‘Then you have nothing to fear.’

Josie’s eyes were fully open now and she was able to take a better look at the man on her doorstep. He was far more handsome than his predecessor from Scotland Yard and he had none of the other’s diffidence. What worried her was his rank. Josie had had enough brushes with the law to know that someone who had risen to the level of an inspector would not bother with trivial offences. He was there in connection with a serious crime.

‘Well,’ he called up to her, ‘are you going to let me in?’

The fact that he was willing to come into the house set him immediately apart from Leeming. She had unsettled the first detective. Josie could see that she would not have the same effect on the second one. After weighing up the possibilities, she capitulated.

‘Wait there,’ she said at length. ‘I need to dress.’

Colbeck stood patiently outside the door. When it eventually opened, Josie was wearing a voluminous gown of pink satin, badly faded and speckled with food and other stains. Her feet were bare, her face flushed and her red hair was an unkempt torrent surging over one shoulder and disappearing down her cleavage like water gurgling between two giant boulders.

He could see why Leeming had found her overwhelming. At a glance, he was also able to make certain assumptions about Dick Chiffney. Only a hefty man with boundless energy and strength of character could partner such a forbidding creature for any length of time. Lids narrowed, Josie regarded him suspiciously.

‘There’s nothing I can tell you,’ she said, stubbornly.

‘May we talk inside, please?’ asked Colbeck.

‘What are you after?’

‘I think you know that.’

‘Dick is not here.’

‘I’d still like to speak to you.’

After looking him up and down, she stood reluctantly aside and let him step into the house. The first thing he noticed was the stink, a compound of rancid food, household filth and the reek from the vast unwashed body of Josie Murlow. The room was small, cluttered and sparsely furnished. A tattered carpet lay over the flagstones. Colbeck had to duck under the cobweb-covered beam.

‘Well, now,’ she said, tossing her hair back over her shoulder to expose her new necklace, ‘you are a fine gentleman and no mistake. Josie Murlow doesn’t have many like you under her roof.’

‘When did you last see Mr Chiffney?’

‘I told the sergeant that – it was over a week ago.’

‘Did he give any indication where he was going?’

‘I’d have stopped the bastard if he had. Dick was my man.’

‘Had he ever gone off before?’ said Colbeck.

‘He wouldn’t have dared to,’ she said, huffily, ‘because he knew what would happen when I caught up with him.’

‘Yet he had the courage to go this time. Why did he do that?’

She became defensive. ‘Well, it wasn’t because of anything I did or said, Inspector,’ she insisted. ‘I gave him everything a man wants. We lived here as close together as any man and wife – a lot closer, judging by some of the miserable faces on the men I see in this part of the city,’ she went on, meaningfully. ‘Their wives keep a cold bed. My bed is as warm as toast.’

‘Did Mr Chiffney always work on the railway?’

‘When he could get a job,’ she replied. ‘Dick worked for a lot of different railway companies over the years. He’s good at what he does, Inspector, there’s no two ways about that. But he hates taking orders and always has a row with someone or other. Dick is a bit too ready to use his fists. Mind you,’ she stipulated, ‘he was always provoked.’

‘How long had he worked on the Brighton line?’ said Colbeck.

‘I think it was a year or more.’

‘If he had such a record of violence, why did they employ him?’

‘He knew someone who got him the job,’ she explained. ‘Dick liked the work so he was on his best behaviour. It was only when that foreman hit him that Dick lost his temper.’

‘Has he tried to work on the railways since then?’

‘Nobody would touch him now the word’s got round about him looking for a fight. Listen,’ she said, squaring up to him, ‘why are you and that Sergeant Leeming so interested in Dick Chiffney? What’s he supposed to have done?’

‘He may have done nothing at all,’ Colbeck assured her. ‘We just need to eliminate him from our enquiries. That’s why we’re so anxious to speak to him – as I’m sure you are.’

‘I’m very anxious, Inspector.’

She spoke with feeling but with none of the raging fury that Victor Leeming had reported. Colbeck wondered what had brought about the change in her manner. Josie Murlow had softened in a way that could not wholly be attributed to the effect of gin, the fumes of which he could still detect. He moved slightly so that he could look into the kitchen, noting the cheese left on the table along with two plates. Somebody else had been there recently.

‘May I ask you a favour?’ he said.

‘You can ask anything you like, Inspector,’ she replied, running both hands over the contours of her body, ‘and it won’t cost you a penny. I’d have charged the sergeant but he ran away. I’ve got a flagon of gin upstairs if that takes your fancy.’

‘As it happens,’ said Colbeck, meeting her bold gaze, ‘I never touch it. You’re obviously a woman of experience in these matters so I don’t need to remind you of the penalty of offering blandishments to a member of the Metropolitan Police.’

She was defiant. ‘They don’t all refuse, I can tell you!’

‘The favour I wish to ask is this. If and when Mr Chiffney does return, please advise him that it’s in his best interests to get in touch with me at Scotland Yard. That way, his name can be cleared.’

‘You still haven’t told me what you think he’s done.’

‘It’s a railway matter.’

‘Has Dick been punching another foreman, then?

‘No,’ answered Colbeck, ‘it’s a little more serious than that.’


Dick Chiffney loaded the pistol again and took careful aim at the empty bottle standing on the tree stump. When he pulled the trigger, there was a loud report then the glass exploded into a thousand shards. Birds took wildly to the sky in an unrehearsed symphony of protest. Chiffney grinned at his success and set another bottle on the stump.

He was deep in the woods, far away from the nearest human habitation and therefore free from the possibility of any interruption. This time, he stood a few yards farther away from his target. Apart from his companion, his only witnesses were the birds. When he had loaded the weapon again, he took aim, peered along the barrel then fired. The bullet struck its target a glancing blow, detaching a small piece of glass and causing the bottle to spin crazily round before falling on to the ground. Chiffney was annoyed at his failure.

The man who had been watching him handed over a rifle.

‘Try with this next time,’ he ordered. ‘You may not get close enough to use the pistol.’


Robert Colbeck arrived back at his office to find Victor Leeming waiting there for him. The sergeant described his second interview with Matthew Shanklin and added what he felt was a telling detail.

‘As I was shown out of the house,’ he said, ‘I spoke to the maid.’

‘Go on.’

‘I asked her if Mr Shanklin had ever possessed a telescope and she told me that he did.’

‘Good work, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘That was astute of you. I had a feeling that you’d unearth something interesting if you paid Shanklin a second visit. Did you believe his claim that he suffered from migraines?’

‘No, sir,’ replied Leeming. ‘I think he simply wanted a day off. It’s just as well that he isn’t a detective. The superintendent doesn’t believe in using sickness as an excuse. He’d have us on duty if we were suffering from double pneumonia.’

‘In fairness to Mr Tallis, he applies the same rule to himself. Nothing short of complete paralysis would keep him away from here. What you learnt this morning,’ Colbeck went on, ‘could be very significant. There’s patently a link between Shanklin and Chiffney.’

‘They could be accomplices, sir.’

‘It’s something we must bear in mind.’

‘Did you visit Chalk Farm?’ asked Leeming, eagerly.

‘Yes, Victor, I had a most diverting time.’

He gave a full account of his conversation with Josie Murlow. Leeming was astonished at his bravery in actually going into the hovel to question her. Colbeck made Josie sound like a different woman to the one who had unnerved him.

‘Didn’t she rant and rage, then?’ he said.

‘I think she’s mellowed since you were there, Victor.’

‘Mellow or not, sir, I’d rather steer clear of her.’

‘Unfortunately, you won’t be able to do that,’ said Colbeck. ‘I want you to keep a close watch on the lady.’ Leeming spluttered. ‘Have no fear – you won’t have to meet her face to face, and you certainly won’t go there dressed like that. You’ll be in disguise, Victor.’

‘I’ll need a suit of armour to feel safe near that woman.’

‘She was hiding something. When I mentioned Chiffney’s name, she didn’t curse and threaten as she did when you spoke to her. She was more concerned to find out why we were after him. Evidently, someone had been at the house recently,’ said Colbeck. ‘Two people had supper there and Josie Murlow was wearing a garnet necklace. Do you think she usually goes to bed with that on?’

‘I’m not familiar with her sleeping habits, sir,’ said Leeming with a tremor, ‘and I’ve certainly no wish to be.’

‘She’s not the sort of person you’d expect to own an expensive piece of jewellery, and her clients are hardly likely to be able to afford such an item. So,’ asked Colbeck, ‘who do you think could have given her the necklace?’

‘Dick Chiffney must have been back there.’

‘That was my guess – the necklace was a peace offering.’

‘Then why wasn’t he still there this morning?’

‘For one simple reason,’ said Colbeck. ‘She warned him that you’d been looking for him. He probably fled at once.’

‘That proves he was involved in the crime.’

‘All that it proves is that he’s not willing to talk to us and there could be any number of reasons for that. We’ll only find out the truth when we run him to ground. That’s why I want you to keep Josie Murlow under surveillance. If Chiffney was there last night,’ he said, ‘it means that the two of them are reconciled. Since he won’t go to her house again, they’ll have to meet elsewhere. You’ll follow her.’

‘Well, it will be from a safe distance, Inspector.’

‘You’ll be dressed in rough clothing.’

‘I’m not looking forward to this,’ admitted Leeming, gritting his teeth ‘but I know it has to be done. I’ll get changed and make my way back to Chalk Farm.’

Before he could leave, however, there was a tap on the door and a constable entered with a letter that had just been delivered. Colbeck thanked him, sent him on his way then looked at the envelope.

‘It’s been sent by hand,’ he observed, opening it to take out a letter. He unfolded it swiftly. ‘It’s from the Reverend Follis,’ he said as he read the contents. ‘He must have dictated it because he could never write with that injured hand of his.’

‘What does he say, sir?’

‘He’s enclosed a card that was sent to Horace Bardwell.’ Opening the envelope again, Colbeck fished out the black-edged funeral card. He read the words inside it with disgust. ‘I can see why Mr Follis was so anxious for me to see this.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Look at the message, Victor.’

Taking the card, Leeming read it aloud. ‘Please die soon and make me happy.’ He looked up. ‘I’d hate to get something like that if I was lying in hospital. It must have been a real shock to Mr Bardwell.’

‘Fortunately,’ said Colbeck, ‘he never read it. Mr Follis was able to keep it from him. It looks as if I shall have to go to Brighton yet again,’ he decided. ‘According to the letter, Mr Bardwell is able to sit up and talk now. I need to speak to him.’


Until she had met Colbeck, Madeleine Andrews had never imagined that she had anything more than a facility for drawing. Her sketches were merely a pleasant way of spending what little leisure time she had. As soon as Colbeck saw them, however, he discerned signs of a real artistic talent and urged her to develop it. Where other artists might favour portraits, landscapes or seascapes, Madeleine’s preferred subject was the steam locomotive. If nothing else, it helped her to stand out from the main pack.

Over a period of a couple of years, she had refined her technique, extended her range and gained confidence. To discover that her work actually had a commercial value gave her an immense fillip. It was one of many reasons she had for being grateful to Robert Colbeck. Standing at her easel, she was so absorbed in her work on the Round House that she did not hear the cab pull up outside. It was only when Colbeck’s face appeared at the window that she realised she had a visitor.

Breaking away excitedly from her work, she ran to open the door. Colbeck took her hands in his and kissed her.

‘Am I interrupting you, Madeleine?’ he asked.

‘Yes – but it’s a very welcome interruption. Are you coming in?’

‘I’m rather hoping that you’d come out.’

Now?’ she said in amazement.

‘Unless you have a dislike of Brighton,’ he said. ‘If you can give yourself a rest from your easel, I’ll take you to the seaside. I’ll explain why on the way.’

Waving aside her excuses about not being properly dressed, Colbeck went into the house and admired the painting while she was getting ready. Minutes later, they were climbing into the cab and heading for London Bridge station. Colbeck linked arms with her.

‘This is the last thing I expected, Robert,’ she said.

‘I’m glad that I still have the capacity to surprise you.’

‘Why do you need to go to Brighton?’

‘It’s the latest stage in our investigation, Madeleine. There are certain people I need to see.’

‘Are they suspects?’

‘Quite the reverse – both gentlemen were victims of the train crash. I have to question them.’

‘Won’t I be in the way?’ she asked, worriedly.

‘You could never be in the way,’ he said, gallantly. ‘Besides, while I’m busy with one of the gentlemen, I’m hoping that you’ll be having tea with the other one.’

Madeleine was puzzled. ‘Who might that be?’

‘The Rector of St Dunstan’s.’


Since the accident, Ezra Follis had learnt to conserve his energy, balancing the need to appear alert in public by snatching regular periods of rest in private. His housekeeper had to do some shopping in the market that afternoon. The moment that Mrs Ashmore had left the house, Follis sat down in an armchair and drifted immediately off to sleep. It was over half an hour before he was roused from his slumbers by the insistent tinkle of the doorbell, though it seemed like a matter of minutes to him. Shaking himself fully awake, he opened the front door and saw Amy Walcott, standing there with a smile on her face and a book under her arm.

‘I wondered if this was a good time to read to you,’ she said.

‘It’s not the ideal time, Amy,’ he said then he relented, ‘but why don’t you come in for a moment?’

He stood back to let her in then closed the door behind her. Clutching the book, Amy moved to the centre of the room. The sun slanted through the window to make her hair glisten and to lend her dull features an attractive sheen.

‘I can’t thank you enough for these poems,’ she said with a nervous laugh. ‘This is the best book you’ve ever given me, Mr Follis.’

‘There is a much better one,’ he said, teasingly.

‘Is there?’

‘Yes, Amy.’ He picked up a copy of the Bible from the table. ‘This is the best book ever written – though Tennyson has his own charms. I’ll be the first to concede that.’

‘His poems have such feeling.’

‘Perhaps you could read just one to me.’

She was elated. ‘Which one shall it be?’

‘Choose your favourite,’ he said, resuming his seat. ‘As long as it’s not In Memoriam – I don’t think I’m in the right mood for that at this precise moment.’

‘Then I’ll read you The Lady of Shalott.’

Amy was to be cruelly disappointed. Before she could even find the page, someone rang the doorbell. She was deeply hurt.

‘That can’t be Mrs Ashmore already,’ she said, flustered. ‘She always goes to the market on a Monday.’

‘I see that you know our domestic routine here at the rectory,’ said Follis with a fond smile. ‘Mrs Ashmore has a key, of course, so she would never ring the bell. Excuse me a moment.’

Getting up from his chair, he went out to answer the door. Amy heard him talking to someone then he reappeared with a tall, elegant man and a pretty young woman. Resenting the strangers, she was at the same time relieved to see that they were not fellow-parishioners.

‘Allow me to introduce our Flower Lady,’ said Follis, indicating her. ‘Thanks to Amy Walcott, our church is always a floral delight.’

‘We’re pleased to meet you, Miss Walcott,’ said Colbeck, noting the absence of a ring on her left hand. ‘We’re sorry to intrude. My name is Robert Colbeck and this,’ he went on, turning to his companion, ‘is Miss Madeleine Andrews.’

‘Good afternoon,’ said Madeleine.

‘Delighted to make your acquaintance,’ mumbled Amy, nodding at them and wishing that she had such a lovely complexion as Madeleine’s. ‘I didn’t know that the rector was expecting visitors.’

‘Nor more did I,’ said Follis with a chuckle. ‘I’m afraid that we’ll have to postpone the reading until a more appropriate time, Amy. What Mr Colbeck failed to mention is that he’s a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard. He’s doubtless come to discuss the train crash with me so The Lady of Shalott will have to wait her turn.’

‘Of course,’ said Amy, moving to the door. ‘I understand. Don’t bother about me. I’ll let myself out.’

She left the room so swiftly that none of them had time to see the tears forming in her eyes. By the time she walked past the church, they were streaming down her cheeks.


Dick Chiffney used a piece of chalk to draw the rough outline of a man on the trunk of the tree. A crude circle was placed where he thought the heart might be. Walking thirty paces away, he picked up the rifle and went down on one knee. He put the butt of the weapon into his shoulder and took aim, making sure that he was steady before he pulled the trigger. When he did so, the bullet missed the tree altogether and spent its fury in the undergrowth.

‘You need more practice,’ said his companion.

‘I’m much better with the pistol.’

‘Whichever weapon it is, there must be no mistake. He’s escaped with his life once already. That must never happen again.’

‘It won’t, sir,’ said Chiffney, obsequiously.

‘Bide your time until you find the right moment.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And don’t fail me,’ warned the man. ‘I take a poor view of people who let me down.’

‘You can count on me.’

‘Then why wasn’t he killed in the train crash?’

‘He was lucky, sir. Next time it will be different.’

The man pointed to the target. ‘Keep practising,’ he ordered. ‘I want to see you hit that tree time and again.’

Chiffney licked his lips. ‘When do I get paid, sir?’

‘When he’s dead,’ was the reply.


Having left Madeleine Andrews at the rectory, Colbeck went off to the county hospital. He first sought out the doctor in charge of Horace Bardwell and discussed the case with him. It emerged that the patient would be there for at least a week before being allowed home. There was a degree of safety in a crowded hospital but not enough to discourage a determined assassin. Colbeck realised why Giles Thornhill, under threat, had been so keen to return to his own house.

Though Bardwell was awake, he looked pale and distraught. It took him a few moments to gather his thoughts when Colbeck spoke to him. He wondered why a detective had come to see him.

‘This is our second conversation, sir,’ said Colbeck.

‘Is it? I don’t remember you.’

‘I’m trying to find out what actually happened,’ said Colbeck.

‘A goods train collided with the express,’ muttered Bardwell. ‘At least, that’s what they tell me. It’s all rather hazy to me.’

‘How do you feel now, Mr Bardwell?’

‘I’m so tired. My wife, my son and some of my friends have been here to see me. It was very heartening but it’s left me so weary.’

‘Then I won’t stay too long,’ promised Colbeck. ‘Last time I was here, I mentioned a name that appeared to upset you.’

‘Did it? Who was it?’

‘Matthew Shanklin.’

Bardwell shuddered. ‘Don’t mention that fiend!’ he gasped.

‘Why is that, sir?’

‘Because he did everything he could to ruin me.’

‘I believe that he used to work for the LB&SCR.’

‘Then you’re mistaken – Shanklin worked against the company. You must have men under you, Inspector.’

‘Several of them,’ said Colbeck.

‘Then you’ll know that the first thing you demand of them is unquestioning loyalty. It’s an essential prerequisite, don’t you agree? Matthew Shanklin betrayed me.’

‘In what way, sir?’

‘I don’t want to go into the details,’ said Bardwell, plucking at the bandage around his eyes. ‘It would only distress me. Suffice it to say that he made false allegations against me that led, in time, to the loss of my position as Managing Director of the Board.’

‘Mr Shanklin claims that you caused him to lose his job.’

‘That was the least he deserved.’

‘Were you dissatisfied with his work?’

‘He should never have been employed by the company.’

‘Yet he held a post with you for some years,’ argued Colbeck, ‘so he must have been competent. My colleague, Sergeant Leeming, spoke to some of those who worked alongside Mr Shanklin. To a man, they said that he had been a very able manager.’

