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.'
'That was your excuse yesterday as well.'
'I don't want to shoot the wrong person.'
'The way things are going, I doubt if you'll be shooting anyone. What's holding you back, man? You swore to me that you'd do anything for money yet you keep letting me down.'
'I didn't let you down when I arranged that crash,' said Chiffney, groping for approval. 'If I'd been caught levering that rail away, I'd be in prison right now, waiting for the noose. I took a big risk for you.'
'And you got your due reward.'
'It wasn't my fault he didn't die when the trains collided.'
'Perhaps not,' said the man, 'but it's your fault that he's still alive now. I gave you the weapons, I taught you how to fire them and I showed you exactly where he lived. Yet you've spent the best part of two days in Brighton, lying in wait but too cowardly to pull the trigger when you see him.'
Chiffney was insulted. 'I'm not a coward, sir.'
'Then why haven't you obeyed your orders?'
'A coward wouldn't have brought the express off the track the way I did. A coward wouldn't have taken this job on in the first place. I got my faults, sir – God knows I have – but there's nobody as can call Dick Chiffney a coward.' He banged his chest. 'I've never walked away from a fight in my life.'
'You're not involved in a brawl now,' said the man. 'This is far more serious than giving someone a bloody nose. It takes nerve. I'm beginning to think you don't have that nerve.'
'That's a rotten lie!'
'Then do what I'm paying you for.'
They were in a quiet street where they had arranged to meet. Dick Chiffney was still carrying the rifle and telescope in the sacking. Having driven there in a trap, his companion remained in the vehicle. The problem for Chiffney was that the accusation against him contained more than a grain of truth. His courage had indeed faltered. In the course of two days, he had had a number of opportunities to shoot his victim but his finger had always hesitated on the trigger.
Something had stopped him firing. In setting up the train crash, he knew that several people would be killed and many more would be badly injured. Yet their individual fates did not trouble him in the least because he was not there at the time of the disaster. Shooting someone in cold blood and watching him die was not quite so easy. To his embarrassment, Chiffney had discovered the glimmering of a conscience that had never existed before. With the victim in his sights, he had been fettered by guilt.
His employer was not prepared to tolerate any more delays.
'Time is running out, Chiffney,' he warned. 'If he's still alive at the end of the day, our contract is null and void.'
'But I need that money, sir,' pleaded Chiffney.
'Then earn it.'
'I can't get near him if he stays indoors.'
'He won't do that this evening,' said the man. 'I've done your job for you and discovered that he'll be going to the town hall within the hour. Somewhere along the way, you must kill him.'
'Yes, sir – I swear that I will.'
'You won't need the rifle. I want you to get close enough to make sure. Shoot him with the pistol.' He held out a hand. 'I'll take the rifle.'
'What about the telescope, sir?'
'You might need that.'
Chiffney reached into the sacking to remove the telescope then handed over the rifle. The man laid the sacking down in the trap. Chiffney was worried. His hand was being forced and that unsettled him. He would have preferred to shoot from a distance so that he could escape more easily after the event. Getting close to his victim presented problems yet they had to be overcome. He had given his word to Josie Murlow and could not go back on it. She was expecting him to return with enough money to transform their lives. Thinking about Josie helped to make his misgivings disappear.
'I'll do it, sir,' he vowed. 'I'll blow the bastard's head off.'
Josie Murlow was having second thoughts about her decision to come to Brighton that day. In responding to an overpowering urge, she had not bothered to consider its consequences. What she believed would be a perfect disguise was also a profound hindrance. Josie was dressed in widow's weeds. Black from head to foot, she had gained respect and sympathy from everyone she met but she was not able to do any of the things she had planned. It would look unseemly for a grieving widow to stroll merrily along the promenade, still less to go on the beach or walk on the pier over a thousand feet out to the sea.
There was another handicap she had not foreseen. Since she had not worn the dress for some years, it was now too tight on her, straining at her increased dimensions like a small fishing net trying to hold a large whale. The hot weather only added to her discomfort. Behind the black veil, perspiration trickled down her face. Her armpits were dripping pools, her crotch was sodden and a constant rivulet ran down her spine with meandering malevolence.
