The excursion train, p.12
The Excursion Train, page 12
‘The worst possible way.’
Leeming had been waiting for a chance to tell his story to a more sympathetic audience and he left no detail out. What he could not tell Colbeck was who actually assaulted him and how he got from the yard at the rear of the public house to a cesspit some streets away. As he described the attack itself, his injuries started to throb violently and his swollen lips felt as if they had been stung by wasps. Reaching the end of his narrative, he took a long sip from the glass of water on the desk.
‘I blame myself for this,’ said Colbeck, apologetically.
‘Why, sir?’
‘I should never have sent you there.’
‘I was getting on well until I tried to be too inquisitive.’
‘I was hoping that they had not yet made the connection between Jacob Bransby and the public hangman but it was too much to ask. You have to admire his courage.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Leeming. ‘Going in there among the ruffians of Bethnal Green when he must surely have stretched the necks of a few villains from that part of London. Just as well they never knew who he was or they’d have done more than sling him in a cesspit.’
‘Your visit was not entirely wasted, Victor.’
‘I hoped you’d say that.’
‘You found out that almost everyone at the Seven Stars went off to support the Bargeman in that fight. They even drew up a list.’
‘With a certain person from Hoxton near the top.’
‘When the killer learnt that,’ said Colbeck, ‘he didn’t need to follow his victim in search of the right moment to strike. He knew that Guttridge would be on that excursion train – so he waited.’
‘With that woman.’
‘With or without that woman, Victor. That’s another little mystery for us to solve. Was she involved or was she just another passenger?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Perhaps we’ll find out when we go to Ashford tomorrow.’
Leeming gaped. ‘Ashford?’
‘If you feel strong enough to accompany me.’
‘Yes, yes. Of course.’
‘Are you certain about that?’
‘Yes, I am,’ said the other, straightening his shoulders. ‘It’ll take more than a few punches to keep me out of action, sir – though my wife may not see it that way. I’m dreading the moment when I walk through that door tonight. You know how Estelle can carry on.’
‘Would you like me to speak to her?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘But I can tell her what sterling work you were doing for us in Bethnal Green when you were set upon. Praise can be soothing.’
‘Estelle will need more than a few kind words from you to calm her down, sir. Leave my wife to me. I know how to handle her. Meanwhile,’ he went on, nodding in the direction of the door, ‘make sure you have a good story ready for the Superintendent. He’ll come storming in here any moment to ask why you went to Maidstone.’
‘How did he react when you struggled back here earlier?’
‘He seemed very sorry for me at first – even helped me in here. And being the Superintendent, of course, he wanted retribution. Assaulting a police officer is a serious offence.’
‘Except that they didn’t know what your occupation was.’
‘Thank God! I’d not be alive now, if they had.’
‘Nobody involved in law enforcement is very welcome in Bethnal Green,’ said Colbeck, ‘and we both know why. It’s the children I feel sorry for. They have no choice. If they’re born there, crime is the only means by which they can survive.’
‘Too true, sir.’
‘So what did Mr Tallis want to do?’
‘Send a bevy of constables to arrest the landlord and his wife,’ said Leeming with a grimace, ‘but I managed to talk him out of that. It was those two bruisers who set about me and I’d never recognise them again. Even if I did, it would be my word against that of everybody else in the Seven Stars and they’d swear blind that I was lying. I’ve got no witnesses to speak up for me.’
‘That doesn’t mean that we let these bullies get away with it, Victor,’ said Colbeck, sharply, ‘but I’m glad that you dissuaded the Superintendent from any precipitate action. It needs a more subtle approach. When time serves, we’ll pay another visit to the Seven Stars.’
Leeming was vengeful. ‘I’ll look forward to that, sir.’
‘Look forward to what?’ demanded Tallis, bursting in through the door in time to hear the words. ‘Ah!’ he said, seeing Colbeck, ‘you’ve deigned to return from your unauthorised visit to Maidstone, have you?’
