The Excursion Train

CHAPTER THREE

The excursion train reached Paddington that evening without any undue incident. There were some heated arguments in the third-class carriages and a few minor scuffles but the railway policemen soon brought them under control. Most of the passengers were still too numbed by the defeat of their hero, the Bargeman, to cause any mayhem themselves and they were noticeably quieter on their way back. Those in the second-class carriage that had brought Jacob Bransby to Twyford were quite unaware of the fact a murder had taken place there. When he interviewed Felix Pritchard earlier, Inspector Colbeck had been careful to say nothing about the crime, explaining that he was simply making routine inquiries about a missing person. Unbeknown to the excursionists, a corpse travelled back to London in the guard's van with two detectives from the Metropolitan Police and an irate Tod Galway.

'It ain't decent, Inspector,' asserted the guard.

'The body could hardly be left where it was,' said Colbeck.

'You should 'ave sent it back by other means.'

'What other means?'

'Any way but on my train.'

'Mr Bransby had a return ticket in his pocket. That entitles him to be on this particular train and here he will be.'

'Bleedin' liberty, that's what it is!'

'Show some respect for the dead. And to us,' added Colbeck, sternly. 'Do you think we want to ride back to London in the company of a murder victim and a grumbling railwayman?'

Galway lapsed into a sullen silence until the train shuddered to a halt in the station. Victor Leeming was given the job of organising the transfer of the dead body to the police morgue, first waiting until the train had been emptied of passengers so that a degree of privacy could be ensured. Colbeck, meanwhile, took a hansom cab back to Scotland Yard and delivered his report to Superintendent Tallis. The latter listened to the recital with mounting irritation.

'Nobody saw a thing?' he asked, shaking his head in wonder. 'A man is throttled aboard a crowded train and not a single pair of eyes witnesses the event?'

'No, sir.'

'I find that hard to believe.'

'Everyone rushed out of the train in order to get to the fight.'

'Then why didn't this Mr Bransby join them?'

'I have a theory about that, Superintendent.'

'Ah,' sighed Tallis, rolling his eyes. 'Another of your famous theories, eh? I prefer to work with hard facts and clear evidence. They are much more reliable guides. Very well,' he conceded, flicking a wrist, 'let's hear this latest wild guess of yours.'

'I believe that the woman was involved.'

'A female assassin? Isn't that stretching supposition too far?'

'She was no assassin,' argued Colbeck. 'The woman was there as an accomplice to distract the victim. While she delayed him, the killer attacked from behind.'

'What put that notion into your head, Inspector?'

'The fact that she was in that carriage at all.'

'There's no mystery in that,' said Tallis, darkly. 'We both know why she was there. Such creatures always follow a crowd. Clearly, she was looking for a better class of customer than she'd find among the ruffians in third-class.'

'I've only Mr Pritchard's word that the woman was, in fact, a prostitute. He could well have been mistaken. He confessed that he'd been drinking before he boarded the train so his judgement may not be altogether sound. What interests me,' Colbeck continued, 'was that the woman did not return to the train at Twyford.'

'Perhaps she went astray.'

'Deliberately.'

'You've no means of knowing that.'

'I have this instinct, sir.'

'We need more than theory and instinct to solve this murder, Inspector. We need definite clues. So far you seem to have drawn a complete blank.' He glowered at Colbeck. 'What's your next move?'

'To visit the home of the deceased. He wore a wedding ring so he must have a wife and family. They deserve to know what has happened to him. I intend to go to Hoxton at once.'

'What about Sergeant Leeming?'

'He's on his way to the morgue with Mr Bransby, sir. I told him to stay there until the doctor had examined the body in case any important new details came to light. Victor and I will confer later on.'

'For an exchange of theories?' said Tallis with gruff sarcasm.

'Useful information can always be picked up from the doctor even before a full autopsy is carried out. He may, for instance, give us a more accurate idea of what murder weapon was used.'

'Bring me news of any progress that you make.'

'Of course, sir.'

'Soon.'

'We'll do our best.'

