain away.’

‘I’m not a doctor, sir.’

‘What’s this crash you mentioned?’

‘You were on the train at the time, Mr Bardwell.’

‘Was I?’

‘That’s how you received your injuries.’

‘My mind is a blank,’ said Bardwell, piteously.

‘You must remember something.’

‘It’s all a blur. I feel as if I’ve broken every bone in my body. My head is on fire and I’ve got something tied over my eyes.’

‘You need rest, sir.’

‘I want a doctor.’

‘I’ll call one in a moment,’ Colbeck promised. ‘I just want to ask you one thing.’ Raising his voice, he spoke with deliberate slowness. ‘Do you recall a Matthew Shanklin?’

The question produced an instant reply. Bardwell let out a gasp of horror and his body started to twitch violently. Colbeck held him down with gentle hands until the convulsions had ceased. Then he summoned a doctor. His conversation with Bardwell had been brief but, as he left the hospital, Colbeck felt that his journey to Brighton had not been in vain.

Matthew Shanklin had been out of work for a couple of months before finding another post. Discharged by one railway company, he was now employed by another and it was in the main office of the London and North West Railway that Leeming tracked him down that evening. Shanklin gave him a guarded welcome. He was a bald-headed man in his forties, short, thin and stooping. On the desk in front of him were piles of documents.

‘You’re working late this evening, sir,’ observed Leeming.

‘I have no control over my hours, Sergeant,’ said Shanklin, coldly. ‘In my previous situation, I had a more senior position and a degree of autonomy. That, I regret to say, is no longer the case.’

‘It’s your previous job that brought me here, Mr Shanklin.’

‘What do you mean?’

Leeming told him about the investigation and Shanklin’s back arched defensively. He peered at his visitor through a pair of wire-framed spectacles. Careful not to interrupt the narrative, he paused for a full minute when it was finally concluded.

‘In what possible way can I help you, Sergeant?’

‘I’d like to hear why you left the LB&SCR,’ said Leeming.

‘I didn’t leave of my own volition,’ admitted Shanklin. ‘I was summarily dismissed, as I’m sure you know. Is that what brought you here?’ he went on angrily. ‘You believe that I had something to do with that terrible accident?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then why bother me?’

‘Inspector Colbeck thought you might be able to assist us, Mr Shanklin. Having worked for the company, you must have been very familiar with the rest of the management and with the directors.’

‘I was there a long time, Sergeant.’

‘Would you describe it as a happy company?’

‘As happy as most, I daresay,’ replied Shanklin. ‘Every company has its inner tensions and petty rivalries – I’m sure that you have some of those at Scotland Yard.’

‘We certainly have plenty of tension,’ conceded Leeming as an image of Superintendent Tallis popped into his mind. ‘I think it’s a means of keeping us on our toes. And, of course, there’s always rivalry between the uniformed branch and the plain clothes division. But,’ he continued, one eye on Shanklin, ‘at least we don’t have a board of directors breathing down our necks.’

‘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.’

CHAPTER SIX

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.

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 the 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 across 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.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

‘My name is Detective Sergeant Leeming,’ he replied.

‘Is that why you’ve come – to tell me the bastard is finally dead?’

‘I’m looking for Dick Chiffney.’

‘And so am I,’ she said, baring the blackened remains of her teeth. ‘I’ve been looking for him all week.’

Josie Murlow was a fearsome woman in her thirties, tall, big-boned and with red hair plunging down her back like a hirsute waterfall. Her face had a ravaged prettiness but it was her body that troubled Leeming. She exuded a raw sexuality that seemed quite out of place on a Sunday. As a uniformed constable, he had arrested many prostitutes and had always been immune to their charms. Josie Murlow was different. He could not take his eyes off the huge, round, half-visible, heaving breasts. Leeming felt as if he were being brazenly accosted in broad daylight.

‘Are you Mrs Chiffney?’ he asked, making a conscious effort to meet her fiery gaze.

‘I’m Mrs Chiffney in all but name,’ she retorted. ‘I cooked for him, looked after him and shared his bed for almost two years then he walks out on me without a word of warning. It’s not bleeding right.’

‘I quite agree.’

‘Who gave him money when he lost his job? Who nursed him when he was ill? Who kept him in drink? I did,’ she stressed, slapping her chest with such force that her breasts bobbed up and down with hypnotic insistence. ‘I done everything for that man.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Over a week ago.’

‘Did he have a job at the time?’

‘Dick’s been out of work since he knocked his foreman to the ground when he was laying some new track on the railway. We had to get by on what I bring in.’

Leeming did not have to ask what she did for a living. Even though she was now wearing crumpled old clothes and had no powder on her florid cheeks, Josie Murlow was patently a member of the oldest profession. He decided that she must have catered for more vigorous clients. Only big, strong, brave, virile men would have dared to take her on. Others would have found her far too intimidating.

‘Why are the police after Dick?’ she said, belligerently. ‘What’s the mad bugger been up to now?’

‘I just wished to talk to him.’

‘Don’t lie to me. I’ve had enough dealings with the law to know that you never simply want to talk to someone. There’s always some dark reason at the back of it. Dick is in trouble again, isn’t he?’

‘He might be,’ admitted Leeming.

‘What’s the charge this time?’

Leeming was evasive. ‘It’s to do with the railway.’

‘The foreman started the fight,’ she argued, leaping to Chiffney’s defence. ‘He threw the first punch so Dick had to hit him back. In any case,’ she added, sizing him up, ‘why is a detective from Scotland Yard bothering about a scuffle on a railway line? There’s something else, isn’t there?’ She glared at him. ‘What is it?’

‘It may be nothing at all and that’s the truth. I just need to speak to Mr Chiffney. Do you have any idea where he might be?’

‘If I did, I wouldn’t be standing here, would I? Josie Murlow is not a woman to give up easy. I’ve searched everywhere. What I can tell you,’ she conceded, ‘is where Dick likes to drink. I been to all the places but he must have seen me coming because he wasn’t in any of them. You might be luckier. Dick doesn’t know you.’

Taking out his notepad, Leeming jotted down the names of four public houses that Chiffney frequented. As he wrote, he kept his head down, glad of an excuse not to look at her surging bosom. Josie was well aware of his interest. When he looked up again, he saw that one flabby arm had dropped to her side while the other rested on the door jamb beside her head. Her crudely seductive pose made him take a step backwards.

