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.
‘Wherever I go,’ he promised, ‘you’ll come with me.’
‘Do you mean that?’ she cried with delight.
‘Of course, I do. We’ve been through so much together that I’ll never part with you now. You’re mine, Ellen – you always will be.’
Then he kissed her full on the lips.
Dick Chiffney was determined not to fail this time. There was far too much at stake. All that he had to do was to fire one shot and make his escape. That would not be difficult. The town hall was close to the Lanes, the labyrinth of passageways built way back in the seventeenth century. Chiffney had familiarised himself with the quarter. There would be lots of people outside the town hall but, in the confusion caused by the gunshot, he felt confident of getting away through the Lanes. His employer would be there to watch the murder take place. Once he saw that the victim was dead, he would meet Chiffney at the railway station and pay him the agreed amount. The two men would never see each other again.
A single criminal act could secure Chiffney’s future. While the crowd was still clustered around the dead man outside the town hall, he would be running for an express train. Back in London, he would shower Josie Murlow with money. She had finally accepted that what he was doing was for the benefit of both of them. Any scruples she had about the way his payment was obtained had now vanished. Chiffney and she were accomplices, drawn together by lust and united by someone else’s death. They were well-matched.
People had already started to arrive for the meeting. Outside the town hall, a magnificent edifice with a classical façade, was a poster bearing the name of Giles Thornhill. Dozens of citizens wanted to know his opinion about the future of Brighton. Since the advent of the railways, it had become a much larger and more boisterous place than hitherto, invaded by holidaymakers in the warmer months. There were many residents who disliked this regular influx of what they saw as the lower orders and they wondered if their Member of Parliament could do something about it.
Chiffney knew nothing of politics. Since he would never have a vote, he took no interest in who actually ran the country. He had never even heard of Thornhill but was impressed by the size of the audience that the man was drawing. That pleased Chiffney. The bigger the crowd in the street, the greater would be the commotion. When the pistol went off, everyone would be too busy trying to take cover to notice him haring off to the Lanes. Shoot, run, collect his money – it was as simple and straightforward as that. All fear had left him now. He was supremely ready.
Knowing the direction from which his target would arrive, he positioned himself in a doorway and used the telescope to scrutinise each cab that approached and each group of people coming on foot. The man he wanted was nowhere to be seen. Time was slowly running out. It would not be long before the meeting started. Chiffney began to worry that his victim might not turn up. It was absurd. He had seen the man half-a-dozen times during the day yet had been unable to shoot. Now that he was eager to pull the trigger, he had no target.
Cold fear seized him. He might not, after all, have the chance to earn his reward. At the last moment, Chiffney had been thwarted. He had been misinformed. The man was not coming. He had cheated death. Just as he was about to give up all hope, he saw another cab turn into the road. Even with the telescope, he could not identify its occupant but he somehow knew that his target had come. Stuffing the telescope into his pocket, he unbuttoned his coat so that he could put his hand around the pistol. It was already loaded. Murder was only seconds away.
The cab drew up outside the town hall and a man got out. He reached up to pay the driver. Chiffney darted across to him with the pistol drawn. He got within yards of the dapper figure.
‘Ezra Follis?’ he shouted.
‘Yes,’ said Follis, turning. ‘Who wants me?’
‘I do!’
Chiffney fired the gun and saw him recoil as the bullet struck him. Before the rector had even hit the ground, his attacker was running away as fast as his legs would carry him.
Robert Colbeck was inside the town hall when he heard the gunshot and the screams that followed it. Rushing out into the road, he saw people sheltering in doorways or crouched down on their knees. Right in front of him was a small group of men, bending over a body on the pavement. Colbeck went over to them and saw Ezra Follis, his face contorted with agony as he clutched the wound in his shoulder. Colbeck took charge at once.