'I trust that you will. I've already had the railway company on to me, demanding an early arrest. A murder on one of their trains is a bad advertisement for them. It deters other passengers from travelling. The crime must be solved quickly. But they must bear some responsibility,' said Tallis, wagging a finger. 'If the Great Western Railway hadn't condoned an illegal fight and transported the sweepings of the slums to it, this murder would never have been committed.'

'It would, Superintendent,' said Colbeck, firmly, 'albeit at another time and in another place. Theft was not the motive or the man's wallet would have been taken. No,' he insisted, 'this was not an opportunist crime. It was a calculated homicide. Jacob Bransby was being stalked.'

At the time when the Domesday Book had been compiled, Hoxton was a manor of three hides, held by the Canons of St Paul's. It had been a tranquil place with green pastures and open meadows intersected by the river along which mills were conveniently sited. There was not the tiniest hint of its former rural beauty now. A part of Shoreditch, it belonged to a community of well over 100,000 souls in an unsightly urban sprawl. It was one of the worst parts of London with poverty and overcrowding as the salient features of its dark, narrow, filthy, cluttered streets. As the cab took him to the address on the tradesman's bill, Robert Colbeck reflected that Hoxton was hardly the district in which to find a man who carried a gold watch and a five pound note on his person. The dagger, however, was a more understandable accessory. In many parts of the area, a weapon of some sort was almost obligatory.

Colbeck was well acquainted with Hoxton, having been assigned a beat there during his days in uniform. He was wearily familiar with its brothels, gambling dens, penny gaffs, music halls, seedy public houses and ordinaries. He knew the rat- infested tenements where whole families were crammed into a single room and where disease ran amok in the insanitary conditions. He remembered the distinctive smell of Hoxton with its blend of menace, despair and rotting food. What had always struck him was not how many criminals gravitated to the place to form a thriving underworld but how many decent, hard-working, law-abiding people also lived there and managed to rise above their joyless surroundings.

After picking its way through the busy streets, the cab turned a corner and slowed down before stopping outside a terraced house. It was in one of the better parts of Hoxton but there was still a distinct whiff of decay about it. Children were playing with a ball in the fading light or watching an ancient man struggling to coax music out of his barrel organ. When they saw the cab, some of the younger ones scampered across to pat the horse and to ask the driver for a ride. Colbeck got out, paid his fare and knocked on the door of Jacob Bransby's house. There was a long wait before a curtain was twitched in the window. Moments later, the door opened and the curious face of a middle-aged woman peered around it.

'Can I help you, sir?'

'Mrs Bransby?'

'Yes,' she said after a considered pause.

'My name is Detective Inspector Colbeck,' he explained, displaying his warrant card. 'I wonder if I might have a word with you?'

Alarm sounded. 'Why? Has something happened to my husband? I expected him back before now.'

'Perhaps I could come in, Mrs Bransby,' he said, softly. 'This is not something that we should be discussing on your doorstep.'

She nodded and moved back to admit him. Removing his top hat, he stepped into a small passageway and waited until she shut the door behind them. Louise Bransby led him into the front room that was better furnished than he had expected. A lighted oil lamp bathed it in a warm glow. Over the mantelpiece was a picture of the Virgin Mary. On the opposite wall was a crucifix. The carpet had a new feel to it.

'Why don't you sit down?' he suggested.

'If you say so, Inspector.'

'Is there anyone else in the house?'

'No,' she said, lowering herself into an armchair. 'Jake and I live here alone. Our son has a home of his own now.'

'Is there a friend or a neighbour you'd like to call in?'

'Why?'

'You might need some company, Mrs Bransby.'

'Not from anyone round here,' she said, sharply. 'We have no friends in Hoxton.' She took a deep breath and steeled herself. 'I'm ready, Inspector. Tell me what brought you here.'

Louise Bransby was a plump woman in a blue dress that had been worn once too often. She had curly brown hair and an oval face that was disfigured by a frown. Colbeck sensed a quiet toughness about her that would make his task slightly easier. Whatever else she did, Louise Bransby seemed unlikely to collapse in hysterics or simply pass out.

'I'm afraid that I have some bad news for you,' he began.

'It's not his heart again, is it?' she asked with concern. 'The doctor warned him against getting too excited but Jake just had to go to that fight. He loved boxing. It gave him so much pleasure. He'd go anywhere to watch it.' She leant forward. 'Has he been taken ill?'

