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…fiancee?' 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.