The Excursion Train

CHAPTER TWO

When the summons came, Inspector Robert Colbeck was at Scotland Yard, studying the report he had just written about his last case. He abandoned it at once and hurried along the corridor. Superintendent Tallis was not a man who liked to be kept waiting. He demanded an instant response from his detectives. Colbeck found him in his office, seated behind his desk, smoking a cigar and poring over a sheet of paper. Tallis spoke to his visitor without even looking up.

'Don't sit down, Inspector. You're not staying long.'

'Oh?'

'You'll be catching a train to Twyford.'

'In Berkshire?'

'I know of no other,' said Tallis, raising his eyes. 'Do you?'

'No, sir.'

'Then do me the courtesy of listening to what I have to say instead of distracting me with questions about geography. This,' he went on, holding up the sheet of paper, 'is an example of the value of the electric telegraph, a priceless tool in the fight against crime. Details of the murder have been sent to us while the body is still warm.'

Colbeck's ears pricked up. 'There's been a murder at Twyford?'

'In a railway carriage, Inspector.'

'Ah.'

'It was an excursion train on the Great Western Railway.'

'Then I suspect I know where it was going, sir,' said Colbeck.

He also knew why the assignment was being handed to him. Ever since his success in solving a train robbery and its associated crimes in the previous year, Robert Colbeck had become known as the Railway Detective. It was a name bestowed upon him by newspapers that had, in the past, mocked the Detective Department of the Metropolitan Police for its apparent slowness in securing convictions. Thanks largely to Colbeck, the reporters at last had reason to praise the activities of Scotland Yard. he had masterminded the capture of a ruthless gang, responsible for armed robbery, blackmail, abduction, criminal damage and murder. Colbeck's reputation had been firmly established by the case. It meant that whenever a serious crime was committed on a railway, the respective company tended to seek his assistance.

Colbeck was, as usual, immaculately dressed in a black frock coat with rounded edges and high neck, a pair of well-cut fawn trousers and an Ascot cravat. His black shoes sparkled. Tall, lean and conventionally handsome, he cut a fine figure and always looked slightly out of place among his more workaday colleagues. none of them could challenge his position as the resident dandy. Edward Tallis would not even have cared to try. As a military man, he believed implicitly in smartness and he was always neatly, if soberly, dressed. But he deplored what he saw as Colbeck's vanity. It was one of the reasons that there was so much latent tension between the two of them. The Superintendent was a stocky, red-faced man in his fifties with a shock of grey hair and a small moustache. A chevron of concern was cut deep into his brow.

'You say that you knew where the train was going, Inspector?'

'Yes, sir,' replied Colbeck. 'It was taking interested parties to the scene of a prizefight.'

'Prizefights are illegal. They should be stopped.'

'This one, it seems, was allowed to go ahead.'

'Allowed?' repeated Tallis, bristling. 'A flagrant breach of the law was consciously allowed? That's intolerable. The magistracy is there to enforce the statute book not to flout it.' His eyelids narrowed. 'How did you come to hear about this?'

'It's common knowledge, Superintendent.'

'Did you not think to report it?'

'The fight is outside our jurisdiction,' said Colbeck, reasonably, 'so there was no point in bringing it to your attention. All that I picked up was tavern gossip about the contest. But,' he continued, 'that's quite irrelevant now. If a murder investigation is to be launched, I must be on the next train to Twyford.'

'You'll need this,' Tallis told him, rising from his seat and handing him the sheet of paper. 'It contains the few details that I possess.'

'Thank you, sir. I take it that Victor Leeming will come with me?'

'The Sergeant will meet you at Paddington Station. I sent him on an errand to C Division so I've dispatched a constable to overtake him with fresh orders.'

'Because of the speed of this message,' said Colbeck, indicating the piece of paper, 'we might even get there before the fight finishes. It can't be much more than thirty miles to Twyford.'

'Report back to me as soon as you can.'

'Of course, sir.'

