Word of the attempt on Ezra Follis’s life spread like wildfire around Brighton. Before he had even recovered from the effects of the chloroform, friends and well-wishers were calling at the county hospital. Sidney Weaver was the first there. Having been at the town hall for the meeting, he felt that he had a more dramatic event to report in the road outside. Ellen Ashmore and Amy Walcott were only two of the women who rushed to the hospital. Other female parishioners also wanted the latest news of their beloved rector. They joined the churchwardens, the verger and many others who tried to get to the victim’s bedside. A hospital already filled with survivors of the train crash was now even more overcrowded.
A senior doctor told them that the patient’s condition was now stable and that, in spite of a loss of blood, he was in no imminent danger. However, he insisted, Ezra Follis would not be strong enough to see anyone until the morning. Reluctantly, people slowly drifted away. The only person who lingered was the editor of the Brighton Gazette, wanting more detail about the seriousness of the injury so that he could include it in his newspaper report.
Giles Thornhill arrived later in the evening. Because of his status and because he had donated generously to the hospital coffers, his request to see the patient was treated with more respect. When told of his visitor, Follis, though still drowsy, nevertheless agreed to see him. Thornhill came into the ward and felt a pang of sympathy when he observed the clergyman’s condition. Heavily bandaged, Follis lay in bed with his face as white as the sheets covering him. He looked impossibly small and fragile. His voice was a mere croak.
‘I’m sorry I missed your talk,’ he said.
‘Half of the audience did so as well,’ said Thornhill, resignedly. ‘When they heard that someone was firing a gun outside, they got up and fled.’ There was the hint of a smile. ‘Was it a deliberate trick on your part to interrupt the meeting?’
‘Even I wouldn’t go to that extreme, Mr Thornhill.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m still in pain and feeling very sleepy.’
‘Then I won’t hold you up,’ said Thornhill. ‘I just wanted to say how sorry I am that this happened. It’s ironic that we have something in common at last.’
‘Yes,’ said Follis, ‘someone tried to kill you as well.’
‘The young man is now in custody. Inspector Colbeck set a trap for him and he fell into it. But yours is a very different case,’ he went on. ‘I was shot at from a distance. From what I gather, you were only yards away from the man who fired at you.’
‘Luckily, he was a bad shot. He was aiming at my head but the bullet hit my shoulder.’ Follis quivered at the memory. ‘It was like a red hot poker going into my flesh.’
‘I hope you make a complete recovery.’
‘Thank you, Mr Thornhill.’
‘Did you recognise the man?’
‘I’ve never seen him before in my life.’
‘What possible reason could he have to attack you?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Follis with weary humour. ‘My sermons are not that objectionable. It must have been someone with a grudge against religion, I suppose.’
‘The man who shot at me was driven by a grudge. It had become an obsession. He could think of nothing else. At least, I know that he’s safely under lock and key and has no accomplice. Unfortunately, that’s not the situation with you.’
‘I don’t follow you, Mr Thornhill.’
Well,’ said the other, ‘if your attacker escaped, he might come back to try again. Or he might have a confederate, sworn to the same foul purpose. Grudges never disappear – they get stronger with the passage of time. Acquire a bodyguard quickly,’ he urged. ‘You could be in serious danger.’
Follis felt as if the bullet had hit him all over again.
It was not the first time that Josie Murlow had spent the night in a police cell. On previous occasions, however, she had been hauled before a magistrate, fined then released. Legal process would take a very different route this time. Until her trial, she would remain behind bars. She had spent a miserable night, alternately bemoaning her fate and raging against the men who had, in her opinion, driven Dick Chiffney to his grotesque death. Her temper was fiery. When she was given food, she hurled it back at the policeman who had brought it.
Hearing of her conduct from the custody sergeant, Tallis decided to interview her where she was. He and Colbeck were shown to Josie’s cell. The superintendent had no time to introduce himself. As soon as she saw Colbeck, she flung herself at the bars and reached a hand through in a vain attempt to grab him.
‘You killed Dick Chiffney!’ she screeched.
‘That’s not true,’ said Colbeck.
‘You’re nothing but a murderer!’
‘Control yourself, woman!’ ordered Tallis in a voice that compelled obedience. ‘Do you want to be restrained?’ he asked. ‘Do you want to spend the rest of your time here in chains? Do you want my officers to hold you down and feed you through a tube? Is that what you want?’ Cowering in her cell, Josie shook her head. ‘Then let’s have no more of this unacceptable behaviour.’ He stood to attention. ‘My name is Superintendent Tallis and this, as you well know, is Inspector Colbeck.’
‘Good morning,’ said Colbeck. ‘When we brought you back to London on the train, you were in no mood for conversation. That was understandable. Today, however, we must establish certain facts.’ He met her withering glare. ‘Do you know where Mr Chiffney had been before he came to Brighton station?’
She was surly. ‘Dick said he had a job to do.’
‘Did he tell you what that job entailed?’
‘No – he wouldn’t tell me anything.’
‘Then let me enlighten you,’ Colbeck continued. ‘Mr Chiffney was lurking outside the town hall so that he could shoot a clergyman named Mr Follis. He fired a pistol at him from close quarters.’
She was jolted. ‘Dick would never do a thing like that.’
‘There were several witnesses, Miss Murlow. I was close to the scene myself. That’s why I hailed a cab and hurried to the station. We’d seen you waiting there and knew that Mr Chiffney would come.’
‘You’re wrong,’ she said, waving an arm. ‘Dick didn’t even know that I was in Brighton. He told me to keep away.’
‘Why did he do that?’ asked Tallis.
‘He thought I’d distract him from…what he had to do.’
‘And what was that?’
Josie shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘I fancy that you do. You’re an accessory to attempted murder.’
‘I’m not, sir, I swear it!’
‘Who was Mr Chiffney working for?’ asked Colbeck.
‘He never told me the man’s name.’
‘But you did know he was being paid by someone?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘Dick showed me the money he got for the first job he did though he wouldn’t tell me what it was. As for that man’s name, I don’t think Dick knew it himself.’
‘So you’re not aware what that “first job” actually was?’
‘No – Dick vanished and I thought he’d run out on me. When he came back, he had lots of money. He said there’d be even more when he did something else in Brighton.’
‘It’s time you learnt what Chiffney did first of all,’ said Tallis, ‘then you might not hold his memory so dear. Did you know that there was a train crash on the Brighton line last week?’
‘Of course – everyone was talking about it.’
‘The man who engineered that crash was Chiffney.’
‘No!’ she exclaimed, refusing to believe it. ‘Dick would never cause a train crash. I know him. He liked working on the railway. Why should he want to do something as terrible as that?’
‘You’ve already given us the answer,’ said Colbeck. ‘He did it for money. He did it because he was out of work. He did it because he was dismissed by the company and wanted to get his own back.’ Josie staggered back in horror. ‘There seem to be lots of things that Mr Chiffney forgot to tell you, don’t there?’