In view of Victor Leeming's experience with her, Colbeck did not feel he could ask his sergeant to pay a second visit to Josie Murlow. It would not have been a tempting assignment for him. Showing his habitual compassion, Colbeck therefore took on the task himself, travelling to Chalk Farm by cab and alighting outside the little hovel. When he knocked on the door, there was no reply. After waiting a couple of minutes, he used a fist to pound on the timber. Still there was no response. Colbeck was on the point of leaving when a window creaked open above his head and an angry female face appeared.
'Who the hell is that?' she roared.
Colbeck looked up. 'Am I speaking to Josie Murlow?'
'Who wants to know?'
'My name is Detective Inspector Colbeck,' he told her. 'I believe that you spoke to a colleague of mine yesterday.'
She peered at him through bleary eyes. Having been roused from a drunken stupor, she needed time to understand what he had said. As the fog in her brain cleared a little, she recalled the visit of Sergeant Leeming. The memory made her grimace.
'I got nothing to say to you,' she told him.
'All I ask is a chance to speak to you briefly,' he said, removing his top hat so that she could see him properly. 'You're not in any trouble, I assure you. I just need to ask a few questions.'
'The other one did that. You'll get no more from me.'
His voice hardened. 'I'm making a polite request, Miss Murlow,' he warned. 'If you spurn it, I'll have to get a warrant to enter your premises and, if you refuse to speak to me then, I'll have no option but to place you under arrest.'
'I done nothing!' she clucked, indignantly.
'Then you have nothing to fear.'
Josie's eyes were fully open now and she was able to take a better look at the man on her doorstep. He was far more handsome than his predecessor from Scotland Yard and he had none of the other's diffidence. What worried her was his rank. Josie had had enough brushes with the law to know that someone who had risen to the level of an inspector would not bother with trivial offences. He was there in connection with a serious crime.
'Well,' he called up to her, 'are you going to let me in?'
The fact that he was willing to come into the house set him immediately apart from Leeming. She had unsettled the first detective. Josie could see that she would not have the same effect on the second one. After weighing up the possibilities, she capitulated.
'Wait there,' she said at length. 'I need to dress.'
Colbeck stood patiently outside the door. When it eventually opened, Josie was wearing a voluminous gown of pink satin, badly faded and speckled with food and other stains. Her feet were bare, her face flushed and her red hair was an unkempt torrent surging over one shoulder and disappearing down her cleavage like water gurgling between two giant boulders.
He could see why Leeming had found her overwhelming. At a glance, he was also able to make certain assumptions about Dick Chiffney. Only a hefty man with boundless energy and strength of character could partner such a forbidding creature for any length of time. Lids narrowed, Josie regarded him suspiciously.
'There's nothing I can tell you,' she said, stubbornly.
'May we talk inside, please?' asked Colbeck.
'What are you after?'
'I think you know that.'
'Dick is not here.'
'I'd still like to speak to you.'
After looking him up and down, she stood reluctantly aside and let him step into the house. The first thing he noticed was the stink, a compound of rancid food, household filth and the reek from the vast unwashed body of Josie Murlow. The room was small, cluttered and sparsely furnished. A tattered carpet lay over the flagstones. Colbeck had to duck under the cobweb-covered beam.
'Well, now,' she said, tossing her hair back over her shoulder to expose her new necklace, 'you are a fine gentleman and no mistake. Josie Murlow doesn't have many like you under her roof.'
'When did you last see Mr Chiffney?'
'I told the sergeant that – it was over a week ago.'
'Did he give any indication where he was going?'
'I'd have stopped the bastard if he had. Dick was my man.'
'Had he ever gone off before?' said Colbeck.
'He wouldn't have dared to,' she said, huffily, 'because he knew what would happen when I caught up with him.'
'Yet he had the courage to go this time. Why did he do that?'
She became defensive. 'Well, it wasn't because of anything I did or said, Inspector,' she insisted. 'I gave him everything a man wants. We lived here as close together as any man and wife – a lot closer, judging by some of the miserable faces on the men I see in this part of the city,' she went on, meaningfully. 'Their wives keep a cold bed. My bed is as warm as toast.'