‘It was a very productive trip, sir,’ replied Colbeck.
‘That’s beside the point.’
‘You must allow me some latitude in a murder inquiry.’
‘I asked to be kept abreast of any developments. That means you inform me of your movements before the event rather than after it.’
‘When I made the decision to go to Maidstone, you were in a meeting with the Commissioners and I could not interrupt that.’
‘Then you should have waited until the meeting was over.’
‘I’ll not make any progress in this investigation by sitting on my hands in here, Superintendent,’ said Colbeck, evenly. ‘You demanded a speedy result so I moved with urgency.’
‘So did I,’ Leeming put in.
‘Be quiet, Sergeant,’ barked Tallis.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And have a good bath before you come here tomorrow. You still smell like something that crawled out of a blocked drain.’
‘Victor will not be in the office tomorrow,’ said Colbeck. ‘He and I will be going to Ashford in Kent.’
‘How kind of you to tell me, Inspector!’ returned the other with mock sweetness. ‘It’s always comforting to know where my detectives actually are.’ His voice hardened. ‘I trust that you have an extremely good reason for wanting to hare off to Kent again.’
‘Yes, sir. That’s where the killer of Jacob Guttridge lives.’
‘And what makes you think that?’
‘The Inspector has this theory, sir,’ interjected Leeming, earning himself such a glare of naked hostility from Tallis that he wished he had not spoken. ‘I’d better leave it to him to explain.’
‘Thank you, Victor,’ said Colbeck.
Legs wide apart, Tallis folded his arms. ‘I’m waiting, Inspector,’ he said, coldly. ‘I want to hear about this productive trip to Kent.’
‘So do I,’ said Leeming, eager to learn what progress had been made. ‘You obviously fared a lot better than I did today. Did you get to Maidstone prison, Inspector?’ He caught Tallis’s eye again and took a hasty step backwards. ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to hold him up.’
Colbeck had made copious notes during his visit but he had no need to refer to them. His training as a barrister had sharpened his memory and given him an ability to assemble facts in the most cogent way. His account was long, measured and admirably lucid, making it easy for both men to understand why he had spent so much time in Maidstone. Victor Leeming was intrigued to hear about such colourful characters as Reverend Narcissus Jones and Obadiah Lugg but it was the accumulation of pertinent facts that weighed much more with the Superintendent. It was not long before the folded arms dropped to his side and the stern expression faded from his countenance.
When the recitation finally ended, Tallis came close to a smile.
‘You’ve done well, Inspector,’ he admitted.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘It looks as if you may at last have stumbled on a theory that has a grain of truth in it. Notwithstanding that, we are still a long way from making an arrest and that is what the Great Western Railway wants.’
‘It’s what we all want.’
‘Then when do you expect it to take place?’
‘In the fullness of time,’ said Colbeck, smoothly.
‘I need something more specific to tell the railway company,’ said Tallis, ‘and to appease the pack of reporters who keep knocking on my door.’ He glanced at Leeming. ‘I thank heaven that none of them were here when the Sergeant returned from Bethnal Green in all his glory. I tremble to think what the newspapers would have made of that.’
‘I’d have been a laughing stock,’ wailed Leeming.
‘It’s the bad publicity that concerns me. This Department has more than its share of critics. Whatever we do, we must not give them ammunition they can use against us.’ He turned to Colbeck. ‘So what do we tell them?’
‘The same thing that we tell the railway company,’ said Colbeck with a confident smile. ‘That we have made significant progress but are unable to disclose details because the killer would be forewarned and might be put to flight. More to the point,’ he continued, ‘the Sergeant and I want to be able to shift our interest to Kent without having any reporters barking at our heels.’
‘How long will we be in Ashford, sir?’ asked Leeming, worriedly.
‘A couple of days at least, Victor. Maybe more.’
‘Then we’d have to stay the night there?’
