Edward Marston - Murder on the Brighton express

'I'm sorry that we gained nothing at all from our visit,' he said.

'But we did,' said Colbeck with amusement. 'If nothing else, we discovered an alternative career for you. Mr Thornhill will always readily employ you as a gardener.'

'No, he won't – pulling out those weeds made my back ache.'

'I was only joking. You're too good a detective to lose.'

'I don't feel that I've been at my best in this investigation, sir.'

'That's largely my fault, Victor.'

'I don't agree with that,' said Leeming. 'You put us on the right track from the very start.'

'Your loyalty is gratifying,' said Colbeck, 'but the truth is that I made mistakes. A moment ago, I was just thinking about a painting that Madeleine is working on at present. The subject is the Round House. I fancy it might have relevance to our present situation.'

'Well, I can't see the slightest connection.'

'Inside the Round House is a turntable. Locomotives go in one way and come out the other. We failed to do that, Victor. Once we decided to go one particular way, we pressed on regardless in the same direction. What we really needed,' he said, thoughtfully, 'was a sort of mental turntable – something that rotated our minds so that we viewed this crime in a different way.'

'I wish I knew what you meant, Inspector,' said Leeming.

'We were too blinkered,' admitted Colbeck. 'Once we concluded that the train crash was a vengeful act against a single individual, we set about looking for possible targets. Horace Bardwell was an obvious possibility.'

'And so was Giles Thornhill.'

'Yet in both cases we were misled. It's time to get on a turntable and swing round so that we can look at the situation from another angle. It's something for you to think about on the train.'

'I would if I had a clue what you were talking about, sir.' The cab drew up outside the station. Leeming was on the point of getting out when he saw someone and stiffened. 'It can't be her,' he said, staring at a figure walking towards the entrance. 'And yet it looks so much like her.' He pointed a finger. 'Do you see that woman, Inspector?

'What about her?'

'I think it's Josie Murlow.'

'No,' said Colbeck, studying her. 'She might have the same shape but what would Josie Murlow be doing in mourning?'

'I've no idea, sir, but that's definitely her. I'd put money on it.'

'I can't be that certain, Victor.'

'That's because you didn't walk behind her for as long as I did,' said Leeming. 'I'd know that rolling gait of hers anywhere.'

At that moment, the woman turned around and lifted her black veil so that she could dab at her forehead with a handkerchief. It was all the confirmation the two detectives needed.

'You're right,' said Colbeck, excitedly. 'It is Josie Murlow.'

'Why has she come to Brighton?'

'I don't know but I suspect that Chiffney won't be too far away. We must have a change of plan. Instead of going home, I think you should stay and watch her. I hope you don't mind, Victor.'

'I'd insist on it, sir,' said Leeming with enthusiasm. 'If it's a choice between watching her and sitting on a train trying to put my brain on a turntable, I know which one I'd prefer.'

'Make sure you're not caught unawares this time.'

'Chiffney won't be allowed to creep up on me twice. Anyway, he doesn't know what I look like. I was in disguise when he hit me.'

'Josie Murlow might recognise you.'

'How well can she see through that black veil?'

'Take no chances.'

'I promise you that she won't lay eyes on me,' said Leeming, confidently, 'until I have to arrest her, that is.'

Ezra Follis had had a burdensome day but he only allowed himself a nap late in the afternoon. As soon as he woke up, he prepared to go out. Mrs Ashmore came into the drawing room of the rectory as he was putting on his hat in front of the mirror.

'You're never going to that meeting at the town hall, are you?' she said with disapproval.

'That's exactly where I'm going, Mrs Ashmore.'

'But I thought they didn't need you any more.'

'They always need me – especially if Giles Thornhill is speaking. The good people of Brighton need someone to talk common sense. They'll certainly get none from the platform.'

'You'd be far better off resting, Mr Follis.'

'I can't rest while that man is preaching his vile gospel,' said Follis, resolutely. 'I'll heckle him every inch of the way.'

She was concerned. 'I don't want you to get into trouble again.'

'Don't fret about me, Mrs Ashmore,'

'I'm bound to fret,' she said. 'Mr Thornhill has too many friends in high places. He can turn them against you. I haven't forgotten the last time you went to a meeting of his.'

Follis cackled. 'Neither have I,' he said, gleefully. 'I challenged almost every statement he made that evening and got loud applause for doing so.'

'But look what happened afterwards. Mr Thornhill made sure that nasty things were written about you in the newspapers and he reported you to the bishop. You were warned.'

'I've lost count of the number of times the bishop has warned me and I daresay that he's done so as well. There are times when the Church of England must speak out, Mrs Ashmore. We shouldn't stand by when an elected Member of Parliament is using his position to incite hatred and distort people's minds. We must fight against bigots like Thornhill.' He took her by the hand and squeezed it. 'I'm sorry,' he said, gently. 'I shouldn't bore you with my opinions. You know them well enough by now.'

'I know them and I respect them,' said the housekeeper, 'but they do worry me sometimes.'

Ellen Ashmore was disturbed. While she admired the rector for his outspokenness, she feared its consequences. He was always being given severe reprimands from the bishop and urged to amend his behaviour. Only that morning, the dean had come to remonstrate with him yet again. Hearing the two men argue, the housekeeper could not resist putting her ear to the door of the drawing room. Though she could not pick up every word, she heard enough to alarm her. The dean was chastising Follis over an article he had written about what he perceived as the shortcomings of the Church. If he did not recant, the Rector of St Dunstan's was threatened with the loss of his living.

'I'd hate to leave here,' she confessed.

'There's no reason why you should,' he assured her.

She gave a pained smile. 'When my husband died,' she recalled, 'I thought that I'd never be happy again. But you rescued me, Mr Follis. You taught me that I had to go on. It was almost as if I was dead and you brought me back to life. I'll never forget that.'

'I've been amply rewarded by your service to me.'

'I'd do anything for you, sir. You must know that.'

'You've been a rock, Mrs Ashmore,' he said. 'You're much more than a housekeeper to me. You're a friend, a companion, a nurse and I don't know what else. When the world turns against me – or when the bishop admonishes me – I always have you to offer love and support. That means a great deal to me.'

She was deeply moved. 'Thank you,' she said.

'Your devotion has been heartening.'

'I don't ever want to leave this place.'

'We shall both have to leave one day,' he said, cheerily, 'when old age prevents me from climbing up into that pulpit. This rectory has been a source of continuing joy to me but that will not go on forever. In the fullness of time, I shall have to retire.'

'Where will you go, sir?' she asked, apprehensively. 'I know that you have a house in London and that you own property here as well. Will you stay in Brighton?'

Follis was struck by the combination of tenderness and hope in her eyes. Within her limitations, she had been a godsend to him. When he had lost his previous housekeeper, Follis did not think he would ever find anyone as compatible and understanding. In Ellen Ashmore, he had done just that. Removing his hat, he laid it on the table then he took her by the shoulders to pull her close.