'Did Mr Chiffney always work on the railway?'
'When he could get a job,' she replied. 'Dick worked for a lot of different railway companies over the years. He's good at what he does, Inspector, there's no two ways about that. But he hates taking orders and always has a row with someone or other. Dick is a bit too ready to use his fists. Mind you,' she stipulated, 'he was always provoked.'
'How long had he worked on the Brighton line?' said Colbeck.
'I think it was a year or more.'
'If he had such a record of violence, why did they employ him?'
'He knew someone who got him the job,' she explained. 'Dick liked the work so he was on his best behaviour. It was only when that foreman hit him that Dick lost his temper.'
'Has he tried to work on the railways since then?'
'Nobody would touch him now the word's got round about him looking for a fight. Listen,' she said, squaring up to him, 'why are you and that Sergeant Leeming so interested in Dick Chiffney? What's he supposed to have done?'
'He may have done nothing at all,' Colbeck assured her. 'We just need to eliminate him from our enquiries. That's why we're so anxious to speak to him – as I'm sure you are.'
'I'm very anxious, Inspector.'
She spoke with feeling but with none of the raging fury that Victor Leeming had reported. Colbeck wondered what had brought about the change in her manner. Josie Murlow had softened in a way that could not wholly be attributed to the effect of gin, the fumes of which he could still detect. He moved slightly so that he could look into the kitchen, noting the cheese left on the table along with two plates. Somebody else had been there recently.
'May I ask you a favour?' he said.
'You can ask anything you like, Inspector,' she replied, running both hands over the contours of her body, 'and it won't cost you a penny. I'd have charged the sergeant but he ran away. I've got a flagon of gin upstairs if that takes your fancy.'
'As it happens,' said Colbeck, meeting her bold gaze, 'I never touch it. You're obviously a woman of experience in these matters so I don't need to remind you of the penalty of offering blandishments to a member of the Metropolitan Police.'
She was defiant. 'They don't all refuse, I can tell you!'
'The favour I wish to ask is this. If and when Mr Chiffney does return, please advise him that it's in his best interests to get in touch with me at Scotland Yard. That way, his name can be cleared.'
'You still haven't told me what you think he's done.'
'It's a railway matter.'
'Has Dick been punching another foreman, then?
'No,' answered Colbeck, 'it's a little more serious than that.'
Dick Chiffney loaded the pistol again and took careful aim at the empty bottle standing on the tree stump. When he pulled the trigger, there was a loud report then the glass exploded into a thousand shards. Birds took wildly to the sky in an unrehearsed symphony of protest. Chiffney grinned at his success and set another bottle on the stump.
He was deep in the woods, far away from the nearest human habitation and therefore free from the possibility of any interruption. This time, he stood a few yards farther away from his target. Apart from his companion, his only witnesses were the birds. When he had loaded the weapon again, he took aim, peered along the barrel then fired. The bullet struck its target a glancing blow, detaching a small piece of glass and causing the bottle to spin crazily round before falling on to the ground. Chiffney was annoyed at his failure.
The man who had been watching him handed over a rifle.
'Try with this next time,' he ordered. 'You may not get close enough to use the pistol.'
Robert Colbeck arrived back at his office to find Victor Leeming waiting there for him. The sergeant described his second interview with Matthew Shanklin and added what he felt was a telling detail.
'As I was shown out of the house,' he said, 'I spoke to the maid.'
'Go on.'
'I asked her if Mr Shanklin had ever possessed a telescope and she told me that he did.'
'Good work, Victor,' said Colbeck. 'That was astute of you. I had a feeling that you'd unearth something interesting if you paid Shanklin a second visit. Did you believe his claim that he suffered from migraines?'
'No, sir,' replied Leeming. 'I think he simply wanted a day off. It's just as well that he isn't a detective. The superintendent doesn't believe in using sickness as an excuse. He'd have us on duty if we were suffering from double pneumonia.'