All that she could do was to walk, watch, rest and take occasional refreshment. Josie saw the Royal Pavilion, the town hall, the assembly rooms, the baths, the theatre and some of the finest hotels in the kingdom. She waddled through the Lanes, the oldest quarter of the town, a rabbit warren of narrow, twisting, brick paved passages lined with fisherman's cottages. She was also astounded by the number of schools, almshouses, infirmaries and other charities. Brighton was a fine town in which to live. It was not, however, the ideal place to visit in tight clothing on a summer's day.
Whenever she stopped to take tea at a small restaurant or sat down from exhaustion on a bench, a compassionate citizen would offer his or her condolences and oblige her to invent either a dead husband whom she had never had, a mother whom she did not, in fact, remember or – by way of variation – a daughter who had been knocked down in London by a runaway horse. While she got some cruel amusement out of deceiving people so plausibly, it did not atone for the pain and boredom from which she was suffering.
She struggled back to the railway station three times in a row, intending to abandon her scheme and return to London. What held her back on each occasion was the thought that her efforts would have come to nought. Josie had gone to Brighton to be there when Chiffney committed murder and created a happy life for them. She had fantasies about intercepting him at the station, or even travelling on the same train as him without revealing her identity until they reached London. Even now, as the early evening brought no relief from the heat, she somehow felt that she had to stay until he came.
Dick Chiffney was her man. They belonged together.
Heinrich Freytag caused no trouble. Though he continued to rail against Giles Thornhill, he made no attempt to escape. Accepting that his plan had failed, he was resigned to his fate. After charging him, Colbeck and Leeming were driven into Brighton so that their prisoner could be placed in custody at the police station. The landau then returned to Thornhill's estate, leaving the detectives still in the town. Leeming could not understand Colbeck's desire to attend the meeting.
'It's the last thing I'd wish to do, sir,' he said. 'I don't want to hear Mr Thornhill talking down his beaky nose at me.'
'Yes, he has cultivated a patrician air, hasn't he?'
'If you stay for the meeting, you'll have to catch a later train.'
'I'm in no hurry to get back to Scotland Yard,' Colbeck confided. 'The superintendent is relying on good news from Brighton.'
'We arrested a man for attempted murder.'
'But he had nothing to do with the train crash.'
'Mr Tallis should be impressed by what we did, Inspector.'
'Not when we're under siege from the press. The only thing that would impress him is the capture of Dick Chiffney. That will get us favourable headlines in the newspapers and force Captain Ridgeon to eat some humble pie. We'll have to begin a new search for Chiffney tomorrow. Meanwhile,' Colbeck went on, 'there's no need for you to stay here, Victor. I'm sure you'd much rather get home to your family.'
'I would, sir – thank you.'
'We'll share a cab and it can drop you off at the railway station.'
Leeming was able for once to look forward to a train journey. It would take him back to his wife and children without the intervening torment of delivering a report to Edward Tallis. They hailed a cab and climbed into it. The horse set off at a steady trot in the direction of the station, its hooves clip-clopping on the hard surface. Colbeck was preoccupied. It was the sergeant who eventually spoke.
'I'm sorry that we gained nothing at all from our visit,' he said.
'But we did,' said Colbeck with amusement. 'If nothing else, we discovered an alternative career for you. Mr Thornhill will always readily employ you as a gardener.'
'No, he won't – pulling out those weeds made my back ache.'
'I was only joking. You're too good a detective to lose.'
'I don't feel that I've been at my best in this investigation, sir.'
'That's largely my fault, Victor.'
'I don't agree with that,' said Leeming. 'You put us on the right track from the very start.'
'Your loyalty is gratifying,' said Colbeck, 'but the truth is that I made mistakes. A moment ago, I was just thinking about a painting that Madeleine is working on at present. The subject is the Round House. I fancy it might have relevance to our present situation.'