‘They didn’t know him as well as I did!’

‘You parted on bad terms, by the sound of it.’

‘The worst kind,’ said Bardwell, shaking with anger.

‘When I got him dismissed, the fellow had the gall to threaten me with violence. That’s the kind of person Matthew Shanklin is.’


Even though it was a hot summer’s day, Madeleine Andrews felt a slight chill as they stepped into the church. It was alleviated by the warm sunshine streaming in through the magnificent stained glass window above the door. Ezra Follis guided his visitor to a spot where she could bathe in the sunlight while carrying out her inspection. The interior of St Dunstan’s was larger than she had imagined. The nave was bisected by a wide aisle separating ranks of oak pews. There were two lady chapels, a large vestry at the rear of the chancel and a bell tower that housed five large cast iron bells.

Follis was in his element, describing the main features of the church and giving Madeleine a concise architectural history. In a medieval building that had survived well over the centuries, the item of which he was proudest was, paradoxically, a modern one. It was a list of former incumbents, drawn up like an illuminated manuscript and framed to hang on a stone pillar.

‘You see,’ he said, pointing to the first name on the list, ‘it all started way back in 1244 when Ebenezer Marmion became rector and there’s been continuous worship here ever since. I’m honoured to be part of such an illustrious tradition.’

‘Yet your own name is not here, Mr Follis,’ she noted.

‘I have to move on or die before that happens.’

‘But that means you never get to see it.’

He laughed. ‘Oh, I’m sure that sheer vanity will make me look down from heaven to take a peep at it.’ He gestured at the flowers in the chancel. ‘What do you think of Amy’s handiwork?’

‘What lovely arrangements!’ she said, admiringly. ‘It’s not simply a question of putting flowers into a vase. There’s a real art to it.’

‘Amy Walcott is on her way to perfecting that art.’

‘I agree.’

‘This is where I address my flock,’ he said, patting one of the elaborate carvings on the front of the pulpit. ‘When I climb up there I’m four feet above contradiction. It gives me a wonderful sense of power and responsibility. Over here,’ he continued, moving across to it, ‘is our lectern, donated to the church in 1755 so it’s almost a hundred years old.’

Made of brass that glinted in the sunlight, the lectern was in the shape of an eagle with its wings spread wide to hold the Bible. Madeleine was struck by the sharpness of the bird’s beak and the ferocity in its eyes. Follis stepped up behind it.

‘Read something to me,’ he invited.

She was taken aback. ‘But I’ve never read in church before.’

‘That’s because you’ve never been given the opportunity. You have a lovely voice, Miss Andrews, soft and melodic. It’s well-suited to Holy Writ. Here,’ he said, flipping over the pages with some difficulty. ‘Let me hear you read from the First Epistle of Paul the Apostle to the Corinthians. Chapter Thirteen will, I’m sure, be familiar to you.’

Madeleine was discomfited. Though she attended church every Sunday, she was accustomed to sitting in a pew at the rear of the nave with her father. Like other women there, she had taken no active part in the service itself. To be asked to read from the Bible – albeit with a congregation of one – was unsettling. At the same time, she did not feel that she could refuse. Ezra Follis had been kind and charming to her. In obeying his wish, she would be thanking him for his hospitality.

While the rector sat down a few yards away, she took her place at the lectern. Madeleine needed a little time to read through the passage and to control the sudden beating of her heart. After using her tongue to moisten a dry mouth, she began. Her voice trembled at first but quickly grew in confidence. Madeleine read clearly and mellifluously without fully understanding the import of the words. Follis watched her intently throughout. When she came to the final verse, he spoke it in unison with her.

‘And now abideth faith, hope and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.’

Relieved to have got through it, Madeleine raised her eyes. The person who caught her attention, however, was not Ezra Follis, seated contentedly before her, but Robert Colbeck, striding down the aisle.

‘Thank you, Madeleine,’ he said, ‘It was a privilege to have heard that. I’m glad that I arrived in time.’

‘So am I, Inspector,’ declared Follis, getting up and turning round. ‘The passage was beautifully read. The female voice is so much kinder on the ear than the rasping diction of men. Thank you for lending me such a delightful reader.’

Madeleine was embarrassed. ‘I don’t think I read it that well.’

‘Let us be the judge of that, my dear.’

Follis led them out of the church and swung the heavy oak door shut behind them. Sensing that Colbeck wanted to speak to the rector alone, Madeleine drifted away to examine the inscriptions on some of the tombstones. She was also grateful for some time alone to reflect on what had happened in church. Reading from the Bible had been both a trial and a pleasure. It had left her heart beating louder than ever.

Colbeck, meanwhile, was telling Follis about his visit to the county hospital. He described Bardwell’s reaction to the name of Matthew Shanklin. Follis shook his head.

‘I’ve never heard that name before,’ he said.

‘He worked as a manager for the LB&SCR,’ Colbeck told him. ‘He made an allegation of impropriety against Mr Bardwell.’

‘Well, he won’t have been the only one, Inspector.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve only seen the man in a hospital bed. Any of us would look rather pitiable in that state. Until last Friday,’ said Follis, ‘Horace Bardwell was a robust gentleman with a fondness for throwing his considerable weight around. Since he lives here in Brighton, his antics are often reported in the local newspaper.’

‘What sort of antics?’

‘He’s always complaining about the speed at which the town is growing – we have a population of almost 70,000 now – even though his railway is chiefly responsible for the growth. He’s always thrusting his opinions down everyone’s throat. To his credit,’ he pointed out, ‘Mr Bardwell has always been a generous man. He’s given thousands of pounds to worthy causes. The problem is that he thinks his money also buys him influence.’

‘What allegations have been made against him?’

‘There are strong rumours of bribery and corruption – not that I’ve seen any proof of either myself. People claim that Mr Bardwell has some civic leaders in his pocket, and he certainly exerts power over the Brighton Herald. His articles appear in it so often that you’d think he was the editor. What I’m telling you, Inspector,’ he went on, ‘is that Horace Bardwell is a deeply unpopular man here.’

‘He and Giles Thornhill are birds of a feather, then.’

‘In one sense, yes,’ agreed Follis. ‘But they’re hardly kindred spirits. Mr Thornhill has lofty aspirations, grappling with national problems. He despises Mr Bardwell for dabbling in local politics.’

‘From what you say,’ remarked Colbeck, ‘he does more than dabble. As for the funeral card, you didn’t send me the envelope in which it came. From where was it sent, Mr Follis?’

‘It had a London post mark.’

‘I’ll keep the card, if you don’t mind.’

‘I can give you the envelope as well,’ said Follis. ‘The main thing is that Mr Bardwell doesn’t hear about it. More than one person in Brighton would approve of the sentiments in it but that card would upset him greatly when he’s feeling so weak and vulnerable.’

‘One last question,’ said Colbeck.

‘Ask as many as you wish, Inspector.’

‘Which man is the more unpopular here – Horace Bardwell or Giles Thornhill?’

‘There’s a simple answer to that.’

‘Is there?’

‘Yes,’ said Follis with a merry chortle. ‘The most hated man in this whole county is, without a shadow of doubt, Mr Thornhill.’


Tempted by the warm weather, Giles Thornhill sat at a table on the terrace and dictated letters to his secretary, a tall, angular man in his thirties. Though Parliament was in recess, there was much for the politician to do as he sought support for various Bills that were in the offing or looked for opportunities to attack the coalition government in power at the time. His final letter was destined for the Sussex Express, a newspaper that was used to printing his trenchant views. When his secretary had finished penning it, he exchanged a few pleasantries with his employer before taking his leave.

Thornhill was left alone to bask in the sun and wonder how long it would take his broken arm to heal. The inconvenience of being unable to use it was frustrating and the nagging pain never went away. It was not long before the gentle breeze stiffened and made the flowers dance. Leaves began to rustle in the wind and the weathervane on the roof of the gazebo twisted to and fro. Thornhill decided that it was time to go indoors.

He stood up and turned sideways just in time. At that very moment, a shot rang out and a bullet whistled past, missing him by inches before hitting the window behind him and shattering the glass.


CHAPTER TEN

Disguise was a weapon that Colbeck had used many times and he had taught Victor Leeming its value. Accordingly, the sergeant kept a couple of changes of clothing at his office in case they were needed. Off went his frock coat, smart trousers, waistcoat, shirt, cravat and shoes and on went a crumpled shirt, a smelly old coat frayed at the edges, a pair of baggy trousers and two boots in urgent need of repair. When he replaced his top hat with a ragged cap, Leeming looked like a costermonger down on his luck. After checking his appearance in a mirror, he felt ready to venture out.

Since few cab drivers would stop for someone so blatantly down-to-heel, Leeming made his way to Chalk Farm by means of a horse-drawn omnibus, collecting disdainful looks and murmured complaints from the other passengers. Josie Murlow’s hovel was at the end of a cul-de-sac. As he walked along the pavement towards it, he kept his head down and cultivated a lumbering walk. Choosing a spot from which he could keep the house under observation, he pretended to read the newspaper he had brought with him.

Leeming was unhappy. Apart from the danger of meeting Josie Murlow again, he feared that his vigil would be pointless. Dick Chiffney might already have come and gone to the house or sent an intermediary on his behalf. Its formidable owner might not even be there. He was certainly not minded to find out. All in all, it promised to be a long, tiring, uneventful and futile assignment.

It did, however, give him time to brood once more on what he should buy his wife as a birthday present. A garnet necklace was beyond the reach of his wallet and, since Josie Murlow sported such an item of jewellery, he would not even consider it. A small silver brooch was a possibility or even a ring of some kind. What his wife had talked about needing most was a new dress but that was something he could only buy with Estelle’s cooperation, and he wanted to enjoy the pleasure of watching her face as she opened a gift that came as a total surprise.

Thoughts of his wife inevitably led to a comparison with the woman whose house he was keeping an eye on. Estelle Leeming was everything that Josie Murlow was not. She was short, dark-haired, slight of build and, even though she had given birth to two children, she had retained something of the youthful bloom that had first won Leeming’s heart. Most of all, she was thoroughly wholesome. The same could not be said of the raddled denizen of the nearby hovel, a gross woman whose occupation had reduced her to a waddling mound of flesh and exposed her to the constant threat of assault and hideous diseases.

An hour soon passed and he shifted his position to stretch his legs and to avoid the disapproving glare of the man outside whose house he was standing. Crossing to the other side of the road, he opened his newspaper once more and stared unseeingly at one of the inside pages. There was a consolation. Because he was in a cul-de-sac, people could only come from one direction. Leeming could not miss anyone who went to Josie Murlow’s house. As another half an hour slid past, he moved back across the road and took up a different stance, trying to recall when he had last wasted so much time maintaining such an unproductive surveillance. Colbeck might make few mistakes but Leeming felt that he was the victim of one of them now. He gave a first yawn of disillusion. He wanted to go home.

His disaffection was premature. Moments later, a figure came into the street and walked furtively towards him. The man was thickset, shambling and wearing the kind of threadbare suit that could never belong to anyone who lived in one of the neat and respectable villas. Since the stranger’s cap was pulled down over his forehead, Leeming could not see much of the unshaven face but the man passed close enough for him to smell the beer on his breath.

Reaching the hovel, the newcomer was circumspect. He looked around to make sure that he was not seen then he banged on the door. Hidden behind his newspaper, Leeming peered around the edge and saw the door open. Josie Murlow was there, after all. From the effusive welcome she gave the man, she knew him well. Leeming felt a thrill of discovery. He might have found Dick Chiffney.


On the train to London, Colbeck and Madeleine Andrews had a compartment to themselves, allowing them to talk freely for the first time since they had left Camden.

‘I hope that your father will not disapprove,’ he said.

‘Of course not,’ she replied. ‘Father trusts you as much as I do, Robert. He knows that we have an understanding and is quite happy for us to spend time alone together.’

‘That’s not what I meant, Madeleine. He’s such a dedicated servant of the LNWR that he might object to his daughter being taken off on a line owned by another company.’

She laughed. ‘He’s not that prejudiced,’ she said. ‘Besides, he’ll willingly accept anything that helps you to catch the man who killed Frank Pike and the others. Do you think you’re any closer to doing that after today?’

‘I hope so.’

‘That was the purpose of the visit to Brighton, wasn’t it? You wanted to speak to two of the survivors of the crash and that’s exactly what you did. What you still haven’t explained is why you took me with you.’

He kissed her. ‘Do you need an explanation?’

‘I’m serious, Robert. All that I seemed to do was to keep you company on the journey there, get a glimpse of the Royal Pavilion, take tea in the rectory, look around a church and be more or less forced to read a passage from the Bible.’

‘That’s why I took you, Madeleine.’

‘I’m still none the wiser.’

‘I wanted you to meet the Reverend Follis,’ he said. ‘He’s such a curious fellow. I thought he might interest you.’

‘He did. I found him very interesting. He’s pleasant, attentive and highly intelligent. And he made me feel so welcome.’

‘It’s precisely why I left you alone with him. I wanted a woman’s opinion of the rector. To some extent, of course,’ he continued, ‘I got that from Amy Walcott. She obviously adores him and was upset when we tore him away from her.’

‘Did you see the flowers in the church?’ she asked. ‘It must have taken her hours to pick and arrange them like that.’

‘She’s only one doting female at his behest. Mrs Ashmore, his housekeeper, is another, as you must have noticed when she served tea. She mollycoddles him.’

‘Well, that’s not what I did, Robert,’ she said, laughing.

‘What happened while I was away?’

‘We just talked. When the housekeeper came back from the market, she made us some tea and served scones. Then Mr Follis tried to probe me about our friendship.’

‘I thought he might.’

‘He was fascinated to hear how we met,’ she recalled, ‘and amused to discover that Father is an engine driver. The rector has an almost childish love of trains.’

‘I don’t condemn anyone for that,’ said Colbeck, grinning.

‘After tea, he asked me if I’d like to see the church. He was showing me around when he suddenly asked me to read something.’

‘Were you given freedom of choice?’

‘No, Robert,’ she replied. ‘He chose the passage for me. If it had been left to me, I’d have refused politely but I felt obliged to him. He’d been so friendly and courteous.’

‘Considering that you’d never been allowed to read in church before, you did extremely well.’

‘I was very nervous.’

‘It didn’t show, Madeleine.’

‘The odd thing was that Mr Follis knew exactly what he wanted me to read. It was almost as if he had made up his mind about it before we even went into the church.’ She gave a shrug. ‘Why do you think he picked that passage?’

Colbeck smiled. ‘I have a theory about that.’


Leeming was in a quandary. There was enough evidence to suggest that Dick Chiffney might have been involved in causing the train crash and it was important to question him. Since the man could well be inside the house, Leeming’s first instinct was to knock on the door and apprehend him. He was not afraid of any resistance from Chiffney. Leeming was strong, fit and fearless, very accustomed to overpowering criminals. What made him hesitate was the presence of Josie Murlow. If she became violent – and he was certain that she would – then the arrest would be more difficult. It would also entail restraining, if not actually punching, a woman and that troubled him.

He agonised for a long time over what he should do. In the event, the decision was made for him because the door of the hovel opened and the man came out. After wiping a hand across his mouth, he came back up the street. Lowering the paper, Leeming folded it up and stuffed it into his pocket. He then took a good look at the approaching figure. The fellow was certainly big and brawny enough to be Josie Murlow’s lover and he was around the same age as her. He had also been shown great affection on his arrival. It had to be Chiffney. He and his woman had been reconciled.

Careful not to forewarn the man, Leeming turned on his heel and lumbered off, moving slowly so that he would soon be overtaken. The moment that the man went past him, the sergeant pounced. He grabbed him by the shoulders, spun him round then held him by the lapels of his jacket.

‘What are you doing!’ protested the man.

‘Dick Chiffney?’

‘Let go of me!’

‘Are you Dick Chiffney?’ demanded Leeming.

‘No, I’m not,’ said the other, struggling to get away.

‘What’s your name?

‘That’s my business.’

‘I’m a member of the Metropolitan Police and I just saw you going into Josie Murlow’s house.’

‘No harm in that, is there?’

‘That depends on who you are.’

‘If you must know,’ said the man, exhaling beer fumes into Leeming’s face, ‘my name is Luke Watts and that’s the truth. You can ask anyone – ask Josie, if you like.’

Leeming released him. ‘Then you’re not Dick Chiffney?’

Watts was offended. ‘Do I look like him?’ he said. ‘Dick is the ugliest bugger in London. Don’t you dare take me for that cross-eyed son of a sow. It’s a bleeding insult, that’s what it is.’

‘I seem to have made a mistake, Mr Watts.’

‘Yes – a bad mistake.’

‘But if you’re not Chiffney,’ said Leeming with a glance at the hovel, ‘what were you doing in Josie Murlow’s house?’

The man smirked. ‘What do you think?’


Edward Tallis had never been hampered by indecision. When action was needed, he took it instantly. Hiring a cab outside Scotland Yard, he was driven to the offices of the LB&SCR. He was immediately shown into the room occupied by Harvey Ridgeon. The captain was nonplussed to see him storming through the door.

‘What brings you here, Superintendent?’ he asked.

‘This,’ replied Tallis, tossing a copy of the evening newspaper on to the desk. ‘It’s the early edition – have you read it?’

‘I can’t say that I have.’

‘It contains defamatory statements made by you about my officers. Worse than that, it brings a covert investigation into the full glare of publicity and thereby weakens its effectiveness.’

‘It was ineffective enough already.’

‘I demand an apology.’

‘You’ll get nothing at all if you try to hector me,’ said Ridgeon, coolly. ‘Why don’t you sit down and give me a chance to see what it is that I’m supposed to have done?’

Choking back another accusation, Tallis removed his top hat and sat down opposite the desk. Ridgeon, meanwhile, opened the newspaper and saw the headline that had upset the Superintendent. Police Chase Phantom Killer. Highly critical of Tallis and Colbeck, the article contended that the train crash was the result of an accident caused by the driver of the Brighton Express. Ridgeon was quoted a number of times.

‘You pour scorn on hard-working detectives,’ complained Tallis.

‘Not in the way that I’m quoted here,’ said Ridgeon. ‘I give you my word that I didn’t actually say some of these things.’

‘You spoke to the press, Captain Ridgeon, and that was fatal. They always twist what you tell them. If you’ll forgive my language,’ said Tallis, ‘a man in your position should know that a newspaper reporter is a man who swallows nails and shits screws. This unprincipled scribbler didn’t even have the courtesy to speak to me.’

‘That’s not true, Superintendent. According to him, he came to Scotland Yard as soon he heard about the crash and asked if the police were taking an interest in it. You told him that you were not.’

‘It was an honest answer.’

‘Yet you’d already dispatched Inspector Colbeck to the scene.’

‘I authorised him to go in the light of a request from the railway company. At that time,’ said Tallis, ‘there was no indication of any criminal activity in relation to the crash. Strictly speaking, therefore, I had not set an investigation in motion. When I did so, I hoped that it could operate without the so-called gentlemen of the press looking over our shoulders. Thanks to that libellous article,’ he went on, pointing to the newspaper, ‘the whole world now knows about it.’