‘Would you like to come in, Sergeant Leeming?’ she invited.

‘I…don’t have the time,’ he stammered.

‘I’ve got drink in the house – and a very empty bed.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Josie Murlow gives value for money, I can tell you.’

‘I’ve no reason to doubt that.’

‘Then why are you holding back?’ she said, putting both hands on her hips and turning sideways so that he saw her body in enticing profile. ‘What better way to spend a Sunday?’

‘I’m a married man,’ he said, indignantly.

‘So are most of them – they want something special for a change.’ She gave a low cackle. ‘I make sure they get it.’

‘You’ll have to excuse me. I’m still on duty.’

She became aggressive. ‘Are you turning me down?’

‘I have to find Mr Chiffney,’ he said, retreating from the door.

‘Well, when you do,’ she yelled, ‘drag him back here by the balls. I want a word with that swivel-eyed bastard.’

Returning to Brighton by cab, the first thing that Colbeck did was to find a hotel where he could buy himself a light luncheon. He then took time off to look at the town’s most famous sight, the Royal Pavilion with its strange but arresting mixture of neo-classical and oriental architecture. In the previous century, the restorative properties of its sea water had helped to turn Brighton from a small fishing port into a fashionable resort. The Pavilion had added to its appeal. Built over a period of many years, it had become a main attraction well before its completion in 1823.

The brainchild of the future King George IV, it had failed abysmally to exercise the same fascination for Queen Victoria and ceased to become a royal residence. Colbeck was glad that it had been purchased by the town in 1850, allowing the public to admire its unique design and its spacious gardens. Those who flocked to the seaside in warmer months did not merely come for the pleasure of walking along the promenade, enjoying the facilities on the Chain Pier or merely reclining on the beach and watching the waves roll in. They were there to view the majestic Pavilion and to get a privileged insight into how royalty lived and entertained.

After seeing his fill, Colbeck set off on his second visit of the day. St Dunstan’s Rectory was only a stone’s throw from the church itself and it had been built at roughly the same time, retaining its medieval exterior while undergoing many internal renovations. Shown into the drawing room by the housekeeper, Colbeck was given a cordial welcome by Ezra Follis who pulled himself out of his high-backed chair with barely concealed pain.

‘Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand, Inspector,’ he said. ‘My hands are still somewhat tender and I had difficulty turning the pages of my Prayer Book during the service this morning. Your visit is timely. I was just about to have my afternoon cup of tea.’

‘Then I’ll be happy to join you, Mr Follis.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Ashmore.’

A nod from the rector was all it took for the housekeeper to bustle out of the room. The two men, meanwhile, sat down opposite each other. After the grand proportions of the library he had visited earlier, Colbeck found the room small and cluttered. The low ceiling, thick roof beams and little mullioned windows contributed to the sense of restriction but the place had a snug, homely feeling about it. Follis had less than a quarter of the number of books owned by Giles Thornhill but Colbeck suspected that he had read far more of the contents of his library than the politician had of his.

‘What brings you to Brighton again?’ asked Follis.

‘I had to speak to one of your Members of Parliament.’

‘Then it must have been Giles Thornhill.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck. ‘Like you, he was a survivor of the crash.’

‘How did you find him?’

‘I think he’s still in considerable discomfort.’

Follis chortled. ‘That’s a polite way of saying that he was singularly inhospitable. It’s no more than I’d expect,’ he said. ‘On the one occasion when I called at his house, Thornhill kept me waiting for twenty minutes before he deigned to see me.’

‘I take it that you are not an admirer of the gentleman.’

‘Voting against him at the last election gave me a sense of delight, Inspector. I despise the man. He manipulates people to his advantage. The only thing that animates him is the greater glory of Giles Thornhill.’ He chortled again. ‘When visitors come to Brighton for the first time, I ask them what they think of the monstrosity.’

‘The Royal Pavilion?’

‘No,’ said Follis, ‘our Parliamentary eyesore – Mr Thornhill.’

‘What has he done to offend you?’ wondered Colbeck.

‘He’s treated people with contempt as if he inhabits a superior order of creation. Then, of course,’ said Follis, knowingly, ‘there’s the small matter of his inheritance.’

‘Judging by the size of his house, I’d say that it was an extremely large one.’

‘His father made his fortune in the slave trade, Inspector.’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘He grew rich on the suffering and humiliation of others. That may explain why Thornhill regards so many of us as mere slaves. However,’ he went on, sympathy coming into his voice, ‘I’m genuinely sorry that he was injured in the crash and did my best to help him at the time. Needless to say, I received no thanks.’

‘Do you see Mr Thornhill often?’ asked Colbeck.

‘At least once a week – we catch the Brighton Express every Friday evening and often share a carriage. Though we acknowledge each other, we rarely speak.’ Follis grinned. ‘I fancy that he knows he can’t rely on my vote.’

They chatted amiably until the housekeeper arrived with a tray. As she served the two of them with a cup of tea, Colbeck was able to take a closer look at Ellen Ashmore. She was a stout woman of medium height with well-groomed grey hair surrounding a pleasant face that was incongruously small in comparison with her body. Though she and Follis were of a similar age, she treated him with a motherly concern, urging him to rest as much as possible.

‘Mrs Ashmore will spoil me,’ said Follis when she had left the room. ‘She did everything she could to stop me taking the service this morning. I told her that I had a duty, Inspector. I couldn’t let my parishioners down.’

‘I’m sure that they appreciated your being there.’

‘Some of them did.’ Adding sugar to his cup, Follis stirred his tea. ‘Incidentally, did you manage to get anything coherent out of Horace Bardwell?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Colbeck. ‘He’s hopelessly bewildered.’

‘We prayed for him and the other victims.’

‘While I was at the hospital yesterday, I spoke to some of them. Two, apparently, were in the same carriage as you.’

‘Oh? And who might they be?’

‘Mr Terence Giddens and a young lady named Miss Daisy Perriam. They were both highly distressed at what happened to them.’

‘That’s understandable,’ said Follis with something akin to amusement. ‘Instead of being trapped in hospital beds, the pair of them had hoped to be sharing one.’ Colbeck was taken aback. ‘You didn’t see them together as I did, Inspector. Had you done so, you’d have noticed that, though they pretended to be travelling alone, they were, in fact, together. That’s why Giddens was so desperate to get out of the hospital.’

