‘One last question,’ said Colbeck.
‘Ask as many as you wish, Inspector.’
‘Which man is the more unpopular here – Horace Bardwell or Giles Thornhill?’
‘There’s a simple answer to that.’
‘Is there?’
‘Yes,’ said Follis with a merry chortle. ‘The most hated man in this whole county is, without a shadow of doubt, Mr Thornhill.’
Tempted by the warm weather, Giles Thornhill sat at a table on the terrace and dictated letters to his secretary, a tall, angular man in his thirties. Though Parliament was in recess, there was much for the politician to do as he sought support for various Bills that were in the offing or looked for opportunities to attack the coalition government in power at the time. His final letter was destined for the Sussex Express, a newspaper that was used to printing his trenchant views. When his secretary had finished penning it, he exchanged a few pleasantries with his employer before taking his leave.
Thornhill was left alone to bask in the sun and wonder how long it would take his broken arm to heal. The inconvenience of being unable to use it was frustrating and the nagging pain never went away. It was not long before the gentle breeze stiffened and made the flowers dance. Leaves began to rustle in the wind and the weathervane on the roof of the gazebo twisted to and fro. Thornhill decided that it was time to go indoors.
He stood up and turned sideways just in time. At that very moment, a shot rang out and a bullet whistled past, missing him by inches before hitting the window behind him and shattering the glass.
CHAPTER TEN
Disguise was a weapon that Colbeck had used many times and he had taught Victor Leeming its value. Accordingly, the sergeant kept a couple of changes of clothing at his office in case they were needed. Off went his frock coat, smart trousers, waistcoat, shirt, cravat and shoes and on went a crumpled shirt, a smelly old coat frayed at the edges, a pair of baggy trousers and two boots in urgent need of repair. When he replaced his top hat with a ragged cap, Leeming looked like a costermonger down on his luck. After checking his appearance in a mirror, he felt ready to venture out.
Since few cab drivers would stop for someone so blatantly down-to-heel, Leeming made his way to Chalk Farm by means of a horse-drawn omnibus, collecting disdainful looks and murmured complaints from the other passengers. Josie Murlow’s hovel was at the end of a cul-de-sac. As he walked along the pavement towards it, he kept his head down and cultivated a lumbering walk. Choosing a spot from which he could keep the house under observation, he pretended to read the newspaper he had brought with him.
Leeming was unhappy. Apart from the danger of meeting Josie Murlow again, he feared that his vigil would be pointless. Dick Chiffney might already have come and gone to the house or sent an intermediary on his behalf. Its formidable owner might not even be there. He was certainly not minded to find out. All in all, it promised to be a long, tiring, uneventful and futile assignment.
It did, however, give him time to brood once more on what he should buy his wife as a birthday present. A garnet necklace was beyond the reach of his wallet and, since Josie Murlow sported such an item of jewellery, he would not even consider it. A small silver brooch was a possibility or even a ring of some kind. What his wife had talked about needing most was a new dress but that was something he could only buy with Estelle’s cooperation, and he wanted to enjoy the pleasure of watching her face as she opened a gift that came as a total surprise.
Thoughts of his wife inevitably led to a comparison with the woman whose house he was keeping an eye on. Estelle Leeming was everything that Josie Murlow was not. She was short, dark-haired, slight of build and, even though she had given birth to two children, she had retained something of the youthful bloom that had first won Leeming’s heart. Most of all, she was thoroughly wholesome. The same could not be said of the raddled denizen of the nearby hovel, a gross woman whose occupation had reduced her to a waddling mound of flesh and exposed her to the constant threat of assault and hideous diseases.
An hour soon passed and he shifted his position to stretch his legs and to avoid the disapproving glare of the man outside whose house he was standing. Crossing to the other side of the road, he opened his newspaper once more and stared unseeingly at one of the inside pages. There was a consolation. Because he was in a cul-de-sac, people could only come from one direction. Leeming could not miss anyone who went to Josie Murlow’s house. As another half an hour slid past, he moved back across the road and took up a different stance, trying to recall when he had last wasted so much time maintaining such an unproductive surveillance. Colbeck might make few mistakes but Leeming felt that he was the victim of one of them now. He gave a first yawn of disillusion. He wanted to go home.
His disaffection was premature. Moments later, a figure came into the street and walked furtively towards him. The man was thickset, shambling and wearing the kind of threadbare suit that could never belong to anyone who lived in one of the neat and respectable villas. Since the stranger’s cap was pulled down over his forehead, Leeming could not see much of the unshaven face but the man passed close enough for him to smell the beer on his breath.
Reaching the hovel, the newcomer was circumspect. He looked around to make sure that he was not seen then he banged on the door. Hidden behind his newspaper, Leeming peered around the edge and saw the door open. Josie Murlow was there, after all. From the effusive welcome she gave the man, she knew him well. Leeming felt a thrill of discovery. He might have found Dick Chiffney.
On the train to London, Colbeck and Madeleine Andrews had a compartment to themselves, allowing them to talk freely for the first time since they had left Camden.
‘I hope that your father will not disapprove,’ he said.
‘Of course not,’ she replied. ‘Father trusts you as much as I do, Robert. He knows that we have an understanding and is quite happy for us to spend time alone together.’
‘That’s not what I meant, Madeleine. He’s such a dedicated servant of the LNWR that he might object to his daughter being taken off on a line owned by another company.’
She laughed. ‘He’s not that prejudiced,’ she said. ‘Besides, he’ll willingly accept anything that helps you to catch the man who killed Frank Pike and the others. Do you think you’re any closer to doing that after today?’
‘I hope so.’
‘That was the purpose of the visit to Brighton, wasn’t it? You wanted to speak to two of the survivors of the crash and that’s exactly what you did. What you still haven’t explained is why you took me with you.’
He kissed her. ‘Do you need an explanation?’
‘I’m serious, Robert. All that I seemed to do was to keep you company on the journey there, get a glimpse of the Royal Pavilion, take tea in the rectory, look around a church and be more or less forced to read a passage from the Bible.’
‘That’s why I took you, Madeleine.’
‘I’m still none the wiser.’
‘I wanted you to meet the Reverend Follis,’ he said. ‘He’s such a curious fellow. I thought he might interest you.’
‘He did. I found him very interesting. He’s pleasant, attentive and highly intelligent. And he made me feel so welcome.’
‘It’s precisely why I left you alone with him. I wanted a woman’s opinion of the rector. To some extent, of course,’ he continued, ‘I got that from Amy Walcott. She obviously adores him and was upset when we tore him away from her.’
‘Did you see the flowers in the church?’ she asked. ‘It must have taken her hours to pick and arrange them like that.’
‘She’s only one doting female at his behest. Mrs Ashmore, his housekeeper, is another, as you must have noticed when she served tea. She mollycoddles him.’