Murder on the Brighton Express (9 page)

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

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

‘His name was Sergeant Leeming.’

‘What did he want?’

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

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

‘Know what?’ she asked.

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

‘Why are the police after you, Dick?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You know my view, Inspector Colbeck.’

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

‘I doubt that.’

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

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

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

‘Superintendent Tallis showed no spirit of cooperation.’

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

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

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

‘Oh, he made that abundantly clear.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘So do lots of other people, Inspector.’

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

‘I see no criminal intent behind this accident.’

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

‘I defy you to do so.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘He was self-important and dictatorial.’

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

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

‘Why do you think he did so?’

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

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

‘You could put it that way.’

‘Hostility built over a period of time.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Why should he respond like that, sir?’

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

‘Was that the only reason?’

‘You’ll have to ask Mr Bardwell.’

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

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

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

‘Horace Bardwell should be in prison for what he did.’

‘Was there some other crime in addition to the fraud?’

Shanklin composed himself before speaking. ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘He was making wrong decisions about the running of the company and bullying the rest of the board into accepting them. We had to implement those decisions even though we knew that they were detrimental to the LB&SCR.’

‘Such decisions were not exactly criminal, sir.’

‘They were to me.’

Leeming wrote something in his notebook then changed his tack. He watched Shanklin closely as he fired a question at him.

‘Have you ever met a man named Dick Chiffney, sir?’

‘I don’t believe that I have, Sergeant.’

The reply was too quick and defensive for Leeming and it was accompanied by a shifty look in Shanklin’s eye. Realising that he had aroused suspicion, he tried to negate it at once.

‘I
may
have met someone of that name,’ he confessed, ‘especially if the man worked for the LB&SCR. The names of hundreds of our employees used to pass before my eyes and I met several of them in person, far too many to remember individually. Well,’ he said with a feeble attempt at jocularity, ‘can you recall the names of everyone you’ve arrested?’

‘As a matter of fact, I can,’ attested Leeming.

‘Then you have a better memory than I, Sergeant.’

‘I need it where villains are concerned.’ The pencil was poised over the notebook again. ‘Let’s go back to Horace Bardwell, shall we?’

Horace Bardwell had slowly improved, gathering strength, sleeping less and finally managing to get a grasp of what had happened. By the time that Ezra Follis got to him that morning, Bardwell was sitting up in bed and looking more alert. A large number of cards and letters lay on his bedside table, most of them unopened. After asking his health, Follis volunteered to open his mail for him.

‘I’d be most grateful,’ croaked Bardwell. ‘I still can’t see. My wife read some of them to me but I can only concentrate for a little while. So many friends have sent their best wishes.’

‘They have, indeed,’ said Follis.

‘Read very slowly, if you please.’

‘I will, Mr Bardwell. The moment you tire, tell me to stop.’

Follis took a card from the first envelope and read the message inside. Bardwell was touched. Next came a short letter from his nephew, sending him love and praying for his speedy recovery. Other letters were from friends or business associates, all expressing sorrow at his injuries and hope that he would soon be fully fit again. Follis then extracted a black-edged card from an envelope. Startled by the message inside, he elected not to read it out.

‘What does it say?’ asked Bardwell.

‘Nothing at all,’ replied Follis.’ Someone was so keen to send you his best wishes that, in his haste, he forgot to write anything. Now this one is very different,’ he went on, unfolding three pages from the next envelope he opened. ‘We have a veritable novel, here.’

Bardwell did not get to hear it. Halfway through the recitation, he fell gently asleep. Follis slipped the letter back
into its envelope and replaced it on the table but he made sure that he took the funeral card with him. After speaking to all the other patients in the ward, he went back out into the corridor. The first person he saw was Amy Walcott, carrying a large basket filled with posies of flowers. Her face lit up when she recognised him.

‘I came here because of that sermon you gave yesterday,’ she said. ‘When you told us about the survivors of the crash, I had to do something to ease their suffering.’