'In fairness to Mr Tallis, he applies the same rule to himself. Nothing short of complete paralysis would keep him away from here. What you learnt this morning,' Colbeck went on, 'could be very significant. There's patently a link between Shanklin and Chiffney.'
'They could be accomplices, sir.'
'It's something we must bear in mind.'
'Did you visit Chalk Farm?' asked Leeming, eagerly.
'Yes, Victor, I had a most diverting time.'
He gave a full account of his conversation with Josie Murlow. Leeming was astonished at his bravery in actually going into the hovel to question her. Colbeck made Josie sound like a different woman to the one who had unnerved him.
'Didn't she rant and rage, then?' he said.
'I think she's mellowed since you were there, Victor.'
'Mellow or not, sir, I'd rather steer clear of her.'
'Unfortunately, you won't be able to do that,' said Colbeck. 'I want you to keep a close watch on the lady.' Leeming spluttered. 'Have no fear – you won't have to meet her face to face, and you certainly won't go there dressed like that. You'll be in disguise, Victor.'
'I'll need a suit of armour to feel safe near that woman.'
'She was hiding something. When I mentioned Chiffney's name, she didn't curse and threaten as she did when you spoke to her. She was more concerned to find out why we were after him. Evidently, someone had been at the house recently,' said Colbeck. 'Two people had supper there and Josie Murlow was wearing a garnet necklace. Do you think she usually goes to bed with that on?'
'I'm not familiar with her sleeping habits, sir,' said Leeming with a tremor, 'and I've certainly no wish to be.'
'She's not the sort of person you'd expect to own an expensive piece of jewellery, and her clients are hardly likely to be able to afford such an item. So,' asked Colbeck, 'who do you think could have given her the necklace?'
'Dick Chiffney must have been back there.'
'That was my guess – the necklace was a peace offering.'
'Then why wasn't he still there this morning?'
'For one simple reason,' said Colbeck. 'She warned him that you'd been looking for him. He probably fled at once.'
'That proves he was involved in the crime.'
'All that it proves is that he's not willing to talk to us and there could be any number of reasons for that. We'll only find out the truth when we run him to ground. That's why I want you to keep Josie Murlow under surveillance. If Chiffney was there last night,' he said, 'it means that the two of them are reconciled. Since he won't go to her house again, they'll have to meet elsewhere. You'll follow her.'
'Well, it will be from a safe distance, Inspector.'
'You'll be dressed in rough clothing.'
'I'm not looking forward to this,' admitted Leeming, gritting his teeth 'but I know it has to be done. I'll get changed and make my way back to Chalk Farm.'
Before he could leave, however, there was a tap on the door and a constable entered with a letter that had just been delivered. Colbeck thanked him, sent him on his way then looked at the envelope.
'It's been sent by hand,' he observed, opening it to take out a letter. He unfolded it swiftly. 'It's from the Reverend Follis,' he said as he read the contents. 'He must have dictated it because he could never write with that injured hand of his.'
'What does he say, sir?'
'He's enclosed a card that was sent to Horace Bardwell.' Opening the envelope again, Colbeck fished out the black-edged funeral card. He read the words inside it with disgust. 'I can see why Mr Follis was so anxious for me to see this.'
'Why is that?'
'Look at the message, Victor.'
Taking the card, Leeming read it aloud. 'Please die soon and make me happy.' He looked up. 'I'd hate to get something like that if I was lying in hospital. It must have been a real shock to Mr Bardwell.'
'Fortunately,' said Colbeck, 'he never read it. Mr Follis was able to keep it from him. It looks as if I shall have to go to Brighton yet again,' he decided. 'According to the letter, Mr Bardwell is able to sit up and talk now. I need to speak to him.'
Until she had met Colbeck, Madeleine Andrews had never imagined that she had anything more than a facility for drawing. Her sketches were merely a pleasant way of spending what little leisure time she had. As soon as Colbeck saw them, however, he discerned signs of a real artistic talent and urged her to develop it. Where other artists might favour portraits, landscapes or seascapes, Madeleine's preferred subject was the steam locomotive. If nothing else, it helped her to stand out from the main pack.
