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  Conscious that he would have to listen to his zealous companion all the way back, Leeming gritted his teeth. When rain began to fall, he swore under his breath. It was the last straw.

  'We'll be soaked to the skin,' he complained.

  'I know what Amos would have done at a time like this,' said Butterkiss, remaining resolutely cheerful. 'Never let things get on top of you – that was his motto. If Amos was sitting where you are, Sergeant, do you know what he'd suggest?'

  'What?'

  'That we sing a song to keep up our spirits.'

  'Don't you dare!' warned Leeming, turning on him. 'I don't want my spirits kept up after this wild goose chase. If you sing so much as a single note, Constable Butterkiss, you'll be walking all the way home.'

  Adam Hawkshaw waited until it was quite dark before he opened the door of his lodging and peeped out. The rain was easing but it was still persistent enough to keep most people off the streets that evening. When he saw that nobody was about, he pulled down his hat, stepped on to the pavement and pulled the door shut behind him. Hands in his pockets, he walked swiftly off into the gloom.

  Robert Colbeck was beginning to get worried. He had expected Leeming and Butterkiss to be back hours earlier with the man they had sought. Charing was no great distance from the town, miles closer than Lenham. Even if they had had to go to an outlying farm, they should have returned by now. The combination of rain and darkness would slow them down but not to that extent. Colbeck wondered if they had encountered trouble of some sort. He sat near the window of his bedroom for what seemed like an age before he finally heard the rattle of a cart below.

  Hoping that they had at last come back, he went downstairs and hurried to the door, ignoring the rain and stepping out from under the portico. By the light of the street lamps, to his relief, he saw a wet and disgruntled Victor Leeming, seated on the cart beside an equally sodden George Butterkiss. There was no third person with them. Before he could even greet them, however, Colbeck was aware of sudden movement in the shadows on the opposite side of the street. A pistol was fired with a loud bang. The noise frightened the horse and it bolted down the high street with the driver trying desperately to control it. Taken by surprise, Leeming was almost flung from the cart.

  Robert Colbeck, meanwhile, had fallen to the ground with a stifled cry and rolled over on to his back. Satisfied with his work, the man who had fired the shot fled the scene.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was ironic. Robert Colbeck, the assassin's intended target, suffered nothing more than a painful flesh wound in his upper arm whereas Victor Leeming, who just happened to be nearby at the time, collected a whole battery of cuts and bruises when he was hurled from the cart as it overturned. The Sergeant was justifiably upset.

  'It's not fair,' he protested. 'All that I expected to do was to ride to Charing to pick someone up. Instead of that, I'm drenched by rain, bored stiff by Constable Butterkiss, beaten black and blue by that vicious cart of his, then flung to the ground like a sack of potatoes.'

  'You have my sympathy, Victor.'

  'And on top of all that, we came back empty-handed.'

  'That was unfortunate,' said Colbeck.

  They were in his room at the Saracen's Head, free at last from the inquisitive crowd that had rushed out into the street to see what had caused the commotion. Colbeck's injured arm had now been bandaged and the doctor had then treated Leeming's wounds. Back in dry clothing again, the Sergeant was puzzled.

  'Why are you taking it so calmly, sir?' he asked.

  'How should I be taking it?'

  'If someone had fired at me, I'd be livid.'

  'Well, I was annoyed at the damage he did to my frock coat,' said Colbeck, seriously. 'I doubt if it can be repaired. And the blood will have ruined my shirt beyond reclaim. No,' he continued, 'I prefer to look at the consolations involved.'

  'I didn't know that there were any.'

  'Three, at least.'

  'What are they?'

  'First of all, I'm alive with only a scratch on me. Luckily, the shot was off target. The man is clearly not as adept with a pistol as he is with a piece of wire.'

  'You think that it was the killer?'

  'Who else, Victor? He's frightened because we are closing in on him. That's the second consolation. We've made more progress than we imagined. The man is right here in Ashford. He's given himself away.'

  'What's the third consolation, sir?'