'It's worse than that,' said Colbeck, sitting on the upright chair beside her. 'Your husband is dead.' As she convulsed momentarily, he put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. 'I'm so sorry, Mrs Bransby. I hate to be the bearer of such sad tidings.'

She bit her lip. 'It was bound to happen sooner or later,' she said, wiping away a tear with her hand. 'I knew that. Jake would drive himself so. And I was afraid that it would all end once we came here. Moving to Hoxton was a bad mistake.'

'How long have you been in the house?'

'A couple of months.'

'Where were you before?'

'Clerkenwell.'

'Why did you come here?'

'That's private, sir,' she said, evasively. 'Not that it matters any more, I suppose. If my husband has died, I can get away from this place.' She clutched her hands to her breast. 'If only Jake had listened to that doctor! He was told to take it easy.' She read the look in Colbeck's eyes and stiffened. 'There's something you haven't told me, isn't there?' she asked, warily. 'It wasn't his heart, after all.'

'No, Mrs Bransby,' he said, gently. 'There's no way to hide the truth, I fear. Your husband was killed this afternoon.'

'Killed?' she gasped. 'There's been an accident?'

'Unfortunately not. At some time around noon today, Mr Bransby was murdered on an excursion train.'

'Holy Mary!' she exclaimed.

She looked up at the picture of the Virgin, crossed herself then brought both hands up to her face. Louise Bransby was too stunned to say anything. Lost in a world of her own, she needed several minutes to recover her composure. Colbeck waited beside her, ready to offer physical support if need be, relieved that she did not burst into tears or howl with anguish as other women had done in similar circumstances. Imparting news of a tragedy to a wife was a duty that had fallen to him more than once in Hoxton and it had always been an uncomfortable task.

When she eventually lowered her hands, her eyes were moist but there was no overt display of grief. Louise Bransby was a woman who had learnt to keep her emotions under control in difficult situations and Colbeck suspected that she had had a lot of experience in doing so. There was an innate strength about her that he admired, a practical streak, a capacity for dealing with things as they were instead of clinging on pointlessly to how they had been. He offered her a handkerchief but she shook her head.

'Is there anything that I can get you, Mrs Bransby?' he inquired.

'No, Inspector.'

'A glass of water, perhaps?'

'I'll be well in a moment.'

'Are you sure there isn't a friend I could invite in?'

'Yes,' she said with sudden contempt. 'Quite sure. I don't want anyone here knowing my business. I can manage on my own.' She made an effort to pull herself together. 'How did it happen?'

'This may not be the time to go into details,' he said, trying to keep the full horror from her at this stage. 'Suffice it to say that it was a quick death. Your husband would not have lingered in agony.'

'Where was he killed?'

'At Twyford Station. When the train stopped, everyone rushed to get off. Evidently, someone took advantage of the commotion to attack Mr Bransby.' Hands clasped in her lap, she gazed down at them. 'We found a bill for some leather on him. Was your husband a cobbler?'

'Yes, Inspector.'

'Did he work from home?'

'He has a shed in the yard at the back of the house.'

'The bill is your property now,' he said, reaching inside his coat, 'and so is his wallet.' Colbeck extracted them and set them on a small table close to her. 'There were also a few coins in a secret pocket,' he went on, fishing them out to place beside the other items. 'That was not all that we found on your husband, Mrs Bransby.' She glanced up. 'Do you know what I'm talking about?'

'His watch.'

'It's a very expensive one.'

'But paid for, Inspector,' she declared, 'like everything else in this house. Jake earned that watch, he did. He worked hard for it. That's why he took such good care of it. I sewed the pouch into his waistcoat for him. That watch was got honestly, I swear it.'

'I'm sure that it was,' said Colbeck, producing the watch from a pocket and giving it to her. 'But it was a rather unexpected thing to find on your husband.' He brought out the dagger. 'And so was this. Do you know why he carried it?'

'This is a dangerous place to live.'

'I know that. I walked the beat in Hoxton as a constable.'

'Jake never felt safe here.'

'Then why did you move to this part of London?'

'We had to go somewhere,' she said with an air of resignation. 'And we'd tried three or four other places.'