‘Then they can judge for themselves whether or not a police investigation is appropriate.’

‘No, they can’t, Captain. People can only make a considered judgement if both sides of a case are presented to them. Only one is offered in that article – yours. You have no idea how much evidence Inspector Colbeck has gathered.’

‘I must correct you there, Superintendent.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The Inspector was good enough to reveal it to me.’

Tallis frowned. ‘When was this?’

‘Earlier today,’ said Ridgeon.

‘Colbeck made no mention of any visit to you. It was certainly not something I’d have endorsed. I felt that we’d said everything that needed to be said between us in my office.’

‘The Inspector took a less inflexible view of the situation than you, Superintendent. He had the sense to see that my work might complement his own. We had a long discussion.’

‘Really?’ said Tallis, infuriated at being wrong-footed.

‘I admired him for his candour and heard what he had to say. His argument was very cogent. Unfortunately,’ said Ridgeon, ‘it was fundamentally flawed.’

‘Those are the very words quoted in that article.’

‘I stand by them.’

‘In the fullness of time, you may be embarrassed by them.’

‘I think not, Superintendent.’

Tallis glowered. ‘Do you realise what you’ve done, sir?’

‘I’ve given straight answers to straight questions.’

‘Oh, you’ve done a lot more than that. You’ve just opened a Pandora’s box. Every newspaper in London will now be baying at the door of my office. That article has not simply made a mockery of our investigation,’ said Tallis, ‘it’s also a stark warning to the villains behind the crash that we are pursuing them. If they have any sense, they’ll have left London already.’

‘Yes,’ said Ridgeon, unable to resist sarcasm, ‘and stepped straight back into the sensational novel from which they escaped. That’s where they belong, after all – in the world of imagination.’

Getting to his feet, Tallis snatched up his newspaper and left.


Colbeck had also been dismayed by the article. After sending Madeleine Andrews home in a cab, he had bought a copy of the newspaper at the railway station and read it on his way back to Scotland Yard. It made him regret his decision to speak to Ridgeon in confidence. He was wounded and disappointed by what the Inspector General of Railways had done. A difficult and complex investigation had suddenly become even more arduous.

His immediate concern was how upset Madeleine would be when she read the article and saw the biting criticism of the Railway Detective. Caleb Andrews was in the habit of buying the newspaper at Euston station when he came off duty in the evening. He, too, would be deeply hurt by the attack on Colbeck and scandalised by the accusation of speeding made against his friend, Frank Pike. There was a venomous note to the article. It was almost if, having praised Colbeck for a long record of success, the newspaper felt that it was time to go to the other extreme. It was a crucifixion in print.

There would be repercussions. Colbeck would be dogged by reporters from other newspapers, mocked anew in their columns and denied complete freedom of movement. From now on, he would be watched. There would also be one or two colleagues at the Detective Department who, jealous of his reputation, would derive great joy from the public censure of him. Not everyone at Scotland Yard was ready to join in the general adulation of Robert Colbeck.

As the cab rolled to a halt, he got out and paid the driver, only to be set upon immediately by half a dozen reporters who had been lying in ambush. In answer to a salvo of questions, he told them that he had no comment to make and went swiftly into the building. The real torment was yet to come. Colbeck would now have to face a gruelling interrogation by Edward Tallis and would be reprimanded for not having made more progress in the case. Continuing success was the only way to keep bad headlines at bay. Colbeck would be blamed for the hostile article in the newspaper.

He went straight to the superintendent’s office and tapped on the door before opening it. Anticipating a barrage of abuse, he was amazed to find Tallis quiescent for once, seated at his desk in a cloud of cigar smoke. Colbeck’s first thought was that his superior had not yet read the article then he saw the newspaper lying open on the desk. As Tallis drew deep on his cigar, it glowed with life and the swirling cloud of smoke was thickened as he exhaled with calculated slowness. When he spoke, his voice was eerily soft.

‘Have you read the newspaper, Inspector?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Colbeck.

‘Do you have any comment to make?’

‘I’m saddened that Captain Ridgeon saw fit to criticise us in such a public way, though I daresay he feels that the very fact of a police investigation is an implied criticism of his work.’

‘That’s exactly what he feels,’ said Tallis, ‘even if he didn’t put it in those exact words. I’ve not long come back from seeing him.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Among other things, he told me that you and he had discussed the whole business in some depth but that you had failed to persuade him that the train crash was a criminal act.’

‘That’s true, Superintendent.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going to see him?’

‘I felt that you might advise against it,’ said Colbeck. ‘At the start of the investigation, you warned us to work alongside Captain Ridgeon without causing any friction. When you met him, however, you objected to his tone and refused to obey the orders he unwisely tried to give you. Victor and I expressed thanks for your support.’

‘I find this very alarming, Inspector Colbeck,’ said Tallis, voice still uncharacteristically soft. ‘Is it your habitual practice to do things to which you know I would object?’

‘Not at all, sir – this was an isolated instance.’

‘What was the motive behind it?’

‘I hoped that I could get Captain Ridgeon on our side.’

Tallis picked up the newspaper. ‘This is the result,’ he said. ‘The other result is that I am made to look foolish because I was unaware that you had paid a visit to the captain earlier. Do I have to remind you that there’s a chain of command here?’

‘It’s not possible to clear everything with you beforehand, sir,’ argued Colbeck. ‘Some decisions have to be made in response to a given situation. If I had to get your approval for every move I make, then my hands would be tied. That would be intolerable.’

Tallis puffed on his cigar again, filling his lungs with the smoke before blowing it out again in a series of rings. He studied Colbeck in silence through the fug. While it was too much to ask him ever to like the man, he had to respect his achievements over the years. The Railway Detective’s record was unrivalled even if some of his methods were not endorsed by the superintendent. Nobody, however, was infallible. In trusting Captain Ridgeon, Colbeck had made a serious misjudgement. Tallis wondered if it was the only one.

‘Are you sure that crash was caused by someone?’ he said.

‘I’d stake every penny I possess on it,’ affirmed Colbeck.

‘The Detective Department does not take gambles, Inspector. We deal only in certainties. Give me some of them. How, for instance, have you spent today – after you left Captain Ridgeon, that is?’

Colbeck told him about his visit to Chalk Farm and about the funeral card that had sent him haring off to Brighton. He said nothing about Madeleine Andrews, however, or her strange experience at the lectern in St Dunstan’s church. It was not relevant and it would only serve to inflame Tallis. Colbeck’s conclusion was that Horace Bardwell definitely had to be considered the most likely target of those who had caused the disaster on the Brighton line.

‘What does that tell you?’ asked Tallis.

‘Matthew Shanklin is a prime suspect,’ said Colbeck. ‘If, that is, my supposition is correct. Should Mr Thornhill’s death turn out to be the object of the crash, then Shanklin will be exonerated. I have grave doubts that that will happen.’

‘Why is that, Inspector?’

‘I told Victor to speak to him again.’

He recounted the details of Leeming’s visit, stressing Shanklin’s reaction to the name of Dick Chiffney. The possession of a telescope was also viewed as strong evidence. He reminded the superintendent of Bardwell’s bitter remarks about Shanklin. Mutual hatred existed between the two men.

‘I think that Matthew Shanklin may well have sent the macabre message to the hospital,’ said Colbeck.

‘How can you prove that?’

‘I’ll compare his handwriting with that on the card, sir.’

Resting his cigar in the astray, Tallis sat back pensively in his chair. Ever since he had entered the room, Colbeck had been waiting for him to explode and to unleash the kind of vituperation for which he was so well-known. Instead, he was unusually subdued. He had been sobered by the personal attack in the newspaper and was desperate for reassurance that the crime could indeed be solved before too long.

‘The first thing you must do,’ he said at length, ‘is to establish a connection between Shanklin and this other fellow, Chiffney.’

‘Victor is trying to do that at this moment, sir.’

‘Why – where is he?’

‘Somewhere in Chalk Farm,’ said Colbeck. ‘He’s keeping watch on the home of Josie Murlow.’


Victor Leeming had retreated to the end of the street, feeling that he was too conspicuous if he stayed too long in the same place. He was still chiding himself for confusing one of Josie Murlow’s clients with Dick Chiffney. The confrontation with Luke Watts had made him feel stupid but he had at least learnt something about Chiffney. The man was ugly and cross-eyed. He wished he had known that before he accosted the wrong person. Leeming had lost all track of time. It seemed as if he had been there for hours and all he had seen of Josie was a fleeting glimpse. He began to despair of catching sight of her again and wondered if he should accept defeat and leave.

He decided to stroll down the street for the last time, taking a final look at the house from close quarters before quitting his vigil. Hands thrust into his pockets and head down, he walked slowly along and hoped that his next assignment would not be so boring and so fruitless. His feet were hurting, his shoulders were aching and the smell from his coat was increasingly offensive. He longed to get back into clean clothing once more.

Leeming was only twenty yards from the hovel when a small boy ran past him to slip an envelope through the letterbox before dashing away. Within a matter of minutes, the door opened and out stepped Josie Murlow. He did not recognise her at first. She had been transformed. Wearing a dark dress that verged on respectability, she had somehow tamed her hair, swept it up and hidden it completely beneath her hat. She moved along with a measure of dignity. If he had not known her true calling, he would have taken her for a servant from a large establishment.

He felt a stab of fear, thinking that she would recognise him but Josie did not even glance in his direction. Wherever she was going, she was eager to get there, ignoring everything else on the way. It made it much easier for Leeming to follow her. Turning at the corner, she went on down the main road, never once looking over her shoulder. Leeming was tingling with excitement. He believed she had received word from Chiffney and was going to meet him. All of his recriminations vanished. His visit to Chalk Farm had, after all, been supremely worthwhile.

Given her size, Josie could not walk fast but she kept up a reasonable speed as she picked her way through pedestrians coming towards her. After going for a couple of hundred yards, she turned into a side-road and continued on her way. Leeming came around the corner, checked that she was not looking back then kept up his pursuit. Confident that she was leading him to a main suspect in the investigation, he squeezed the handcuffs in his pocket, certain that they would be needed on Chiffney. A man ruthless enough to bring an express train off the rails was unlikely to surrender meekly. Even the presence of Josie did not deter Leeming now. If necessary, he would take them both on.

She eventually stopped outside the Shepherd and Shepherdess, an incongruous name for a public house in an urban district. Then, for the first time, she turned round. Leeming took evasive action, diving sideways into an alleyway. When he peeped around the corner, he saw that Josie was walking further on. He tried to follow her but it was in vain. Before he even stepped back out into the road, he was hit on the back of head and plunged helplessly into unconsciousness.


Dick Chiffney unlocked the door and hustled her into the bedroom. Josie Murlow was so pleased at their reunion that she threw her arms around him and held him tight. Taking off her hat, he let her hair cascade down then kissed her full on the lips. It was minutes before they finally broke apart.

‘I was beginning to think you’d run out on me again,’ she said.

‘I gave you my promise I’d send for you.’

‘Where did you spend last night?’

‘Right here,’ he said, indicating the room. ‘This house belongs to an old friend. He let me in as a favour.’

‘Why didn’t you send for me earlier?’

‘I had someone to see, Josie – the gentleman I’m working for.’

‘Has he paid you yet?’

‘I have to do the job first.’

‘Well, be quick about it, Dick,’ she urged. ‘The police are sniffing about. I had another one banging on my door today. They want you.’

‘That’s why I took precautions.’

‘Them instructions you give me, you mean?’

‘Yes, Josie. I had a feeling you might be followed. My note told you to stop at the Shepherd and Shepherdess to look round.’

‘I saw nobody,’ she said. ‘Not a bleeding soul.’

‘Well, I did,’ he said with a chuckle, taking out his pistol, ‘and I give him a sore head with this.’ He mimed the action of striking with the butt of the weapon. ‘That will teach him not to mess with Dick Chiffney.’

Josie was anxious. ‘Where did you get that gun?’

‘The gentleman give it to me.’

‘What for – you’re not going to shoot someone, are you?’

‘I told you before, Josie – you don’t need to know what’s going on. I’ve got a job to do, that’s all. When it’s done, I get the rest of the money and I can hand back both of the guns.’

Both of them?’ she echoed.

‘I’ve got this as well,’ he boasted, lifting the overhanging coverlet to reveal the rifle under the bed. She gasped in alarm. ‘Don’t get so upset, my old darling,’ he said, letting the coverlet go and putting an arm around her. ‘Everything will be all right.’

‘What have you got yourself into, Dick?’

‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

‘I don’t like it,’ she said. ‘You told me that there was no danger at all then I get two detectives coming to my house. When I try to leave it, I’m followed by someone.’

‘He was a police spy, Josie.’

‘That’s dreadful! I don’t want policemen camped outside my house, watching everything I do. What will happen now that you attacked the man following me?’ A worrying thought struck her. ‘You didn’t kill him, did you?’

‘No,’ he said, airily, ‘I didn’t hit him hard enough. I should’ve done really. The more coppers we can get rid of, the better.’ He took her by the shoulders. ‘Try to stay calm, my love,’ he urged. ‘I’m doing this for us.’

‘All you’ve done so far is to bring the law down on me and I’m scared. What’s happening, Dick? I don’t like being kept in the dark. Most of all,’ she went on, ‘I don’t like having my house watched.

‘Then you’ve no need to go back there, Josie.’

‘Where else can I go?’

‘You can stay here, my darling,’ he said, nodding at the flagon on the table, ‘for the time being, anyway. We’ve got plenty of gin and a nice big bed – what more do we need?’


When he regained consciousness, Victor Leeming found himself lying on the ground in an alleyway close to some animal excrement. His face and body had been bruised in the fall and his head felt as if it were about to explode. It took him a little while to work out what had happened. His thick cap had prevented a bad scalp wound, leaving him with a large bump that throbbed insistently. Most people who had passed by took him for a drunk who had passed out. Nobody came to his aid. It was only when he dragged himself painfully to his feet that an old man stopped to help him.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, looking at the grazes on his face.

‘I think so.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Yes,’ said Leeming, wincing at the pain. ‘Find a policeman.’

‘You stay here.’

When the old man went off, Leeming leant against the wall for support, annoyed that he had let himself be caught off guard. He took off his cap and ran a hand gingerly over the bump on his head. The assault had not been the work of a thief. Nothing had been taken from his pockets. Given the fact that Leeming was trailing Josie Murlow, the most likely assailant, he guessed, was Dick Chiffney.

A policeman eventually arrived and was astonished when he heard that the scruffy man in the alleyway was a detective sergeant. He hailed a cab on Leeming’s behalf, helped him into it and told the driver to go to Scotland Yard as fast as he could. The juddering movement of the carriage made Leeming’s head pound even more and the clatter of the horse’s hooves resounded painfully in his eardrums. He could not wait to reach his destination.

By the time he finally got to Colbeck’s office, he was still a little unsteady on his feet. Colbeck took charge at once, sitting him down, pouring him a glass of whisky from a bottle concealed in his desk then gently bathing his face with cold water.

‘I hate to send you home to your wife in this state,’ he said.

‘Estelle is used to seeing me with a few bruises, sir,’ said Leeming, bravely. ‘Her father was a policeman, remember. She knows that it’s a dangerous job.’

‘You were lucky, Victor.’

‘I don’t feel lucky.’

‘No,’ said Colbeck, sympathetically, ‘I’m sure you don’t but it could have been far worse. If you were knocked out, somebody might have taken the opportunity to inflict serious wounds. Tell me exactly what happened.’

‘I’m not certain that I remember it all, Inspector.’

After another restorative drink of whisky, Leeming gave a halting account of his time outside Josie Murlow’s house, recalling his folly in accosting Luke Watts and his lack of concentration when he stepped into the alleyway. Colbeck seized on one detail.

‘The boy delivered a warning to the house,’ he decided. ‘Josie Murlow was told that she should take a particular route so that anyone following her could be seen. She was probably told to look back outside that public house so that you would instinctively try to hide somewhere. Someone was waiting for you.’

‘I think it was Dick Chiffney.’

‘There’s a strong possibility that it was, Victor.’

‘Then I need to go back and search for him,’ said Leeming. ‘I have a score to settle with Chiffney.’

‘The only place you’re going this evening,’ said Colbeck, ‘is home to Estelle. You need rest. My advice is that you don’t buy a newspaper on the way there.’

‘Why not, sir?’

Colbeck told him about the article concerning the train crash and how Tallis had responded to it. He also talked about the visit to Brighton where he had spoken to Horace Bardwell and learnt more about his relationship with Matthew Shanklin. Leeming was cynical.

‘One of them is lying, Inspector,’ he argued. ‘Mr Shanklin reckons that Mr Bardwell is a crook yet you heard him claim that Mr Shanklin is the troublemaker. Which one should we believe?’

‘I’ll let you know when I’ve talked to Mr Shanklin tomorrow.’

‘At least, we know one thing for certain. The target of the train crash was Horace Bardwell.’

‘That’s what I thought, Victor,’ admitted Colbeck, ‘but I’ve been forced to reconsider. In the last hour, we received another message from Giles Thornhill – someone tried to kill him earlier today.’


CHAPTER ELEVEN

There was still good light when Madeleine Andrews arrived home so she began work at her easel immediately. Though she did her best to concentrate, however, her mind kept straying back to the excursion she had been on with Colbeck. She still could not understand why he wished her to meet the Rector of St Dunstan’s, nor could she see why she had been asked to read a specific passage from the Bible. Colbeck had not explained his theory about the choice. Madeleine did not expect him to divulge details of his cases to her because she had no right or need to know them but there were times – this was one of them – when his reticence was irritating. She wanted to know exactly what he had meant.

She was so distracted that she eventually abandoned her work and took the Bible from a bookshelf. The well-thumbed volume had been passed down through generations of the Andrews’ family and there was a long list at the front of all of her forbears. The name of her late mother had joined the list years earlier. Turning to the New Testament, she found the passage she had read in church and went through it again in search of a clue as to why Ezra Follis had chosen it. She could find none.

Madeleine was still pondering when her father came home from work. Letting himself into the house, Caleb Andrews was surprised to see his daughter reading the Bible.

‘Is there something you haven’t told me, Maddy?’ he teased.

‘Of course not, Father.’

‘You don’t want to enter a convent, then?’

‘Heaven forbid!’ she cried, laughing as she realised that it was not perhaps the most appropriate exclamation. ‘I just wanted to look at something, that’s all. Could you read this for me, Father?’

‘No,’ he said, firmly.

‘But I’d like your opinion.’

‘The time for studying the Bible is on a Sunday. That’s why your mother and I always read bits of it to you when we got back from church. At this moment,’ he went on, hanging his cap on a peg and flopping into his armchair, ‘the only thing I want to read is the evening paper I’ve just bought.’

Madeleine put the Bible back on the shelf, deciding that her father would, in any case, be unlikely to help. She went into the kitchen to prepare his supper. After a short time, a howl of rage sent her rushing back into the living room.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

‘This nonsense,’ he replied, shaking the newspaper violently. ‘There’s an article here, laying the blame for the crash on Frank Pike.’

‘But that’s untrue.’