'Well, I can't see the slightest connection.'
'Inside the Round House is a turntable. Locomotives go in one way and come out the other. We failed to do that, Victor. Once we decided to go one particular way, we pressed on regardless in the same direction. What we really needed,' he said, thoughtfully, 'was a sort of mental turntable – something that rotated our minds so that we viewed this crime in a different way.'
'I wish I knew what you meant, Inspector,' said Leeming.
'We were too blinkered,' admitted Colbeck. 'Once we concluded that the train crash was a vengeful act against a single individual, we set about looking for possible targets. Horace Bardwell was an obvious possibility.'
'And so was Giles Thornhill.'
'Yet in both cases we were misled. It's time to get on a turntable and swing round so that we can look at the situation from another angle. It's something for you to think about on the train.'
'I would if I had a clue what you were talking about, sir.' The cab drew up outside the station. Leeming was on the point of getting out when he saw someone and stiffened. 'It can't be her,' he said, staring at a figure walking towards the entrance. 'And yet it looks so much like her.' He pointed a finger. 'Do you see that woman, Inspector?
'What about her?'
'I think it's Josie Murlow.'
'No,' said Colbeck, studying her. 'She might have the same shape but what would Josie Murlow be doing in mourning?'
'I've no idea, sir, but that's definitely her. I'd put money on it.'
'I can't be that certain, Victor.'
'That's because you didn't walk behind her for as long as I did,' said Leeming. 'I'd know that rolling gait of hers anywhere.'
At that moment, the woman turned around and lifted her black veil so that she could dab at her forehead with a handkerchief. It was all the confirmation the two detectives needed.
'You're right,' said Colbeck, excitedly. 'It is Josie Murlow.'
'Why has she come to Brighton?'
'I don't know but I suspect that Chiffney won't be too far away. We must have a change of plan. Instead of going home, I think you should stay and watch her. I hope you don't mind, Victor.'
'I'd insist on it, sir,' said Leeming with enthusiasm. 'If it's a choice between watching her and sitting on a train trying to put my brain on a turntable, I know which one I'd prefer.'
'Make sure you're not caught unawares this time.'
'Chiffney won't be allowed to creep up on me twice. Anyway, he doesn't know what I look like. I was in disguise when he hit me.'
'Josie Murlow might recognise you.'
'How well can she see through that black veil?'
'Take no chances.'
'I promise you that she won't lay eyes on me,' said Leeming, confidently, 'until I have to arrest her, that is.'
Ezra Follis had had a burdensome day but he only allowed himself a nap late in the afternoon. As soon as he woke up, he prepared to go out. Mrs Ashmore came into the drawing room of the rectory as he was putting on his hat in front of the mirror.
'You're never going to that meeting at the town hall, are you?' she said with disapproval.
'That's exactly where I'm going, Mrs Ashmore.'
'But I thought they didn't need you any more.'
'They always need me – especially if Giles Thornhill is speaking. The good people of Brighton need someone to talk common sense. They'll certainly get none from the platform.'
'You'd be far better off resting, Mr Follis.'
'I can't rest while that man is preaching his vile gospel,' said Follis, resolutely. 'I'll heckle him every inch of the way.'
She was concerned. 'I don't want you to get into trouble again.'
'Don't fret about me, Mrs Ashmore,'
'I'm bound to fret,' she said. 'Mr Thornhill has too many friends in high places. He can turn them against you. I haven't forgotten the last time you went to a meeting of his.'
Follis cackled. 'Neither have I,' he said, gleefully. 'I challenged almost every statement he made that evening and got loud applause for doing so.'
'But look what happened afterwards. Mr Thornhill made sure that nasty things were written about you in the newspapers and he reported you to the bishop. You were warned.'
'I've lost count of the number of times the bishop has warned me and I daresay that he's done so as well. There are times when the Church of England must speak out, Mrs Ashmore. We shouldn't stand by when an elected Member of Parliament is using his position to incite hatred and distort people's minds. We must fight against bigots like Thornhill.' He took her by the hand and squeezed it. 'I'm sorry,' he said, gently. 'I shouldn't bore you with my opinions. You know them well enough by now.'