  'He thinks that he killed me,' said Colbeck. 'That's why I fell to the ground and stayed there. Also, of course, I didn't want to give him the chance to aim at me again. Believing I was dead, he ran away. There was no point in trying to chase him because I had this searing pain in my arm. I'd never have been able to overpower him. Much better to give him the impression that his attempt on my life had been successful.'

  'He's in for a nasty surprise.'

  'Yes, but it does behove us to show additional caution in future.'

  'I will,' said Leeming. 'I'll never ride on that blessed cart again!'

  'I was talking about the killer. He's armed and ready to shoot.'

  'You mentioned a pistol just now.'

  'That's what it sounded like,' said Colbeck, 'though I couldn't be sure. It all happened in a split second. One of the first things we need to do is to find the bullet. That will tell us what firearm was used.'

  'We'll have to wait until daylight to do that.'

  'Yes, Victor. In the meantime, we need to talk to Butterkiss.'

  'Keep him away, Inspector! He almost did for me.'

  'He tried his best to control that runaway horse.'

  'But he still managed to overturn the cart,' said Leeming, ruefully. 'And while I hit the ground and took the impact, Constable Butterkiss simply landed on top of me. He wasn't really hurt at all.'

  'Nevertheless, I'd like you to fetch him.'

  'Now, sir?'

  'If you feel well enough to go. His local knowledge is crucial to us. Give him my compliments and ask if he can spare us some time.'

  'I don't need to ask that. If we're not very careful, he'd spare us twenty-four hours a day. The man is so blooming eager.'

  'Eagerness is a good quality in a policeman.'

  'Not if you have to ride beside him on a cart!' Leeming went to the door. 'Will you come down to meet him, sir?'

  'No,' said Colbeck, glancing round, 'this room is more private. And nobody will be able to take a shot at me in here. Be careful how you go.'

  'Yes, Inspector.'

  'And you might ask him to bring needle and thread.'

  'Why?'

  'He was a tailor, wasn't he? Perhaps he can repair my coat.'

  When the visitor called, George Butterkiss was regaling his wife with the story of how he had fought to control the galloping horse in the high street. He broke off to answer the door and was delighted to hear the summons delivered by Victor Leeming.

  'I'll get my coat at once, Sergeant,' he said.

  'Talking of coats,' said the other, detaining him with a hand, 'the Inspector has a problem. That bullet grazed his arm and left a hole in his sleeve. He's very particular about his clothing.'

  'Inspector Colbeck would be a gift to any tailor.'

  'Can you help him?'

  'I'll need to see the damage first. A simple tear can be easily mended but, if the material has been shot away, it may be a question of sewing a new sleeve on to the coat.'

  Butterkiss ran swiftly up the stairs. When he reappeared soon afterwards, he was back in police uniform even though he only had to walk thirty yards or so to the Saracen's Head. His enthusiasm was quite undiminished as they strolled along the pavement together. The Sergeant found it lowering.

  'I haven't told you the good news,' said Butterkiss.

  'Is there such a thing?'

  'Yes, Sergeant. When I took the horse back and explained what had happened, the owner examined the animal carefully. It had no injuries at all. Isn't that a relief?'

  'I'd have had it put
down for what it did to me.'

  'You can't blame the horse for bolting like that.'

  'Well, I'm in no mood to congratulate it, I can tell you.'

  'How do you feel now?'

  'Vengeful.'

  'I thought that we had a lucky escape.'

  'What's lucky about being thrown head first from a moving cart?'

  Butterkiss laughed. 'You will have your little joke, Sergeant.'

  They turned into the Saracen's Head and went up the stairs. When they were let into Colbeck's room, they were each offered a chair. The Inspector perched on the edge of the bed.

  'Thank you for coming so promptly, Constable,' he said.

  'Feel free to call on me at any hour of the day,' urged Butterkiss.

  'We need your guidance.'

  'It's yours for the asking, Inspector.'

  'Then I'd like you to take another look at these names,' said Colbeck, handing him the petition. 'Are you ready, Victor?'