Over a period of a couple of years, she had refined her technique, extended her range and gained confidence. To discover that her work actually had a commercial value gave her an immense fillip. It was one of many reasons she had for being grateful to Robert Colbeck. Standing at her easel, she was so absorbed in her work on the Round House that she did not hear the cab pull up outside. It was only when Colbeck's face appeared at the window that she realised she had a visitor.
Breaking away excitedly from her work, she ran to open the door. Colbeck took her hands in his and kissed her.
'Am I interrupting you, Madeleine?' he asked.
'Yes – but it's a very welcome interruption. Are you coming in?'
'I'm rather hoping that you'd come out.'
'Now?' she said in amazement.
'Unless you have a dislike of Brighton,' he said. 'If you can give yourself a rest from your easel, I'll take you to the seaside. I'll explain why on the way.'
Waving aside her excuses about not being properly dressed, Colbeck went into the house and admired the painting while she was getting ready. Minutes later, they were climbing into the cab and heading for London Bridge station. Colbeck linked arms with her.
'This is the last thing I expected, Robert,' she said.
'I'm glad that I still have the capacity to surprise you.'
'Why do you need to go to Brighton?'
'It's the latest stage in our investigation, Madeleine. There are certain people I need to see.'
'Are they suspects?'
'Quite the reverse – both gentlemen were victims of the train crash. I have to question them.'
'Won't I be in the way?' she asked, worriedly.
'You could never be in the way,' he said, gallantly. 'Besides, while I'm busy with one of the gentlemen, I'm hoping that you'll be having tea with the other one.'
Madeleine was puzzled. 'Who might that be?'
'The Rector of St Dunstan's.'
Since the accident, Ezra Follis had learnt to conserve his energy, balancing the need to appear alert in public by snatching regular periods of rest in private. His housekeeper had to do some shopping in the market that afternoon. The moment that Mrs Ashmore had left the house, Follis sat down in an armchair and drifted immediately off to sleep. It was over half an hour before he was roused from his slumbers by the insistent tinkle of the doorbell, though it seemed like a matter of minutes to him. Shaking himself fully awake, he opened the front door and saw Amy Walcott, standing there with a smile on her face and a book under her arm.
'I wondered if this was a good time to read to you,' she said.
'It's not the ideal time, Amy,' he said then he relented, 'but why don't you come in for a moment?'
He stood back to let her in then closed the door behind her. Clutching the book, Amy moved to the centre of the room. The sun slanted through the window to make her hair glisten and to lend her dull features an attractive sheen.
'I can't thank you enough for these poems,' she said with a nervous laugh. 'This is the best book you've ever given me, Mr Follis.'
'There is a much better one,' he said, teasingly.
'Is there?'
'Yes, Amy.' He picked up a copy of the Bible from the table. 'This is the best book ever written – though Tennyson has his own charms. I'll be the first to concede that.'
'His poems have such feeling.'
'Perhaps you could read just one to me.'
She was elated. 'Which one shall it be?'
'Choose your favourite,' he said, resuming his seat. 'As long as it's not In Memoriam – I don't think I'm in the right mood for that at this precise moment.'
'Then I'll read you The Lady of Shalott.'
Amy was to be cruelly disappointed. Before she could even find the page, someone rang the doorbell. She was deeply hurt.
'That can't be Mrs Ashmore already,' she said, flustered. 'She always goes to the market on a Monday.'
'I see that you know our domestic routine here at the rectory,' said Follis with a fond smile. 'Mrs Ashmore has a key, of course, so she would never ring the bell. Excuse me a moment.'
Getting up from his chair, he went out to answer the door. Amy heard him talking to someone then he reappeared with a tall, elegant man and a pretty young woman. Resenting the strangers, she was at the same time relieved to see that they were not fellow-parishioners.
'Allow me to introduce our Flower Lady,' said Follis, indicating her. 'Thanks to Amy Walcott, our church is always a floral delight.'
