Murder on the Brighton Express (3 page)

‘I think you’ll find that the two jobs may overlap.’

‘Is that what Captain Ridgeon told you?’

‘Far from it, Victor,’ said the other with a grim chuckle. ‘The inspector general inclined to your view that we have no business at all being there. It was a polite way of saying that we were treading on his toes.’

‘So why are we bothering to go back, sir?’

‘We need to find out the truth – and if that involves stamping hard on both of the captain’s feet, so be it. We must establish whether the crash was accidental or deliberate.’

‘How do we do that?’

‘In two obvious ways,’ said Colbeck. ‘First, we inspect the point at which the express actually left the track to see if there’s any sign of criminal intent. Second, we speak to John Heddle. He was on the footplate at the time so will be an invaluable witness.’

‘I wonder why the driver didn’t have the sense to jump off.’

‘We may never know, Victor.’

Transferring to a cab at Balcombe station, they spent the rest of the journey in a more leisurely way. When they reached the site of the accident, they saw that considerable changes had taken place. Passengers were no longer strewn across the grass and all the medical assistance had disappeared. Work had continued throughout the night to clear the line so that it could be repaired. Fires were still burning and timber from the wreckage was being tossed on to them. Hoisted upright by
cranes, the two battered locomotives stood side by side like a pair of shamefaced drunkards facing a magistrate after a night of mayhem. The body of Frank Pike had been removed.

Picking a way through the vestigial debris, the detectives reached the track for the up trains and walked along it in the direction of Balcombe. Beside them was a deep channel that had been gouged out of the earth by the rampaging Brighton Express. The rails of the parallel track had been ripped up and bent out of shape.

‘You can see what happened,’ noted Colbeck. ‘One side of the train was running on bare earth while the wheels on the other side were bouncing over the sleepers.’

‘It must have been a very bumpy ride, sir.’

‘Yes, Victor. On the other hand, the ground did act as a primitive braking system, slowing the express down a little and lessening the force of impact. This long furrow saved lives.’

‘But not enough of them,’ said Leeming under his breath.

They strolled on for over a quarter of a mile before they came to the point where the train had first parted company with the track. Four men in frock coats and top hats were clustered around the spot. As the detectives approached, the youngest of the men broke away to exchange greetings with them. Captain Ridgeon forced a smile.

‘Your journey is in vain, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘As we suspected, the Brighton Express left the rails here. It is, you’ll observe, on the crown of a bend. The indications are that the train was travelling too fast to negotiate the bend properly.’

‘This is not what I’d call a real bend,’ said Colbeck, studying the broken rail then looking up the line beyond it. ‘It’s no more than a gentle curve. High speed would not have
caused a derailment.’

‘Then what would have done so?’ challenged Ridgeon.

‘The most likely thing is an obstacle on the line.’

‘Where is it? We’d surely have found it by now. Besides, John Heddle, the fireman, would have noticed any obstacle in the path of the train and he swears that he saw nothing.’

‘I’d like to speak to Heddle myself.’

‘He’ll only tell you what he told us, Inspector. Nothing was blocking the line. We had an accident near here some years ago when a goods train hit a cow that had strayed on to the track. Since then, both sides have been fenced off.’

Colbeck was not listening to him. Crouching down, he ran a hand along the section of flat-bottomed, cast iron rail that had sprung away at an acute angle from the track. The section was curved but more or less intact. Colbeck stood up and gazed around.

‘What are you looking for, Inspector?’ asked Leeming.

‘The fishplates that held this rail in place,’ said Colbeck.

‘They would have been split apart when the train left the track,’ said Ridgeon, irritated by what he saw as the detective’s unwarranted interference. ‘It was going at high speed, remember.’

‘In that case, they would have been bent out of shape but still fixed to the sleeper. Yet there’s no sign of them, Captain Ridgeon.’ Colbeck pointed a finger. ‘You can see the holes in the timber where the bolts used to be.’

‘Then they were obviously ripped out by the train.’

‘I disagree. I fancy that they were removed beforehand.’

‘That’s a preposterous notion!’ said Ridgeon with scorn. ‘You’ll be telling me next that someone deliberately levered the rail away.’

‘I may be telling you exactly that, sir,’ said Colbeck.

After examining the rail again with great care, he signalled to Leeming and the two of them began to scour the immediate area. Ridgeon and the other men looked on with ill-concealed disdain. Having made up their minds about the cause of the accident, they resented being told that they might have made a mistake. The search was thorough but fruitless and Leeming spread his arms wide in despair. It was a cue for Ridgeon to resume his conversation with the others. They turned their back on the two interlopers.

Colbeck, however, did not give up easily. Widening the search, he removed his hat so that he could poke his head into the thick bushes that bordered the track on one side. Leeming joined him with patent reluctance. They burrowed away in the undergrowth. While the inspector made sure that he did not damage his clothing in any way, the sergeant scuffed the knees of his trousers and snagged his coat on a sharp twig. Leeming was also stung by a lurking nettle.