'And find me the name of the man who sanctioned the running of this excursion train. If he knowingly conveyed people to an illegal prizefight, then he was committing an offence and should be called to account. We must come down hard on malefactors.'

'Railway companies are there to serve the needs of their customers, Superintendent,' Colbeck pointed out. 'They simply carry passengers from one place to another. It's unfair to blame them for any activities that those passengers may get up to at their destination.'

Tallis stuck out his jaw. 'Are you arguing with me, Inspector?'

'Heaven forbid!'

'That makes a change.'

'I would never question your judgement, sir.'

'You do it out of sheer force of habit.'

'That's a gross exaggeration. I was merely trying to represent the position of the Great Western railway.'

'Then permit me to represent my position,' said the other, tapping his chest with a stubby forefinger. 'I want prompt action. A murder has been committed and we have received an urgent call for assistance. Instead of debating the issue, be kind enough to vacate the premises with all due speed and do the job for which you're paid.'

'I'll take a cab to Paddington immediately,' said Colbeck, moving to the door. 'By the way,' he added with a teasing smile, 'do you wish to be informed of the result of the fight?'

'No!' roared Tallis.

'I thought not, sir.'

And he was gone.

There was a fairground atmosphere at the scene of the prizefight. Descending on it after their trudge across the fields, the high-spirited crowd from London saw that the ring had been set up and that it was encircled by a number of booths and stalls. Pies, sandwiches, fruit and other foodstuffs were on sale and there was a ready supply of beer. A pig was being roasted on a spit. One tent was occupied by a gypsy fortune-teller, who, having first discovered which man each of her clients was supporting, was able to predict the outcome of the contest to his complete satisfaction. A painted sign over another booth – THE GARDEN OF EDEN – left nobody in any doubt what they would find inside, especially as the artist had added a naked lady, with a large red apple and an inviting smile. A group of Negro serenaders was touting for custom under an awning. There was even a Punch and Judy show to entertain the visitors with some make-believe violence before they were offered the real thing.

The Londoners were the last to arrive. Excursion trains from other parts of the country had already brought in a massive audience. Members of the gentry chose to watch the festivities from the comfort of their coaches, carriages and gigs. Farmers had come in carts or on horseback. But the overwhelming number of people would either clamber on to the makeshift stands or search for a good vantage point on the grass. Meanwhile, they could place their bets with bookmakers, play cards, watch the jugglers and tumblers, visit some of the freaks on show or enjoy an improvised dog fight. With beer flowing freely, it all served to whip them up into a frenzy of anticipation.

The inner ring, where the fight would take place, was protected by an outer ring so that spectators could not get close enough to interfere in the contest. The space between the two sets of ropes was patrolled by a number of brawny figures, waddling around like so many bulldogs, ageing pugs with scarred faces, swollen ears and missing teeth, muscular sentries with fists like hams, there to ensure the safety of Mad Isaac and the Bargeman. Veterans of the sport themselves, their advice was eagerly sought by punters who were still unsure on whom to place their money.

By way of introduction, an exhibition bout was staged between two young fighters, still in their teens, talented novices who wore padded gloves to lessen the injuries they could inflict on each other's faces. Later, when they graduated to the bareknuckle breed, they would pickle their hands to harden them and do their utmost to open deep cuts, close an opponent's eye, break his ribs or cover his body with dark bruising. The preliminary contest lacked any real sense of danger but it was lively enough to thrill the onlookers and to give them an opportunity both to jostle for a position around the ring and to test the power of their lungs. After six rounds, the fight came to an end amid ear-splitting cheers. Between the two fighters, honours were even.

With the spectators suitably warmed up, it was time for the main contest of the afternoon. Everyone pushed in closer for a first glimpse of the two men. The Bargeman led the way, a veritable mountain of muscle, striding purposefully towards the ring with a face of doom. His fans were quick to offer their sage counsel.

'Knock 'im from 'ere to kingdom come, Bargeman!'