'We're pleased to meet you, Miss Walcott,' said Colbeck, noting the absence of a ring on her left hand. 'We're sorry to intrude. My name is Robert Colbeck and this,' he went on, turning to his companion, 'is Miss Madeleine Andrews.'
'Good afternoon,' said Madeleine.
'Delighted to make your acquaintance,' mumbled Amy, nodding at them and wishing that she had such a lovely complexion as Madeleine's. 'I didn't know that the rector was expecting visitors.'
'Nor more did I,' said Follis with a chuckle. 'I'm afraid that we'll have to postpone the reading until a more appropriate time, Amy. What Mr Colbeck failed to mention is that he's a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard. He's doubtless come to discuss the train crash with me so The Lady of Shalott will have to wait her turn.'
'Of course,' said Amy, moving to the door. 'I understand. Don't bother about me. I'll let myself out.'
She left the room so swiftly that none of them had time to see the tears forming in her eyes. By the time she walked past the church, they were streaming down her cheeks.
Dick Chiffney used a piece of chalk to draw the rough outline of a man on the trunk of the tree. A crude circle was placed where he thought the heart might be. Walking thirty paces away, he picked up the rifle and went down on one knee. He put the butt of the weapon into his shoulder and took aim, making sure that he was steady before he pulled the trigger. When he did so, the bullet missed the tree altogether and spent its fury in the undergrowth.
'You need more practice,' said his companion.
'I'm much better with the pistol.'
'Whichever weapon it is, there must be no mistake. He's escaped with his life once already. That must never happen again.'
'It won't, sir,' said Chiffney, obsequiously.
'Bide your time until you find the right moment.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And don't fail me,' warned the man. 'I take a poor view of people who let me down.'
'You can count on me.'
'Then why wasn't he killed in the train crash?'
'He was lucky, sir. Next time it will be different.'
The man pointed to the target. 'Keep practising,' he ordered. 'I want to see you hit that tree time and again.'
Chiffney licked his lips. 'When do I get paid, sir?'
'When he's dead,' was the reply.
Having left Madeleine Andrews at the rectory, Colbeck went off to the county hospital. He first sought out the doctor in charge of Horace Bardwell and discussed the case with him. It emerged that the patient would be there for at least a week before being allowed home. There was a degree of safety in a crowded hospital but not enough to discourage a determined assassin. Colbeck realised why Giles Thornhill, under threat, had been so keen to return to his own house.
Though Bardwell was awake, he looked pale and distraught. It took him a few moments to gather his thoughts when Colbeck spoke to him. He wondered why a detective had come to see him.
'This is our second conversation, sir,' said Colbeck.
'Is it? I don't remember you.'
'I'm trying to find out what actually happened,' said Colbeck.
'A goods train collided with the express,' muttered Bardwell. 'At least, that's what they tell me. It's all rather hazy to me.'
'How do you feel now, Mr Bardwell?'
'I'm so tired. My wife, my son and some of my friends have been here to see me. It was very heartening but it's left me so weary.'
'Then I won't stay too long,' promised Colbeck. 'Last time I was here, I mentioned a name that appeared to upset you.'
'Did it? Who was it?'
'Matthew Shanklin.'
Bardwell shuddered. 'Don't mention that fiend!' he gasped.
'Why is that, sir?'
'Because he did everything he could to ruin me.'
'I believe that he used to work for the LB amp;SCR.'
'Then you're mistaken – Shanklin worked against the company. You must have men under you, Inspector.'
'Several of them,' said Colbeck.
'Then you'll know that the first thing you demand of them is unquestioning loyalty. It's an essential prerequisite, don't you agree? Matthew Shanklin betrayed me.'
'In what way, sir?'
'I don't want to go into the details,' said Bardwell, plucking at the bandage around his eyes. 'It would only distress me. Suffice it to say that he made false allegations against me that led, in time, to the loss of my position as Managing Director of the Board.'
'Mr Shanklin claims that you caused him to lose his job.'
'That was the least he deserved.'
'Were you dissatisfied with his work?'
'He should never have been employed by the company.'