Captain Ridgeon, meanwhile, finished his discussion with his colleagues and made some notes on a pad as the others walked away. He was still writing when he heard footsteps approaching and he looked up to see Colbeck coming towards him. The inspector was holding a fishplate in each hand.

‘We found these,’ he said, passing them to Ridgeon. ‘As you’ll see, they’re not bent or damaged in any way. That’s because the bolts were removed so that these plates could be lifted away and tossed into the bushes.’

‘That proves nothing,’ said Ridgeon, defiantly.

‘It proves that they were not torn apart by the force of the train. Victor found one of the bolts. That, too, was undamaged. It was taken out by someone who knew what he
was doing. My guess is that the section of line was then prised away, making a derailment inevitable.’

Ridgeon was icily polite. ‘I’m grateful to you for your opinion, Inspector Colbeck,’ he said, ‘but, in essence, that’s all it is – a personal, unsought, uninformed opinion. On the basis of what I’ve seen and heard, I still believe that a fatal error was made by the driver, Frank Pike.’

‘How can I change your mind?’

‘It would be foolhardy of you even to try.’

‘A crime was committed here.’

‘Yes – and the man who perpetrated it was a careless driver.’

‘Inspector!’ bellowed Leeming.

The two men looked across at a large bush that was shaking violently. After a moment, the sergeant emerged out of it, scratched and dishevelled but wearing a triumphant grin. In his hands, he was carrying a pickaxe. He waved it in the air.

Colbeck turned slowly to confront the inspector general.

‘Perhaps you can explain that away, sir,’ he said.

John Heddle was a restless patient. Propped up on two pillows, he sat in bed and constantly shifted his position. His head was swathed in blood-stained bandaging, his face covered with abrasions, his body bruised all over and one of his ankles was badly sprained. Aching and itching, he was in continual discomfort but the main source of his pain was the memory of what had happened the previous day. He was tormented by guilt. Heddle could not forgive himself for abandoning the Brighton Express and letting Frank Pike go on alone to a hideous death.

His wife, Mildred, a pale, thin, nervous, wide-eyed young woman, stood beside the bed and watched him with growing alarm. Her pretty face was disfigured by a frown and every muscle was tense. She indicated the large cup on the bedside table.

‘Drink some tea, John,’ she pleaded.

‘Take it away.’

‘Your mother said it would do you good.’

‘I spent years being forced to drink my mother’s beef tea,’ he said with disgust, ‘and it tasted like engine oil. I never want to touch a drop of that foul poison ever again.’

‘Then why don’t you try to get some sleep?’

‘How can I, Mill? I’m hurting all over.’

‘If only there was something I could do,’ she said, wringing her hands. ‘Can I put some more ointment on your face?’

‘Just leave me alone,’ he advised with distant affection. ‘I know you mean well but I’d rather suffer on my own. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of housework to do.’

‘I want to look after you, John. I want to help.’

‘Then take that beef tea away. The very sight of it scares me.’

She picked up the cup and saucer then ventured to give him a tender kiss on the side of his head. Heddle managed a wan smile of gratitude. He could not have had a more loving and attentive nurse. When there was a knock on the front door, his smile became a scowl.

‘If that’s my mother,’ he instructed, ‘tell her I’m asleep.’

‘I can’t lie to her,’ she said.

‘Protect me from her, Mill. I can’t face Mother today.’

Biting her lip, Mildred gave him a sympathetic stare then went out of the room. He heard her clack down the wooden steps. The house was in a backstreet in Southwark. Though it was small, neglected and part of a dismal terrace, it had seemed like a haven when they moved in six months earlier to escape the ordeal of living with Mildred’s parents. Heddle had been full of plans to improve their home but long working hours for the LB&SCR had left him little time to start on the house. He had not even mended the broken window or repaired the roof over the privy at the end of the tiny garden.

Voices rose up from below. Since one of them belonged to a man, he was at once relieved and wary, glad that it was not his mother yet afraid that it might be someone from the
railway company, demanding that he return to his duties. Two pairs of feet began to ascend the staircase. Mildred entered the bedroom first, shaking with fear. She touched her husband softly on the shoulder.

‘This gentleman is a policeman, John,’ she said, voice trembling. ‘Whatever have you done wrong?’

‘Nothing at all, Mrs Heddle,’ Colbeck assured her, stepping into the room. ‘I just need to speak to your husband about the accident.’

He introduced himself to the patient then shepherded Mildred gently out of the room. After asking Heddle how he was feeling, Colbeck lowered himself on to the chair beside the bed.

‘How much do you remember of what happened?’ he asked.