‘I know it’s untrue, Maddy. It’s also unfair on a man who’s not here to speak up for himself. John Heddle was on the footplate with Frank and he told me the train was going at the proper speed.’

‘Does it say anything about Robert?’

‘It says rather a lot,’ he noted as he read through the rest of the article, ‘and none of it very kind.’

‘Why not?’

‘According to this, there was no crime involved.’

Madeleine stiffened. ‘Who’s decided that?’

‘Someone called Captain Harvey Ridgeon – he’s the Inspector General of Railways and he has a lot to say for himself. What does he know about driving an express train? Precious little, I’ll wager.’

‘Let me see it.’

‘No, Maddy, I don’t think you should.

‘If there’s criticism of Robert, I want to read it.’

‘It would only upset you.’

‘Please, Father,’ she insisted. ‘I’m not a child. I want to see exactly what the article says about Robert and about the crash.’

‘Very well,’ he said, yielding up the newspaper with a long sigh, ‘but don’t say I didn’t warn you. I think you’d be far better off reading the Bible again.’


Security at the house had been visibly improved. Colbeck arrived at Giles Thornhill’s estate next morning to find three armed men on duty at the gate as well as a policeman from the local constabulary. As the cab took him up the drive, Colbeck noticed a man patrolling the grounds with a mastiff on a leash. When he reached the front door of the mansion, he was asked for proof of his identity yet again before he was permitted to enter. Thornhill was in his library once more but this time he was reclining in a leather armchair, well away from the window. His black eye had faded a little and he had slipped his broken arm and its splint out of its sling to rest in his lap. There was a crackle of deep dissatisfaction in his voice.

‘You came on your own?’ he asked.

‘What did you expect, sir?’

‘At the very least, I thought you’d bring a team of detectives. Someone tried to kill me in my own home, Inspector. Doesn’t that merit a proper response?’

‘I represent that response, Mr Thornhill,’ said Colbeck, evenly. ‘Our manpower is very limited and is fully deployed fighting the tide of crime in London. Besides, you seem to be extremely well guarded here so additional men are not needed.’

‘I don’t expect them to guard me,’ Thornhill retaliated. ‘What I want is to see is the villain caught and arrested. In short, I require more resources than the service of a single detective.’

‘You’ll be surprised what one person can achieve, sir.’

‘It’s what you can’t achieve that concerns me.’

Colbeck ignored the slighting comment and sought a full account of what had taken place. Thornhill provided every detail, including the position he was in when the shot was fired. Even though the bullet had been so perilously close, he had not lost his nerve. He had taken cover and waited until some of his employees had come to his rescue. The grounds had been searched but no trace of the attacker had been found.

‘What about the bullet, sir?’ asked Colbeck.

‘The bullet?’

‘Do you still have it?’

‘No, Inspector – I’m just grateful that it missed its target.’

‘So it must be here on the premises.’

‘Yes,’ said Thornhill, ‘I suppose that it must. It smashed through the drawing room window and ended up in there somewhere. I had the window boarded up immediately and have not ventured outdoors.’

‘May I see the drawing room, please?’

‘Is it really necessary, Inspector?’

‘I believe so,’ said Colbeck. ‘Could someone take me there?’

Thornhill tugged on a bell rope beside the fireplace and a maidservant soon entered. Given instructions, she took Colbeck down the corridor and showed him into the drawing room. It was large, well-proportioned and filled with exquisite furniture. Since one of the windows was now blanked out, there was little natural light in that corner. Colbeck first unlocked the door and stepped out on to the terrace, sitting in the chair that Thornhill claimed to have occupied.

He stood up again, turned sideways and tried to imagine a bullet shooting past his left ear. It gave him a rough idea of the angle at which it had smashed into the window. Going back into the room, he tried to work out where the bullet might have ended up. The only clue he found was a tear in the large tapestry on the far wall. When he lifted it up, he saw a hole gouged out of the wall itself and decided that the bullet must have ricocheted. Long, painstaking minutes of searching finally ended with success. After bouncing off the wall, the bullet had penetrated a thick cushion then embedded itself in the back of an ornate settee.

Thornhill was waiting for him with growing impatience.

‘Well,’ he demanded as Colbeck came back into the library.

‘I found it, sir,’ said the other, showing him a bullet whose nose had been blunted. ‘I’ve afraid that your tapestry and one of the settees is in need of repair. The bullet was damaged when it struck the wall but I can tell you that it came from a rifle. That means it could have been fired from some distance away.’

Thornhill sneered. ‘Is that supposed to make me feel safer?’

‘I don’t think you’re in any danger now. There are too many people on guard for anyone to risk a second visit here. What I’d like to do first is to establish exactly where he was when he fired the shot. Some clue may have been left behind.’

‘You’re wasting your time, sir. He could have been anywhere.’

‘I disagree,’ said Colbeck. ‘The trajectory of the bullet gives me a definite idea of the direction from which it came. All I require is your permission to search the grounds without fear of being attacked by that mastiff you have out there.’

‘Search if you must,’ said Thornhill, petulantly, ‘but you won’t find anything, I know that. The man must have fled as soon as he fired the shot.’

‘That’s what I’m counting on, Mr Thornhill. When people are in a great hurry to escape, they often make mistakes.’


The tender ministrations of his wife and a good night’s sleep had revived Victor Leeming and sent him back to work with renewed vigour. Dressed in his normal attire, he travelled to Chalk Farm by cab and rapped on the door of Josie Murlow’s hovel. There was no answer. After knocking even harder a few times, he accepted that she was not there. Leeming followed the route he had taken the previous day, turning into the main road and walking along it until he made a second turn. When the Shepherd and Shepherdess came into view, the bump on his head started to throb.

He paused at the alleyway where he had been assaulted. Narrow and twisting, it ran through to the street beyond, giving his attacker a choice of two exits. Leeming went on to the public house. Its first customers of the morning had already drifted in. Standing behind the counter was the landlord, a tubby man of medium height with a bald head offset by a drooping walrus moustache. Leeming introduced himself and described the woman he wanted to find. The landlord guessed her name at once.

‘You’re talking about Josie Murlow,’ he said.

‘You know her?’

‘I know her and that cock-eyed ruffian she lives with. They’re nothing but trouble, those two. I barred them from the Shepherd and Shepherdess months ago.’

‘Josie Murlow was standing outside here yesterday afternoon.’

‘Then I’m glad she didn’t have the gall to come in.’

‘I don’t suppose you saw her,’ said Leeming, ‘or noticed which way she walked off.’

‘No, Sergeant,’ replied the landlord. ‘As long as she and Dick Chiffney keep away from here, that’s all I’m worried about. On the other hand,’ he went on, looking around the bar, ‘some of my regulars might have seen her through the window. Josie is not easy to miss. She’d make three of my wife.’

‘She’d make four of mine.’

Leeming first spoke to a couple of men who had just entered but they were unable to help him. None of the other customers had even been there at the relevant time on the previous day. He was about to leave when he noticed an old man tucked away in a corner. Crouched over a table, he was playing dominoes on his own, moving from one seat to another and back again as he took turns, pausing only to quaff some of his beer. As Leeming came over, he fixed a pair of watery eyes on him.

‘Care for a game of dominoes?’ he croaked.

‘You seem to be playing well enough on your own,’ said Leeming with a grin. ‘Who’s winning?’

He is,’ said the old man, pointing to the empty chair.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt the game, sir. I just wanted to ask if you knew a woman named Josie Murlow.’

The old man cackled. ‘Everyone knows Josie.’ He sat back to appraise Leeming. ‘I wouldn’t have thought a gentleman like you would have any time for her. She’s beneath you, sir. Or is that what you want?’ he added, slyly. ‘Having Josie beneath you, I mean.’

‘No!’ denied Leeming, revolted by the notion. ‘That’s not what I want. I’m a detective from Scotland Yard and I wish to speak to her in connection with a crime.’ The old man gabbled his apologies. ‘Did you, by any chance, see her yesterday afternoon?’

The old man thought hard. ‘I did, as a matter of fact.’

‘Where was she?’

‘Standing outside, all dressed up in her finery.’

‘Did you see her through the window?’

‘No,’ said the other. ‘I was walking along the pavement outside. Josie was lurking at the door as if she didn’t know whether to come in or go away.’

‘Was she on her own?’ asked Leeming.

‘She was at first. Then that ugly devil of hers steps out of the alleyway and rushes her away up the road.’

‘In which direction did they go?’

‘Towards Camden,’ said the old man, ‘but I only saw them for a few seconds. Dick Chiffney stopped a cab and the both got into it.’ He cackled again. ‘I pity the poor horse, having to pull Josie along. She must weigh the best part of a ton.’

‘Are you certain that it was Chiffney?’

‘Oh, yes. Nobody else could be as ugly as that.’


Dick Chiffney peered at his face in the mirror, twisting his head sideways as he used the razor to shave the last bristles from his chin. After washing the blade in a bowl of cold water, he dried it on a piece of cloth before closing the razor. Then he splashed his face with water and dabbed at it with the cloth. He viewed the results in the mirror. On the bed behind him, Josie Murlow slowly came out of her sleep.

‘Where am I?’ she said, drowsily.

‘You’re with me, Josie,’ he told her. ‘We’re staying at the house of my friend for a little while.’

‘Why is that?’

‘You know why.’

‘I’d rather be in my own house.’

‘It could be watched.’

‘But there’s things I need, Dick.’

‘I’ll sneak back after dark and get them for you, my love,’ he said. ‘I can’t take that chance in daylight. He might’ve come back.’

‘Who’re you talking about?’ she asked, yawning.

‘The policeman I knocked out yesterday.’

The reminder brought her fully awake. Josie struggled to sit up in bed, her naked breasts spilling out over the bed sheet like a pair of balloons filled with water. She rubbed a knuckle against both eyes.

‘I remember now,’ she said with annoyance. ‘I was followed.’

‘As I guessed you would be,’ he bragged. ‘You have to keep one step ahead of the police, Josie. I know the way they work.’

‘Does that mean I can never go back to my house?’

‘You may never need to, my love.’

She yawned again. ‘What time is it?’

‘It’s time for me to go.’

‘You’re not going to leave me here alone, are you?’ she protested.

‘I have to,’ he explained. ‘There’s breakfast waiting for you in the kitchen downstairs and I’ve left money if you want to send out for drink. My friend’s name is Walter, by the way. Ask him for anything you need. Walter will look after you.’

‘I’d rather you did that,’ she grumbled.

Josie looked around the room with a mixture of interest and distrust. It was bigger, better furnished and very much cleaner than her bedroom at home. They were obviously in a sizeable house. The bed was extremely comfortable. She and Chiffney had tested the mattress to the limit. She watched him as he put on his jacket and did up the buttons. The new suit made him look so much smarter. She wanted to believe that the two of them were going up in the world but she was haunted by doubts.

‘Everything is going to be all right, Dick, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Put your faith in me, my love.’

‘I want to come with you.’

‘No, Josie,’ he said, restraining her as she tried to clamber out of bed. ‘I’ve got business I can only do on my own. In any case, I don’t want us to be seen in public again.’

She bristled. ‘Are you ashamed of me, then?’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘Have you got someone else, Dick?’ she said, accusingly.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’ve got a gentleman who’ll pay me more money than I’ve ever earned before to do one small job. You’ll be fine here, my love,’ he said, jokingly. ‘If you have any fears for your virginity, there’s a rifle under the bed. I don’t need that today.’

He picked up the pistol that lay on the table and opened his coat to tuck the weapon into his belt. Slipping some ammunition into his pocket, he reached for his hat. Josie was concerned.

‘How long will you be?’ she asked.

‘I could be away for most of the day.’

‘Why – where are you going?’

‘Brighton,’ he said.


Robert Colbeck was away for such a long time that Thornhill assumed that he was not coming back to the house. He was already composing a letter of complaint to Scotland Yard when the detective was finally shown back into the library.

‘I thought you’d abandoned me, Inspector,’ he said.

‘I’d never do that, sir,’ Colbeck told him. ‘There was a large area to search but it was worthwhile. I found the exact spot from which that shot was fired at you.’ He held up a tiny piece of cloth. ‘Your attacker was hiding behind a bramble bush some fifty yards away. His jacket must have caught on the spikes.’

‘There’s no guarantee that the material came from his clothing,’ Thornhill contended. ‘It might have come from anyone else who’d walked that way – from my gamekeeper, for instance.’

‘I think your gamekeeper would have more sense than to stand in a bramble patch, sir. Besides, there are clear footprints there. From that position, he had a good view of the terrace.’

‘What use is that information now?’

‘I thought it might reassure you.’

Thornhill was perplexed. ‘How could it possibly do that?’

‘It proves that your would-be assassin was no marksman, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘From fifty yards away, a trained rifleman would have been confident of hitting you when you were sitting down. This man waited until you got up so that you presented a larger target – and yet still he missed.’

‘Only by a matter of inches,’ said Thornhill.

‘Someone who knew how to handle a rifle could have shot you dead from hundreds of yards away. This man had to get close and even then he failed. In your position,’ said Colbeck, ‘I’d draw comfort from that fact.’

‘The only comfort I get is when the house is properly guarded and I’m locked up safely inside.’

‘I meant to speak to you about that, sir. After today, I suggest that you stand down some of the men at the gate and those patrolling the estate.’

‘That’s an insane suggestion, Inspector.’

‘If you want the man caught, it’s the best thing to do.’

‘Lay myself open to the possibility of a second attack?’ cried Thornhill in disbelief. ‘What on earth is the point of that?’

‘It will tempt him to come back.’

‘That’s the last thing I want to do, man.’

‘Then we may never find him,’ warned Colbeck. ‘He’ll melt into the crowd and stay there until you’re sufficiently recovered to leave the safety of your home. It may take weeks, even months, before he strikes again – and it will be when you least expect it. If we can lure him into making a second attempt, however,’ he went on, ‘we can bait the trap.’

‘I won’t be used as target practice,’ said Thornhill, hotly.

‘There’s no danger of that, sir. Now, you have a reputation as a public speaker. As well as taking part in Parliamentary debates, you’ve addressed meetings on a regular basis.’

‘One has to spread the word.’

‘Do you keep a record of such meetings?’

‘Naturally,’ said Thornhill. ‘Everything is listed in my diary. As it happens, I was due to speak here in Brighton tomorrow evening.’

Colbeck was pleased. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you must honour the commitment.’

‘How can I when someone out there is waiting to shoot me? I’ve instructed my secretary to say that I’ve had to withdraw.’

‘Has he done so yet, Mr Thornhill?’

‘Yes, he’s advised them to find another speaker.’

‘I think you should rescind that instruction and announce that you’ll address the meeting, after all. It would impress your audience greatly that you’ve made light of your injuries.’

‘I’ve no wish to appear in public.’

‘You may not have to, sir – just do as I ask.’

Thornhill was reluctant. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘Meanwhile, I’d be most grateful to see the list of public meetings you’ve addressed in recent months. When I have that in my possession, I’ll go back into Brighton.’

‘Why is that, Inspector?’

‘I need to look at some newspapers, sir.’


If nothing else, the visit to Chalk Farm had confirmed the fact that it was Dick Chiffney who had knocked Victor Leeming unconscious in an alleyway. It served to concentrate the victim’s mind. Leaving the Shepherd and Shepherdess, he turned to the next task assigned to him by Colbeck and headed for the offices of the LNWR. As he was about to go in, he met Captain Ridgeon on his way out.

‘Good morning, Sergeant,’ said Ridgeon, brightly.

‘Good morning to you, sir,’ returned Leeming.

‘Are you still persisting in your unnecessary inquiry?’

‘Yes, Captain – in spite of jibes from ill-informed sources.’

‘Are you referring to my comments in the newspaper?’

‘They were both harsh and unjust.’

‘I was quoted incorrectly, Sergeant Leeming.’

‘Does that mean you actually approve of what we’re doing?’

Ridgeon stifled a smile. ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ he said, ‘but I would ask you to believe that my remarks were not as intemperate as they appeared to be in that article.’

‘It all hangs on the interpretation of the evidence,’ said Leeming, ‘and, in my opinion, there’s nobody alive who does that better than Inspector Colbeck.’

‘Unfortunately, some of that “evidence” has now disappeared.’

‘Has it?’

‘I can see that you haven’t been to Brighton recently,’ said Ridgeon. ‘Once I had made my decision about the cause of the crash, it was vital to open the two lines again as quickly as possibly. Crews worked twenty-four hours a day to clear the debris and repair the track. As from yesterday, the Brighton Express is running again in both directions.’

‘I wondered how the Inspector got back so early yesterday.’

Ridgeon was curious. ‘What was he doing in Brighton?’

‘Exactly the same as I’m doing now, sir,’ said Leeming, looking him in the eye. ‘He’s doing his damnedest to prove you wrong.’

He went into the building, introduced himself to one of the clerks and asked to see Matthew Shanklin. After disappearing for a couple of minutes, the man returned and shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Mr Shanklin is not here.’

‘Is he still indisposed?’

‘Yes, sir – he’s too ill to come into work this morning.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The manager says that he sent a letter to that effect.’

Leeming’s eye lit up. ‘Was it written by Mr Shanklin himself?’

‘I think so, Sergeant.’

‘Then I should very much like to see it.’


While nothing could have endeared the politician to Colbeck, he had to admire Giles Thornhill’s industry. The man was quite indefatigable, addressing public meetings on issues of the day with a frequency that was breathtaking. When he was not facing an audience in a hall, Thornhill was, more often than not, expressing his opinions as an after-dinner speaker at various functions. Most of his work had been done in London but there were enough occasions when he had spoken in his constituency to send Colbeck to the offices of one of the local newspapers, the Brighton Gazette.

The editor, Sidney Weaver, was an anxious little man in his forties, his brow furrowed and his hands twitching nervously. The Railway Detective, it turned out, was a man for whom he had the highest respect.

‘I’ve followed your career carefully,’ said Weaver, gesticulating at him. ‘I know what you did on Derby Day this year and how you solved the murder of that man thrown from the Sankey Bridge. You’ll get all the help you need from me.’

‘Thank you,’ said Colbeck, finding his praise rather tiresome. ‘All I want is somewhere quiet to read back copies of your newspaper.’

‘Is there anything in particular that you’re looking for, sir? If so, I might be able to save you the time. I’ve got an encyclopaedic mind where the Gazette is concerned. Mr Bardwell calls me a marvel.’

‘I gather that he often writes for you.’

‘We always accept copy from someone of his eminence. Mark you,’ Weaver went on, closing an eye, ‘he’s not so ready to offer an opinion when there’s been an accident and that’s happened once too often.’ The lines in his face multiplied and deepened. ‘Do you remember when the Jenny Lind came into service?’

‘Of course,’ replied Colbeck. ‘It was seven years ago. She was a beautiful locomotive with those huge six-foot driving wheels and that classical fluted dome.’

‘I was travelling on the express when Jenny Lind got into trouble. Her leading axle broke and tore off a wheel. The driver had no idea what had happened so he kept up full speed, unaware that he was ripping up the track behind him. We were aware of it,’ said Weaver, hands semaphoring wildly, ‘because we were shaken about every inch of the way. We were lucky to come out of it alive.’