'Split the lousy Jew in 'alf!'

'Circumcise 'im!'

'Flay the bugger alive!'

The Negro raised both arms in acknowledgement, cheered and booed with equal volume by rival supporters. Isaac Rosen was the next to appear, strolling nonchalantly along as he chewed on an apple and tossed the core to a woman in the throng. He was every bit as tall as Hignett but had nothing like his sheer bulk. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, Rosen grinned happily as if he were on his way to a picnic rather than to an extended ordeal in the ring. It was the turn of the Bradford crowd to offer a few suggestions.

'Come on, Mad Isaac! Teach 'im a lesson.'

'Smash 'im to the ground!'

'Crack 'is 'ead open!'

'Kill the black bastard!'

Both sides were in good voice. As the fighters stripped off their shirts, the cheers and the taunts reached a pitch of hysteria. Wearing cotton drawers and woollen stockings, the boxers confronted each other and exchanged a few ripe insults. Each was in prime condition, having trained for months for this confrontation. Hignett had the clear weight advantage but Rosen had the more eye-catching torso with rippling muscles built up by hard years in the slaughterhouse. A coin was tossed to see who would have choice of corners, a crucial advantage on a day when the sun was blazing down. Fortune favoured the Jew and he elected to have his back to the sun so that it dazzled his opponent's eyes as he came out of his corner.

With two seconds apiece – a bottleman and a kneeman – they took up their positions. The bottleman was there to revive his charge with a wet sponge or a cold drink while the kneeman provided a rickety stool on which the boxer could sit between rounds. All four seconds were retired fighters, seasoned warriors who knew all the tricks of the trade and who could, in the event of trouble, act as additional bodyguards. On a signal from the referee, the Bargeman moved swiftly up to the scratch in the middle of the ring, but Mad Isaac kept him waiting for a moment before he deigned to leave his corner. As they shook hands, there was another barrage of insults between them before the first punches were thrown with vicious intent. Pandemonium broke out among the spectators. They were watching the two finest boxers in the world, both unbeaten, slugging it out until one of them was pounded into oblivion. In an ecstasy of bloodlust, they urged the boxers on with full-throated glee.

'Who discovered the body?' asked Colbeck, coming out of the carriage.

'I did, Inspector,' replied Ernest Radd, stepping forward.

'When was this?'

'Immediately after the passengers had left the train.'

'Could you give me some idea of the time?'

'Not long after noon, Inspector.'

'I knew that it was a mistake to run this train,' said Tod Galway, wringing his hands. 'Something like this was bound to happen.'

'I disagree,' said Colbeck, turning to him. 'This is a very singular occurrence. It's the first murder that I've encountered on a train. One might expect a little over-excitement from the Fancy but not this.'

The detectives had reached the scene of the crime while the fight was still in progress. To clear the line for use by other traffic, the excursion train had been driven into a siding. Inspector Robert Colbeck was accompanied by Sergeant Victor Leeming, a heavyset man in his late thirties with an unprepossessing appearance. One eye squinted at a bulbous nose that had been battered during an arrest and his chin was unduly prominent. Beside his elegant companion, he looked scruffy and faintly villainous. After examining the dead body with Colbeck, the Sergeant remained in the doorway of the carriage, blocking the view of the group of railway policemen who had come to stare.

'I knew he was gone as soon as I saw him,' explained Radd, a chubby young man whose cheeks were still whitened by the shock of what he had found. 'But it was Sam here who went into the carriage.'

'That's right,' Horlock chimed in, relishing the opportunity to get some attention at last. 'Horlock's the name, Inspector. Samuel Horlock. Ernie called us to the carriage and, as the more experienced policeman,' he boasted, 'I took over. The man was stuck in the corner. I shook him by the shoulder and he keeled over, losing his hat. That's when we saw them marks around his neck, Inspector. Someone must have used a rope to strangle him.'