'Couldn't you settle anywhere?' he probed.

'My husband was a restless man.'

'But a cobbler depends on building up local trade,' he noted. 'Every time you moved, he must have had to search for new customers.'

'We got by.'

'Obviously.'

'And we never borrowed a penny – unlike some around here.'

'That's very much to your credit, Mrs Bransby.'

'We had too much pride, Inspector. We cared. That's why I dislike the neighbours. They have no pride. No self-respect.'

There was an edge of defiance in her voice that puzzled him. Minutes ago, she had learnt of the murder of her husband yet she seemed to have set that aside. Louise Bransby was more concerned with correcting any false impression that he might have formed about a humble cobbler who lived in an unwholesome part of the city. Colbeck did not sense any deep love for the dead man but his wife was showing a loyalty towards him that verged on the combative.

'How long were you married, Mrs Bransby?' he asked.

'Twenty-eight years.'

'And you have a son, you say?'

'Yes. His name is Michael.'

'Any other children?'

'No, Inspector,' she replied, crisply. 'The Lord only saw fit to allow us one son and we would never question His wisdom.' After glancing down wistfully at the gold watch, she turned back to Colbeck. 'Do you have any idea who did this terrible thing to Jake?'

'Not at the moment. I was hoping that you might be able to help.'

'Me?'

'You knew your husband better than anybody, Mrs Bransby. Did he have any particular enemies?'

'Jake was a good man, Inspector. He was a true believer.'

'I don't doubt that,' said Colbeck, 'but the fact remains that someone had a reason to kill him. This was no random act of murder. Mr Bransby was carefully singled out. Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against him?'

'No, Inspector,' she replied, avoiding his gaze.

'Are you quite certain?' he pressed.

'Yes.'

'Did he have arguments with anyone? Or a feud with a rival cobbler, perhaps? To take a man's life like that requires a very strong motive. Who might have had that motive, Mrs Bransby?'

'How would I know?' she said, rising to her feet as if flustered. 'Excuse me, Inspector, this terrible news changes everything. I've a lot of thinking to do. If you don't mind, I'd like to be left alone now.'

'Of course,' he agreed, getting up immediately, 'but there is one request that I have to make of you, I fear.'

'What's that?'

'The body will need to be formally identified.'

'But you know that it was Jake. You found those things on him.'

'All the same, we do need confirmation from a family member.'

'I want to remember my husband as he was,' she said. 'I'd hate to see him.' Her voice trailed off and there was a long pause. She became more assertive. 'I'm sorry but I can't do it.'

'Then perhaps your son would replace you. He'll have to be told about his father's death. Does he live close by? I'll pay him a visit this evening and apprise him of the situation.'

'No, no, you mustn't do that.'

'Why not?'

'You keep Michael out of this.'

'One of you has to identify the body,' Colbeck told her. 'The doctor is unable to put the correct name on the death certificate until we are absolutely sure who the man is.'

She bit her lip. 'I know it's my husband. Take my word for it.'

'We need more than that, Mrs Bransby.'

'Why?'

'There are procedures to follow. I appreciate that you might find it too distressing to visit the morgue yourself so I'll have to ask your son to come in your place. Where can I find him?'

A hunted look came into her eyes. Her lips were pursed and the muscles in her face twitched visibly. Wrestling with her conscience, she turned for help to the Virgin Mary, only to be met with apparent reproof. It made her start. After swallowing hard, she blurted out the truth.

'I didn't mean to lie to you, Inspector,' she confessed. 'I was brought up to believe in honesty but that was not always possible. You must understand the position we were in.'

'I'm not blaming you for anything,' he promised, trying to calm her. 'And I do sympathise with your position. It can't have been easy for either of you to be on the move all the time, pulling up roots, finding new accommodation, living among strangers. You told me that your husband was restless. I believe that he also lived in fear.'

'He did – we both did.'

'Is that why you never stayed long in one place?'

'Yes, Inspector.'

'What kept you on the run?'

'They did,' she said, bitterly. 'That's why we had to hide behind a lie. But sooner or later, someone always found out and our lives were made a misery. It was so painful. I mean, someone has to do it, Inspector, and Jake felt that he was called. We prayed together for a sign and we believed that it was given to us.'