‘He told me that his bank needed him in London.’

‘I heard the same lie. The truth of it is that he was afraid that his wife would read about the crash in the newspapers and see her husband’s name among the injured. The last thing that Giddens wanted was for his wife to discover that, instead of doing whatever he told her he would be doing that weekend, he had instead slipped off to Brighton with a beautiful young woman. He lives in fear that Mrs Giddens will walk through the door of his ward at any moment.’

Colbeck was impressed. ‘You’re a shrewd detective, Mr Follis,’ he said. ‘I wish I had your intuition.’

‘It’s something one develops,’ explained Follis. ‘If you’d sat by as many sad deathbeds as I have, and settled as many bitter marital disputes, and listened to as many tearful confessions of wickedness and folly, you’d become acutely sensitive to human behaviour. As it was, Giddens gave himself away at the start. When I first spoke to him in hospital, he wanted to know if Daisy Perriam had survived the crash. He was far less interested in the fate of Giles Thornhill and the others in our carriage.’

‘I wish that I’d talked to you earlier.’

‘Why – are you going to offer me a job at Scotland Yard?’

‘No,’ said Colbeck, tickled by the suggestion. ‘By inclination and training, you’re clearly far more suited to the Church – though I’m bound to observe that there are very few clergymen who’d share your tolerant view of people’s peccadilloes. Any other gentleman of the cloth would be scandalised by the relationship you discerned between Mr Giddens and Miss Perriam.’

‘God has punished them enough for their sins,’ said Follis. ‘I don’t feel they deserve the additional penalty of my disapproval. Given their condition, they’ll get nothing but sympathy from me.’

Colbeck could not imagine that view being expressed by any other churchman. It would certainly not be endorsed by Edward Tallis, a man of high ideals and a stern moral code. In his report to the superintendent, Colbeck would make no mention of the liaison between a respected, married banker and an attractive young woman. The more he got to know Ezra Follis, the more interesting and unusual the man became. Colbeck was about to ask a question when the rector read his mind.

‘The honest answer is that there have been occasional moments of friction,’ he said, blithely ‘That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it? You were wondering about my relationship with my bishop.’

Colbeck blinked. ‘How did you know I was going to ask that?’

‘It’s what most people think when they hear some of my rather eccentric opinions. They marvel why I’ve not been rapped over the knuckles and forced to toe the line.’

‘The Anglican church has many restraints.’

‘And I willingly abide by most of them,’ said Follis. ‘But I reserve the right to conduct my ministry according to my own promptings. I’m more concerned about the response of my parishioners than the strictures of the bishop or the dean. As long as I can preach to a congregation, I’ll continue to do so in my own way.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘Now, tell me, Inspector – what progress have you made?’

‘We’re still in the early stages of the investigation,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I have every confidence that we’ll catch the person or persons responsible for the crash. It’s only a question of time.’

‘That’s reassuring to hear.’

‘We already have some suspects in mind.’

‘It must be someone with a fierce hatred of trains.’

‘You could well be right,’ said Colbeck, unwilling to give any more information. ‘Even after all this time, railways are still not universally accepted. Whoever caused that crash wanted to inflict serious damage on the LB&SCR. He knew how calamitous the consequences would be.’

‘Journeys to London have been badly disrupted,’ remarked Follis, ‘and that’s a nuisance to those of us who go there on a regular basis. Not that I’ll be doing any travelling for a while,’ he went on. ‘I’ll have to wait until I begin to look more human.’

Colbeck sampled the tea. ‘This is excellent,’ he said.

‘Mrs Ashmore looks after me very well. Here in the rectory, I have everything a man could desire – peace, harmony, a selection of fine books and the loving care of a woman.’ He set his cup and saucer down. ‘In view of your well-deserved reputation, Inspector, I’ve every reason to accept your judgement but I have to point out that your view is not shared by everyone. All of the passengers still believe they were victims of an unfortunate accident.’

‘Until we catch the perpetrator, I’m happy for them to think that. There’s no need to spread alarm, especially when the survivors are hardly in the best condition to cope with it. No,’ said Colbeck, ‘the official view remains that of the inspector general.’

‘He puts the blame on the driver of the Brighton Express.’

‘That’s both wrong and unjust.’

‘Is he aware that you hold a very different opinion?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Colbeck. ‘Captain Ridgeon and I have already clashed once. I daresay that we shall do so again before long.’

Captain Harvey Ridgeon was in a purposeful mood when he called at Scotland Yard that afternoon. Demanding to speak to the most senior detective on the premises, he was shown into the office of Edward Tallis. After attending church early that morning, the superintendent had spent the rest of the day going through reports of the various cases that came under his aegis and making copious notes of the instructions he intended to give to his respective officers. He could see at a glance that his visitor had come to complain.

Once introductions had been made, Ridgeon was offered a seat. As former soldiers, they had similar attitudes, similar upright sitting positions and similar ways of speaking. What distinguished Tallis was that he no longer attached his military rank to his name, preferring the nomenclature conferred on him by the Detective Department.

‘What can I do for you, Captain Ridgeon?’ he asked.

‘I’d like you to remonstrate with Inspector Colbeck,’ said the other, coolly. ‘I find his interference both unhelpful and annoying.’

‘Then your argument is with the railway company itself. It was they who sought his assistance.’

‘I need no assistance, Superintendent. As my record shows, I’m perfectly capable of carrying out an inquiry into a railway accident.’

‘Nobody disputes that. The point at issue here, however, is that we are not dealing with an accident. Inspector Colbeck is certain that a heinous crime has been committed.’

‘The facts are open to that misinterpretation, I agree,’ said Ridgeon. ‘What surprises me is that the much-vaunted Railway Detective has misread them so wilfully.’

‘His report seemed convincing enough to me.’

‘The real fault lies with the driver, Superintendent.’

‘What about the bolts that were found in the bushes?’

‘They could easily have sprung clear when the locomotive first left the rails. Think of the force involved – the train demolished the whole track as it careered along.’

‘How do you explain the pickaxe found by Sergeant Leeming?’