'A piece of wire, I think,' said Colbeck. 'Rope would never have bitten into the flesh like that. It would simply have left a red weal where the neck had been chafed. This man was garrotted with something much thinner and sharper.'

'Then we know one thing about the killer,' volunteered Leeming. 'He must have been a strong man. The victim would not have been easy to overpower. Judging by the size of him, there would have been resistance.'

'I found these in his pockets, Inspector,' said Horlock, handing over a wallet and a slip of paper, 'so at least we know his name.'

'You should have left it to us to search him, Mr Horlock.'

'I was only trying to help.'

'In tramping around the carriage, you might unwittingly have destroyed valuable clues.' He looked at the other railway policemen. 'How many of you went in there to gawp at him once the alarm was raised?' Half a dozen of them looked shamefaced and turned away. 'It was not a freak show, gentlemen,' scolded Colbeck.

'We was curious, that's all,' said Horlock, defensively.

'If you'd shown some curiosity during the train journey, the murder might not have occurred. Why did none of you travel in this particular carriage?'

'We never expected trouble in first and second class. Leastways, not on the ride here. It'll be different on the way back,' warned Horlock. 'There's bound to be some drunken idiots with third-class tickets trying to travel back to London in comfort.'

'Nobody can use this carriage,' said Galway, anxiously. 'Not with a corpse lyin' there like that. I mean, it's unwelcomin'.'

'The body will travel back in the guard's van,' declared Colbeck.

'I'm not 'avin ' that bleedin' thing in my van, Inspector!' protested the other. 'Gives me the shakes just to look at 'im.'

'Don't worry. Sergeant Leeming and I will be there to protect you.' Colbeck turned to the others. 'Some of you might find a means of carrying the murder victim along the track. There may be a board of some kind at the station or even a wheelbarrow. We need to move him before the passengers return, and to get this carriage cleaned up.'

Four of the railway policemen shuffled off. The rest of them stared resentfully at Colbeck, annoyed that he had taken over the investigation and relegated them to the position of bystanders. Colbeck's refinement, educated voice and sense of authority aroused a muted hostility. They did not like being given orders by this peacock from Scotland Yard. Aware of their antagonism, Colbeck chose to ignore it.

'Sergeant Leeming.'

'Yes, Inspector?' said his colleague.

'Take a full statement from Mr Horlock, if you will,' instructed Colbeck, 'and from Mr Radd. Meanwhile,' he added, pointedly, 'if the rest of you would be good enough to give us some breathing space, I'll make a more thorough examination of the body.'

Blaspheming under their breath, the knot of railway policemen drifted away, leaving only Sam Horlock, Ernest Radd and Tod Galway beside the carriage. Leeming jumped down on to the ground and took out his notebook so that he could question two of the men. Colbeck hauled himself into the carriage and took the opportunity to look at the two items that Horlock had given him. The wallet contained nothing more than a five-pound note and a ticket for the excursion train, but the piece of paper was far more useful. It was a bill for a supply of leather and it contained the name and address of the person to whom it had been sent.

'So,' said Colbeck with compassion, 'you are Mr Jacob Bransby, are you? I'm sorry that your journey had to end this way, sir.'

Putting the wallet and bill into his pocket, he looked more closely at the injury to the man's neck, trying to work out where the killer must have been standing when he struck. Colbeck then studied the broad shoulders and felt the solid biceps. Bransby might have a paunch but he must have been a powerful man. Evidently, he was no stranger to manual work. His hands were rough, his fingernails dirty. A livid scar ran across the knuckles of one hand. His clothing was serviceable rather than smart and Colbeck noticed that his coat had been darned in two places. The hat was shabby.

But it was the face that interested the detective most. Though contorted by an agonising death, it still had much to reveal about the character of the man. There was a stubbornness in the set of his jaw and protective quality about the thick, overhanging brows. Mutton-chop whiskers hid even more of his face and the walrus moustache reached out to meet them. Colbeck sensed that he was looking at a secretive individual, covert, tight-lipped, taciturn, unsure of himself, a lonely creature who travelled without any friends because they would otherwise have been on hand to save his life instead of rushing out of the carriage, leaving him to the mercy of his executioner.