'A sign?'

'Jake would never have taken the job without guidance.'

'I don't quite follow, Mrs Bransby.'

'Guttridge,' she corrected. 'My name is Mrs Guttridge. Bransby was my maiden name. We only used it as a disguise. As a policeman, you must have heard of my husband – he was Jacob Guttridge.'

Colbeck was taken aback. 'The public executioner?'

'Yes, sir. Jake was not only a cobbler – he was a hangman as well.'

Victor Leeming did not like visiting the police morgue. The place was cold, cheerless and unsettling. He could not understand how some of those who worked there could exchange happy banter and even whistle at their work. He found it worryingly inappropriate. To the detective, it was an ordeal to spend any time in such an oppressive atmosphere. Robust, direct and fearless in most situations, Leeming was oddly sensitive in the presence of the deceased, reminded all too keenly of his own mortality. He hoped that he would not have to stay there long.

The doctor took time to arrive but, once he did, he was briskly professional as he examined a body that had been stripped and cleaned in readiness. After washing his hands, Leonard Keyworth joined the other man in the vestibule. Short, squat and bearded, the doctor was a bustling man in his late forties. Leeming stood by with his notebook.

'Well, Doctor?' he prompted.

'Death by asphyxiation,' said Keyworth, staring at him over the top of his pince-nez, 'but I daresay that you worked that out for yourself. It was a very unpleasant way to die. The garrotte was pulled so tight that it almost severed his windpipe.'

'Inspector Colbeck thought a piece of wire was used.'

'Almost certainly. The kind used to cut cheese, for instance.'

'How long would it have taken?'

'Not as long as you might suppose,' said the doctor. 'I can't be sure until I carry out a post-mortem but my guess is that he was not a healthy man. Cheeks and nose of that colour usually indicate heavy drinking and he was decidedly overweight. There were other telltale symptoms as well. I suspect that he may well have been a man with a heart condition, short of breath at the best of times. That might have hastened his death.'

'A heart attack brought on by the assault?'

'Possibly. I'll stay with my initial diagnosis for the time being. The prime cause of death was asphyxiation.'

'Right,' said Leeming, wishing that he could spell the word.

'This time, it seems, someone finally succeeded.'

'In what way?'

'It was not the first attempt on his life, Sergeant.'

Leeming blinked. 'How do you know?'

'When a man has a wound like that on his back,' said the doctor, removing his pince-nez, 'it was not put there by accident. There's an even larger scar on his stomach. He's been attacked before.'

'No wonder he carried a weapon of his own.'

'A weapon?'

'He had a dagger strapped to his leg,' explained Leeming.

'Then he was obviously unable to reach it. The killer had the advantage of surprise, taking him from behind when he least expected it. Do you have any notion of the victim's identity?'

'According to a bill in his pocket, his name was Jacob Bransby.'

'A manual worker of some kind, I'd say.'

'The Inspector is fairly certain that he's a cobbler.'

'Not a very good one, it appears.'

'Why not?'

'Because he has too many discontented customers,' said Keyworth with a mirthless laugh. 'Three of them at least didn't like the way that he mended their shoes.'

Robert Colbeck did not linger in Hoxton. Having learnt the dead man's real name and discovered his other occupation, the Inspector decided that revenge was the most likely motive for the murder. However, since Louise Guttridge knew nothing whatsoever of her husband's activities as a public executioner – a deliberate choice on her part – there was no point in tarrying. After warning her that details of the case would have to be released to the press and that her anonymity would soon be broken, he managed to prise the address of her son out of her, wondering why she was so reluctant to give it to him. Colbeck took his leave and walked through the drab streets until he could find a cab. It took him at a steady clatter to Thames Street.

Michael Guttridge lived in a small but spotlessly clean house that was cheek by jowl with the river. He was a fleshy man in his twenties who bore almost no facial resemblance to his father. His wife, Rebecca, was younger, shorter and very much thinner than her husband, her youthful prettiness already starting to fade in the drudgery of domestic life. Surprised by a visit from a Detective Inspector, they invited Colbeck in and were told about events on the excursion train. Their reaction was not at all what the visitor had anticipated.

