Victor Leeming was nothing if not tenacious. Given a task, he stuck at it with unwavering commitment until it was completed. Since he had been told to find the names of anyone dismissed by the LB amp;SCR in recent months, he badgered the staff in the railway company's London office until he had all the details available. On the cab ride to Scotland Yard, he reflected on how much his job had changed since he had joined the Detective Department. As a uniformed sergeant, he had seen and enjoyed a great deal of action on the dangerous streets of the capital. Catching thieves, arresting drunks, organising night patrols and keeping the peace had taken up most of his time.
Detective work tended to be slower and more painstaking. What it lacked in vigorous action, however, it atoned for in other ways, chief among them being the privilege of working beside Robert Colbeck. Every day spent with the Railway Detective was an education for Leeming and he relished it. He might have to travel on the trains he detested but he had the consolation of investigating crimes of a far more complex and heinous nature than hitherto. Breaking up a fight in a rowdy tavern could not offer him anything like the satisfaction he got from helping to solve cases that dealt with murder, arson, kidnap and other serious crimes. The present investigation promised to be the most challenging yet and he was not certain that the culprit would be found in due course.
Leeming arrived at Scotland Yard to find Colbeck in his office, poring over the list of casualties from the train crash. Pleased to see him, the inspector got to his feet at once.
'Come on in, Victor. Did you discover anything of interest?'
'Yes, sir,' said Leeming, taking a notepad from his pocket, 'I discovered that I could never work for the LB amp;SCR – not that I'd even think of being employed by a railway company, mind you.'
'What's the problem? asked Colbeck.
'There are too many ways to get sacked. Men have been booted out for being drunk, violent, lazy, slow, sleeping on duty, being late for work, not wearing the correct uniform, disobeying an instruction, telling lies, using bad language, playing cards, pretending to be ill, stealing company property and for dozens of other offences.' Opening his notebook at the appropriate page, he handed it over. 'As you'll see, a porter at Burgess Hill was dismissed when ash from his pipe fell accidentally on to the stationmaster's newspaper and set it alight.'
'I think we can eliminate him from our enquiries,' said Colbeck, scanning the list, 'and most of these other names can be ruled out as well. The majority seem to have been with the company a very short time so they did not put down any roots in it.'
'I wonder how some of them were taken on in the first place. I mean, there's a fireman on that list who used to toss handfuls of coal off his engine at a place along the line then collect it later and take it home. That was criminal, Inspector.'
'Caleb Andrews would never have allowed that. If any fireman of his tried to break the law, he'd have lashed the man to the buffers.' Colbeck looked up. 'Talking of Mr Andrews, you'll recall that I asked him and his daughter to break the news of Frank Pike's death to his wife.'
'Yes, sir,' said Leeming. 'It was very considerate of you.'
'You need good friends beside you at such a time.'
'The widow must have been distraught.'
'She was grief-stricken,' said Colbeck, 'but she did volunteer one useful piece of information.' He indicated a letter on his desk. 'Miss Andrews was kind enough to pass it on to me. Mrs Pike remembers her husband telling her that he saw a man using a telescope to watch the trains go past. The sun glinted off it, apparently.'
'Where did this happen, sir?'
'It was between Balcombe and Haywards Heath.'
'That's exactly where the accident happened.'
'Frank Pike spotted the man on two separate occasions as he drove past,' Colbeck went on, 'and in two slightly different locations. He could well have been looking for the ideal point at which to bring the Brighton Express off the line.' His eyes flicked back to the notepad. 'You've done well, Victor. This list is very comprehensive.'
'The trouble is,' said Leeming, 'it gives us too many suspects.'
'I'm not so sure about that. Only three names look really promising to me. Their respective owners all left fairly recently and, according to your notes, may have cause to resent their dismissal.'
'Who are they, Inspector?'
Colbeck picked them out with an index finger. 'I'd plump for Jack Rye, Dick Chiffney and Matthew Shanklin.'
'The one that I'd put first is Shanklin. Before he lost his job, he had a senior position in the company and had held it for a number of years. It must have been galling to be fired from such a well-paid post. Shanklin's mistake was to fall out with one of the directors.'
Colbeck's ears pricked up immediately. 'Do you happen to know which director it was?' he asked.
'Yes, sir,' replied Leeming. 'It was Horace Bardwell.'