‘That was the surest proof of your officers’ inexperience,’ said Ridgeon. ‘Both of them leapt to the same conclusion. Had they been as acquainted with the laziness of certain railwaymen as I am, they would have known that some of them conceal their tools under the bushes to save them the trouble of having to carry them to and fro.’

‘But no work had been done recently on that stretch of line,’ said Tallis, recalling the detail in Colbeck’s report.

‘Then the pickaxe was left there at an earlier stage and forgotten by the man who put it there. Or perhaps he’s no longer working for the company. There’s nothing sinister in that pickaxe. It’s not the first implement I’ve found concealed near the line.’

Tallis was irritated by the mingled authority and complacence in his voice. Unlike the superintendent, Ridgeon was not given to bluster and browbeating. He opted for a calm yet incisive approach. There was no doubting the man’s credentials. Only someone of exceptional talent would have been appointed to head the railway inspectorate. For the first time, Tallis began seriously to wonder if Colbeck had made a mistake in his assessment of the crash. His instinct, however, was to support his officers steadfastly so his expression betrayed no hint of this worrying thought. He stroked his moustache meditatively.

‘Well?’ asked Ridgeon after a long pause.

Tallis gave a shrug. ‘Well what, Captain?’

‘I’m waiting for a response.’

‘I put my faith in Inspector Colbeck.’

‘Does that mean you’re not going to reprimand him?’

‘Not without good reason,’ said Tallis.

‘But I’ve just given you that good reason,’ said Ridgeon. ‘The inspector has contradicted my findings and reached an alternative conclusion that is both mistaken and dangerous.’

‘Dangerous?’

‘If the newspapers hear that a crime is suspected, they will seize on the notion and give it wide publicity. Imagine how upsetting that will be for the survivors of the crash, not to mention the LB& SCR itself. Inspector Colbeck will have caused a lot of unwarranted panic.’

‘The truth is bound to come out sooner or later.’

‘We already know the truth. The driver of the Brighton Express was to blame. It’s the only explanation,’ said Ridgeon. ‘If the inspector had taken the trouble to speak to the fireman on the express, he would have discovered that there was no obstruction on the track.’

‘As it happens,’ said Tallis, quick to score a debating point, ‘the Inspector did interview John Heddle. While the fireman confirmed that he saw nothing obstructing the track, he was adamant that the train had not been going at an excessive speed. Driver Pike was apparently known for his caution.’

‘Even the best horse stumbles, Superintendent.’

‘This was rather more than a stumble.’

‘Let’s not mince words here,’ said Ridgeon with a touch of impatience. ‘The situation is this – as long as Inspector Colbeck is looking over my shoulder, I’m unable to do my job properly. I want you to give him a formal reprimand and take him off this case.’

‘Then you’ll be disappointed, Captain Ridgeon, because I intend to do neither. Colbeck is a remarkable detective with a habit of knowing exactly which stones to look under.’

‘He’s in the way, Superintendent.’

‘I believe he takes a similar view of you.’

‘Damn it all, man!’ protested Ridgeon, raising his voice at last. ‘I’m the inspector general with a legitimate right to investigate this accident. It’s not a police matter. Inspector Colbeck is trespassing on my territory and I take exception to it.’

‘Your complaint is noted,’ said Tallis, brusquely.

‘Does that mean you’ll take no action?’

‘None is necessary at this stage.’

‘Of course it is,’ said Ridgeon, rising to his feet. ‘One of your officers is making it impossible for me to do my job properly. He’s making wrong assumptions on inadequate evidence and must be moved immediately out of my way. I’m not used to being disobeyed, Superintendent,’ he added, pulling himself to his full height. ‘I’ll have you know that I was a captain in the Royal Engineers.’

‘I have every respect for an army man,’ said Tallis, getting up behind his desk and straightening his back. ‘I was a major in the 6th Dragoon Guards.’ He bestowed a glacial smile on his visitor. ‘Was there anything else, Captain Ridgeon?’

Before he left Brighton, Colbeck paid another visit to the county hospital. Another of the survivors of the crash had died from his injuries, reinforcing Colbeck’s determination to solve the crime. Entering one ward, he saw Terence Giddens being interrogated by a woman whose age, dress and manner identified her as his wife. Mixing sympathy with suspicion, she was asking her husband what he had been doing on a train to Brighton in the first place. Ezra Follis’s assessment of Giddens as an adulterer had been correct. A collision between two trains had precipitated a marital crisis.

The journey back to London gave Colbeck time to reflect on his visit to the town. Giles Thornhill had presented a strong argument for being the real target of the train crash but Colbeck was reluctant to forget about Horace Bardwell. He felt that Bardwell’s association with the railway company was a telling factor. What pleased him most was his decision to call on Ezra Follis. He had learnt a lot about Thornhill from the outspoken rector and now understood why the politician was so unpopular in certain quarters. He wondered how Follis would have reacted if he had read the fake obituary sent to the Member of Parliament. Though he had disliked the man intensely, Colbeck felt sorry for his plight. Thornhill was definitely being stalked.

Regardless of the fact that it was now evening, he knew that Tallis would be waiting for him to report to Scotland Yard. Instead of going straight there when he reached London, however, he first took a cab to Camden to pay a more enjoyable visit. Madeleine Andrews was thrilled to see him. They embraced warmly on the doorstep and kissed once they were inside the house. Over her shoulder, Colbeck noticed the easel, standing by the window to catch the best of the light.

‘What are you working on?’ he asked, crossing to look. ‘Oh, it’s the turntable at the Round House.’

‘Father took me there last week.’

‘There’s so much drama in the way you’ve drawn it.’

‘I found it a very dramatic place.’

He studied the picture admiringly. ‘You’ve got a wonderful eye for detail, Madeleine.’

‘I know,’ she said, subjecting him to careful scrutiny. ‘I always choose subjects I like.’ They shared a laugh and he hugged her again. The sound of the back door opening made them move guiltily apart. ‘I’d forgotten that Father was here,’ she whispered. ‘He’s been out in the garden.’

Caleb Andrews came in from the kitchen in his shirtsleeves and stopped when he saw Colbeck. ‘Just the man I want to see, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I discovered that there is truth in the rumour.’