‘Not very much, sir,’ confessed Heddle. ‘I had a bang on the head and I still can’t think straight. All I remember is that Frank yelled at me to jump and I did.’

‘So it was Mr Pike’s suggestion, was it?’

‘He stayed on the footplate. Nothing would have made Frank abandon the train. He’d have seen that as a betrayal.’ Heddle hunched his shoulders. ‘That’s why I feel so bad about it. I mean, when I leapt off like that, I betrayed
him
.’

‘That’s not true at all,’ said Colbeck. ‘You obeyed his order so you have no need to reproach yourself.’ He leant in closer. ‘Let’s go back to the moment when you first realised there was danger.’

‘But I
didn’t
, Inspector.’

‘Oh?’

‘To be honest, I’m still in the dark.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well,’ said Heddle, rubbing a sore elbow, ‘it was like this, see. We’d crossed the Ouse Viaduct and were steaming along nicely when Frank saw something ahead that frightened him.’

‘What was it?’

‘That’s the trouble, sir, I’ve no idea. I just couldn’t see what Frank had seen but I knew we had a big problem. I could tell by the tone of his voice. The next minute, we’d left the track and all we could do was to pray. Then we both saw another train coming towards us. Frank saved my life. When he told me to jump, I hurled myself off the footplate straight away.’ His eyes moistened. ‘If only Frank had done the same. I loved working with him. He was a good driver and one of the kindest men I know.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘I met Frank Pike. He seemed a thoroughly decent man. Everyone speaks well of him, especially Caleb Andrews.’

Heddle gave an involuntary shiver. ‘Have you been talking to that old tyrant?’ he said. ‘When I worked for the LNWR, Mr Andrews put the fear of death into me. He was always boxing my ears if I didn’t clean his engine the way he wanted. I’ll tell you something, Inspector, I’d hate to have been
his
fireman. Though fair’s fair,’ he added, ‘Frank used to worship Caleb Andrews.’

‘So you saw no obstruction on the line?’

‘No, sir, and that’s what I told Captain Ridgeon.’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘I’ve encountered the inspector general. He and I take a rather different view of what happened.’

‘He thinks Frank was driving too fast,’ said Heddle, defensively, ‘but that wasn’t true at all. He
never
went above the speed limits. I was the one who wanted to go faster, not
Frank Pike.’ He narrowed his lids to peer at Colbeck. ‘What’s going on, Inspector? Why are you so interested in the crash? Accidents happen on the railway all the time but we don’t usually get anyone from Scotland Yard involved.’

‘This was no accident, John.’

‘Then what was it? I wish someone would tell me.’

‘What I believe Pike saw,’ explained Colbeck, ‘was a section of rail that had been levered away on purpose so that the train would come off the line.’

Heddle was aghast. ‘That’s dreadful!’ he exclaimed.

‘It was a criminal act.’

‘Why would anyone
do
such a vile thing?’

‘That’s what we intend to find out,’ said Colbeck with quiet determination. ‘Pike and the others were not killed in an unfortunate accident. They were, in effect, murder victims.’

Heddle was on the verge of tears. Unable to cope with the news, he quaked and gibbered. It was bad enough to lose a dear friend in an accident. The thought that someone had deliberately set out to kill and maim innocent people was utterly appalling. Engines, carriages and rolling stock had also been destroyed. Heddle was rocked. As he tried to take in the sheer magnitude of the crime, his head pounded. Horror eventually gave way to a deep bitterness.

‘That was no blessing,’ he said, curling his lip.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There was this clergyman on the platform at London Bridge. Before we set off, he told us he wanted to bless the train. He said that he always did that when catching the express.’

‘That must have been the Reverend Follis,’ decided Colbeck.

‘I don’t know what his name was and I don’t
want
to know. He was a holy menace. That wasn’t a blessing he gave us,’ said Heddle with rancour. ‘If you ask me, it was a bleeding curse.’

The Reverend Ezra Follis was a regular visitor to the county hospital in Brighton. Whenever one of his parishioners spent time there, he made a point of calling on them to check on their condition and to bring them some cheer. What made his visit different on this occasion was that he looked as if he himself should have been detained in the hospital as a patient. His clothing hid most of his cuts and bruises but his hat failed to conceal the bandaging around his skull, and his face still bore some livid scars. A blow to the hip received during the crash had left him with a pronounced limp. He refused to use a walking stick, however, and, in spite of his aches and pains, he was as affable as ever.

He arrived at the main entrance as one of the patients was about to leave. Giles Thornhill was in a frosty mood. One arm in a sling and with a black eye as the central feature in a face that was liberally grazed, he was moving very slowly towards a waiting cab, each step a physical effort. Standing beside him was a member of the local constabulary.

‘Good morning, Mr Thornhill,’ said Follis, chirpily. ‘I’m glad to see that you’re well enough to be discharged.’