Horace Bardwell still had no idea where he was and what had actually happened to him. Having suffered compound fractures, he lay in the county hospital with an arm and a leg in splints. Because of a severe head wound, his whole skull was covered in a turban of bandaging and his podgy face was largely invisible. Bardwell was a corpulent man whose massive bulk made the bed look far too small for him. Most of the day had been passed in a drowsy half-sleep. Whenever he surfaced, he was given a dose of morphine to deaden the pain. He began to believe that he had died and gone to Hell.
Someone sat beside his bed and leant in to speak to him.
'Good evening,' said Ezra Follis. 'How are you feeling now?'
'Are you a doctor?' murmured Bardwell.
'I cure men's souls rather than their bodies so I can lay claim to being a medical man of sorts. We've travelled on the Brighton Express a number of times, Mr Bardwell, and exchanged a nod of greeting. I am Ezra Follis, by the way, Rector of St Dunstan's. I'm trying to speak to everyone with whom I shared a carriage yesterday.'
Bardwell was bewildered. 'Yesterday?'
'Our train collided with another one.'
'I remember nothing of that.'
'Then a hideous memory has been kindly wiped from your mind by a benign Almighty. I wish that I, too, could forget it.'
'I'm hurting all over,' bleated Bardwell.
'The doctor will give you something to soothe the pain.'
'But how did I get it in the first place and why can't I see?'
Follis knew the answers to both questions. Before talking to the patient, he had checked on his condition with a member of the medical staff. Bardwell had been unfortunate. Apart from taking punishment to his head and body, he had been blinded. Though a doctor had tried to explain to him the full extent of his injuries, Bardwell had been hopelessly unable to understand. Touched by the man's plight, Follis sought only to offer solace and companionship. He talked softly until Bardwell drifted off to sleep again then offered up a prayer for the man's recovery.
As he left the ward, he saw an imposing figure striding towards him. Colbeck recognised the wounded clergyman and introduced himself, explaining his reason for being there. Follis was surprised and deeply upset to hear that someone might have deliberately caused the accident.
'That's unforgivable!' he exclaimed.
'I agree, sir.'
'It's utterly sinful! Look at the devastation that was caused. I cannot believe that any human being could be capable of such wanton cruelty. So many lives were lost or wrecked.'
'What you did yesterday was truly impressive,' said Colbeck, recalling his visit to the site. 'Though you had injuries of your own, you still found the strength and willpower to help others.'
Follis smiled. 'I found nothing, Inspector,' he argued, hand on heart. 'In my hour of need, God came to my aid and enabled me to do what I did. As for my own scratches, they are very minor compared to the injuries of other passengers. Being so short and slight has its advantage. When the crash occurred, I presented a very small target.'
'That should have made no difference.'
'It's an incontrovertible fact. Look at Mr Bardwell, for instance.'
'Would that be Horace Bardwell?'
'The very same,' confirmed Follis, nodding. 'He must be a foot taller and almost three times my size. In other words, there was more of him to hit. That's why he suffered so badly.' He sucked in air through his teeth. 'In addition to his many other injuries, alas, the poor fellow has lost his sight.'
'That must be very distressing for him.'
'It will be when he finally comprehends it.'
'Oh?'
'Mr Bardwell doesn't know what day it is, Inspector. I've just spent time at his bedside, trying to talk to him. His mind is so befuddled that it's impossible to establish any real contact. When the truth does eventually dawn on him,' he added with a sigh, 'it will come as a thunderbolt.'
'I was hoping to speak to Mr Bardwell myself,' said Colbeck.
'He'll hear precious little of what you say.'
'The doctor seemed to think he was slightly better today.'
'Only in the sense that he is much more alive,' said Follis. 'Had you seen him immediately after the crash, you'd have thought he was at death's door. Happily, he survived and his body will heal in time. Whether or not his mind will also heal is another matter.'
Follis stood aside so that the detective could see into the ward. The clergyman pointed Bardwell out. Since the patient's eyes were covered by a bandage, it was difficult to determine if he was asleep but his body was motionless. Colbeck glanced around the ward and saw that everyone else there had serious injuries.
'How many of them will make a complete recovery?' he asked.
'None of them, Inspector,' said Follis. 'The memory of the crash will be like a red-hot brand burnt into their brain. It will torture them for the rest of their lives.'
'Have there been any more fatalities?'
'Two people have died here in hospital.'
'That will bring the total number to eight.'
'I fear that it will climb higher than that.' He noticed movement in Bardwell's bed. 'I fancy that he may be stirring again, Inspector. This may be your only chance to speak to him but be prepared for a disappointment.'