‘And what rumour might that be, Mr Andrews?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Someone caused that accident on the Brighton line.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘You did,’ replied Andrews. ‘That’s to say, you told John Heddle and he passed it on to me when I called on him today. It’s a fact, isn’t it? I mean, you won’t deny it, will you?’

‘No,’ admitted Colbeck. ‘It’s a fact.’

‘It beggars belief that anyone could be so evil,’ said Madeleine. ‘What is Rose Pike going to say when she learns the hideous truth?’

‘How is Mrs Pike?’

‘She’s still in a daze, Robert. We both spent time with her today but there was little that we could do. She and Frank were so happy together. All that happiness has suddenly been snatched away from her and it’s been a shattering blow.’

‘Don’t add to her pain by telling her that the crash was not an accident,’ said Colbeck. ‘The time for her to learn the truth is when we’ve caught the man behind the disaster. The same goes for you, Mr Andrews,’ he went on, turning to him. ‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t spread the word about our investigation until it’s been completed.’

Andrews was puzzled. ‘Why not?’

‘Do as Robert advises,’ said his daughter.

‘But I don’t understand why, Maddy.’

‘Apart from anything else,’ said Colbeck, ‘if it becomes common knowledge, it will alert the man we’re after. At the moment, he has no idea that we’re on his tail. I want to keep it that way.’

‘Very well, Inspector – if you say so.’

‘Thank you, Mr Andrews. I’d be very grateful. And I also need to thank you, Madeleine,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘That note you sent me contained a valuable piece of information. Frank Pike actually saw someone carrying out what looked like a reconnaissance of the line.’

‘I can vouch for that,’ said Andrews, seizing his cue. ‘I got all the details from John Heddle. I know you spoke to him, Inspector, but you questioned him as a detective. I talked to him as another railwayman. I wanted to know the speed of the train immediately before the crash, the way the engine was performing and how well Frank was driving it.’

‘Did he remember the man with the telescope?’

‘He remembered more than that. He and Frank were on stopping trains both times so they were going slower than the express. The first time they saw the man,’ recalled Andrews, ‘they didn’t pay much attention. When they saw him a second time, it was different.

‘Why was that?’ asked Colbeck.

‘The man with the telescope wasn’t alone, Inspector.’

‘Is he sure about that?’

‘Heddle was a cheeky lad when he worked for the LNWR as a cleaner but he had a sharp eye. He reckons that the man with the telescope was well-dressed while the other man wore rough clothing.’

‘Does Heddle remember exactly where this was?’

‘More or less,’ said Andrews, relishing the chance to pass on what he believed was significant evidence. ‘He claims it was close to the place where the express came off the track on Friday. The man with the telescope was pointing at the line as if he was giving orders to the other man. Is that any help to you, Inspector?’

‘It is, indeed,’ said Colbeck. ‘Thank you.’

‘There you are – I’ve told you before. When it comes to a crime on the railways, the person to turn to is Caleb Andrews. I’ll help all I can and there’s only one thing I ask in return.’

‘What’s that, Mr Andrews?’

‘When you catch the men who murdered Frank Pike,’ said the other, letting his fury show, ‘hand the pair of them over to me!’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Facing the superintendent on his own when he had little progress to report was something that Victor Leeming chose to evade, preferring to have Robert Colbeck at his side during the ordeal. Instead of going straight to Scotland Yard that evening, therefore, he lurked in the Lamb and Flag, the public house nearby, and enjoyed a pint of beer while standing at the window. He had almost finished his drink when he saw Colbeck arrive by cab. Downing the last mouthful in one gulp, he put the tankard aside and rushed out. Colbeck saw him coming and waited at the door.

‘Good evening, Victor,’ he said, understanding very well where the sergeant had been. ‘I’m glad that we have a chance to compare notes before we see Mr Tallis. Did you have any luck?’

‘None at all,’ replied Leeming. ‘Except that I managed to dodge the urchins in Seven Dials who thought it would be a joke to knock off my top hat.’

‘Let’s go inside.’

In the privacy of Colbeck’s office, they exchanged details of how each had spent the day. Leeming was envious. Colbeck appeared to have gathered useful evidence whereas the sergeant’s efforts had been more or less futile. Apart from being hounded by ragamuffins in the rookeries, he had had to endure an indecent proposal from the daunting Josie Murlow.

‘I went to all four of Chiffney’s favourite taverns,’ he said, morosely, ‘but there was no sign of him.’

‘Was he well-known to the landlords?’

‘Oh, yes – they all had Dick Chiffney stories to tell. Most were about fights he’d started or times when he drank himself into oblivion and had to be carried home. He and Josie Murlow have a reputation.’

‘She sounds like a potent lady,’ said Colbeck.

‘Overwhelming is the word I’d use, sir.’

Having discussed their respective reports, they went down the corridor to the superintendent’s office. From the other side of the door, they heard the raised voice of Edward Tallis as he berated one of his officers for failure to solve a crime. A minute later, the man came out, shooting a baleful glance at Colbeck and Leeming as he did so. Tallis, apparently, was even more hot-tempered than usual. After tapping on the door, Colbeck led the way in.

‘Is this a convenient time to speak, sir?’ he enquired, politely.

‘I expected you hours ago,’ growled Tallis.

‘Victor and I were unavoidably delayed.’

‘Well, I hope you have more to show for your efforts than Sergeant Nelson. I’ve just threatened him with demotion if he doesn’t improve markedly.’ He pointed to the chairs and they sat down. ‘I hope I don’t have to issue the same threat to you.’ Leeming squirmed but Colbeck responded with a confident smile. ‘Let’s hear from you first, Inspector.’

Colbeck was succinct. He talked about his visit to Brighton, recounting his conversations with Giles Thornhill, Ezra Follis and some of the survivors at the hospital. He omitted any reference to the Royal Pavilion. Without divulging the name of Caleb Andrews, he said that he had information from Fireman Heddle that two people had been seen watching trains go by near the spot where the crash later occurred. Colbeck felt that the use of the telescope was significant.

‘If they were simply looking at trains,’ he argued, ‘they did not need it at all. The telescope was used to check up and down the line to make sure that there would be no witnesses if anyone levered part of the rail away. They chose that specific place with care. There are no farmhouses or cottages nearby.’

Throughout the report, Tallis made no comment. He sat there in silence, smouldering quietly like a cigar in an ashtray. When Colbeck had finished, the superintendent blazed into life.