'I know them and I respect them,' said the housekeeper, 'but they do worry me sometimes.'
Ellen Ashmore was disturbed. While she admired the rector for his outspokenness, she feared its consequences. He was always being given severe reprimands from the bishop and urged to amend his behaviour. Only that morning, the dean had come to remonstrate with him yet again. Hearing the two men argue, the housekeeper could not resist putting her ear to the door of the drawing room. Though she could not pick up every word, she heard enough to alarm her. The dean was chastising Follis over an article he had written about what he perceived as the shortcomings of the Church. If he did not recant, the Rector of St Dunstan's was threatened with the loss of his living.
'I'd hate to leave here,' she confessed.
'There's no reason why you should,' he assured her.
She gave a pained smile. 'When my husband died,' she recalled, 'I thought that I'd never be happy again. But you rescued me, Mr Follis. You taught me that I had to go on. It was almost as if I was dead and you brought me back to life. I'll never forget that.'
'I've been amply rewarded by your service to me.'
'I'd do anything for you, sir. You must know that.'
'You've been a rock, Mrs Ashmore,' he said. 'You're much more than a housekeeper to me. You're a friend, a companion, a nurse and I don't know what else. When the world turns against me – or when the bishop admonishes me – I always have you to offer love and support. That means a great deal to me.'
She was deeply moved. 'Thank you,' she said.
'Your devotion has been heartening.'
'I don't ever want to leave this place.'
'We shall both have to leave one day,' he said, cheerily, 'when old age prevents me from climbing up into that pulpit. This rectory has been a source of continuing joy to me but that will not go on forever. In the fullness of time, I shall have to retire.'
'Where will you go, sir?' she asked, apprehensively. 'I know that you have a house in London and that you own property here as well. Will you stay in Brighton?'
Follis was struck by the combination of tenderness and hope in her eyes. Within her limitations, she had been a godsend to him. When he had lost his previous housekeeper, Follis did not think he would ever find anyone as compatible and understanding. In Ellen Ashmore, he had done just that. Removing his hat, he laid it on the table then he took her by the shoulders to pull her close.
'Wherever I go,' he promised, 'you'll come with me.'
'Do you mean that?' she cried with delight.
'Of course, I do. We've been through so much together that I'll never part with you now. You're mine, Ellen – you always will be.'
Then he kissed her full on the lips.
Dick Chiffney was determined not to fail this time. There was far too much at stake. All that he had to do was to fire one shot and make his escape. That would not be difficult. The town hall was close to the Lanes, the labyrinth of passageways built way back in the seventeenth century. Chiffney had familiarised himself with the quarter. There would be lots of people outside the town hall but, in the confusion caused by the gunshot, he felt confident of getting away through the Lanes. His employer would be there to watch the murder take place. Once he saw that the victim was dead, he would meet Chiffney at the railway station and pay him the agreed amount. The two men would never see each other again.
A single criminal act could secure Chiffney's future. While the crowd was still clustered around the dead man outside the town hall, he would be running for an express train. Back in London, he would shower Josie Murlow with money. She had finally accepted that what he was doing was for the benefit of both of them. Any scruples she had about the way his payment was obtained had now vanished. Chiffney and she were accomplices, drawn together by lust and united by someone else's death. They were well-matched.
People had already started to arrive for the meeting. Outside the town hall, a magnificent edifice with a classical facade, was a poster bearing the name of Giles Thornhill. Dozens of citizens wanted to know his opinion about the future of Brighton. Since the advent of the railways, it had become a much larger and more boisterous place than hitherto, invaded by holidaymakers in the warmer months. There were many residents who disliked this regular influx of what they saw as the lower orders and they wondered if their Member of Parliament could do something about it.