'Yet he held a post with you for some years,' argued Colbeck, 'so he must have been competent. My colleague, Sergeant Leeming, spoke to some of those who worked alongside Mr Shanklin. To a man, they said that he had been a very able manager.'
'They didn't know him as well as I did!'
'You parted on bad terms, by the sound of it.'
'The worst kind,' said Bardwell, shaking with anger.
'When I got him dismissed, the fellow had the gall to threaten me with violence. That's the kind of person Matthew Shanklin is.'
Even though it was a hot summer's day, Madeleine Andrews felt a slight chill as they stepped into the church. It was alleviated by the warm sunshine streaming in through the magnificent stained glass window above the door. Ezra Follis guided his visitor to a spot where she could bathe in the sunlight while carrying out her inspection. The interior of St Dunstan's was larger than she had imagined. The nave was bisected by a wide aisle separating ranks of oak pews. There were two lady chapels, a large vestry at the rear of the chancel and a bell tower that housed five large cast iron bells.
Follis was in his element, describing the main features of the church and giving Madeleine a concise architectural history. In a medieval building that had survived well over the centuries, the item of which he was proudest was, paradoxically, a modern one. It was a list of former incumbents, drawn up like an illuminated manuscript and framed to hang on a stone pillar.
'You see,' he said, pointing to the first name on the list, 'it all started way back in 1244 when Ebenezer Marmion became rector and there's been continuous worship here ever since. I'm honoured to be part of such an illustrious tradition.'
'Yet your own name is not here, Mr Follis,' she noted.
'I have to move on or die before that happens.'
'But that means you never get to see it.'
He laughed. 'Oh, I'm sure that sheer vanity will make me look down from heaven to take a peep at it.' He gestured at the flowers in the chancel. 'What do you think of Amy's handiwork?'
'What lovely arrangements!' she said, admiringly. 'It's not simply a question of putting flowers into a vase. There's a real art to it.'
'Amy Walcott is on her way to perfecting that art.'
'I agree.'
'This is where I address my flock,' he said, patting one of the elaborate carvings on the front of the pulpit. 'When I climb up there I'm four feet above contradiction. It gives me a wonderful sense of power and responsibility. Over here,' he continued, moving across to it, 'is our lectern, donated to the church in 1755 so it's almost a hundred years old.'
Made of brass that glinted in the sunlight, the lectern was in the shape of an eagle with its wings spread wide to hold the Bible. Madeleine was struck by the sharpness of the bird's beak and the ferocity in its eyes. Follis stepped up behind it.
'Read something to me,' he invited.
She was taken aback. 'But I've never read in church before.'
'That's because you've never been given the opportunity. You have a lovely voice, Miss Andrews, soft and melodic. It's well-suited to Holy Writ. Here,' he said, flipping over the pages with some difficulty. 'Let me hear you read from the First Epistle of Paul the Apostle to the Corinthians. Chapter Thirteen will, I'm sure, be familiar to you.'
Madeleine was discomfited. Though she attended church every Sunday, she was accustomed to sitting in a pew at the rear of the nave with her father. Like other women there, she had taken no active part in the service itself. To be asked to read from the Bible – albeit with a congregation of one – was unsettling. At the same time, she did not feel that she could refuse. Ezra Follis had been kind and charming to her. In obeying his wish, she would be thanking him for his hospitality.
While the rector sat down a few yards away, she took her place at the lectern. Madeleine needed a little time to read through the passage and to control the sudden beating of her heart. After using her tongue to moisten a dry mouth, she began. Her voice trembled at first but quickly grew in confidence. Madeleine read clearly and mellifluously without fully understanding the import of the words. Follis watched her intently throughout. When she came to the final verse, he spoke it in unison with her.
'And now abideth faith, hope and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.'
Relieved to have got through it, Madeleine raised her eyes. The person who caught her attention, however, was not Ezra Follis, seated contentedly before her, but Robert Colbeck, striding down the aisle.
'Thank you, Madeleine,' he said, 'It was a privilege to have heard that. I'm glad that I arrived in time.'