‘What was Mr Bardwell’s reaction?’

‘He went strangely quiet for once.’

‘That same can’t be said of the gentleman in whom I’m interested,’ said Colbeck, taking out a piece of paper. ‘These are the editions I’d like to see, Mr Weaver,’ he continued, handing the list over. ‘Is there somewhere private where I can study them?’

‘Have the use of my office,’ said Weaver, moving various items off his desk. ‘It’s a privilege to have the Railway Detective here.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll get one of my lads to find these for you.’

Weaver opened the door, beckoned a young man over and gave him the list. While they were waiting, he gave Colbeck a brief history of the Gazette and how he had come to edit it. The newspapers arrived and Weaver took them from the young man before putting them in the middle of the desk.

‘If there’s anything I can do, Inspector, just call me.’

‘I will, Mr Weaver.’

Grateful to be left alone at last, Colbeck worked through the newspapers chronologically, searching for reports of public meetings that Giles Thornhill had addressed. Occasionally, he had shared a platform with the other sitting Member of Parliament for Brighton but Thornhill’s had always been the more dominant voice. He was an unrepentant reactionary, defending the status quo and resisting any hint of radical reform. Chartists were treated with especial scorn.

In almost every speech, Thornhill had stressed his pride in his country, arguing that the British Empire was a wondrous achievement that acted as a civilising influence all over the world. On the subject of immigration – and he spoke on it more than once – his patriotism had taken on a sharper edge. His most recent speech on the subject had been quoted in some detail. Colbeck could almost hear him declaiming the words from a platform. Folding over the page, he got up and opened the door. Sidney Weaver scurried across to him like a spaniel.

‘Did you want to see anything else, Inspector Colbeck?’ he said.

‘It’s possible,’ replied Colbeck. ‘There’s a speech here that Giles Thornhill made about immigration.’

‘He’s always had great distaste for foreigners.’

‘This is more than distaste, Mr Weaver.’ He showed the report to the editor. ‘Did you have any response to this?’

‘We had a very strong response,’ said Weaver with an abrupt laugh. ‘Some of the letters were far too offensive to print.’

Colbeck smiled. ‘I don’t suppose you kept any of them, did you?’

‘I kept them all, Inspector – including the one from the Rector of St Dunstan’s. He was outraged by what Mr Thornhill had said.’


A meeting with the churchwardens was always an essay in sustained boredom but Ezra Follis endured it without demur. Retired, worthy, staid and lacking in anything resembling lightness of touch, the two men were pillars of the community who took their duties with a seriousness matched only by their solemnity. A couple of hours in their presence taxed even Follis’s nerves and he waved them off with more than usual alacrity. The moment they disappeared, Mrs Ashmore bustled out of the kitchen.

‘Is there anything I can get you?’ she offered.

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘you can untie the bandage on the other hand.’

‘The doctor said that you had to keep it on.’

‘It’s so inconvenient.’

‘Your other hand is now free,’ she pointed out.

‘Thank goodness! I can at least start to write again.’

Flexing his right hand, he examined it. Still covered by scabs, it was no longer burning away under the bandaging. It was the left hand that was more badly damaged and it would be some time before he had free use of it again. Meanwhile, he could now catch up on the correspondence that he had had to postpone.

‘Will you be going to London this week?’ asked Mrs Ashmore.

‘I think not. I’ll have to change my routine for once. Until my hands and my head are better, I’ll stay here and enjoy the comforts of home.’

‘I’m glad to hear that.’

‘As for refreshment, Mrs Ashmore, I think that a long walk will be the best tonic for me somehow. Splendid fellows though they are, our churchwardens can lower the spirits at times – not that they must ever know that.’

‘You can always rely on me, Mr Follis.’

‘Your discretion is much appreciated.’

After thanking her with a smile, he took his leave and stepped out of the rectory. It was a fine day and he wished that he could wear a hat to ward off the sun but the bandaging around his skull made that impossible. Though he had told his housekeeper that he was going on a long walk, he instead took a short stroll to a terrace not far from the church. Stopping outside the corner house, he rang the bell. The door was opened by a breathless Amy Walcott, who had seen him through the window of the drawing room and scampered to meet him.

‘Good morning, Amy,’ he said.

‘What a lovely surprise!’

‘The churchwardens and I have just been talking about you.’

Her expression changed. ‘There are no complaints about the way the flowers are arranged, are there?’ she said, apprehensively. ‘I take so much trouble over them and always check when it’s been someone else’s turn.’

‘The flowers have earned nothing but compliments,’ he told her. ‘In fact, Miss Andrews, whom you met yesterday, said that you had mastered the art of flower arranging.’

‘Did the young lady go into the church, then?’

‘I made sure that she did.’ He beamed at her. ‘It’s very nice standing out here on your doorstep, Amy, but I was hoping for a private word. May I come in?’

‘Of course, of course,’ she said, backing away.

They went into a drawing room that was cosy and inviting rather than elegant. It had a dated feel to it. Everything in it had been bought by Amy’s mother before she had followed her husband to the grave. The passion for flowers was reflected in the floral pattern on the wallpaper and the landscapes on the wall, replete with fields of bluebells, daffodils and other flowers.

‘Your mother left her mark on this room, Amy,’ he observed.

‘I try to keep it exactly as Mother left it.’

‘That’s why I feel so comfortable in here.’ She indicated the sofa and he sat down. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’m sorry that I was in the way yesterday.’

‘Don’t talk such nonsense!’

‘Inspector Colbeck came to talk about the train crash.’

‘He gave me no warning of his arrival,’ said Follis. ‘Since he was there, I could hardly turn him away.’

‘Is Miss Andrews his…fiancée?’ she probed.

‘I fancy that she will be in time – they are very close.’

Amy was relieved to hear it. The fact that he had taken her into the church had set off a faint pang of jealousy. At the rectory, she had felt ousted by a much prettier young woman.

‘You have your own charms,’ he said, settling back, ‘and not even Miss Andrews could compete with you in some ways. Have you been reading Tennyson again?’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I know some of the smaller poems by heart.’

‘You’ve always been quick to learn, Amy.’

She almost blushed. ‘I’ve had a good teacher.’

‘Then let me hear how well I’ve taught you.’ He looked towards the door. ‘Are we alone in the house?’

‘The maid is in the kitchen. We’ll not be disturbed.’

‘Good.’

‘Shall I fetch the book, Mr Follis?’

‘Where is it?’

‘On the table beside my bed,’ she replied.

‘Let it stay there for a while, Amy,’ he said, using his right hand to stroke his chin. ‘Why don’t you recite the poems that you’ve learnt by heart? At this moment in time, I can’t think of anything in the world I’d rather hear.’

Amy Walcott glowed with delight.


CHAPTER TWELVE

Victor Leeming had hoped that he could slip back to Scotland Yard without being spotted by the superintendent but Edward Tallis had an uncanny knack of knowing which of his officers was on the premises at any given time. No sooner had Leeming crept into Colbeck’s office than the shadow of his superior fell across him. He quailed.

‘Do you have the inspector’s permission to come in here while he’s away?’ enquired Tallis.

‘Yes, Superintendent, I do.’

‘For what purpose, may I ask?’

‘He wanted me to compare some handwriting, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘I believe that he showed you the funeral card received at the hospital by Mr Bardwell.’

‘Yes – it was an appalling thing to send.’

‘Thank heaven Mr Bardwell didn’t actually know what it said. The Reverend Follis had the presence of mind to keep it from him and pass it on to us instead.’

‘Everything I learn about this clergyman is to his credit,’ said Tallis, warmly. ‘I should like to meet the fellow some time.’

‘I’d like to hear him preach in church. I fancy that he’d deliver a lively sermon. Oh, that reminds me, sir,’ Leeming continued, seizing his opportunity. ‘I’d very much like to have next Sunday free, if it’s at all possible.’

‘That depends on the state of this investigation.’

‘Whatever its state, I need to be at home.’

‘Why – is there some kind of domestic emergency?’

‘We’re having an important family event.’

‘Dear God!’ cried Tallis with dismay, ‘are you telling me that your wife is about to give birth to another child? Learn to contain yourself, man,’ he said, reproachfully. ‘Control your animal urges. You were not put on this earth to people it indiscriminately.’

Leeming was embarrassed. ‘We’re not expecting an addition to the family, sir.’

‘I’m relieved to hear it.’

‘Estelle and I are happy with the two children we already have.’

‘My opinion remains unchanged,’ said Tallis. ‘Children are a grave distraction for any police officer.’

‘You were a child once, Superintendent.’

‘Don’t be impertinent.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘What exactly is this important family event?’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Leeming, not wishing to invite derision by explaining his request. ‘I’ll do whatever needs to be done to bring this investigation to a conclusion.’

‘That’s the attitude I expect of my men. You must have seen that vicious article in the newspaper yesterday,’ said Tallis, still smarting at the personal attack on him. ‘We need to vindicate our reputation and do so quickly. I rely on you and Colbeck to put the Inspector General of Railways in his place.’

‘As it happens, I met Captain Ridgeon this morning.’

‘Oh – where was that?’

‘At the offices of the LNWR,’ said Leeming.

‘Did he say anything to you?’

‘Yes, sir – he was crowing over us.’

‘We must put a stop to that,’ said Tallis, vengefully. ‘What were you doing there, Sergeant?’

‘I’d hoped to speak to Mr Shanklin, sir. Inspector Colbeck had intended to do so but he was called away to Brighton. I went in his stead. For the second day running, Mr Shanklin was not there. But I managed to get what I went for,’ said Leeming, taking a letter from his pocket. ‘It’s a sample of his handwriting.’

‘Do you think that he might have sent that funeral card?’

‘Why don’t we find out, sir?’

Opening a drawer in the desk, Leeming took out the envelope containing the funeral card and put it side by side with the letter written by Matthew Shanklin. The looping calligraphy was almost identical. Tallis picked up both items and looked from one to the other in quick succession. He sounded a note of triumph.

‘We’ve got him!’

‘They do look very similar,’ said Leeming.

‘They should do, Sergeant – they’re the work of the same man.’ He took out the funeral card to compare it with the letter. ‘There’s no doubt about it. Matthew Shanklin sent this card.’

‘He may have done a lot more than that, sir.’

‘I’m sure that he did,’ said Tallis, grimly. ‘He caused that crash deliberately then sent that card to Mr Bardwell as a taunt. He was gloating.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘We need a warrant for his arrest. You can go to his home this morning.’

‘That won’t be possible, Superintendent.’

‘Why not?’

‘I called there on my way back from his office,’ said Leeming. ‘His wife told me that her husband had gone out. That was very odd because his letter claims that he was too ill to go to work. Mr Shanklin is deceiving his employers.’

‘Find him, Sergeant,’ ordered Tallis. ‘Find him at once.’


The Brighton line was one on which Matthew Shanklin had travelled many times when he worked for the company but the present journey was different from the others. He was smouldering with residual anger at his dismissal from a post that he had expected to hold until his retirement. As the train puffed its way past the site of the crash, he was astonished to see how much of the debris had been cleared away. The scarred embankment still bore testimony to the disaster, as did the bushes flattened during the derailment but the place was no longer littered with mangled iron and shattered timber.

What did catch his eye were the wreaths that had been placed beside the line, marking the spot where lives had been lost. From the newspaper he had bought at the station, Shanklin had learnt that the death toll had now reached a dozen. His one regret was that a particular name was missing from the list. The train raced on to Brighton where it disgorged several passengers taking advantage of a glorious day to visit the seaside.

Surging out of the railway station, the crowd was oblivious to its arresting architecture. Shanklin, however, paused to look back at the magnificent classical façade, worthy of an Italianate palace and a symmetrical tribute to the vital importance of the terminus. He had always admired stations that were both imposing and functional, soaring works of art that could yet be used daily by untold thousands of people. Brighton was a perfect example.

Cabs, omnibuses and the occasional carriage stood on the forecourt but Shanklin chose to walk. He was in no hurry. Having the day to himself, he could take his time and see some of the sights that had made Brighton so appealing. It was over an hour before he turned towards the county hospital. Shanklin was forced to wait. The person he wanted to see was being examined by a doctor. When the patient was left alone, Shanklin was thrilled to see how poorly he was. He leaned over the bed.

‘Do you remember me?’ he asked with a smirk.

Horace Bardwell began to quiver uncontrollably.


Colbeck had some difficulty in breaking free from the attentions of the over-helpful Sidney Weaver. The visit to the offices of the Brighton Gazette had, however, been very rewarding and its editor had been a mine of information. Among other things, he told Colbeck where to find the best gunsmith in the town. It was there that the detective took the bullet he had retrieved from the back of Thornhill’s settee. Having been given a professional opinion by the gunsmith, Colbeck decided to pay another call on someone else whose opinion he valued highly. The Reverend Ezra Follis was as cordial as ever.

‘This is becoming a habit, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Hardly a day passes when you don’t come to see me. This time, alas, you’ve not brought the charming Miss Andrews.’

‘Madeleine is working back home in London,’ said Colbeck.

‘Yes, she told me that she was an artist. I found it extraordinary that such a beautiful young woman should want to sketch steam locomotives.’ He raised a palm. ‘That’s not a criticism, I hasten to say. I applaud her talent. At least,’ he added with a laugh, ‘I would do if I were able to clap with both hands.’

They were in the rectory and it was only a matter of minutes before Mrs Ashmore appeared magically from the kitchen with a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits. Colbeck thanked her, realising for the first time that he had not eaten since having an early breakfast.

‘I’d like to think you came back to Brighton with the sole pleasure of seeing me,’ said Follis, wryly, ‘but I’m sure it was for a much more important reason.’

‘Someone tried to shoot Mr Thornhill,’ explained Colbeck.

‘Saints preserve us!’

‘It happened yesterday, Mr Follis.’

‘Was he hurt?’

‘Luckily, the bullet missed him.’

Colbeck told the rector what had happened and how he had found both the place from which the shot was fired and the bullet itself. Follis was shocked. While he was no friend of Giles Thornhill, he was distressed to hear of the attack and said that he would pray for the politician’s safety.

‘That explains why Mr Thornhill has withdrawn from a meeting he was due to address tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I thought it was because of his injuries. In view of the attempt on his life, I can appreciate the real reason why he’s not willing to appear in public.’

‘If he won’t speak, the meeting will have to be cancelled.’

‘One can’t disappoint an audience, Inspector. The town hall is booked and tickets have been sold. Another speaker has been found at short notice. I could not recommend him more highly.’

‘Who is going to replace Mr Thornhill?’

Follis chortled. ‘As luck would have it – I am.’

‘What’s the title of your talk?’

‘The one already advertised – The Future of Brighton.’

‘I’ve heard rather a lot on that topic in the last couple of hours,’ said Colbeck. ‘I’ve been doing some research at the offices of the Brighton Gazette. The editor had much to say about the town’s future.’

‘How did you get on with Sidney Weaver?’

‘He was extremely helpful, though inclined to fuss over me like a mother hen. I’ve never seen anyone look so worried.’

‘Sidney is always afraid that the Gazette is not as good as it should be and that the next edition may be the last. He’s a slave to his anxiety. After successful years in charge of the newspaper, he still lacks confidence.’

‘His knowledge of the town’s history is amazing.’

‘Incomparable,’ said Follis. ‘I’ve urged him to write a book about it. And, as you discovered, he has opinions about the future of the town as well. If he were not so dreadfully nervous in public, Sidney might have been approached to deputise for Mr Thornhill tomorrow.’ He reached for a scone. ‘Did you tell him about the shooting?’

‘No,’ said Colbeck. ‘Neither Mr Thornhill nor I want it splashed across the newspaper. I only confided in you because I know that you’ll be discreet. Also,’ he went on, ‘you needed to be told the truth before you can assist me.’

‘How can I help you this time, Inspector?’

‘I believe you wrote to the Gazette a couple of weeks ago.’

‘I’m always writing to newspapers,’ said Follis. ‘I’m a great believer in healthy debate. If there’s an issue that interests me, I make sure that I offer an opinion on it. That’s why I took on that speaking engagement tomorrow.’ He took a first bite of the scone. ‘Can you remind me about this particular letter?’

‘It was on the subject of immigration.’

‘Ah, yes – that dreadful speech by Mr Thornhill.’

‘You took strong exception to what he said.’

‘I was disgusted, Inspector,’ said Follis. ‘I was sorry that I was not actually at the meeting or I’d have stood up and denounced him. Did you see what he was preaching?’

‘He objects to foreigners settling in this country.’

‘It’s more specific than that. Though he spoke in general terms, his poisonous arguments had a very specific target. The foreigners he was attacking live right here in Brighton.’

‘The town is not noted for its immigrants.’

‘Mr Thornhill doesn’t work in numerical terms. The fact that we have any foreigners at all here is enough to arouse him, especially when they better themselves by dint of sheer hard work.’ He put his scone back on the plate. ‘Do you remember 1848?’

‘I remember it very well,’ said Colbeck. ‘Sergeant Leeming and I were in uniform at the time, deployed, along with the rest of the Metropolitan Police Force, to resist the threat of a Chartist uprising. Happily, that threat never materialised.’

‘It did elsewhere in Europe, Inspector. There were revolutions in France, Germany, Austria and elsewhere. Countries were in turmoil, governments were overthrown and the streets ran with blood.’

‘I know, Mr Follis. Many people fled to this country for safety.’

‘Some of them came to Brighton and liked it so much that they settled here. These are frightened refugees whom we should welcome with open arms,’ said Follis with passion. ‘All that Mr Thornhill can do is to stir up hatred against them. He has two main arguments. The first is that they are simply not British – an accident of Fate over which they have no control – and the second is that they’ve prospered in their new country. Foreigners, he argues, are taking opportunities that rightly belong to people who were born here.’

‘Judging by the report, his speech was almost inflammatory.’

‘It arose from a twisted patriotism, Inspector, and more or less incited people to join in a witch hunt. The wonder is that it didn’t provoke our immigrant population to react.’

‘I suspect that it did,’ said Colbeck, taking the bullet from his pocket and holding it on his palm. ‘This was intended to kill Giles Thornhill. According to the gunsmith I consulted, it did not come from a British rifle. It was fired from a foreign weapon.’


The funeral was a sombre affair. It was at Kensal Green Cemetery that Frank Pike was laid to rest. Wearing mourning dress, Caleb Andrews held back tears as he watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. The wooden box contained the unrecognisable remains of a friend he had loved and respected for many years. The thought that he would never see him again was like a bonfire in his brain. Andrews was grateful that Rose Pike was not there to see the last agonising minutes of her husband’s funeral.

Dressed in black like the others, Madeleine had stayed at the Pike household to make refreshments for those returning from the cemetery. She could see how deeply moved her father was. He was one of a number of railwaymen who had forfeited a day’s wages to pay their last respects to Pike. Now recovered, John Heddle was among them. All of them offered commiserations to the widow. What nobody did, Madeleine was relieved to see, was to refer to the newspaper article blaming the dead man for the train crash. To draw that to the attention of the widow would be like driving a stake through her heart.