Chiffney knew nothing of politics. Since he would never have a vote, he took no interest in who actually ran the country. He had never even heard of Thornhill but was impressed by the size of the audience that the man was drawing. That pleased Chiffney. The bigger the crowd in the street, the greater would be the commotion. When the pistol went off, everyone would be too busy trying to take cover to notice him haring off to the Lanes. Shoot, run, collect his money – it was as simple and straightforward as that. All fear had left him now. He was supremely ready.
Knowing the direction from which his target would arrive, he positioned himself in a doorway and used the telescope to scrutinise each cab that approached and each group of people coming on foot. The man he wanted was nowhere to be seen. Time was slowly running out. It would not be long before the meeting started. Chiffney began to worry that his victim might not turn up. It was absurd. He had seen the man half-a-dozen times during the day yet had been unable to shoot. Now that he was eager to pull the trigger, he had no target.
Cold fear seized him. He might not, after all, have the chance to earn his reward. At the last moment, Chiffney had been thwarted. He had been misinformed. The man was not coming. He had cheated death. Just as he was about to give up all hope, he saw another cab turn into the road. Even with the telescope, he could not identify its occupant but he somehow knew that his target had come. Stuffing the telescope into his pocket, he unbuttoned his coat so that he could put his hand around the pistol. It was already loaded. Murder was only seconds away.
The cab drew up outside the town hall and a man got out. He reached up to pay the driver. Chiffney darted across to him with the pistol drawn. He got within yards of the dapper figure.
'Ezra Follis?' he shouted.
'Yes,' said Follis, turning. 'Who wants me?'
'I do!'
Chiffney fired the gun and saw him recoil as the bullet struck him. Before the rector had even hit the ground, his attacker was running away as fast as his legs would carry him.
Robert Colbeck was inside the town hall when he heard the gunshot and the screams that followed it. Rushing out into the road, he saw people sheltering in doorways or crouched down on their knees. Right in front of him was a small group of men, bending over a body on the pavement. Colbeck went over to them and saw Ezra Follis, his face contorted with agony as he clutched the wound in his shoulder. Colbeck took charge at once.
'Someone fetch a doctor!' he ordered. As a man hurried off, Colbeck took out a handkerchief, put it over the wound. 'Press down on this to stem the bleeding,' he told one of the bystanders before speaking to Follis. 'Can you hear me, sir?'
'Yes, Inspector,' murmured Follis.
'What happened?'
'Thornhill stopped me going to the meeting.'
'I'll tell you what happened,' said one of the men. 'The Reverend Follis got out a cab when someone jumped forward and shot him.'
'Is that correct?' asked Colbeck.
'Yes,' replied Follis. 'It was over in an instant.'
'Can you describe the man?'
'He was as ugly as sin, Inspector. He had the face of Satan.'
'Dick Chiffney!' said Colbeck to himself.
Victor Leeming had kept her under observation from behind the newspaper he had bought at the railway station. Josie Murlow was seated on a bench from which she could see the main entrance. Every so often, she glanced up at the clock. When a train came in, she got up as if about to catch it. At the last moment, however, she changed her mind and went back to the bench. Leeming could not see her face but he could sense her irritation. The train pulled out and she watched it go. Seeing her distracted, the sergeant drifted closer to the entrance so that he would be in a better position to intercept Chiffney.
In the event, it was not Dick Chiffney who came but Colbeck. A cab came towards the station with the horse at a gallop. When the animal was reined in by the driver, the cab came to an abrupt halt and out leapt Colbeck. After handing some coins to the driver, he strode briskly over to Leeming.
'Has he come yet, Victor?' he asked. 'Is Chiffney here?'
'No, sir.'
'Then he will be any minute. He's just shot the Reverend Follis.'
'Never!'
'Chiffney escaped on foot, apparently, so I'll have overtaken him in the cab. Besides, he won't run all the way here for fear of arousing suspicion.'
'How do we know he's coming to the station?'
'Josie Murlow is waiting for him. I'll wager that's why she's in Brighton today.' He glanced around. 'Let's separate so that he has to pass between us.'