‘Your wife will have to forego the pleasures of matrimony for a short while, I fear,’ said Colbeck, ‘but she will be reassured by the fact that you’re engaged in such an important investigation.’
‘Only when you’ve taken that bath, Sergeant,’ stipulated Tallis.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Leeming.
‘I expect my men to be smart and well groomed.’ He turned a censorious eye on the elegant Inspector. ‘Though there is no need to take my instructions in that regard to extremes.’
‘We’ll take an early train to Ashford,’ said Colbeck, ignoring the barbed comment from his superior. ‘I suggest that you bring enough clothing for five days, Victor.’
‘Five days!’ gulped Leeming. ‘What about my wife?’
‘She is not included in this excursion,’ said Tallis, sourly.
‘Estelle will miss me.’
‘The sooner we bring this investigation to a conclusion,’ observed Colbeck, ‘the sooner you’ll be back with your family.But we must not expect instant results here. The only way to solve the murder of Jacob Guttridge is to find out what really happened to Joseph Dykes.’
‘But we know that,’ asserted Tallis. ‘he was killed by Hawkshaw.’
‘That’s open to question, Superintendent. Far be it from me, as a barrister, to question the working of the judicial system, but I have a strange feeling – and it is only a feeling, not a theory – that there was a gross miscarriage of justice on the scaffold at Maidstone.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nothing revealed the essential difference between the two men as clearly as the train journey to Ashford that morning. Inspector Robert Colbeck was in his element, enjoying his preferred mode of travel and reading his way through the London newspapers as if sitting in a favourite chair at home. Sergeant Victor Leeming, on the other hand, was in severe discomfort. His dislike of going anywhere by train was intensified by the fact that his body was a mass of aching muscles and tender bruises. As their carriage lurched and bumped its clamorous way over the rails, he felt as if he were being pummelled all over again. Leeming tried to close his eyes against the pain but that only made him feel queasy.
‘How can you do it, sir?’ he asked, enviously.
‘Do what, Victor?’
‘Read like that when the train is shaking us about so much.’
‘One gets used to it,’ said Colbeck, looking over the top of his copy of The Times. ‘I find the constant movement very stimulating.’
‘Well, I don’t – it’s agony for me.’
‘A stagecoach would bounce you about just as much.’
‘Yes,’ conceded Leeming, ‘but we wouldn’t have this terrible noise and all this smoke. I feel safe with horses, Inspector. I hate trains.’
‘Then you won’t take to Ashford, I’m afraid.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a railway town.’
Lying at the intersection of a number of main roads, Ashford had been a centre of communication for generations and the arrival of its railway station in 1842 had confirmed its status. But it was when the railway works was opened seven years later that its geographical significance was fully ratified. Its population increased markedly and a sleepy agricultural community took on a more urban appearance and edge. The high street was wide enough to accommodate animal pens on market day and farmers still came in from a wide area with their produce but the wives of railwaymen, fitters, engineers and gas workers now rubbed shoulders with the more traditional customers.
The first thing that the detectives saw as they alighted at the station was the church tower of St Mary’s, a medieval foundation, rising high above the buildings around it with perpendicular authority, and casting a long spiritual shadow across the town. A pervading stink was the next thing that impressed itself upon them and Leeming immediately feared that his bath the previous night had failed to wash away the noxious smell of the cesspit. To his relief, the stench was coming from the River Stour into which all the town’s effluent was drained without treatment, a problem exacerbated by the fact that there were now over six thousand inhabitants in the vicinity.
Carrying their bags, they strolled in the bright sunshine to the Saracen’s Head to get a first feel of Ashford. Situated in the high street near the corner with North Street, the inn had been the premier hostelry in the town for centuries and it was able to offer them separate rooms – albeit with low beams and undulating floors – at a reasonable price. Colbeck was acutely aware of the effort that it had cost the Sergeant to get up so early when he was still in a battered condition. He advised him to rest while he ventured out to make initial contact with the family. Within minutes, Leeming was asleep on his bed.
