‘Why do you think he did so?’
‘It was partly force of habit, I suppose,’ said Shanklin. ‘He likes to exercise complete control. But the main reason was a financial one. He was always urging us to find ways to cut costs and increase our income. Needless to say, as the managing director, he always got the largest dividend each year.’
‘So there was a long history of strife between the two of you?’
‘You could put it that way.’
‘Hostility built over a period of time.’
‘Listen,’ said Shanklin, irritably, ‘I’ve already told you that I disliked him. I’ve given you my reasons for doing so. What more do you want me to say?’
‘What interested me was Mr Bardwell’s reaction to your name, sir. When my colleague, Inspector Colbeck, visited him in hospital, he found Mr Bardwell in a serious condition.’
‘I hope you’re not asking for sympathy from me.’
‘In fact, he was so bad that it was impossible to talk to him. Mr Bardwell’s mind kept wandering. Until, that is,’ said Leeming, ‘your name was mentioned. It caused him to go into convulsions.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Shanklin with a grim smile.
‘Why should he respond like that, sir?’
‘I found him out for the scheming fraud that he was.’
‘Was that the only reason?’
‘You’ll have to ask Mr Bardwell.’
‘Until he recovers his senses,’ said Leeming, sadly, ‘that’s rather difficult. I can see that you gave him a fright by uncovering his attempt to defraud investors but that scare was long behind him. I wondered if there was a more personal reason why he reacted so violently.’
‘It was pure guilt, Sergeant – no more, no less.’
‘Yet you gave me the impression that Mr Bardwell was an unscrupulous man with no conscience whatsoever. If he felt guilty over what he had tried to do, he would surely have resigned from the board altogether.’
‘Horace Bardwell should be in prison for what he did.’
‘Was there some other crime in addition to the fraud?’
Shanklin composed himself before speaking. ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘He was making wrong decisions about the running of the company and bullying the rest of the board into accepting them. We had to implement those decisions even though we knew that they were detrimental to the LB&SCR.’
‘Such decisions were not exactly criminal, sir.’
‘They were to me.’
Leeming wrote something in his notebook then changed his tack. He watched Shanklin closely as he fired a question at him.
‘Have you ever met a man named Dick Chiffney, sir?’
‘I don’t believe that I have, Sergeant.’
The reply was too quick and defensive for Leeming and it was accompanied by a shifty look in Shanklin’s eye. Realising that he had aroused suspicion, he tried to negate it at once.
‘I may have met someone of that name,’ he confessed, ‘especially if the man worked for the LB&SCR. The names of hundreds of our employees used to pass before my eyes and I met several of them in person, far too many to remember individually. Well,’ he said with a feeble attempt at jocularity, ‘can you recall the names of everyone you’ve arrested?’
‘As a matter of fact, I can,’ attested Leeming.
‘Then you have a better memory than I, Sergeant.’
‘I need it where villains are concerned.’ The pencil was poised over the notebook again. ‘Let’s go back to Horace Bardwell, shall we?’
Horace Bardwell had slowly improved, gathering strength, sleeping less and finally managing to get a grasp of what had happened. By the time that Ezra Follis got to him that morning, Bardwell was sitting up in bed and looking more alert. A large number of cards and letters lay on his bedside table, most of them unopened. After asking his health, Follis volunteered to open his mail for him.
‘I’d be most grateful,’ croaked Bardwell. ‘I still can’t see. My wife read some of them to me but I can only concentrate for a little while. So many friends have sent their best wishes.’
‘They have, indeed,’ said Follis.
‘Read very slowly, if you please.’
‘I will, Mr Bardwell. The moment you tire, tell me to stop.’
Follis took a card from the first envelope and read the message inside. Bardwell was touched. Next came a short letter from his nephew, sending him love and praying for his speedy recovery. Other letters were from friends or business associates, all expressing sorrow at his injuries and hope that he would soon be fully fit again. Follis then extracted a black-edged card from an envelope. Startled by the message inside, he elected not to read it out.
‘What does it say?’ asked Bardwell.
‘Nothing at all,’ replied Follis.’ Someone was so keen to send you his best wishes that, in his haste, he forgot to write anything. Now this one is very different,’ he went on, unfolding three pages from the next envelope he opened. ‘We have a veritable novel, here.’
Bardwell did not get to hear it. Halfway through the recitation, he fell gently asleep. Follis slipped the letter back into its envelope and replaced it on the table but he made sure that he took the funeral card with him. After speaking to all the other patients in the ward, he went back out into the corridor. The first person he saw was Amy Walcott, carrying a large basket filled with posies of flowers. Her face lit up when she recognised him.
‘I came here because of that sermon you gave yesterday,’ she said. ‘When you told us about the survivors of the crash, I had to do something to ease their suffering.’
‘So you brought some flowers for the ladies,’ he noted. ‘That was very kind of you, Amy. You have such a sweet disposition.’
‘Some of the injuries I’ve seen are frightening.’
‘Not everyone was as fortunate as I, alas.’
‘I thank God that you were not badly hurt,’ said Amy. ‘I couldn’t bear it if you’d been seriously wounded like some of the other victims. As it is, those bandages of yours distress me. You must be in such pain, Mr Follis.’
‘It’s nothing that I can’t happily endure.’
‘Oh, by the way,’ she went on, brightening, ‘I’ve had so much pleasure from that book you gave me.’
‘Tennyson is a magical poet.’
‘I’ve read some of the poems time and time again.’
‘Good,’ he said, beaming at her. ‘I’m glad you appreciated them, Amy. You must read them to me some time.’
‘I’d love that, Mr Follis.’
‘Then it must be very soon.’
Amy bade him farewell and went off to visit another of the female wards. After watching her go, Follis took out the funeral card sent to Horace Bardwell. He looked at the message once more and gave a shiver.
CHAPTER NINE
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.