‘Why did you waste time talking to the Rector of St Dunstan’s?’ he said, acidly. ‘The fellow is no help to us at all.’

‘I believe that he was, sir,’ argued Colbeck. ‘Mr Follis is an excellent judge of character. More to the point, he survived the train crash and was able to describe exactly how the collision felt.’

‘That has no relevance to the pursuit of the malefactor.’

‘Malefactors,’ corrected Leeming. ‘There were two of them, sir.’

‘Be quiet, man!’

‘According to Fireman Heddle…’

‘Don’t you recognise an order when you hear one?’ demanded Tallis, interrupting him. ‘The sight of two men looking at trains on the Brighton line is not, in my view, conclusive evidence that they are anything to do with the disaster. For all we know, they may even have been railway employees, surveying the line.’

‘With respect, sir,’ said Colbeck, ‘John Heddle has seen enough surveyors in his time to be able to identify one. He thought their presence was odd. Driver Pike felt the same because he told his wife that someone had been watching the trains.’

‘Come to the crux of your evidence, Inspector. Are you still firmly of the belief that the accident was caused to kill a particular individual on board?’

‘I am, superintendent.’

‘Then the choice would seem to be between Horace Bardwell and Giles Thornhill. Which one would you select?’

‘Mr Bardwell.’

‘Yet it’s Mr Thornhill who has been receiving death threats.’

‘They could relate to his political activities,’ said Colbeck. ‘He’s supported many unpopular causes in Parliament and is leading the fight for a Sunday Trading Bill. It would mean the closure of all shops and public houses on the Sabbath.’

‘That would be cruel!’ protested Leeming.

‘It’s eminently sensible and long overdue,’ said Tallis.

‘But if people work hard for six days a week, sir, surely they’re entitled to the pleasure of a drink on Sunday.’

‘Strong drink leads to drunkenness and that, in turn, leads to crime. It would greatly relieve the pressure on our police if there was one day when they did not have to deal with violent affrays in public houses or people in the streets being drunk and disorderly. But there’s an even stronger reason why the Sunday Trading Bill should be passed,’ continued Tallis, sounding a reverential note. ‘It shows respect for the Lord’s Day and for people’s spiritual needs.’

‘I still think it will cause a great deal trouble if it’s ever put forward,’ said Leeming. ‘It might even lead to a riot.’

‘The point is,’ observed Colbeck, rescuing the sergeant from Tallis’s stony glare, ‘that the Bill is highly controversial. It will stir up a lot of opposition, as other legislation sponsored by Mr Thornhill has done. I fancy that he’s being menaced by a political enemy. Mr Bardwell, on the other hand, embodies the LB&SCR in several ways. That’s a salient point in my opinion. As far as I know, Mr Thornhill has no connection with the railway company.’

‘Then you are not as well-informed as you should be,’ said Tallis, savouring the opportunity to embarrass Colbeck for once. ‘While you and the sergeant went gallivanting off today, I did not sit idly here. I took it upon myself to call on the London office of the LB&SCR and I made an interesting discovery.’

‘What was that, sir?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Searching through the list of their major shareholders, I came across the name of Giles Thornhill. He has a large financial stake in the company. You should have found that out, Inspector.’

‘I agree, sir, and I’m grateful that you did so on my behalf.’

‘It tips the balance of probability in favour of Mr Thornhill. If, that is,’ added Tallis with beetle-browed scepticism, ‘your theory about the crime is correct.’

‘Do you have an alternative theory, Superintendent?’

‘No, but Captain Ridgeon certainly does. He called here today.’

‘I daresay that he wanted to complain about me,’ said Colbeck.

‘You upset him, Inspector, and I fear that I upset him even more by supporting you to the hilt.’ He leant forward across his desk. ‘I hope you won’t make me regret that support.’

‘We won’t, sir. Victor and I owe you our thanks.’

‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Leeming, picking up his cue. ‘We need you to back us. Captain Ridgeon didn’t like what we were doing.’

‘I’m not sure that I do,’ said Tallis, twitching his moustache. ‘You may have identified the intended target of the crash but are no nearer finding those who seem to have engineered it.’ His gaze fell on Leeming. ‘What new information have you garnered today, Sergeant?’

Leeming cleared his throat before launching into his report. It was short, apologetic and delivered with breathless speed. Tallis reacted with a mixture of sarcasm and outrage.

‘What have you been doing all day?’ he asked. ‘Twelve hours of detective work have yielded precisely nothing. If the Sunday Trading Bill had become law this year, at least you’d have been spared the chore of running pointlessly from one public house to another.’

‘I think you’re being unfair on Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘Because he was a plate-layer, Dick Chiffney has to be a major suspect.’

‘Then find the man, Inspector.’

‘We will, sir.’

‘And track down his accomplice – if such a person exists.’

‘I’m certain that he does,’ said Colbeck. ‘From everything that Victor learnt about Chiffney, it seems clear that he’d never be capable of planning and carrying out the work on his own. Someone far more calculating has been giving the orders.’

‘It could be Matthew Shanklin,’ suggested Leeming.

‘I don’t want to know who it could be,’ said Tallis, scornfully. ‘Tell me who it actually is and produce the evidence to prove it.’

‘We’ll start by locating Dick Chiffney,’ decided Colbeck.

‘That won’t be easy, Inspector,’ warned Leeming. ‘If the woman he lives with can’t find him, what chance have we got?’

‘We’ll catch him, Victor.’

‘Then we need to do so before Josie Murlow gets hold of him, sir, or there’ll be nothing left of Chiffney to question.’

Josie Murlow was dozing in a chair when she heard the noise. It brought her awake instantly. When a second stone hit the window of the living room, she struggled up, ready for combat, flinging open the front door and peering into the half-dark. Through the gloom, she could pick out a familiar shape.

‘Is that you, Dick Chiffney?’ she challenged. ‘Don’t think you can come back here with your snivelling excuses.’

‘I’ve brought no excuses, my love,’ said Chiffney, taking a few tentative steps forward. ‘But I’ve brought a flagon of gin.’

Her manner softened. ‘Where have you been, you devil?’

‘I’ll explain that later, Josie.’

‘You left me high and dry.’