'So am I, Inspector,' declared Follis, getting up and turning round. 'The passage was beautifully read. The female voice is so much kinder on the ear than the rasping diction of men. Thank you for lending me such a delightful reader.'
Madeleine was embarrassed. 'I don't think I read it that well.'
'Let us be the judge of that, my dear.'
Follis led them out of the church and swung the heavy oak door shut behind them. Sensing that Colbeck wanted to speak to the rector alone, Madeleine drifted away to examine the inscriptions on some of the tombstones. She was also grateful for some time alone to reflect on what had happened in church. Reading from the Bible had been both a trial and a pleasure. It had left her heart beating louder than ever.
Colbeck, meanwhile, was telling Follis about his visit to the county hospital. He described Bardwell's reaction to the name of Matthew Shanklin. Follis shook his head.
'I've never heard that name before,' he said.
'He worked as a manager for the LB amp;SCR,' Colbeck told him. 'He made an allegation of impropriety against Mr Bardwell.'
'Well, he won't have been the only one, Inspector.'
'What do you mean?'
'You've only seen the man in a hospital bed. Any of us would look rather pitiable in that state. Until last Friday,' said Follis, 'Horace Bardwell was a robust gentleman with a fondness for throwing his considerable weight around. Since he lives here in Brighton, his antics are often reported in the local newspaper.'
'What sort of antics?'
'He's always complaining about the speed at which the town is growing – we have a population of almost 70,000 now – even though his railway is chiefly responsible for the growth. He's always thrusting his opinions down everyone's throat. To his credit,' he pointed out, 'Mr Bardwell has always been a generous man. He's given thousands of pounds to worthy causes. The problem is that he thinks his money also buys him influence.'
'What allegations have been made against him?'
'There are strong rumours of bribery and corruption – not that I've seen any proof of either myself. People claim that Mr Bardwell has some civic leaders in his pocket, and he certainly exerts power over the Brighton Herald. His articles appear in it so often that you'd think he was the editor. What I'm telling you, Inspector,' he went on, 'is that Horace Bardwell is a deeply unpopular man here.'
'He and Giles Thornhill are birds of a feather, then.'
'In one sense, yes,' agreed Follis. 'But they're hardly kindred spirits. Mr Thornhill has lofty aspirations, grappling with national problems. He despises Mr Bardwell for dabbling in local politics.'
'From what you say,' remarked Colbeck, 'he does more than dabble. As for the funeral card, you didn't send me the envelope in which it came. From where was it sent, Mr Follis?'
'It had a London post mark.'
'I'll keep the card, if you don't mind.'
'I can give you the envelope as well,' said Follis. 'The main thing is that Mr Bardwell doesn't hear about it. More than one person in Brighton would approve of the sentiments in it but that card would upset him greatly when he's feeling so weak and vulnerable.'
'One last question,' said Colbeck.
'Ask as many as you wish, Inspector.'
'Which man is the more unpopular here – Horace Bardwell or Giles Thornhill?'
'There's a simple answer to that.'
'Is there?'
'Yes,' said Follis with a merry chortle. 'The most hated man in this whole county is, without a shadow of doubt, Mr Thornhill.'
Tempted by the warm weather, Giles Thornhill sat at a table on the terrace and dictated letters to his secretary, a tall, angular man in his thirties. Though Parliament was in recess, there was much for the politician to do as he sought support for various Bills that were in the offing or looked for opportunities to attack the coalition government in power at the time. His final letter was destined for the Sussex Express, a newspaper that was used to printing his trenchant views. When his secretary had finished penning it, he exchanged a few pleasantries with his employer before taking his leave.
Thornhill was left alone to bask in the sun and wonder how long it would take his broken arm to heal. The inconvenience of being unable to use it was frustrating and the nagging pain never went away. It was not long before the gentle breeze stiffened and made the flowers dance. Leaves began to rustle in the wind and the weathervane on the roof of the gazebo twisted to and fro. Thornhill decided that it was time to go indoors.
He stood up and turned sideways just in time. At that very moment, a shot rang out and a bullet whistled past, missing him by inches before hitting the window behind him and shattering the glass.