  'Yes, sir,' said Leeming, taking his notebook dutifully from his pocket. 'I'll write down all the relevant details.'

  'We drew a blank with the first batch of names. Can you take us slowly through the next dozen or so, please?'

  'If I can read their handwriting,' said Butterkiss, poring over the document. 'There are one or two signatures that defy even me.'

  'Do your best, Constable.'

  'You can always count on me to do that.'

  Taking a deep breath, he identified the first name and described the man in detail. As soon as he learnt the age of the person, Colbeck interrupted and told him to move on to the next one. Leeming's pencil was busy, writing down names then crossing them out again. Of the fifteen people that Butterkiss recognised, only seven were deemed to be worth closer inspection.

  'Thank you,' said Colbeck. 'Now turn to the women, please.'

  Butterkiss lifted an eyebrow. 'The women, sir?'

  'As opposed to the men,' explained Leeming.

  'But a woman couldn't possibly have committed those murders on the trains nor could one have fired that shot at you, Inspector.'

  'You are mistaken about that,' said Colbeck. 'Earlier this year, the Sergeant and I arrested a woman in Deptford who had shot her husband with his army revolver. The bullet went straight through his body and wounded the young lady who was in bed with him at the time.'

  'Dear me!' exclaimed Butterkiss.

  'Never underestimate the power of the weaker sex, Constable.'

  'No, sir.'

  He addressed himself to the petition once more and picked out the female names that he recognised. Most were found to be very unlikely suspects but three names joined the Sergeant's list.

  'Did you make a note of their details, Victor?' asked Colbeck.

  'Yes, Inspector.'

  'Good. You can talk to those three ladies tomorrow.'

  'What about me?' said Butterkiss.

  'I have two important tasks for you, Constable.'

  'Just tell me what they are.'

  'I want you to find Amos Lockyer for me.'

  'I'll do it somehow,' vowed Butterkiss. 'What's the other task?'

  Colbeck reached for his frock coat. 'I wonder if you could look at this sleeve for me?' he said. 'Tell me if it's beyond repair.'

  Winifred Hawkshaw was on tenterhooks. Whenever she heard a sound from the adjoining bedroom, she feared that her daughter had woken up and was either trying to open the door or to escape through the window. After a sleepless night, she used her key to let herself into Emily's room and found her fast asleep. Putting a chair beside the bed, Winifred sat down and kept vigil. It was an hour before the girl's eyelids fluttered. Her mother took hold of her hand.

  'Good morning,' she said, sweetly.

  Emily was confused. 'Where am I?'

  'In your own bed, dear.'

  'Is that you, Mother?'

  'Yes.' Winifred rubbed her hand. 'It's me, Emily.'

  'I feel strange. What happened?'

  'The doctor gave you something to make you sleep.'

  'The doctor?' The news brought Emily fully awake. 'You let a doctor touch me?'

  'You'd passed out, Emily. When the Inspector brought you down from that tower, you were in a dead faint.'

  The girl needed a moment to assimilate the information. When she remembered what she had tried to do, she brought a hand up to her mouth. Her eyes darted nervously around the room. She felt trapped.

  'We need to talk,' said Winifred, softly.

  'I've nothing to say.'

  'Emily!'

  'I haven't, Mother. I meant to jump off that tower.'

  'No, I can't believe that,' insisted her mother. 'Is your life so bad that you could even think of such a thing? It's sinful, Emily. It's so cruel and selfish and you're neither of those things. Don't hurt us any more.'

  'I wasn't doing it to hurt you.'

  'Then what made you go up there in the first place?'

  'I was afraid.'

  'Of what?'

  'Everything.'

  Emily began to sob quietly and her mother bent over to hug her. The embrace lasted a long time and it seemed to help the girl because it stemmed her tears. She became so quiet that Winifred wondered if she had fallen asleep again. When she drew back, however, she saw that Emily's eyes were wide open, staring up at the ceiling.

  'Promise me that you won't do anything like this again,' said Winifred, solemnly. 'Give me your sacred word of honour.' A bleak silence ensued. 'Did you hear what I said, Emily?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then give me that promise.'