‘I prefer to rest in my own bed,’ said Thornhill. ‘There’s no privacy in the hospital. I was made to share a ward with the most unspeakable people. It was so noisy that I didn’t get a wink of sleep.’

‘Then you’re in a position to institute some improvements. As a Member of Parliament, you have a lot of influence here.
You could put pressure on the Board of Trustees to provide additional funds for the hospital so that they can build an annexe with single rooms. While patients are recovering, they need peace and quiet.’

‘I have other things to worry about at the moment.’

There was a muted resentment in his voice. While Thornhill had sustained a broken arm and picked up some ugly gashes in the crash, Follis had been relatively unscathed. The politician had been knocked unconscious. The first thing he saw when he came to was the face of the little clergyman, bending over him and muttering words of comfort in his ear. It had irritated him. In intense pain and a degree of panic, all that Thornhill had wanted was to be taken to hospital instead of being bothered by Ezra Follis.

When he reached the cab, however, he felt obliged to turn back.

‘How are your own injuries?’ he asked with formal politeness.

‘Oh,’ replied Follis, displaying his bandaged hands. ‘My head and my hands took the punishment so I came off rather lightly. God moves in mysterious ways, Mr Thornhill. I believe that I was spared in order to help others. Divine intervention was at work.’

Thornhill grunted. ‘I saw no sign of it,’ he said.

‘You survived. Isn’t that a reason to be grateful to the Almighty?’

‘I’d have been more grateful if He’d kept the train on the rails.’

Helped by the policeman, Thornhill got into the cab. Both men were then driven away. Follis waved them off before going into the hospital. One of the nurses directed him to
a ward where some of the other survivors were being kept. Sweeping off his broad-brimmed hat, he went into the room and looked along the beds. The patients were subdued and two of them, with appalling injuries, were comatose. Of the other six, most had splints on their arms or legs. One man, in the first bed, had broken both lower limbs. The clergyman recognised the red face and mutton-chop whiskers.

‘Good day to you, my friend,’ he said, pleasantly. ‘My name is Ezra Follis, Rector of St Dunstan’s. We sat opposite each other on the train – at least, we did until our seating positions were suddenly rearranged by the crash. To whom am I speaking?’

‘Terence Giddens,’ said the other, grasping him by the wrist. ‘Do you know what’s going on in here?’

‘The hospital is doing its best to cope with victims of the worst train crash in years, that’s what is going on, my good sir. Everyone is working at full stretch.’

‘They won’t tell me anything, Mr Follis.’

‘What is it that you’d like to know?’

‘I’m not even sure if everyone in our carriage survived,’ said Giddens. ‘All I’ve gathered is that six people were killed.’

‘Seven,’ corrected Follis. ‘A young lady died from her wounds shortly after reaching the hospital. I was here when it happened.’

Giddens blanched. ‘It was not the young lady from our carriage, I trust?’

‘No, no, she was badly injured but, as I understand it, her life is not in danger. None of our other travelling companions met their deaths, Mr Giddens. Most are in here or being looked after elsewhere. In fact,’ he recalled, ‘Mr Thornhill, one of Brighton’s two Members of Parliament, felt well
enough to go home.’

‘That’s what I must do.’

‘You’re hardly in a condition for release,’ said Follis, detaching the man’s hand from his wrist and glancing at the broken legs. ‘You need the kind of care that only a trained medical staff can give.’

‘I can’t stay
here
,’ insisted Giddens.

‘You have no choice.’

‘There must be some way to get me back to London.’

‘Well, it certainly won’t be by train. The line is still well and truly blocked. And a coach would turn the journey into an ordeal for you as it bounced and bucked its way over the roads. I’m sorry, Mr Giddens, you’ll just have to resign yourself to staying here.’

‘Can’t you persuade them to discharge me?’

‘The hospital has a good reputation. You’ll be safe here.’

‘But I need to be in London as a matter of urgency.’

‘Why is that, may I ask?’

‘I’m the manager of a large bank,’ said Giddens, pompously. ‘I have important decisions to make. I can’t instruct my clerks from fifty miles away.’

‘There’s an excellent postal service between here and the capital,’ argued Follis. ‘Besides, you can’t possibly return to work when you’re unable to walk. I know that it’s difficult, Mr Giddens, but you have to accept the situation as it is. You’ll be here in Brighton for a little while yet.’

Terence Giddens bit back an expletive and turned his head away. Trapped and helpless, he frothed with impotent rage. The pain in both legs suddenly became a searing agony.

Superintendent Edward Tallis was seated at his desk in
Scotland Yard, scrutinising a report. In response to a knock on his door, he barked a command and Robert Colbeck entered.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said.

‘Ah!’ said Tallis, looking up. ‘I was wondering when you would deign to appear, Inspector. I thought you had perhaps forgotten your way here.’