Colbeck, meanwhile, stepped out from under the inn’s portico and walked across the road to the nearby Middle Row, a narrow, twisting passage, where Nathan Hawkshaw and Son owned only one of a half a dozen butchers’ stalls or shambles. The aroma of fresh meat mingled with the reek from the river to produce an even more distinctive smell. It did not seem to worry the people buying their beef, lamb and pork there that morning. Poultry and rabbits dangled from hooks outside the shop where Nathan Hawkshaw had worked and Colbeck had to remove his top hat and duck beneath them to go inside.
A brawny young man in a bloodstained apron was serving a female customer with some sausages. Colbeck noted his muscular forearms and the dark scowl that gave his ugly face an almost sinister look to it. When the woman left, he introduced himself as Adam Hawkshaw, son of the condemned man, a hulking figure who seemed at home among the carcasses of dead animals. Hawkshaw was resentful.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, bluntly.
‘To establish certain facts about your father’s case.’
‘We got no time for police. They helped to hang him.’
‘I’ve spoken to Sergeant Lugg in Maidstone,’ said Colbeck, ‘and he’s given me some of the details. What I need to do now is to get the other side of the story – from you and your mother.’
Hawkshaw was aggressive. ‘Why?’
‘Because I wish to review the case.’
‘My father’s dead. Go back to London.’
‘I understand the way that you must feel, Mr Hawkshaw, and I’ve not come to harass you. It may be that I can help.’
‘You going to dig him up and bring him back to life?’
‘There’s no need for sarcasm.’
‘Then leave us alone, Inspector,’ warned Hawkshaw.
‘Inspector?’ said a woman, coming into the shop from a door at the rear. ‘Who is this gentleman, Adam?’
Colbeck introduced himself to her and discovered that he was talking to Winifred Hawkshaw, a short, compact, handsome woman in her thirties with a black dress that rustled as she moved. She looked too young and too delicate to be the mother of the uncouth butcher. When she heard the Inspector’s request, she invited him into the room at the back of the property that served as both kitchen and parlour, leaving Adam Hawkshaw to cope with the two customers who had just come in. Colbeck was offered a seat but Winifred remained standing.
‘I must apologise for Adam,’ she said, hands gripped tightly together. ‘He’s taken it hard.’
‘I can understand that, Mrs Hawkshaw.’
‘After what happened, he’s got no faith in the law.’
‘And what about you?’
‘I feel let down as well, Inspector. We were betrayed.’
‘You still believe in your husband’s innocence then?’
‘Of course,’ she said, tartly. ‘Nathan had his faults but he was no killer. Yet they made him look like one in court. By the time they finished with him, my husband had been turned into a monster.’
‘It must have affected your trade.’
‘It has. Loyal customers have stayed with us, so have our friends who knew that Nathan could never have done such a thing. But a lot of people just buy meat elsewhere. This is a murderer’s shop, they say, and won’t have anything to do with us.’
There was resignation rather than bitterness in her voice. Winifred Hawkshaw did not blame local people for the way that they reacted. Colbeck was reminded of Louise Guttridge, another woman with an inner strength that enabled her to cope with the violent death of a husband. While the hangman’s widow was sustained by religion, however, what gave Winifred her self-possession was her belief in her husband and her determination to clear his name.
‘Are you aware of what happened to Jacob Guttridge?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Inspector.’
‘How did the news of his murder make you feel?’
‘It left me cold.’
‘No sense of quiet satisfaction?’
‘None,’ she said. ‘It won’t bring Nathan back, will it?’
‘What about your son?’ he wondered. ‘I should imagine that he took some pleasure from the fact that the man who hanged his father was himself executed.’
‘Adam is not my son, Inspector. He was a child of Nathan’s first marriage. But, yes – and I’m not ashamed to admit this – Adam was thrilled to hear the news. He came running round here to tell me.’
‘Doesn’t he live here with you?’