'Why?'
'He's in a world of his own.'
Colbeck thanked him for his advice and went into the ward. A nurse was bending over one patient, trying to coax him to drink. In another bed, a man was coughing uncontrollably. A third patient was groaning aloud. Attended by a nurse, a doctor was examining someone in the far corner. When he eventually stood up, the doctor shook his head sadly and the nurse pulled the bed sheet over the patient's face. Another victim of the crash had passed away.
Sitting beside Bardwell, Colbeck touched his shoulder.
'Are you awake, Mr Bardwell?' he enquired.
'Who are you?' muttered the other.
'My name is Detective Inspector Colbeck and I'm investigating the crash that took place on the Brighton line yesterday.'
'Give me something to take this pain away.'
'I'm not a doctor, sir.'
'What's this crash you mentioned?'
'You were on the train at the time, Mr Bardwell.'
'Was I?'
'That's how you received your injuries.'
'My mind is a blank,' said Bardwell, piteously.
'You must remember something.'
'It's all a blur. I feel as if I've broken every bone in my body. My head is on fire and I've got something tied over my eyes.'
'You need rest, sir.'
'I want a doctor.'
'I'll call one in a moment,' Colbeck promised. 'I just want to ask you one thing.' Raising his voice, he spoke with deliberate slowness. 'Do you recall a Matthew Shanklin?'
The question produced an instant reply. Bardwell let out a gasp of horror and his body started to twitch violently. Colbeck held him down with gentle hands until the convulsions had ceased. Then he summoned a doctor. His conversation with Bardwell had been brief but, as he left the hospital, Colbeck felt that his journey to Brighton had not been in vain.
Matthew Shanklin had been out of work for a couple of months before finding another post. Discharged by one railway company, he was now employed by another and it was in the main office of the London and North West Railway that Leeming tracked him down that evening. Shanklin gave him a guarded welcome. He was a bald-headed man in his forties, short, thin and stooping. On the desk in front of him were piles of documents.
'You're working late this evening, sir,' observed Leeming.
'I have no control over my hours, Sergeant,' said Shanklin, coldly. 'In my previous situation, I had a more senior position and a degree of autonomy. That, I regret to say, is no longer the case.'
'It's your previous job that brought me here, Mr Shanklin.'
'What do you mean?'
Leeming told him about the investigation and Shanklin's back arched defensively. He peered at his visitor through a pair of wire-framed spectacles. Careful not to interrupt the narrative, he paused for a full minute when it was finally concluded.
'In what possible way can I help you, Sergeant?'
'I'd like to hear why you left the LB amp;SCR,' said Leeming.
'I didn't leave of my own volition,' admitted Shanklin. 'I was summarily dismissed, as I'm sure you know. Is that what brought you here?' he went on angrily. 'You believe that I had something to do with that terrible accident?'
'No, sir.'
'Then why bother me?'
'Inspector Colbeck thought you might be able to assist us, Mr Shanklin. Having worked for the company, you must have been very familiar with the rest of the management and with the directors.'
'I was there a long time, Sergeant.'
'Would you describe it as a happy company?'
'As happy as most, I daresay,' replied Shanklin. 'Every company has its inner tensions and petty rivalries – I'm sure that you have some of those at Scotland Yard.'
'We certainly have plenty of tension,' conceded Leeming as an image of Superintendent Tallis popped into his mind. 'I think it's a means of keeping us on our toes. And, of course, there's always rivalry between the uniformed branch and the plain clothes division. But,' he continued, one eye on Shanklin, 'at least we don't have a board of directors breathing down our necks.'
'Then you are supremely fortunate.'
'You say that with some bitterness, sir.'
'I've good cause to do so.'
Leeming waited for him to explain what he meant but Shanklin remained silent. Sitting back in his chair, he folded his arms in what looked like a mild show of defiance. He was clearly unwilling to talk about his past. Leeming had to chisel the facts out of him.
'You were well-regarded at the LB amp;SCR, I hear,' said Leeming.
'I earned that regard.'
'Six months ago, you had another promotion.'
'Deservedly,' said Shanklin.
'Then it's odd that the company should let you go.'
'It was odd and unjust.'
'Why was that, sir?'
Shanklin flicked a hand. 'It doesn't matter.'
'It does to me,' insisted Leeming.
'I'd rather forget the whole thing, Sergeant. It was painful at the time, especially as I was given no chance to defend myself. I have a new job in another company now and that's where my loyalties lie.'