  'I promise,' murmured the girl.

  'Say it as if you mean it,' scolded Winifred. 'As it is, the whole town will know what happened yesterday and I'll have to face the shame of that. Don't make it any worse for me, emily. We love you. Doesn't that mean anything to you?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then behave as if it does.'

  'I will.'

  Emily sat up in bed and reached out for her mother. Both of them were crying now, locked together, sharing their pain, trying to find a bond that had somehow been lost. At length, it was the daughter who pulled away. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and made an effort to control herself.

  'You need more time,' said Winifred, watching her closely.

  'You need more time to think about what you did and why you did it.'

  'I do.'

  'But I'll want the truth, Emily.'

  'Yes, Mother.'

  'I have a right to know. When something as wicked and terrible as this happens, I have a right to know why. And I'm not the only one, emily,' she warned. 'The vicar will want to speak to you as well.'

  'The vicar?'

  'Taking your own life is an offence against God – and you made it worse by trying to do it from a church tower. The vicar says that it would have been an act of blasphemy. Is that what you meant to do?'

  'No, no,' cried Emily.

  'Suicide is evil.'

  'I know.'

  'We couldn't have buried you on consecrated ground.'

  'I didn't think about that.'

  'Well, you should have,' said Winifred, bitterly. 'I don't want two members of the family denied a Christian burial in the churchyard at St Mary's. You could have ended up like your father, emily. That would have broken my heart.'

  Emily began to tremble violently and her mother feared that she was about to have another fit but the girl soon recovered. The experience she had been through was too frightful for her to contemplate yet. Her mind turned to more mundane concerns.

  'I'm hungry,' she announced.

  'Are you?' said her mother, laughing in relief at this sign of normality. 'I'll make you some breakfast at once. You need to be up and dressed before he calls.'

  'Who?'

  'Inspector Colbeck. He was the person who saved your life.'

  A long sleep had revived Robert Colbeck and got him up early to face the new day. The stinging sensation in his wound had been replaced by a distant ache though his left
arm was still rather stiff when he moved it. Before breakfast, he was outside the Saracen's Head, standing in the position that he had occupied the previous evening and trying to work out where the bullet might have gone. Deciding that it must have ricocheted off the wall, he searched the pavement and the road over a wide area. He eventually found it against the kerb on the opposite side of the high street. Colbeck showed the bullet to Victor Leeming when the latter joined him for breakfast.

  'It's from a revolver,' said the Inspector.

  'How can you tell, sir? The end is bent out of shape.'

  'That happened on impact with the wall. I'm going by the size of the bullet. My guess is that it came from a revolver designed by Robert Adams. I saw the weapon on display at the Great Exhibition last year.'

  'Oh, yes,' said Leeming, enviously. 'Because we saved Crystal Palace from being destroyed, you were given two tickets by Prince Albert for the opening ceremony. You took Miss Andrews to the Exhibition.'

  'I did, Victor, though it wasn't to see revolvers. Madeleine was much more interested in the locomotives on show, especially the Lord of the Isles. No,' he went on, 'it was on a second visit that I took the trouble to study the firearms because they were the weapons that we would be up against one day – and that day came sooner than I expected.'

  'Who is this Robert Adams?'

  'The only serious British rival to Samuel Colt. He did not want the American to steal all the glory so he developed his solid-frame revolver in which the butt frame and barrel were forged as a single piece of metal.'

  'And this was what they fired?' said Leeming, handing the bullet back to him. 'You thought that it came from a pistol.'

  'A single-cocking pistol, Victor. Adams used a different firing mechanism from the Colt. I'm sufficiently patriotic to be grateful that it was a British weapon,' said Colbeck, pocketing the bullet. 'I'd hate to have been shot dead by an American revolver last night.'

  'Who would own such a thing in Ashford?'

  'A good point.'

  'You were right to stay on the ground when you were hit, sir. If it was a revolver, it could have been fired again and again.'