'Yes, Inspector,' said Leeming, pleased at the prospect of action.
'Don't move until I give the signal. With luck, he might even make contact with his paymaster. We can arrest both of them.'
'Mr Tallis may yet have good news from Brighton.'
'Take up your position, Victor, and be very careful.'
'Why is that?'
'Chiffney is armed.'
They parted company and moved to either side of the entrance. Both had their backs to Josie so there was no danger of their being recognised. People were streaming into the station and going to their respective platforms. None of them realised what was about to happen. The detectives did not have long to wait. As more people converged on the terminus, Colbeck and Leeming both noticed the strapping man with a hunted look. The pronounced squint and the hideous face left them in no doubt. It was Dick Chiffney.
They let him walk past them into the station. He was tense and agitated, looking around with great anxiety as if expecting to see someone. What the detectives could not understand was why he ignored Josie Murlow and why she made no attempt to speak to him. Chiffney's interest was in someone else but that person was nowhere to be seen. He became desperate, breaking into a trot as he searched every corner of the station, bumping into people in his haste. As he looped back towards the entrance, Colbeck and Leeming could see the sweat glistening on his face.
Josie Murlow was on her feet now, watching him as intently as the detectives yet hesitating to approach him. Seeing the anguished state he was in, she held back. When she heard another train clanking towards the station, she looked over her shoulder. Chiffney also registered it, torn between wanting to find someone and needing to escape from Brighton. Colbeck had waited long enough. Whoever Chiffney had expected was obviously not there. It was time to strike.
Colbeck gave the signal and both detectives started to move towards Chiffney. Their determination was so evident and their walk so purposeful that they gave themselves away. An innate sense of survival made Chiffney look up at them. He was a killer on the run and he knew he must not be taken. As they got within ten yards, he pulled out the pistol and brandished it.
'Keep back,' he said, 'or I'll shoot.'
'You can't kill both of us with one bullet,' said Colbeck, calmly. 'In any case, you can't shoot straight, Mr Chiffney. You only managed to hit the Reverend Follis in the shoulder.'
Chiffney was in a panic. They not only knew his name, they were aware of his crime. Worst of all, he had not killed his target. That explained why the man who had retained him was not there. He would never pay Chiffney for a bungled murder.
Colbeck extended a palm. 'Hand the gun over, sir,' he said.
'If you come any closer,' warned Chiffney, 'I'll kill you.'
'I doubt very much if you've had time to reload in the rush to get here. Now, are you going to hand it over or shall we take it from you?'
Chiffney looked helplessly down at the weapon, confirming that it was not loaded. When he saw Leeming edging forward, he flung the pistol at him and caught him in the chest. The sergeant reeled back in pain. Colbeck stayed long enough to make sure that Leeming was not seriously injured. He then looked up to see Chiffney running away. Discarding his top hat, Colbeck gave chase. He was not simply after a man who had shot Ezra Follis. He was pursuing a callous villain who had deliberately caused a train crash that led to many deaths. It put extra speed into Colbeck's legs.
The crowd parted as the two men hurtled across the station. Realising that he might soon be caught, and wearied from his earlier run through the Lanes, Chiffney tried to elude Colbeck by jumping down on to the track. He was oblivious to the fact that the oncoming train was now steaming towards the platform. Josie Murlow saw the danger only too clearly. Throwing back her veil, she yelled at the top of her voice.
'Look out, Dick – the train is coming!'
Intended to save his life, the warning actually condemned him to death. Chiffney was so astonished to hear her voice that he stood still and turned around. When he saw her dressed in black, he was utterly bewildered. He had no idea what Josie was doing there in such unlikely attire. By the time he tried to move, it was too late. Tripping over the rail in his urgency, he fell directly across the path of the locomotive. Its large, merciless, revolving, cast-iron wheels sliced through him and rolled on uncaringly past the blood-covered remains.
Josie's Murlow's howl of despair reverberated around the whole station. Unwittingly, she had worn the appropriate dress, after all.