'What did you think when you heard the news of the crash?'
'I was profoundly shocked,' said Shanklin, 'as anyone would be at such horrific news. Deaths and injuries on the railway always disturb me.'
'The very thought of them terrifies me,' said Leeming.
'When I worked for the LB amp;SCR, my job entailed responsibility for safety on the line. If there was even the slightest mishap, I felt it as a personal failure.' He bit his lip. 'I'm just relieved that I was not still with the company when this disaster occurred.'
'Did you know anyone who might have travelled on the express?'
'Probably.'
'Could you give me their names, please?'
'No,' said Shanklin, curtly.
'But you do know people who travel on that train regularly?'
'What are you trying to get at, Sergeant Leeming?'
'Could one of them, perhaps, be Mr Horace Bardwell?'
Shanklin took refuge in silence once more, staring fixedly at his desk and fiddling nervously with a sheet of paper. Leeming could see how concerned the man was. He did not, however, press him. He watched and waited until Shanklin was ready to speak.
'Tell me, Sergeant,' he began, turning to look up at him.
'Have you ever been certain of a man's guilt yet unable to prove it?'
'That's happened to me a number of times, sir,' said Leeming, ruefully. 'I've often had to watch guilty men walk free from court because I was unable to find enough evidence to convict them.'
'Then you'll understand my position with regard to Mr Bardwell.'
'I don't follow.'
'I lacked sufficient evidence.'
Leeming blinked. 'Are you accusing Mr Bardwell of a crime?'
'Yes,' said Shanklin, gloomily, 'and a lot of good it did me. I lost my job, my friends and my reputation at the LB amp;SCR. Mr Bardwell saw to that. He's the person who should have been ousted – not me.'
'What charge would you lay against him, sir?'
'Fraud.'
'That's a very serious accusation.'
'I had good reason to make it, believe me. It was my misfortune to stumble upon a document written by Horace Bardwell, a man whom I had always respected. Well,' said Shanklin, grinding his teeth, 'I don't respect him now.'
'Why is that, sir?'
'What I had seen was an attempt to falsify our share prospectus, to lure investors into parting with their money on the strength of bogus promises. I need hardly tell you that the Railway Mania of the last decade led to all kinds of financial upheavals.'
'Yes,' said Leeming. 'People no longer think that investing in a railway company is a licence to print money.'
'Dividends are shrinking on all sides, Sergeant. I doubt if the LB amp;SCR will be able to pay its shareholders more than six per cent next year, possibly less.'
'I assume that Mr Bardwell was offering much more.'
'He was trying to defraud people,' said Shanklin with disgust. 'The prospectus was full of misleading statements and downright lies. I was so outraged that I confronted him about it.'
'How did he react?' wondered Leeming.
'First of all, he pretended that it was not his handwriting. Then, when that excuse wouldn't work, he claimed that it was a first draft that he intended to change substantially. I refused to accept that and Mr Bardwell became angry. He threatened to ruin me.'
'Why didn't you report your findings to the other directors?'
'That's exactly what I did, Sergeant,' replied Shanklin. 'They asked me to produce evidence but the document in question had already been destroyed by Mr Bardwell. It was his word against mine.' He ran a hand over his bald pate. 'I was dismissed on the spot.'
While he was not convinced that he had heard the whole story, Leeming did not ask for more detail. What he had uncovered was a justifiable grudge against Bardwell, one strong enough, perhaps, to impel Shanklin to seek revenge against the man.
'Horace Bardwell was injured in that crash,' said Leeming. 'How would you feel if you learnt that he had, in fact, been killed?'
Shanklin was forthright. 'I'd be absolutely delighted.'
During his visit to the hospital, Colbeck took the opportunity to speak to a number of the survivors of the crash, comparing their estimates of the speed at which the train was travelling and the way they had reacted when it came off the rails. Several spoke gratefully of the way that the Reverend Ezra Follis had helped them in the immediate aftermath, though one man had been highly alarmed by the sight of the clergyman, fearing that he had come to perform last rites. Colbeck found two people who had actually shared Follis's carriage. Terence Giddens, the red-faced banker, was still desperate to be discharged from the hospital. He kept glancing anxiously at the door as if afraid that an unwanted visitor would walk through it.
Daisy Perriam had been the only woman in the carriage but the beauty that had attracted her travelling companions was now masked by ugly facial cuts and bruises. She had sustained cracked ribs during the crash and a broken wrist. The injury that really distressed her, however, was the crushed foot. She would never walk properly again. When Colbeck pointed out that she was lucky to survive, she burst into tears.