‘I was sworn to secrecy, my love. I was working for a gentleman and he paid me well.’ He came closer, allowing her to see that he was wearing a new suit. ‘Do you like the look of this?’

‘How could you afford that?’

‘I can afford a lot more, Josie, and you’ll share in my good luck.’ He gave a sly smile. ‘If you want to, that is.’

Chiffney was only yards away now. He was a hulking man with broad shoulders and massive fists. A broken nose and a squint turned an ugly, misshapen face into a grotesque one. He had even fewer teeth than she did. Josie took time to make her decision, remembering the lonely nights without him and aching to take revenge. At the same time, she was a practical woman. A man with money in his pocket was always welcome and – whatever his reasons for leaving – Chiffney had come back to her at last. She spat on the ground before speaking.

‘What kind of gin is it?’ she asked.

‘The very best, my love,’ he said.

‘And is it paid for?’

‘Everything is paid for, including the present I brought you.’

She was tempted. ‘You’ve got a present for me?’

‘I couldn’t come back empty-handed now, could I?’ he said with a leer. ‘As soon as I saw it in the shop, I thought of you.’

‘What is it?’

‘Invite me in and I’ll show you.’

She folded her arms. ‘I swore that you’d never cross this threshold again.’ Chiffney lowered his head in disappointment then turned to walk away. ‘But since you’re here,’ she added, quickly, ‘you may as well come in.’

Chiffney rallied, turned around and rushed to embrace her. As they went into the house, Chiffney kicked the door shut behind them then muffled the questions she hurled at him with passionate kisses. When he broke away from her, he felt in a pocket and whisked out a string of garnets on a gold chain. The necklace sparkled in the light from the candles. Josie was thrilled with the gift. Nobody had ever bought her anything so expensive before. He helped her to put it on.

‘It’s wonderful, Dick,’ she cried, looking in a mirror.

‘So are you, my love.’

‘Let’s get some glasses,’ he said, going into the kitchen.

Josie followed him. ‘Who needs glasses?’ she said, snatching the flagon from him and uncorking it to take a long swig. ‘Did you miss me, Dick Chiffney?’

‘Every second I was away.’

‘Show me how much.’

Chiffney cackled with joy. After taking a swig of gin himself, he put the flagon aside, tore off his coat and reached for her. Big as she was, he lifted Josie up in his arms and carried her upstairs to the bedroom. Lowering her onto the bed, he flung himself on top of her and they kissed away their differences. Josie soon forgot about his apparent desertion of her and his inability to forewarn her of his movements. All that mattered now was that Chiffney had lots of money and an overwhelming desire for her. Josie laughed joyously. Her man was back.

Later on, as they had a supper of cheese and gin, Chiffney gave her a partial explanation of where he had been, unable to tell her the whole story or to name the man who had employed him.

‘What I can tell is this, my love,’ he confided, swallowing a hunk of cheese. ‘There could be more money to come.’

‘Could there?’

‘I was paid for one job but there’s another to be done now.’

‘It’s against the law, though, isn’t it?’ she guessed.

Chiffney sat back in his chair. ‘Who cares?’ he said airily. ‘One day’s work will bring in a lot more money and nobody will be any the wiser. It’s against the law but it’s safe.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ she cautioned, remembering her visitor earlier that day. ‘You’d better take care, Dick.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because someone come looking for you,’ she told him. ‘It was a detective from Scotland Yard.’

He was jerked out of his complacency. ‘Are you sure, Josie?’

‘His name was Sergeant Leeming.’

‘What did he want?’

‘All he’d tell me was that he needed to speak to you. He said it was something to do with the railway.’

Chiffney got to his feet. ‘That’s impossible!’ he exclaimed. ‘How could he possibly know?’

‘Know what?’ she asked.

‘Nothing, my love,’ he said, reaching for his coat. ‘I’ve got to get out of here. Don’t worry,’ he went on as she tried to stop him. ‘I’ll send word where I am when I’ve found somewhere to hide. But I can’t be caught here when there’s such a big pay day to come. If I get that money,’ he promised, pausing to take a guzzling kiss, ‘then the two of us can afford to get out of this place.’

‘Why are the police after you, Dick?’

But she was talking to thin air. Chiffney had already fled through the back door and left it wide open. Josie closed it and leant against it as she mused on how fleeting happiness could be. Then she felt the necklace around her fleshy neck and noticed the flagon of gin still standing on the table. There were compensations.

When his unexpected visitor called, Captain Harvey Ridgeon was studying reports in the office loaned to him by the railway company. He rose to his feet and offered Colbeck a subdued welcome.

‘I should have thought you’d be out looking for ruthless villains, Inspector,’ he said with a slight edge.

‘I wanted to speak to you first, sir.’

‘What use can I be? I don’t believe that the people who caused that accident even exist. They’re phantoms of your imagination.’

‘We must agree to differ on that,’ said Colbeck, pleasantly. ‘It seems to me that, though we take opposing views, we are both striving for the same result – namely, to find out what caused that disaster.’

‘You know my view, Inspector Colbeck.’

‘Given your position, I respect it. I have the feeling that you might respect my position a little more if you were aware of the evidence on which it’s based.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘At all events,’ said C you had the right to know how our investigation was proceeding even though you did your best to bring it to a complete halt yesterday.’

‘There’s not room for two us in the inquiry,’ asserted Ridgeon.

‘I believe that there is, Captain. What’s more, we have a greater chance of learning the full truth if we pool our resources, so to speak. Yes,’ he said before Ridgeon could interrupt, ‘I know that you feel a police investigation is an irritating irrelevance but I hope to convince you to think again. I’ve come here in the spirit of cooperation. Is it too much to ask for a small amount of your time?’

‘Superintendent Tallis showed no spirit of cooperation.’

Colbeck smiled. ‘He and I have somewhat different approaches to these situations, sir. I trust that you’ll find mine less abrasive.’

Ridgeon studied him warily for a moment then relaxed slightly. ‘I’m sure that I will, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we both sit down then you can say your piece?’ As they each took a seat, Ridgeon pulled a face. ‘I must say, that I don’t envy you one bit, working under the superintendent.’

‘Mr Tallis is a fine detective,’ replied Colbeck, loyally, ‘and it needs someone with his experience of command to keep the rest of us in order. You must have realised that he was an army man.’

‘Oh, he made that abundantly clear.’