'My father is dead?' asked Guttridge with an unmistakable note of relief in his voice. 'Is this true, Inspector?'

'Yes, sir. I went to the scene of the crime myself.'

'Then it's no more than he deserved.' He put an arm around his wife. 'It's over, Becky,' he said, excitedly. 'Do you see that? It's all over.'

'Thank God!' she cried.

'We don't have to care about it ever again.'

'That's wonderful!'

'Excuse me,' said Colbeck, letting his displeasure show, 'but I don't think that this is an occasion for celebration. A man has been brutally murdered. At least, have the grace to express some sorrow.'

Guttridge was blunt. 'We can't show what we don't feel.'

'So there's no use in pretending, is there?' said his wife, hands on hips in a challenging pose. 'I had no time for Michael's father.'

'No, and you had no time for me while I lived under the same roof with my parents. I had to make a choice – you or them.' Guttridge smiled fondly. 'I'm glad that I picked the right one.'

'Were you so ashamed of your father?' asked Colbeck.

'Wouldn't you be, Inspector? He was a common hangman. He lived by blood money. You can't get any lower than that.'

'I think you're doing him an injustice.'

'Am I?' retorted Guttridge, angrily. 'You didn't have to put up with the sneers and jibes. Once people knew what my father did, they turned on my mother and me as well. You'd have thought it was us who put the nooses around people's necks.'

'If your father had had his way,' his wife reminded him, 'you would have.' Rebecca Guttridge swung round to face Colbeck. 'He tried to turn Michael into his assistant. Going to prisons and killing people with a rope. It was disgusting!' Her eyes flashed back to her husband. 'I could never marry a man who did something like that.'

'I know, Becky. That's why I left home.'

'What trade do you follow?' said Colbeck.

'An honest one, Inspector. I'm a carpenter.'

'When were you estranged from your parents?'

'Three years ago.'

'I made him,' said Rebecca Guttridge. 'We've had nothing to do with them since. We've tried to live down the shame.'

'It should not have affected you,' maintained Colbeck.

'It did, Inspector. It was like a disease. Tell him, Michael.'

'Rebecca is right,' said her husband. 'When I lived with my parents in Southwark, I'd served my apprenticeship and was working for a builder. I was getting on well. Then my father applied for a job as a hangman. My life changed immediately. When the word got round, they treated me as if I was a leper. I was sacked outright and the only way I could find work was to use a false name – Michael Eames.'

'It's my maiden name,' volunteered Rebecca. 'I took Michael's name at the altar but we find it easier to live under mine. There's no stain on it.'

'I'm sorry that you see it that way,' said Colbeck. 'I can't expect either of you to admire Mr Guttridge for what he did, but you should have respected his right to do it. According to his wife, he only undertook the job because of religious conviction.'

'Ha!' snorted the carpenter. 'He always used that excuse.'

'What do you mean?'

'When he beat me as a child, he used to claim that it was God's wish. When he locked me in a room for days on end, he said the same thing. My father wouldn't go to the privy unless it was by religious conviction.'

'Michael!' exclaimed his wife.

'I'm sorry, Becky. I don't mean to be crude.'

'He's gone now. Just try to forget him.'

'Oh, I will.'

'We're free of him at last. We can lead proper lives.'

Michael Guttridge gave her an affectionate squeeze and Colbeck looked on with disapproval. During his interview with Louise Guttridge, he had realised that some kind of rift had opened up between the parents and their son but he had no idea of its full extent. Because of their family connection with a public executioner, the carpenter and his wife had endured a twilight existence, bitter, resentful, always on guard, unable to outrun the long shadow of the gallows. They were almost gleeful now, sharing a mutual pleasure that made their faces light up. It seemed to Colbeck to be a strange and reprehensible way to respond to the news of a foul murder.

'What about your mother?' he asked.

'She always took my father's part,' said Guttridge with rancour. 'Mother was even more religious than him. She kept looking for signs from above. We had to be guided, she'd say.'

'Mrs Guttridge had no time for me,' Rebecca put in.

'She tried to turn me away from Becky. Mother told me that she was not right for me. It was not proper. Yes,' he went on, wincing at the memory, 'that was the word she used – proper. It was one of my father's favourite words as well. You can see why we never invited them to the wedding.'

