Murder on the Brighton Express irc-5 Read online

  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 t
rial,’ 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.