'I'd rather have died,' she wailed, tears streaming down her cheeks. 'What kind of a life do I face now? It will be a nightmare.'
'Do your family know what happened to you?' asked Colbeck.
'No, Inspector, and I hope that they never do.'
On that mystifying note, Colbeck left the hospital and made his way to the railway station, a striking piece of architecture. It was late in the evening when he at last returned to Scotland Yard. The distinctive whiff of cigar smoke from the superintendent's office told him that Edward Tallis was still there. A confirmed bachelor with scant interest in a social life, Tallis had dedicated himself completely to the never-ending fight against crime. Colbeck tapped on his door, entered in response to a brusque command and caught the superintendent in the act of stubbing out his cigar in an ashtray.
'Ah,' said Tallis, sarcastically, 'the Prodigal Son returns!'
'Does that mean you have a fatted calf roasting on the spit, sir?'
'No, Inspector.'
'Then perhaps you should read your Bible,' suggested Colbeck.
Tallis sat up indignantly. 'I study it every day and am well-acquainted with its contents,' he affirmed. 'If everyone in this blighted city was as devout and God-fearing as me, there'd be no need for a Metropolitan Police Force.'
'I beg to differ, sir. You'd need hundreds of constables to control the masses fighting to get into the churches.'
'Are you being facetious, Colbeck?
'Light drollery was the most I was attempting.'
'It has no place whatsoever in a criminal investigation.'
While Colbeck disagreed, he knew that it was not the moment to debate the subject. Tallis believed that a sense of humour was a sign of weakness in a man's character. If he ever found something even remotely amusing, the superintendent made sure that nobody else ever found out about it. Waving Colbeck to a chair, he picked up a sheet of paper from his desk.
'This is a report from Sergeant Leeming,' he declared.
'Thank you, sir,' said Colbeck, taking it from him. 'I'll be very interested to see it. Victor and I were dealing with two ends of a problematical relationship. While he was calling on Matthew Shanklin, I was visiting Horace Bardwell at the county hospital in Brighton.'
'How is he?'
'He's very poorly, I'm afraid. He's lost his sight as a result of the accident and took such a blow to the head that he's in a state of great confusion.' As he was talking, Colbeck was reading Leeming's account of the interview with Shanklin. 'This could be significant,' he went on. 'Victor has probed quite deeply.'
'I want to hear about Mr Bardwell.'
'Then you shall, superintendent.'
Colbeck told him about his fleeting encounter with Bardwell and what he had gleaned from other patients. He emphasised the number of people who had praised the work of Ezra Follis.
'Disasters produce victims,' said Tallis, grimly, 'but they also create heroes. It sounds to me as if the Reverend Follis is one of them.'
'There's no question of that, sir. One of the doctors told me that he should be in hospital himself instead of carrying on as if nothing had happened to him.'
'Christian stoicism – we can all learn from his example.'
'Strictly speaking,' said Colbeck, 'Stoics were members of an ancient Greek school of philosophy, holding that virtue and happiness can only be attained by submission to destiny and natural law. I'm not sure that it can be aligned to Christianity.'
'Don't be so pedantic!'
'Nevertheless, I see and appreciate what you were trying to say.'
'I was not trying to say anything, Inspector – I was saying it.'
'And your point was crystal clear,' said Colbeck, suppressing a smile. 'To return to Horace Bardwell, do you accept that his presence on that express train may – and I put it no higher than that – have been the reason it was derailed?'
'I reserve my judgement.'
'You've read Victor's report and heard how Mr Bardwell reacted when I mentioned the name of Matthew Shanklin to him. Are you still not persuaded, sir?'
'I'm persuaded that there might, after all, be something in your extraordinary notion that the train crash was intended to kill a particular individual,' said Tallis, eyebrows forming a bushy chevron, 'but I very much doubt if his name was Horace Bardwell.'
'Who else could it possibly be?' said Colbeck.
'The gentleman who sent me this letter earlier today,' replied the other, jabbing a finger on the missive. 'According to this, he's had two death threats to date and is sure that he is being followed. When he discharged himself from hospital, he did so under police guard.'
'May I know his name, Superintendent?'
'It's Giles Thornhill, a Member of Parliament for Brighton.'
Colbeck was decisive. 'I'll call on him tomorrow morning, sir.'