Edward Marston - Murder on the Brighton express

'It's only because you did,' said Colbeck, 'that we're able to get to the truth. Had you perished, we'd never have connected you with the people who committed the crime. The Brighton Express was not chosen lightly, Mr Follis. In the mind of the man who was behind the disaster, it had a great significance. That's what made us believe that an individual passenger was the target.'

Colbeck told him about the evidence that led them to think that Horace Bardwell or Giles Thornhill might be that individual passenger, recounting how both Matthew Shanklin and Heinrich Freytag had been subsequently arrested. Follis was only half-listening. He was still trying to grapple with the fact that he had indirectly brought about so many deaths and injuries. He was eaten up with guilt.

'We need your help, sir,' said Colbeck.

'Haven't I done enough damage already?' moaned Follis.

'Chiffney was hired to kill you. Now that he's dead, we must find his paymaster. That's where you can be of assistance.'

'I fail to see how, Inspector.'

'Do you know of anyone – anyone at all – who had made threats against you or is nursing a deep hatred of you?'

'Yes,' said Follis, 'I could give you several names. The first one is my bishop. He's threatened many times to have me ousted from the rectory and must loathe the very sight of me.'

'I'm being serious, sir.'

'Then the simple answer is that I've offended a lot of people in the course of my ministry but I don't think that any of them would go to such lengths to wreak their revenge.'

'We have one important clue,' said Colbeck. 'We're fairly certain that the man in question has a naval background. Can you think of any sailor who might hold a grudge against you?'

'No,' said Follis, eyelids flickering rapidly, 'I can't.'

Colbeck knew that he was lying.

Ellen Ashmore had been crying. Though she had wiped away the tears and done her best to appear composed, Victor Leeming could tell that the housekeeper had been weeping. When he had introduced himself, she let him into the rectory and they went into the drawing room.

'Mr Follis won't be out of hospital for days,' she said. 'I saw him earlier and he's very poorly.'

'It's you that I came to see, Mrs Ashmore.'

'Oh?'

'I want to ask you a few questions,' said Leeming. 'Shall we sit down?' When they had settled down opposite each other, he tried to reassure her. 'There's no need to look so anxious.

You're not in any kind of trouble.'

'I'm not worried about myself, Sergeant,' she said. 'The only person I'm thinking about at the moment is the rector.'

'That's only right, Mrs Ashmore. You've been his housekeeper for some time now, I hear.'

'I've been here for years.'

'And is Mr Follis a good employer?'

'It's a pleasure to work for him,' she said, brightening for an instant. 'Mr Follis is a wonderful man.'

'Not everyone shares your high opinion, I'm afraid,' observed Leeming. 'Someone was hired to kill him. As it happens, that person later lost his life. But the man who hired him is still at liberty and still poses a threat to the rector.'

She blanched. 'Do you mean that someone else will try to kill him?' she cried. 'Please – you must stop them!'

'Inspector Colbeck is at the hospital now. One of his main concerns will be Mr Follis's safety. He'll organise protection for him. But what I want to ask you is this,' he went on. 'Someone was waiting to ambush the rector outside the town hall. How many people knew that Mr Follis would be going to that meeting?'

'Lots of them,' she said. 'At one point, he was due to replace Mr Thornhill as the speaker. People would have seen his name on the posters. When he was told that he wasn't needed, he insisted on going even though I felt that he should rest. He usually goes to any meeting that Mr Thornhill addresses. Mr Follis can't resist an argument.'

'So people who know the rector would expect him to be there.'

'Yes, they would.'

'Let me ask another question – did you see anything recently that aroused your suspicion?'

'Well, I did see something odd yesterday,' she recalled, 'but I thought nothing of it at the time. There was a man in the churchyard. People come in regularly to leave flowers by a grave or simply to pay their respects. Over the years, I've got to know them by sight. This man was a stranger,' she said. 'When he saw me looking, he bent down as if he was reading the inscription on a headstone.'

'Can you describe him in any way, Mrs Ashmore?'

'I only had a glimpse of him.'

'Was he big or little, old or young?'

'Oh,' she said, 'he was a big man and near your age, I suppose. And there was something else about him,' she added. 'I remember seeing his eyes. He had a squint.'

'It must have been Dick Chiffney,' said Leeming. 'He was the man who shot Mr Follis.'

She was scandalised. 'He was here in the churchyard?'

'So it appears.'

'I should have warned Mr Follis. He'll never forgive me.'

'You weren't to know who the man was or what he had in mind.'

'I feel dreadful.'

'There's no need for you to get upset, Mrs Ashmore,' he told her. 'Nobody could accuse you of putting the rector's life in jeopardy. Inspector Colbeck has told me how well you look after Mr Follis.'

'That's all I want to do,' she said.

'Then let's see if you can help to identify the man who hired Chiffney.' He took a piece of paper from his pocket. 'This is a list of names I'd like you to look at. The Inspector has a copy and will be showing it to Mr Follis. Since you've been here so long,' he continued, handing her the list, 'I'd like you to look at the names as well.'

'Who are these people, Sergeant?'

'They're officers from HMS Grampus. It docked in Portsmouth for repair recently so these men are on leave. We think that one of them may have a connection with St Dunstan's. Do you recognise any of those gentlemen?'

'Let me see.' She ran her eye down the list and stopped at the last name. 'This one,' she said, pointing to it. 'Alexander Jamieson.'

'And is Mr Jamieson a parishioner?'

'It's Captain Jamieson and he's away at sea a great deal. But his wife used to worship at St Dunstan's regularly.' She looked up. 'We haven't seen her for some time.'

Dorothea Jamieson could not believe what had happened to her. Ten days earlier, she had been living in a large house with servants at her beck and call. She was a handsome woman in her late thirties, noted for her elegance and widely respected in the community. All that now seemed like a dream. Instead of enjoying the comforts of her home, she was locked in a filthy, evil-smelling outhouse with only mice and spiders for company. An old mattress had been dragged in, a rickety chair had been provided and – the greatest humiliation of all – a wooden bucket stood in a corner for when she had to answer the calls of nature.

There was no hope of escape. The door was securely locked, and the narrow windows, set high in the wall, were barred. Even with the help of the various implements stored there, she could not force a way out. The only saving grace was that it had not rained during the time of her incarceration or the holes in the roof would have let in the water. As it was, she had had to endure stifling heat on most days. Nights alone in the dark had been terrifying.

Hearing footsteps approach in the courtyard, she stood up and waited tremulously. A key turned in the lock and the heavy door swung open. Dorothea shielded her eyes against the bright sunlight that poured in. Her husband stepped into the outhouse and shut the door behind him. He looked at her with disgust. The beautiful young woman he had married almost twenty years ago looked haggard and unappealing. Her hair was tousled, her skin blotched and her dress crumpled from having been slept in.