On the journey back home, neither Madeleine nor her father spoke a single word. The bruising experience of the funeral had left them feeling hurt and bereft. Madeleine had been uncomfortably reminded of the death of her own mother and of its destructive impact on the family. Years after the event, it remained fresh and unbearably painful. She could understand the searing anguish that Rose Pike must be feeling and vowed to offer what succour she could in the future. Widowhood was a trial for any woman. The circumstances of her husband’s death intensified the ordeal for Rose Pike.

Andrews was lost in his own grief, calling to mind cherished memories of a man who had died a cruel death beneath the very locomotive he was driving. The worst of it was that he was now being hounded beyond the grave, made to bear responsibility for something he did not do. Andrews’s grief was mingled with a seething fury. He yearned to clear his friend’s name and defy Pike’s detractors. When they reached the house, he was still deep in thought.

Madeleine led the way in, removing her black hat with its thick veil and hanging it on a peg. She reached out to take her father’s hat from him. Andrews grabbed her hand.

‘When will you see Inspector Colbeck again, Maddy?’

‘I don’t know, father,’ she said.

‘Tell him to catch the monster who caused that crash,’ he said with sudden urgency. ‘Until that’s done, poor Frank will never be able to rest in peace.’


The security arrangements were still in place when Colbeck returned to Thornhill’s estate but at least he did not have to identify himself again. Broken arm back in its sling, the politician was seated at the table in his library, reading some correspondence. He looked up as Colbeck entered the room.

‘Do you have anything to report?’ he asked.

‘I feel that I made some progress,’ said Colbeck, ‘especially after my talk with the Reverend Follis.’

‘Don’t listen to that meddling fool.’

‘I found him anything but foolish, sir.’

‘He should stick to what he’s supposed to do,’ said Thornhill, ‘and not interfere in political matters about which he knows absolutely nothing. I only have to open my mouth and the Rector of St Dunstan’s is writing to the newspapers.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘I’ve seen one of his letters.’

‘His comments are quite uncalled for, Inspector.’

‘I don’t see why – he’s one of your constituents.’

Thornhill’s laugh was hollow. ‘If I had to rely on the votes of men like Ezra Follis,’ he said, ‘my Parliamentary career would have been woefully short. Fortunately, I have a number of like-minded supporters in Brighton. That’s why it’s such a pleasure to represent the town.’

‘But you don’t actually represent them,’ argued Colbeck. ‘Only a small percentage of the population is registered to vote. The only thing you represent is a minority.’

‘That’s because most people in the town lack the necessary property qualification. Brighton is besieged by newcomers and by foreign riffraff. They don’t deserve the vote. Anyway,’ he went on, testily, ‘why are we talking about Ezra Follis?’

‘He was able to give me some pertinent information.’

‘Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.’

‘As you wish, Mr Thornhill,’ said Colbeck, easily. ‘What I really came back to ask is if you had changed your mind about the speaking engagement tomorrow evening.’

‘It would be sheer madness to attend.’

‘I disagree.’

‘You have not been shot at, Inspector.’

‘As a matter of fact, I have sir – and on more than one occasion. To be frank, it’s an occupational hazard for which I don’t much care.’ He stepped closer. ‘Supposing that you were not in any danger? Would you consider fulfilling your commitment then?’

‘That question is purely hypothetical.’

‘I’d nevertheless be interested in your answer.’

‘Then I’d answer in the affirmative,’ said Thornhill, stoutly. ‘A broken arm would not stop me from expressing my views on a public platform. People look to me to shape their opinions.’

‘In that case, you mustn’t disappoint them.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Instruct your secretary to have your name reinstated at once in the advertisements,’ advised Colbeck. ‘At the moment, someone else is stepping into the breach to speak on the same subject. It might aid your decision if I tell you that your replacement is the Reverend Follis.’

Thornhill was stung. ‘I won’t stand for that!’

‘Someone has to address that meeting.’

‘What are you trying to do, Inspector – get me killed?’

‘No, sir,’ replied Colbeck, ‘I’m trying to ensure the arrest of the man who fired that shot at you. If you do as I say, you won’t even have to leave the house tomorrow evening – until it’s safe to do so, that is.’


After his long, tiring vigil on the previous day, Victor Leeming did not look forward to repeating the experience but there were extenuating aspects of his present assignment. He could expect no violence from Matthew Shanklin and there was no possibility of being lured into an alleyway so that he could be clubbed to the ground. The street in which he was standing consisted of matching rows of terraced houses. It was a district in which he did not look out of place in his normal apparel. Instead of staying in the same place, he patrolled up and down the street, one eye kept on the Shanklin residence at all times.

By mid-afternoon, his wait was over. A cab came round the corner and rolled past him before stopping a short distance away. Matthew Shanklin got out, paid the driver and turned to go towards his house. Leeming moved smartly. After ordering the driver to wait, he intercepted Shanklin.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, ‘I’d like a word with you.’

‘I’m afraid that I don’t have time to talk now, Sergeant,’ said Shanklin, walking away until Leeming grabbed his arm. ‘Take your hands off me!’

‘When I called at your office this morning, they told me that you were ill for the second day running.’

‘That’s quite true. I’ve just been to see my doctor.’

‘What’s his name, sir?’

‘That’s immaterial.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘I think you know, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘There’s no illness and no doctor. When I spoke to Mrs Shanklin this morning, she seemed totally unaware that you were supposed to be unwell.’

‘I told you before,’ protested Shanklin, a hand to his brow, ‘that I’m a martyr to migraine attacks.’

‘Then you’ll have another one very shortly, sir.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I have a warrant for your arrest,’ said Leeming, taking the paper from his pocket to show him. ‘You must come with me.’

Shanklin was rocked. ‘On what charge am I being arrested?’

‘We have reason to believe that you are party to a conspiracy to cause a train crash on the Brighton line.’ Shanklin’s eyes darted to his house. ‘No, sir, I’m afraid that I can’t let you go in there first. You’ll have to accompany me to Scotland Yard.’

‘But I’ve done nothing wrong,’ bleated the other.

‘You can tell that to Superintendent Tallis.’

Accepting that there was no escape, Shanklin gave in. He gulped in air and looked around guiltily. Leeming saw no need to put handcuffs on him. Easing him back into the cab, he stepped in after him. The driver, who had watched the arrest with fascination, did not need instructions.

‘Scotland Yard, is it, guv’nor?’ he said, snapping the reins to set the horse in motion. ‘I thought there was something funny about him when I picked him up at the railway station.’

Leeming spent the journey trying to find out where Shanklin had been all day but the man refused to tell him. On the orders of the superintendent, Leeming said nothing about the handwriting on the letter and the funeral card. It was a revelation Tallis wanted to keep for himself. On arrival at their destination, Leeming paid the driver and hustled his prisoner into the building. They went straight to the superintendent’s office.

Edward Tallis was so pleased with the arrest that he permitted Leeming to stay while he questioned the suspect. His technique differed radically from that favoured by Colbeck. While the inspector was effortlessly polite, drawing out information slowly by the most subtle means, Tallis chose a more direct and intimidating approach. After the preliminaries, he made Shanklin sit down so that he could loom over him.

‘Did you send Mr Bardwell a funeral card?’ he demanded.

‘No,’ replied Shanklin, caught off-balance.

‘Did you send a note to your office this morning, explaining that you were to unwell to go to work?’

‘Yes, Superintendent – I had a migraine.’

‘It did not prevent you writing this letter,’ said Tallis, snatching it off his desk to wave in front of him. ‘Do you recognise this as yours?’

‘Yes, I do. Where did you get it from?’

‘We wanted an example of your handwriting, sir, so that we could compare it with this.’

Picking up the funeral card in the other hand, Tallis held it beside the letter and watched the suspect’s reaction. After swallowing hard, Shanklin tried to talk his way out of the situation.

‘The writing is similar, I grant you,’ he said, ‘but not the same.’

Tallis grinned wolfishly. ‘I can explain the slight discrepancy,’ he said, shaking the letter. ‘This one was written when you were troubled by a migraine. Your hand trembled. The only thing that afflicted you when you scribbled the message on the card was cold malevolence.’

‘Fortunately,’ said Leeming, ‘Mr Bardwell never saw the card.’

‘Leave this to me, Sergeant,’ warned Tallis.

‘I felt that he ought to be told.’

‘I can handle this interview.’

Leeming backed away. ‘Of course, sir.’

‘Well, Mr Shanklin,’ said the superintendent, ‘are you going to persist in your denial? We know that you had motive, means and opportunity to send this card. When you were first interviewed by Sergeant Leeming, you made no bones about your hatred of Mr Bardwell. You revelled in his pain.’

‘I had good cause to do so,’ argued Shanklin.

‘Then you did send that taunt to Mr Bardwell?’

Shanklin chewed his lip. Confronted with the evidence, there was no hope of evading the truth. ‘Yes, I did,’ he confessed.

‘Nothing can excuse the wording on that card. However, that’s a minor matter compared with the crime for which you’re charged.’ Tallis’s index finger was accusatory. ‘Did you or did you not conspire to derail the Brighton Express?’

‘I swear that I did not, Superintendent.’

‘The evidence indicates otherwise.’

‘What evidence?’ wailed Shanklin. ‘If everyone who has a grudge against Horace Bardwell is suspected, this room would be filled to capacity. He’s a loathsome human being. I admit freely that I’d derive immense satisfaction from reading his obituary – even though it would conceal the ugly truth and praise him to the skies. But I did not,’ he emphasised, ‘take any steps to cause a train crash that might have killed him.’

‘We believe you engaged someone else to do it,’ said Leeming.

‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ cautioned Tallis. ‘Don’t interrupt.’

‘Tell him, sir.’

‘All in good time,’ said the other.

He put the card and the letter aside then perched on the edge of the desk. He waited patiently. The superintendent might be relaxed but Shanklin was squirming in his seat. Tallis locked his eyes on the suspect and spoke with deliberate calm.

‘Do you understand the seriousness of the crime, sir?’

‘I did not commit it,’ retorted Shanklin.

‘That’s not what I asked you. Please answer my question.’

‘Yes, of course I understand how serious it is.’

‘Twelve people were killed and dozens were badly injured, Mr Bardwell among them. Would you agree that a man who connived at such a disaster is nothing short of a fiend?’

‘I could not agree more, Superintendent.’

‘Then why did you do it?’ snapped Tallis, moving to stand over him like a vulture over a carcass. ‘Why did you and your confederate commit that crime? Why did you kill and maim innocent people in the reckless pursuit of a private feud? You and Dick Chiffney will hang for what you did. The pair of you deserve no mercy.’

‘No!’ howled Shanklin in despair. ‘I’d never sink to anything like that. It’s downright evil. What sort of a man do you take me for? You must believe me, superintendent. I had nothing whatsoever to do with the crash. As for Dick,’ he said, ‘I haven’t seen him for months.’

‘Then you do know the man.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘That’s not what you told me,’ said Leeming.

‘We have a connection at last,’ said Tallis. ‘It needed one person to plan the crime and another to execute it, one person to spy out the right place with his telescope and another to act on his orders. I suggest that you, Matthew Shanklin, were in league with Chiffney.’

‘I’d never trust a man like Dick,’ said Shanklin.

‘Why not?’

‘He’s far too unreliable.’

‘Then you suborned someone else to help you.’

‘My only crime was to send that malicious card.’

‘Tell us how you know Chiffney,’ said Leeming, ‘and explain why you denied it earlier.’

Shanklin shook his head wearily. ‘I was too ashamed to admit it, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Dick is a distant relative of mine. I keep as far away from the rogue as possible. He prevailed upon me to get him a job with the LB&SCR then he lost it by knocking out the foreman’s teeth. That was typical of him. Dick Chiffney is a menace.’


Chiffney was frustrated. Having been unable to carry out his orders in Brighton, he returned by train to London that evening and went into a tavern near the station to have a few drinks before he felt able to face Josie Murlow’s cross-examination. Instead of taking good news back to her, he had to admit failure. When he got back to the house, he went up the stairs and saw her waiting at the top, hands on her hips. She looked even more bellicose than usual.

‘Where’ve you been?’ she snarled.

‘You know that, my darling. I had to go to Brighton.’

‘You’ve been away all day, Dick.’

‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said, taking her by the arm to lead her back into their bedroom. ‘Let me explain.’

She was roused. ‘You’ve been drinking – I can smell it on you.’

‘I only had one pint.’

‘And what did she have?’ Josie challenged. ‘What did your fancy woman drink? That’s where you’ve been, Dick Chiffney, isn’t it – strolling along the promenade in Brighton with someone else on your arm! While I’ve been shut away here like a prisoner, you’ve been dipping your wick at the seaside.’

‘That’s a lie!’ he shouted. ‘You’re the only woman I want, Josie. You should know that by now. Nobody compares with you, my love. In any case,’ he said, pointing to his face with a harsh laugh, ‘this ugly mug of mine frightens women away. Only you had the kindness to take me on. Do you think I’d forget that?’

‘There’s nobody else, then?’

‘I give you my word.’

She was pacified. ‘So tell me what happened.’

‘I waited and watched in vain.’

‘What were you supposed to do?’

‘That doesn’t matter. The point is that I wasn’t able to do it.’

‘Were you there to kill someone, Dick?’

‘No, no,’ he said, evasively.

‘Then why did you take that gun with you?’

‘It was for my protection, Josie. There’s lots of thieves about. You can’t be too careful.’

‘Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes,’ she said. ‘Any thief would have more sense than to take on a man like you. That gun was given you for a purpose – and so was that rifle. Now stop feeding me lies or I’ll walk out of here now.’

‘You mustn’t do that, Josie – you could be seen.’

‘The police are after you, not me.’

‘Just let me do the job,’ he pleaded, ‘then the pair of us can get out of London altogether. I know you’re upset because all your things are back at the house but they can be fetched. As soon as it gets dark, I’ll sneak back and get whatever you want.’

‘The only thing I want is the truth,’ she declared, giving him an ultimatum. ‘If I don’t hear it in the next few minutes, then you can find someone else to lie to because I’ll be on my way home.’

Chiffney was in an awkward predicament. If he told her the full truth, he would be breaking his word to the man who was employing him. He would also risk losing Josie altogether. When she realised the enormity of what he had already done, she would be horrified and might well want nothing to do with him. While she would happily flout the law when it served her purpose, she would never condone the crime in which Chiffney had become involved. On the other hand, to withhold everything from her would provoke Josie into walking out and he was desperate to prevent that. After careful consideration, he decided on a partial confession.

‘I met this man some weeks ago,’ he began.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Now that’s something I can’t tell you, my love, because I don’t know it myself. He made sure of that. What I can tell you is that he lives in Brighton and he’s not short of money.’

‘Why did he get in touch with you?’

‘He wanted someone who could do a job for him without asking any questions. My name was mentioned to him and he got in touch.’ He smirked. ‘It was the best bit of luck I’ve had since I met you.’

‘What sort of job is it?’

‘A dangerous one,’ he admitted.

‘I knew it,’ she said, wide-eyed with alarm. ‘He’s paying you to murder someone, isn’t he?’

‘Let’s just say that he wants a certain man hurt bad. I hurt him once already and that’s why I got that money. But there’s more to come if I hurt him again.’ She was patently worried. ‘It will be over in seconds, Josie,’ he went on, slipping an arm around her. ‘This man means nothing to us – why should we care what happens to him?’

‘Who is he?’

‘He lives in Brighton, that’s all I can tell you.’

‘Why does the other man want him hurt?’

‘Revenge,’ said Chiffney. ‘I don’t know what he did to the man who’s paying me but it must have been something terrible. In other words, he deserves what’s coming to him.’ He pulled her close. ‘So now you know the truth, Josie. I’ve been living off you too long and it made me feel bad. When I had a chance like this, I couldn’t turn it down. I’m being paid more than I could earn on the railway in ten years. Think what we could do with the money.’ Releasing her, he stood aside and indicated the door. ‘If you’re too scared to be my woman any more, you can walk out right now. Is that what you want to do, Josie? Make up your mind.’

It took her an instant to do so. She started to undress.

‘Let’s go to bed,’ she decided.


CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Expecting to report to the superintendent the moment he returned from Brighton that evening, Robert Colbeck discovered that Tallis was in a meeting with the Commissioner, defending his officers against the jibes made about them in the newspaper and trying to justify the time and money allotted to the investigation. Colbeck instead invited Victor Leeming into his office to tell him what he had learnt in the course of his trip to the south coast. Before the inspector could speak, however, Leeming blurted out his own news.

‘I arrested Matthew Shanklin,’ he said, proudly.

‘Did the handwriting match?’

‘Yes, Inspector – he admitted sending that funeral card.’

‘Is he still in custody?’

‘No – he’s been released on bail.’

Colbeck was staggered. ‘For a crime of this magnitude?’

‘Mr Shanklin had nothing to do with the train crash, sir.’

‘Are you sure of that, Victor? I was beginning to feel certain that he and Chiffney were working in partnership.’

Leeming told him the full story, pointing out that he would much sooner face questioning by Colbeck than submit to the kind of badgering interrogation perfected by Tallis. In sending the funeral card, Shanklin was guilty of malicious behaviour designed to inflict pain on a man he despised. Beyond that, no other charges could be brought against him.

It was a setback for Colbeck. Disappointed that Shanklin was innocent of any part in the crime on the Brighton line, he was at least glad that he had been flushed out into the open. One name could now be eliminated from the major inquiry. The problem was that it left them with only a single suspect.

‘Did Mr Shanklin tell you where he’d been today?’ said Colbeck.

‘He claimed that he’d taken the day off to visit friends.’

‘That was an arrant lie.’

‘I know that he went somewhere by train because the cab driver remembered picking him up at a railway station.’

‘He’d been to Brighton. Far from visiting friends, he was there to call on his sworn enemy, Horace Bardwell.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Leeming.

‘I looked in at the hospital before I left,’ said Colbeck. ‘I wanted to see how Mr Bardwell and some of the other survivors were faring. Shanklin, apparently, came into the ward in order to gloat over Mr Bardwell. From what I could gather, there was quite a scene. Mr Bardwell was so upset that he had to be sedated for a while.’

‘That ought to be mentioned when Shanklin comes to court.’

‘It will be, Victor. I’ll make sure of it.’

‘What else did you find out in Brighton?’

‘A great deal – it’s difficult to know where to start.’

Colbeck told him about meeting Giles Thornhill, spending time with Sidney Weaver and taking tea with Ezra Follis. He also talked about the visit to the gunsmith. Leeming was puzzled.

‘Why did you advise Mr Thornhill to speak tomorrow?’ he said.

‘It’s the only way to bring our assassin out of hiding. As long as the man is at liberty, Mr Thornhill’s life is in constant danger.’

‘But you’re putting him in even more danger by urging him to speak in a public meeting, sir. He could be shot dead on the platform.’

‘I think that highly unlikely, Victor,’ said Colbeck.

‘Why is that, sir?’

‘Put yourself in the position of the man with the rifle.’

‘Could his name be Dick Chiffney?’

‘In all probability, it is. Imagine that you were stalking Mr Thornhill. When you see an advertisement for a public meeting addressed by him, what would you do?’