Ridgeon gave a first smile as he remembered the confrontation with Tallis at Scotland Yard. Though he had left feeling disappointed, he admired the superintendent for standing unequivocally by his officers in the teeth of a protest about their behaviour. For his part, Colbeck sensed an easing of the tension between the two of them. In meeting the man, he was acting on his own initiative and had seen no need to forewarn Tallis of his plan for fear that it might be overruled. As an enemy, Ridgeon would be a continuing nuisance. As an ally, Colbeck reasoned, he might prove extremely useful.

‘Well, Inspector,’ invited Ridgeon with a gesture, ‘why don’t you present your case?’

It was something in which Colbeck was well-versed. Before joining the Metropolitan Police, he had been a barrister and had presented a case in court on numerous occasions. He knew how to marshal his facts to the best advantage. Eschewing the histrionics he used before a jury, he spoke directly and persuasively as he reviewed the evidence that had so far been gathered. Ridgeon was an attentive listener who blinked in surprise more than once. He was not, however, entirely won over by the argument.

‘It’s an ingenious theory,’ he admitted, ‘but it owes more to the liveliness of your imagination than to the known facts. Whenever an accident occurs on the railway, one of the first things I look for is human intervention. There were, I grant you, signs of it in this case but not enough of them to be convincing. As for the notion that the object of the crash was to kill a single individual on the express, I find that too ludicrous to accept.’

‘Look at how carefully chosen the scene of the crash was,’ said Colbeck. ‘A great deal of thought went into it.’

‘I disagree, Inspector. Far more damage could have been caused had the collision taken place on the Ouse Bridge or in the Mertsham Tunnel – and, I would suggest, more people might have been killed as a result. As it was,’ he continued, ‘the death toll was mercifully low. In similar crashes, dozens of passengers have perished.’

‘The intention was to have one man among the victims.’

‘Yet there was no guarantee that he would be killed.’

‘There was every chance that he might be,’ said Colbeck. ‘Horace Bardwell was in the carriage immediately behind the locomotive, the one that would suffer the full force of the impact.’

‘What about your other potential target?’ asked Ridgeon.

‘Giles Thornhill was in the next carriage, again near the front of the train. Like Mr Bardwell, he always travelled first class.’

‘So do lots of other people, Inspector.’

‘Most of them don’t have dangerous enemies.’

‘I see no criminal intent behind this accident.’

‘Then we’ll have to convince you otherwise, Captain.’

‘I defy you to do so.’

Colbeck took up the challenge. ‘It’s only a matter of time before we banish all your doubts,’ he said. ‘If we do, how will you respond?’

‘By being honest enough to concede that I was mistaken,’ said Ridgeon. ‘I’ll also shake your hand in apology. Somehow,’ he added with a thin smile, ‘I don’t think an apology will be necessary. You talk of two men watching trains go by – a harmless event in itself – as if it’s proof of conspiracy to derail a train. Yet you have absolutely no idea who those men were.’

‘That’s not true, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘As a matter of fact, Sergeant Leeming could well be talking to one of them at this moment.’

Matthew Shanklin was not at work that morning. Hearing that the man had sent a note to say that he was ill, Victor Leeming asked for his address and went to visit him. The house was an Italianate villa in St John’s Wood, indicative of the high salary Shanklin had once commanded as a manager with the LB&SCR. Admitted by a maid, Leeming was surprised to find Shanklin fully dressed and seated in his drawing room with a newspaper.

‘I was told that you were unwell, sir,’ said Leeming.

‘I suffer from migraines, Inspector,’ explained Shanklin, putting a hand to his head. ‘First thing this morning, I was in agony.’

‘I’m glad to see that you’ve made something of a recovery.’

Invited to sit down, Leeming lowered himself on to a settee but he refused the offer of refreshment. After his encounter with Josie Murlow on a doorstep, he found it reassuring to be able to conduct an interview with a civilised man in such pleasant surroundings. He had to remind himself that Shanklin was a suspect.

‘This won’t take long, sir,’ he began, taking out his notebook. ‘I just wanted to hear a little more about your relationship with Mr Bardwell.’

‘It came to an abrupt end,’ said Shanklin, sullenly.

‘Since you were part of the management, you must have seen a lot of each other at one time. What sort of man was he?’

‘He was self-important and dictatorial.’

‘Yes,’ said Leeming as the face of Edward Tallis was conjured up before his eyes, ‘it can be difficult working for someone like that.’

‘Our job was to run the company efficiently. Mr Bardwell’s job was to ensure that we had sufficient funds to do so and that we showed a healthy profit. There was no call for him to interfere in what we were doing.’

‘Why do you think he did so?’

‘It was partly force of habit, I suppose,’ said Shanklin. ‘He likes to exercise complete control. But the main reason was a financial one. He was always urging us to find ways to cut costs and increase our income. Needless to say, as the managing director, he always got the largest dividend each year.’

‘So there was a long history of strife between the two of you?’

‘You could put it that way.’

‘Hostility built over a period of time.’

‘Listen,’ said Shanklin, irritably, ‘I’ve already told you that I disliked him. I’ve given you my reasons for doing so. What more do you want me to say?’

‘What interested me was Mr Bardwell’s reaction to your name, sir. When my colleague, Inspector Colbeck, visited him in hospital, he found Mr Bardwell in a serious condition.’

‘I hope you’re not asking for sympathy from me.’

‘In fact, he was so bad that it was impossible to talk to him. Mr Bardwell’s mind kept wandering. Until, that is,’ said Leeming, ‘your name was mentioned. It caused him to go into convulsions.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Shanklin with a grim smile.

‘Why should he respond like that, sir?’

‘I found him out for the scheming fraud that he was.’

‘Was that the only reason?’

‘You’ll have to ask Mr Bardwell.’

‘Until he recovers his senses,’ said Leeming, sadly, ‘that’s rather difficult. I can see that you gave him a fright by uncovering his attempt to defraud investors but that scare was long behind him. I wondered if there was a more personal reason why he reacted so violently.’

‘It was pure guilt, Sergeant – no more, no less.’

‘Yet you gave me the impression that Mr Bardwell was an unscrupulous man with no conscience whatsoever. If he felt guilty over what he had tried to do, he would surely have resigned from the board altogether.’

‘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.