'They wouldn't have come in any case,' observed Rebecca. 'They never thought I was good enough for their son.'

'Becky was brought up as a Methodist,' explained her husband. 'I came from a strict Roman Catholic family.'

'I gathered that,' said Colbeck, recalling his encounter with the widow, 'but, when I asked about your mother, I was not talking about the past. I was referring to the present – and to the future.'

'The future?'

'Your mother has lost everything, Mr Guttridge. She and your father were obviously very close. To lose him in such a cruel way has been a dreadful blow for her. Can't you see that?'

'Mother will get by,' said the other with a shrug. 'Somehow or other. She's as hard as nails.'

'It sounds to me as if you've inherited that trait from her.'

'Don't say that about Michael,' chided Rebecca.

'I speak as I find.'

'My husband is the kindest man in the world.'

'Then perhaps he can show some of that kindness to his mother. Mrs Guttridge is in great distress. She's alone, confused, frightened. She's living in a house she dislikes among people she detests and the most important thing in her life has just been snatched from her.' Colbeck looked from one to the other. 'Don't you have the slightest feeling of pity for her?'

'None at all,' snapped Rebecca.

'Put yourself in her position. How would you cope if it had been your husband who had been murdered on a train?'

'I won't even think such a horrid thought!'

'Inspector Colbeck has a point,' admitted Guttridge as family ties exerted their pull. 'It's unfair to blame Mother for what happened. It was my father who took on that rotten job and who made me hate my name. And he's gone now – for good.' He gave a wan smile. 'Maybe it is time to let bygones be bygones.'

'No, Michael,' urged Rebecca. 'I won't let you do that.'

'She's my mother, Becky.'

'A woman who looked down on me and said that I was not fit to be your wife. She insulted me.'

'Only because she didn't know you properly.'

'She didn't want to know me.'

'I can't turn my back on her,' he said, earnestly.

'You managed to do it before.'

'That was because of my father.'

There was a long, silent battle between them and Colbeck did not interfere. Michael Guttridge was at last afflicted by a modicum of guilt. His wife remained cold and unforgiving. At length, however, she did consent to take his hand and receive a conciliatory kiss on the cheek. Colbeck chose the moment to speak up again.

'I came to ask you a favour, Mr Guttridge,' he said.

'Eames,' attested his wife. 'Everyone knows us under that name.'

'Listen to what the Inspector has to say,' said her husband.

'Someone has to identify the body,' explained Colbeck, 'and your mother is not able to do that. It will only take a few moments but it has to be done for legal reasons. Would you consent to come to the morgue to make that identification?'

Guttridge was uncertain. 'I don't know.'

'Let her go,' said Rebecca. 'It's not your place.'

'In the absence of the wife, an only son is the obvious person,' remarked Colbeck. 'It's crucial that we have the right name on the death certificate. A false one will not suffice. We don't want to compel a family member to perform this duty,' he cautioned, 'but it may come to that.'

The young carpenter walked to the window and looked out into the darkness. His wife stood at his shoulder and whispered something in his ear but he shook his head. Guttridge eventually turned round.

'I'll do it, Inspector.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Colbeck, glad to have wrested the concession from him. 'It can wait until morning, if you prefer.'

'No, I need to get it over with as soon as possible.'

'Wait until tomorrow,' advised Rebecca. 'That will give us time to talk about it. I don't want you to go at all.'

'The decision has been made,' said Colbeck, anxious to separate husband and wife. 'We'll take a cab there immediately.'

Guttridge nodded. 'I'm ready, Inspector.'

'Michael!' protested his wife.

'It has to be done, Becky.'

'Have you forgotten everything that he did to us?'

'No, I haven't,' said Guttridge, grimly. 'I'm only doing this to spare Mother the trouble and to give myself some pleasure.'

'Pleasure?' reiterated Colbeck in surprise. 'I can't promise that you'll find much pleasure in the police morgue, sir.'

'Oh, but I will, Inspector.'

'How?'

'I'll enjoy something that I've wanted for over twenty years.' He was triumphant. 'I'll be able to see for certain that my father is dead.'