‘Sit at the back of the hall and wait for the right moment.’

Colbeck grinned. ‘You’d never make an assassin, I’m afraid.’

‘Wouldn’t I?’

‘No, Victor – the first thing you need to do is to conceal your identity. How can you do that if you appear in public? You’ll be seen by people who can give an accurate description of you. Also, of course, there’s the small matter of making an escape from the hall. You could well be chased by some public-spirited citizen.’

‘All right,’ said Leeming, deflated, ‘tell me what you’d do.’

‘I wouldn’t let Mr Thornhill get anywhere near the hall.’

‘Then where would you kill him?’

‘Near the house,’ said Colbeck. ‘It’s more private and would save me the trouble of shooting over other people’s heads in the hall. The man we’re after has been inside the grounds before, remember. He knows how to find his way around.’

‘But you told me the estate was well guarded.’

‘It is at the moment. Very few men will be on duty tomorrow.’

‘Has Mr Thornhill agreed to make that speech?’

‘He’s giving it serious thought, Victor.’

‘If he refuses to go,’ said Leeming, ‘then your plan will have no chance at all of success.’

‘Oh, I don’t think he’ll refuse somehow.’

‘Why is that, Inspector?’

‘Pride is at stake,’ explained Colbeck. ‘If Giles Thornhill is not available tomorrow, he’ll have to yield the platform to a man he dislikes intensely and I can’t see him doing that.’

‘Who is the man?’

‘The Rector of St Dunstan’s.’


Ezra Follis rose at his habitual early hour and shaved with care in order to avoid the scratches on his cheeks. Tiring of the bandaging around his head, he ignored the doctor’s advice and unwound it to reveal some gashes on his forehead. There were wounds in his scalp as well but he could not see them in the mirror and they had ceased to remind him of their presence. Now that he had discarded the bandaging, he felt much better. After dressing in his bedroom, he took a smoking cap from the wardrobe and put it on. Follis did not, in fact, smoke but the cap had been a gift from the female parishioner who had made it for him and he did not have the heart to refuse it.

When he came down for breakfast, Mrs Ashmore was already busy in the kitchen. They exchanged greetings, commented on the weather then discussed the day’s commitments. It was only when the housekeeper finally turned round that she saw what he had done.

‘You’ve taken it off,’ she scolded.

‘It was like having my head in a vice.’

‘Doctor Lentle will be very cross with you.’

‘Only if he finds out what I’ve done,’ said Follis, ‘and I know I can count on you not to tell him. Besides, I’ve finally found a use for this cap that Mrs Gregory made for me. How does it look?’

‘Very becoming,’ said the housekeeper.

‘Do you think I should take up smoking?’

She was stern. ‘No, Mr Follis, it will make a stink. My husband used to smoke and the smell was terrible. I think that pipe of his was one of the things that took him away before his time. He had this awful hacking cough.’

‘Yet it didn’t stop him smoking.’

‘He just wouldn’t listen.’

‘A common fault of the male gender, I fear,’ he conceded. ‘We’re always deaf to sound advice about our health.’ He became serious. ‘The truth of it is that I felt something of a fraud with all that bandaging on. Those lying in hospital were the real victims. Some have lost limbs in the crash and Mr Bardwell has been blinded. I’m embarrassed when people offer sympathy to me. I don’t deserve it.’

‘You deserved every ounce of it,’ she said, softly. ‘I saw what other people didn’t see. I watched you struggling as you went up those stairs. I heard you groaning in pain during the night. You put on a brave face for your parishioners but I know the truth.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Ashmore,’ he said, touching her gently on the shoulder. ‘I have no secrets from you.’ He adjusted the cap slightly. ‘I wonder if I should wear this when I go to that meeting.’

‘I think your own hat would be more suitable.’

‘It’s not an ecclesiastical function. I’ll be speaking to the good citizens of Brighton about the future of their fair town. It will be a talk and not a sermon.’

‘You can hold an audience wherever you speak.’

‘I’m not sure how some of them will cope with the shock. They’re expecting to hear Giles Thornhill and they get the Rector of St Dunstan’s instead. We’re as different as chalk and cheese.’

‘I’ve always preferred cheese,’ she said with a half-smile. ‘Now, off you go into the dining room and I’ll serve breakfast.’

He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘I’ve got the verger coming at eight-thirty and the dean at nine. Then the ladies of the sewing circle will be descending on us. I must remember the smoking cap for that because Mrs Gregory is certain to be among them. No sooner do they go than I have to discuss the implications of holy matrimony with those delightful young people whose banns will be read for the first time next Sunday.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘We’ll needs lots of cups of tea, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s what I’m here for, Mr Follis.’

‘And how grateful I am to have you!’ he said. Follis breathed in deeply then exhaled with a broad smile. ‘You know, I really do feel so much better. I can even face the dean with equanimity in spite of the criticism I’m certain to incur from him. He always has some rebuke for me. If my recovery continues,’ he went on, chirpily, ‘I might even change my mind about Thursday.’

‘You mean that you’ll stay overnight in London?’

‘I mean exactly that, Mrs Ashmore.’

‘Very good, sir,’ she said, obediently.

‘Do you have any objection to that?’

‘It’s not my place to object, Mr Follis. You must do whatever you wish. You’ll never hear a word of complaint from me.’

She turned away so that he could not see her disappointment.


The day began early at Scotland Yard. Summoned to the superintendent’s office, Colbeck saw the morning newspapers strewn across his desk. Tallis was embittered.

‘Is there any profession more abhorrent and untrustworthy than that of journalism?’ he asked, scowling. ‘They pour their poison into the unsuspecting minds of the British public and warp their judgement. Our press is nothing but an instrument of torture.’

‘I think that’s a gross exaggeration, sir,’ said Colbeck.

‘Then you’ve not read the morning editions.’

‘I’ve not had time, superintendent.’

‘This one,’ continued Tallis, slapping a newspaper, ‘suggests that we’re causing widespread distress among both survivors of the crash and relatives of the victims by daring to suggest that foul play was an element in the disaster. The author of this vicious article claims that we are the ones guilty of foul play by persisting with an investigation that is wrong-headed and redundant. What do you say to that?’

‘We’ll have to make the gentleman eat his words, sir.’

‘Gentleman!’ bellowed the other. ‘I see nothing gentlemanly in this brutal prose. We are being soundly cudgelled, Inspector. You are traduced by name and I by implication. In trying to uphold the law, we are mocked unmercifully.’

‘I always ignore such censure,’ said Colbeck.

‘Well, I don’t, I can tell you. Newspaper editors should have statutory restraints imposed upon them. They should not be allowed to trade freely in sly innuendo and outright abuse. They should be prevented from holding up the Metropolitan Police Force to mockery.’

‘With respect, sir, it’s our job to do that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘By appearing to make mistakes,’ said Colbeck, ‘we lay ourselves open to ridicule. The only way to stop that happening in this case is to solve the crime at the heart of it.’

‘According to the newspapers, there is no crime.’

‘Then I’ll enjoy reading them when we make an arrest and prove that Captain Ridgeon’s assessment of the crash was both hasty and misguided. Nobody is entitled to unstinting praise,’ he went on, reasonably. ‘We have to earn it. It’s annoying to be pilloried in the press but we can rectify that.’

‘I want an abject apology from every editor,’ demanded Tallis.

‘That may be too much to ask, Superintendent.’

‘Confound it, man – it’s their duty to help us!’

‘They’d argue that it’s their duty to report events in as honest and unbiased a way as they can. Sadly, that’s not always the case but it’s no use fulminating against them. Unless they print something defamatory, there’s little we can do.’

‘I can write strong letters of denial.’

‘That would be pointless at this stage, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘In a war of words, the press always has more ink. Besides, in order to defend what we’re doing, you’d have to reveal some of the evidence we’ve gathered and that would be imprudent. Those responsible for that train crash have already been warned that we are after them. If they realise how close we are, they may bolt altogether.’

Tallis stood up. ‘How close are we, Inspector?’

‘I anticipate significant progress by the end of the day.’

‘You thought we’d achieve that by matching Mr Shanklin’s handwriting with that on a funeral card.’

‘I was too optimistic,’ admitted Colbeck.

‘And are you being too optimistic today?’

‘No, sir – I’m being much more cautious.’

Tallis opened a box on the desk and took out a cigar, cutting the end off it before thrusting it into his mouth and lighting it. He puffed vigorously until the cigar began to glow and acrid smoke curled up to the ceiling.

‘We need that significant progress, Inspector,’ he said. ‘It’s the only way to stop these jackals from snapping at our heels.’

‘Never be upset by press criticism,’ advised Colbeck. ‘There’s a very simple way to avoid it.’

‘Is there?’

‘Yes, Superintendent – cancel the newspapers.’

Before Tallis could muster a reply, Colbeck bade him farewell and left the office. Victor Leeming was waiting for him in the corridor. Having read one of the morning newspapers, he knew how violently the superintendent would react and was grateful that he had not had to confront him. He was surprised how unruffled Colbeck was.

‘What sort of mood was he in?’ asked Leeming.

Colbeck grinned. ‘Mr Tallis wants us to bring him the head of every journalist who has attacked us,’ he said. ‘I think he’d like to stick them on poles and throw paper darts at them.’

‘I’d throw more than paper darts, Inspector.’

‘The most effective missile would be an arrest, Victor.’

Colbeck took the sergeant into his office so that they could talk without interruption. He gave Leeming an abbreviated account of his conversation with Tallis then turned his attention to the day ahead.

‘We’ll have to catch the Brighton Express,’ he said.

‘I’m not looking forward to that, sir,’ confessed Leeming. ‘I’ll keep thinking about what happened last Friday.’

‘The line has been repaired and the debris removed.’

‘You can’t remove my memories so easily.’

‘No,’ said Colbeck, sadly. ‘The disaster will be printed indelibly on the minds of many people. Those passengers set out on what should have been a routine journey and ended up in a catastrophe.’

‘Thanks to Dick Chiffney.’

‘We have to prove that. What’s the situation with Josie Murlow?’

‘She’s vanished, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘I had a man watching her house but she never returned to it. She and Chiffney have obviously gone into hiding elsewhere.’

‘Have you circulated a description of her?’

‘Yes, Inspector – every policeman in the area is looking for her. Josie Murlow is a difficult person to mistake, as you saw for yourself. If she does break cover, someone will spot her.’

‘Chiffney is the person we really want,’ said Colbeck, ‘and we lack precise details about his appearance. All we know is that he’s very unprepossessing and has a bad squint.’

‘I know something else about him, sir,’ recalled Leeming, rubbing the back of his head. ‘Chiffney hits hard.’

‘We must strike back even harder.’

‘He won’t be able to sneak up on me next time. It’s the thing about this investigation that really fires me up – the chance to meet up again with Dick Chiffney.’

‘That chance may come sooner than you expect, Victor.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Who knows?’ said Colbeck. ‘By the end of the day, you might well have had the satisfaction of snapping the handcuffs on the elusive Mr Chiffney.’


A night in his arms had reconciled Josie Murlow to the fact that Chiffney had been ordered to kill someone. It was not the first time he had been hired by anonymous gentlemen. She knew that he had been paid to assault people in the past and had accepted that without a qualm. Chiffney liked fighting. He might as well make some money with his fists. Murder, however, was another matter and she had been frightened when she first realised what he had been engaged to do. Now that she had grown used to the idea, however, it did not seem quite so unnerving. Indeed, it gave her a perverse thrill.

What still troubled her was her own position. Knowing of his intentions without reporting them to the police meant that she was condoning Chiffney’s actions. In law, therefore, she would be seen as an accessory. Josie shuddered to think what would happen if they were ever caught but she consoled herself with the belief that it was almost impossible. Chiffney had convinced her that there was little risk attached to the enterprise. He simply had to strike decisively then withdraw from the scene. Payment would then follow.

Lying in bed, Josie wallowed in the comfortable certainty that they would not be caught. All that she had to do was to trust her man. He had, after all, bought her the necklace out of his first earnings and other gifts would soon come. Abandoning her house did not worry her. She had long ago grown weary of its lack of space and its endless deficiencies. Everything she valued had been taken from the place in a series of midnight visits. As well as bringing all of her clothing and her trinkets, Chiffney had even collected her favourite sticks of furniture. Henceforth, they would share a far better lodging.

As she gazed up at him, Chiffney was reaching for his jacket before slipping it on. On impulse, Josie heaved herself out of bed.

‘Let me come with you, Dick,’ she said.

‘You stay here, my darling.’

‘But I’m your woman. I want to be at your side.’

‘The police could be out looking for you.’

‘They won’t be looking for me in Brighton,’ she argued. ‘If you hail a cab outside the house, nobody will see me going to the station. Now we’ve got money,’ she went on, getting carried away, ‘we can travel first class. I’ve never done that before.’

‘This is something I have to do on my own, Josie,’ he said.

‘I know that, Dick, and I won’t get in your way. When the time comes, you simply leave me and go about your business. Afterwards, I could be a help to you.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I’m like a disguise,’ she explained, grinning away. ‘A man and a woman together look respectable. Nobody would give us a second glance. When you’re on your own – even in that new suit you bought – people will notice that face of yours and those big, rough hands. You don’t look quite so respectable then, Dick.’

He was tempted. ‘That’s a good point, Josie.’

‘Can I come with you, then?’

‘He won’t like it. He told me to come on my own. If he realises you know more than you ought to, the gentleman might call the whole thing off. No,’ he concluded, ‘it’s too risky.’

‘There’s no need for him to see me.’

‘I’m sorry, my love. You’ll have to stay here.’

‘I won’t be cooped up again,’ she said, gazing around with a flash of anger. ‘Look at the place – there’s hardly room to move since you brought all my things here.’

‘You can go downstairs and sit in the kitchen.’

‘I want to be with you, Dick.’

He sniffed. ‘I can’t take that chance.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’d be a distraction,’ he said. ‘Instead of keeping my mind on what I had to do, I’d be worrying about you. It’s no good, Josie. I have to go alone.’

‘All right,’ she suggested, bargaining with him, ‘why don’t we both travel to Brighton separately and only meet up afterwards?’ he shook his head. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

Chiffney was blunt. ‘It’s not going to happen.’

‘But I want it to happen, Dick,’ she said, stamping a foot. ‘We’re in this together. I won’t be left out all the time.’

‘Stop it!’ he shouted, temper fraying.

‘Don’t you yell at me, you noisy bugger!’

‘Shut your gob and listen. There’s one very good reason why I don’t want you anywhere near Brighton today. I have to be alone. I’ve got a job to do, Josie. I failed yesterday and the gentleman was very annoyed with me. If I let him down again, he may find someone else and I could end up without a single penny. Is that what you want?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘Then that’s the end of it.’

Josie sulked in silence. She watched him as he reached under the bed for the rifle then wrapped it in a piece of sacking. He also stuck the pistol in his belt and stuffed ammunition for both weapons in his pockets. Getting back down on his knees, he groped under the bed once more. This time, he brought out a large telescope and hid that in the sacking with the rifle. In spite of the bubbling anger she felt towards him, Josie was curious.

‘Who gave you that?’

‘He did,’ said Chiffney. ‘I need to spy out the lie of the land.’


As the train set off from London Bridge station, Victor Leeming braced himself for an uncomfortable journey. Its only virtue was that it would be a relatively short one. The previous investigation had entailed a long train journey to Crewe and back. An even earlier one had forced him to travel to France, undergoing the sustained terror of crossing the Channel by boat before committing himself to the rattling uncertainty of the French railways. All things considered, the Brighton Express was the lesser of many evils. At least he was in the hands of his fellow-countrymen.

‘Don’t look so anxious,’ said Colbeck, seated opposite him in an otherwise empty carriage. ‘There’s no danger. Lightning doesn’t strike twice in one place.’

‘Then the accident could happen at another spot on the line.’

‘There’ll be no accident, Victor.’

‘Then why do I feel so unsafe?’

‘You simply haven’t adjusted to rail travel as yet.’

‘I never will, Inspector,’ said Leeming, watching the fields scud past. ‘I can never understand why you like trains so much.’

‘They’re passports to the future. Railways are redefining the way that we live and I find that very exciting. The concept of steam power is so wonderfully simple yet so incredibly effective.’

‘You should have been an engine driver, sir.’

‘No,’ said Colbeck, wistfully. ‘I know my limitations. I’d love to work on the footplate but I lack the skill needed. I make my own small contribution to the smooth running of the railway system by trying to keep it free of criminals. However, let’s not harp on about a subject that tends to unsettle you,’ he went on. ‘How are preparations for your wife’s birthday?’

‘They’re not going very well, sir.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

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

‘Do you have any ideas at all?’

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

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

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

‘Ask whatever you wish.’

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

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

‘Such as?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

‘May I come in yet, Amy?’ he asked.

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

‘I’ve been waiting some time.’

‘I know that, Mr Follis.

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

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

‘Are you happy about that?’

‘I’m very happy.’

‘You have to be certain about this.’

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

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

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

‘Yes, Mr Follis, I do.’

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

‘I don’t want to let you down.’

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

‘Nobody ever thought I was beautiful before.’

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

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

‘Will you read something to me?’

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

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

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

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

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


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

During the long reaches of the night, when she and Chiffney were entwined in carnal lust, everything had seemed perfect. They would have enough money to flee London and set up a home in another city where they were unknown. It would be a new departure for both of them, an affirmation of their commitment to each other. The fact that it would be bought with blood money, and that a man had to be murdered first, was never discussed.

In daylight, alone and feeling sorely neglected, Josie began to see it all differently. She would be sharing her life with a killer, a man who was on the run. If the police ever caught Chiffney, they would catch her, too, and she would suffer the same fate as him. There was also a new fear. She had never been afraid of Chiffney before, knowing how to handle him and bend him to her will. What would happen if they fell out? A man who had killed once would not hesitate to do so again. Josie had traded blows with him in the past but the fights had always ended in a drunken reconciliation. Chiffney might end the next one in a more final way.

But it was too late now. She had to trust him. The police were searching for her as well as Chiffney. It never even crossed her mind to inform against him. Her whole life had been spent in skirting the law. Josie could simply not side with the police for any reason. What she really wanted was to be with Dick Chiffney, to enjoy a day in Brighton where she could walk freely by the seaside. She also wanted to know exactly what he was doing there. Who was paying him to kill another man and what crime had Chiffney already committed in order to get the money to pay for her necklace and his new suit?

Spending another day in self-imposed solitary confinement was anathema to her. Josie Murlow was a gregarious woman. She thrived on company. Without it, she was lost. Chiffney had left her money to send out for drink and she also had her own not inconsiderable savings, retrieved from a hiding place in her house. Reaching into her purse, she took out a handful of sovereigns and let them fall through her fingers on to the bed. It was ironic. With all that cash at her disposal, she was nevertheless unable to buy the human company she craved. It was insufferable.

She looked around the room with something akin to despair. Then she noticed something draped over a chair beside the wardrobe. Josie’s manner changed in an instant. Perhaps there was a way to get what she wanted without putting herself and Chiffney in danger. Perhaps she had a means of fulfilling her desire to go to Brighton, after all. She had the money, the urge and the perfect disguise. Josie doubted if Chiffney himself would recognise her. All it required from her was the courage to implement the plan. The prospect of escape was too tempting to resist. She made the decision in a second and let out a whoop of joy.

Josie Murlow began to tear off her clothes as fast as she could.


Victor Leeming was so over-awed by the opulence of the mansion that he was tongue-tied. The marble-floored hall of Giles Thornhill’s house was larger than the whole area of the sergeant’s modest dwelling. He had never seen so many sculptures before and the wide, curved staircase seemed to sweep up to eternity. Valise in one hand, he stood there and marvelled. When he and Colbeck eventually went into the library, Leeming was still open-mouthed.

Thornhill was seated at the table with a decanter of sherry and a half-filled glass in front of him. He did not bother to get up as they came in. When Colbeck introduced his companion, Leeming was given only a cursory glance.

‘I’m pleased to see that you took my advice, sir,’ said Colbeck.

‘Against my better judgement,’ remarked Thornhill.

‘Apart from the man at the gate, there were no other guards and I caught no glimpse of the mastiff either. He’d frighten anybody away.’

‘That was the intention, Inspector.’

‘We drove past the town hall,’ Leeming put in. ‘We saw your name on the poster outside.’

‘I’ll not be displaced by the Rector of St Dunstan’s.’

‘Why is that, sir?’

‘The man is a thorough nuisance, Sergeant,’ said Thornhill, nastily. ‘He’s caused no end of trouble to me and to many others in the town. If there’s anything I loathe, it’s a turbulent priest.’

‘The Reverend Follis looked harmless enough to me.’

‘I believe that Mr Thornhill was referring to Thomas à Becket,’ said Colbeck, stepping in. ‘As well as being Archbishop of Canterbury, he was Chancellor, the equivalent of today’s Prime Minister. Becket then fell out with Henry II and was duly exiled. When he returned to England, the people welcomed him but the king did not. “Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?” the king is supposed to have cried. Four knights responded by murdering Becket in Canterbury Cathedral.’ He turned to Thornhill. ‘Am I misinterpreting you, sir?’

‘Not at all,’ said Thornhill. ‘Becket’s story showed the idiocy of combining Church and State. It’s a fatal compound. Politics and religion should be kept separate. Unfortunately, nobody seems to have told that to Ezra Follis.’

‘Even if they did,’ said Colbeck, ‘he’d probably ignore them.’

‘The fellow is a law unto himself. He’s a renegade priest.’

‘Wait a moment, sir,’ said Leeming, entering the debate. ‘I thought that you wanted to close all the shops and public houses on a Sunday.’

‘I have been involved in drafting an early version of the Sunday Trading Bill,’ admitted Thornhill. ‘That’s quite true, Sergeant.’

‘You just told us that politics and religion should be separate.’

‘I stand by that.’

‘Then why do politicians want to interfere with Sunday?’

‘We’re not interfering with it – we want to protect it. We believe that the Lord’s Day should be properly observed.’

‘But that’s religion, sir,’ Leeming contended.

‘It’s a political decision.’

‘Yet you want to take it for religious reasons.’

‘It’s a valid point, Victor,’ said Colbeck, cutting the argument short, ‘but this is perhaps not the ideal time to discuss the matter. We have more immediate concerns.’ He indicated the valise. ‘The sergeant has brought a change of clothing with him, Mr Thornhill. Is there somewhere for him to put it on?’

Thornhill got up and crossed to the bell rope. Shortly after it had been pulled, a servant appeared. In response to his orders, he led Victor Leeming out of the library.

‘Your sergeant is unduly argumentative,’ said Thornhill. ‘To be candid, I really don’t know why either of you is here. I still have the strongest reservations about this whole business.’

‘We’re here to save your life, sir.’

‘When there are only two of you? How can you possibly do that?’

‘Watch us,’ said Colbeck.


Having checked to see how many people were on guard at the gate, he walked around the perimeter of the estate to find the point of access he had used before. After climbing a fence, he was confronted by a high, thick hedge and had to go along it before he found the gap. Once through it, he moved stealthily in the direction of the house, stopping from time to time to look round and listen. He saw nobody patrolling the grounds and sensed that he was in luck. Emboldened, he crept on through the undergrowth with the rifle slung across his back. He felt certain of success this time.

The secret lay in meticulous preparation. Hiding the rifle behind a yew tree, he went on unencumbered until the house finally came into view. Approaching it from the rear, he used his telescope to view the terrace where Giles Thornhill had been sitting before the first attempt on his life. The window shattered by the bullet had now been boarded up and the myriad glass fragments swept away. Whichever exit Thornhill chose from the house, it would not be that one.

He worked his way around to the front of the house in a wide circle. There was good cover among the trees and bushes. It allowed him to get within seventy yards of the front entrance. He peered through the telescope again. Outside the portico with its matching fluted columns, he had expected at least one armed guard but the house seemed unprotected. The only person he could see was a gardener, ambling across the forecourt with a wooden wheelbarrow. The man vanished behind some shrubs. Buttered by the sun, Giles Thornhill’s mansion looked serene and majestic.

If he left by the front door, as was most likely, Thornhill would be taken by his private carriage to the hall where he would be speaking. The stable block was off to the right. When the vehicle drew up outside the portico, Thornhill would be obscured as he came out of the door. It was when he stepped up into the open carriage that he would present a target. That moment was crucial. The man simply had to fire with deadly accuracy and the job was done.

He moved from place to place before he settled on the exact spot from which he would shoot. Shielded by thick bushes, he had an excellent view of the forecourt. There were hours to go yet. He was able to retrieve his rifle, take it to his chosen position and settle down. Since there would be a long wait, he had brought bread and cheese to eat. In case his nerve faltered, he had a small flask of brandy but he did not think it would be required.

It was early evening before there was any sign of movement. The doors of the stable block were opened and a horse was led out. It had already been harnessed. Two men pulled out a landau from the stable and fitted the shafts into the harness. One of the men disappeared for a minute then emerged again in a frock coat and top hat. He climbed up onto the driving seat and picked up the reins, flicking them and calling out a command to the horse. The landau headed towards the house. The gardener, now weeding a flowerbed, waved to the driver.

Watching it all from his vantage point, the man held his weapon ready. His heart was pumping and sweat was starting to break out on his forehead. As his hands trembled a little, he felt that he needed the brandy, after all, and gulped it swiftly down. It gave him courage and stiffened his resolve. His moment had finally come. Raising the weapon, he put the butt into his shoulder, crooked his finger around the trigger and took aim. After rumbling across the gravel, the landau pulled up outside the house.

There was a momentary wait then the front door opened and a tall figure stepped out, one arm in a sling. He opened the door of the carriage and took a firm grip so that he could pull himself up with his other hand. In that instant, with Giles Thornhill completely exposed, the man tried to control the tremble that had come back into his hands and pulled the trigger. His victim collapsed in a heap.


CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was only a single shot but its effects were remarkable. A man collapsed in the landau, birds took to the air in fright and the horse reared and pulled with such force between the shafts that the driver had difficulty in controlling it. Perhaps the most remarkable thing was that the gardener leapt over his wheelbarrow and sprinted towards the bushes in the distance as if he had been waiting for a signal to do so. The assassin had already taken to his heels. Convinced that his mission had been successful, he gathered up his telescope and weapon before running off into the undergrowth.

The sharp crack of the rifle shot seemed to resonate for an age, rising above the squawking of the birds and the frantic neighing of the horse. Happy and exhilarated, the assassin ran on until the noises began to fade behind him. They were replaced by another sound and it made his blood congeal. He could hear a body crashing through the bushes behind him. Somebody was chasing hard and seemed to be gaining on him. He tried to quicken his pace but he was hampered by the heavy rifle and troubled by cramp from having stood in the same position for so many hours.

He was still hundreds of yards from the edge of the estate. There was no way he could outrun the pursuit. When he came to a clearing, therefore, he stopped and waited. Breathing hard and gripped by panic, he turned round. He tossed the telescope to the ground. Since he had no time to reload the rifle, he grabbed it by the barrel to use as a club. He could hear running feet getting closer all the time, swishing their way rhythmically through the grass. Whoever was following him had to be stopped or even killed.

He began to shiver with fear. Shooting a man from a distance had been easy. Confronting and overpowering someone prepared for action was a very different matter. There would be a fight. If his pursuer were armed, he would have the advantage. The assassin was no longer in control and that was frightening. Holding the rifle, he stood ready to strike. He then got a first glimpse of the man, coming through the trees at a steady pace. The next second, the gardener burst into the clearing and saw him.

It was no time to hesitate. Palms sweating, the man swung the rifle with vicious intent, hoping to knock out his adversary with a single blow. But the gardener was agile as well as fast. He ducked beneath the makeshift club and got in a solid punch to the other man’s stomach that made him gasp in pain. Dropping the rifle, the winded man tried to run away. Flight was in vain. The gardener was quicker and stronger than him. Overhauling him within seconds, he dived on the assassin’s back and forced him to the ground, sitting astride him while delivering a relay of punches to his head and body that took all resistance out of him.

Having subdued his man, he pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and clipped them on to the man’s wrist so that he was pinioned from behind. The gardener could afford to relax. His quarry had been caught, pacified and restrained. It was time to roll him over.

‘Well,’ said Victor Leeming with a grin, ‘I was hoping that you and I would meet again, Mr Chiffney. You attacked me from behind the last time. We met on equal terms today.’

Leeming’s grin froze immediately. The person on the ground was not a cross-eyed ruffian with an ugly face but a fair-haired young man who was gibbering with terror. It was not Chiffney.


When he stepped back into the hall of the house, Robert Colbeck took off the sling he had been wearing to support his arm and handed it to a servant. Giles Thornhill looked on in admiration.

‘That was a very daring thing to do, Inspector,’ he said. ‘It was daring and extremely rash. I watched it all through the window. I thought you’d been hit.’

‘I only pretended to be, sir. I wanted him to think I’d been killed so that he’d run off. Sergeant Leeming will catch up with him.’

‘Why take such a risk?’

‘I didn’t think I could persuade you to do so, Mr Thornhill.’

‘It would have been suicide.’

‘No,’ said Colbeck. ‘He fired at you from fifty yards before and missed. He’d have been farther away this time. I was trading on the fact that he’s not a marksman and might therefore be nervous with a weapon in his hands. If he’d been a ruthless killer, you wouldn’t still be alive. I had to offer him a second chance to shoot you.’

‘Then I’m deeply grateful,’ said Thornhill, ‘and I’ll be writing to your superiors to tell them so.’

‘Be sure to mention Sergeant Leeming, sir. He not only tended your garden for several hours, he was in the right place to give chase when the shot was fired. We knew it would come from those trees and they must be seventy yards away. From that distance,’ said Colbeck, ‘I had the feeling that I could pass for a Member of Parliament.’

‘Do you think the sergeant will have affected an arrest?’

‘I’m sure that he has, Mr Thornhill.’

‘What I want to know is who exactly that devil is.’

Colbeck indicated the door. ‘Let’s go and meet him.’


Victor Leeming did not waste any time trying to question his captive. Hauling him to his feet, he shoved him against a tree to take a close look at him. Pale-skinned and square-jawed, the prisoner was tall, well-favoured and in his early twenties. He wore old clothing that blended with the surroundings. Leeming retrieved the rifle and slung it over his shoulder. Holding the telescope in one hand, he used the other to take the man by the scruff of the neck and propel him along.

As they walked back towards the house, nothing was said. Glad to have captured him, the sergeant was disappointed that he had not caught Dick Chiffney. That would have been a real triumph. Though the man made one desperate attempt to break free, Leeming was too quick for him. He stuck out a foot and tripped him up. Pitching forward on to the ground, the captive bruised his forehead and dirtied his face. He got no sympathy from the sergeant. Pulling him to his feet again, Leeming took a firmer hold on his collar and hustled him along. Having tried to shoot a distinguished politician, the young man had also done his best to kill a Scotland Yard detective. After the long walk back to the house, he would, in time, take a shorter one to the gallows.


Colbeck and Thornhill waited side by side on the forecourt. The horse had now calmed down, the birds were singing once again and peace had been restored. Leeming came out of the trees with his prisoner ahead of him. When the young man saw that Giles Thornhill was alive and unharmed, he let out a cry of dismay. All his efforts had come to nothing. The thrill he had felt as the body dropped down in the carriage was replaced by a sense of dread. He would now have to face trial without the satisfaction of knowing that he had killed his intended victim.

Letting go of his collar, Leeming prodded him over the last thirty yards with the telescope. Head down and shamefaced, the man could not even bring himself to look at the person he had tried to shoot. Colbeck took over.

‘I’m pleased to meet you at last,’ he said, suavely. ‘My name is Detective-Inspector Colbeck and I was the man at whom you mistakenly fired the shot. I’m very grateful to you for missing me. You were arrested by my colleague, Detective-Sergeant Leeming, who was posing as a gardener. I can see that the two of you have become closely acquainted.’

‘He tried to take my head off, sir,’ said Leeming.

‘That makes two attempted murders in one day.’ Colbeck gestured at his companion. ‘I don’t think there’s any need to introduce Mr Thornhill, is there?’ he said. ‘Well, now that you know our names, perhaps you’d be good enough to tell us yours.’

The young man raised his head. ‘My name is Heinrich Freytag,’ he said, defiantly, ‘and I have no regrets for what I try to do.’ His English was good but his accent guttural. ‘Mr Thornhill, he does not deserve to live for what he did.’

‘And what did I do?’ asked Thornhill, bemused.

‘You kill my father.’

‘That’s absolute nonsense. I’ve never even heard of him.’

‘You didn’t need to know him,’ said Freytag, angrily. ‘He was a foreigner and that was enough to make you hate him.’

‘When did you come to Brighton?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Six years ago. We were living in Berlin when riots broke out. Our house was burnt to the ground so my father decided to bring us here. He said that England was a civilised country and we would be safe.’ He shot Thornhill a look of disgust. ‘That was before he heard about men like this one.’

‘I’m entitled to my opinions about immigrants,’ said Thornhill, ‘and I won’t be dissuaded from expressing them.’

‘I know,’ said Colbeck. ‘I studied reports of your speeches when I was at the offices of the Brighton Gazette. Your views on foreigners cropped up time and again.’

‘I don’t want them here, Inspector.’

‘What right have you to keep us out?’ demanded Freytag. ‘What harm have we done to you? We fled Germany to start a new life here. Do you think we wanted to leave our own country?’

‘That’s no concern of mine,’ said Thornhill.

‘It sounds as if it might be, sir,’ observed Leeming.

‘All I did was to address a few public meetings.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Freytag with feeling, ‘you did a lot more than that. You made people angry. You made them think that we do not deserve to live in Brighton. One night, after you speak at a meeting, a drunken mob came looking for foreigners. They saw the name of Freytag over our shop and they smashed all the windows. My father came out to protest and was hit by a stone. A week later, he died in hospital from a heart attack.’

‘I take no responsibility for that,’ said Thornhill.

‘You sent those men to the shop.’

‘I deny that.’

‘You build up their hate and let them loose on my father,’ said Freytag, pulsing with resentment. ‘He died because of cruel words you say against all foreigners. You should pay with your life.’

‘Did you bring this to the attention of the police?’ said Colbeck.

‘They would not listen. They say my father died of a heart attack because he was getting old, not because he was hit by the stone. They tell me that Mr Thornhill is an important man in Brighton and that I am wrong to say bad things about him.’

‘I’ve heard enough of this balderdash,’ announced Thornhill. ‘This man is a potential killer. Take him away and charge him, Inspector. You’re welcome to have use of the landau for the purpose. I’ll ride into town.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Colbeck nodded to Leeming who pushed the prisoner towards the carriage then helped him unceremoniously into it. Freytag looked back sourly at Thornhill. The politician was unrepentant.

‘I shall enjoy giving evidence at his trial,’ he said.

‘Do you still intend to speak to that meeting?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Of course, I do. Now that the danger has been removed, I can fulfil the engagement without fear of attack.’

‘Nothing that Herr Freytag said has changed your mind, then?’

‘Why should it?’

‘You heard him, sir. Indirectly, you may have played a part in his father’s death. That’s why he sought revenge.’

‘His father died of heart failure.’

‘It could have been brought on by the attack on him.’

‘I had no part in that.’

‘If the young man is correct, the people responsible heard you speak that night.’

‘Whose side are you on, Inspector?’ said Thornhill, hotly. ‘I won’t be put in the dock. I’m the victim here. That rogue tried to shoot me. He’s the criminal.’

‘I agree, sir,’ said Colbeck, ‘and he’ll pay for his crime. Nothing can excuse what he did. I just think that you might consider the motive that impelled him. In your position, I’d feel sobered.’

‘But you’re not in my position, are you?’ retorted Thornhill. ‘There’s no room for sentiment in politics, Inspector. It’s a hard world. A politician must have the courage of his convictions. I don’t repudiate anything I’ve said. Please don’t ask me to mourn Freytag’s father,’ he went on, glancing towards the landau. ‘He shouldn’t have been here in the first place. One less foreigner in Brighton is a cause for celebration in my eyes.’

He turned away and marched off to the house. Colbeck could imagine all too easily how Thornhill’s rhetoric could incite the wilder element in his audience to violence. It made him decide to attend the meeting that evening. His first priority, however, was to deal with Heinrich Freytag. He strolled across to the carriage.

‘Leave him to me, Victor,’ he said. ‘You’d better go back into the house to change or Mr Thornhill will think I’ve abducted his gardener.’

‘Watch him carefully, sir,’ advised Leeming, getting out of the landau. ‘After I’d caught him, he tried to make a run for it.’

Handing him the rifle and the telescope, the sergeant headed for the door. Colbeck examined the weapon and saw the name on a metal plaque. It had been made in Berlin. Climbing into the carriage, he sat opposite Freytag and patted the rifle.

‘This is very old,’ he noted. ‘Did it belong to your father?’

‘Yes,’ replied the German.

‘You were not used to firing it, were you?’

‘No, Inspector. That’s why I miss. Mr Thornhill is an evil man. I’ll never forgive myself for not killing him.’

‘How many times did you try?’

‘Twice – and both times I miss.’

‘So you didn’t try to kill him another way?’ said Colbeck. ‘You didn’t want him to die in a train crash, for instance?’

‘No,’ said Freytag, his face a mask of hatred. ‘I want to kill him myself and watch him die. When I hear that he is injured in that crash, I am angry that he might have been snatched away from me. Mr Thornhill took my father’s life so I need to take his. I despise you and the sergeant for stopping me.’

Colbeck sighed. Their success was tinged with failure. They had saved a politician’s life by capturing his would-be assassin but they were no nearer finding the person who had caused the disaster on the Brighton line. He was still at large.


Sturdy, upright and of medium height, the man was impeccably well-dressed. His full beard of black, curling hair was salted with grey. His deep voice had the rasp of authority.

‘How much longer do you need?’ he demanded.

‘I haven’t caught him in the right place yet, sir,’ said Chiffney. ‘Whenever I’ve seen him, he’s been with other people.’

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