Wishing that the man did not smell so much of excrement, Colbeck searched him thoroughly. Sam Horlock had already been through the pockets so the Inspector concentrated on other parts of his clothing. If Bransby had been as furtive by nature as the detective believed, he might have hidden pockets about his person. He soon found the first, a pouch that had been attached to the inside of the waist of his trousers to safeguard coins from the nimble fingers of pickpockets. Horlock had missed the second hiding place as well. Ingeniously sewn into the waistcoat below the left arm, the other pouch contained a large and expensive gold watch.

It was the third find, however, that intrigued Colbeck. As he felt down the right trouser-leg, his hand made contact with a hard, metal object that, on investigation, turned out to be a dagger strapped above the ankle. Colbeck removed it from the leg, unsheathed the weapon and inspected it. He glanced down at the murder victim.

'Well, Mr Bransby,' he said, raising an eyebrow, 'you're full of surprises, aren't you?'

He put the dagger in its sheath and concealed them in his coat. After completing his search, he left the carriage and dropped to the ground, relieved to be able to inhale fresh air again. Colbeck said nothing about what he had found, unwilling to humiliate Horlock in front the others and, in any case, not wishing to share information with railway employees. The four policemen who had walked off to the station came down the track, carrying a large table between them. Colbeck supervised the transfer of the dead body from the carriage to the guard's van. Tod Galway was not happy about the arrangement.

'I don't want 'im in there, Inspector,' he moaned, waving his arms. 'The dirty dog shit 'imself.'

'That was purely involuntary,' said Colbeck. 'If you had been killed in that way, I daresay that your own bowels would have betrayed you. Death plays cruel tricks on all of us.'

'But why did this 'ave to 'appen on my train?'

'Only the killer can tell us that.'

Leaving him there, Colbeck strolled back towards the front of the train. He was pleased to see that Leeming had finished taking statements from the two men. It allowed him to confide in the Sergeant.

Leeming was astonished. 'A gold watch and a dagger?'

'Both cunningly hidden, Victor.'

'Is that why he carried the weapon, sir? To protect the watch?'

'No,' decided Colbeck, 'I fancy that it was there for self-defence and with good cause. Mr Bransby feared an attack of some kind. He did not strike me as a man who slept easily at nights.'

'A guilty conscience, perhaps?'

'He certainly had something to hide. How, for instance, could a man who plied his trade afford such a costly watch? I venture to suggest that you'll find very few cobblers with the requisite income.'

'How do you know that he was a cobbler?'

'Who else would order that amount of leather?' asked Colbeck. 'And there was what could well be cobbler's wax under his fingernails. Not that he was the most dexterous craftsman, mind you. It looked as if a knife slipped at some stage and slit his knuckles open.'

'I see.' Leeming shrugged. 'What do we do now, sir?'

'All that we can do, Victor – wait until the passengers come back. Only a relatively small number travelled here in these second-class carriages. We need to find someone who might remember Jacob Bransby.'

'One of them will remember him extremely well – the killer!'

'Yes, but I doubt if he'll oblige us by turning up so that we can question him. My guess is that he's already slipped away.'

'And miss the chance of seeing a fight like that?' said Leeming in amazement. 'More fool him, I say.' he brightened as an idea struck him. 'I'd love to watch the Bargeman hit lumps out of Mad Isaac. One of the policemen knows where the fight is taking place, sir. Why don't I rush over there to keep an eye on things?'

'Because you'd be too late, Victor.'

'Too late?'

'Look up there.'

Glancing up at the sky, Leeming saw a flock of birds flying in the general direction of London. He sighed as he realised that the fight must be over. The carrier pigeons were carrying word of the result. Several, he knew, would be winging their way to Bradford.

Leeming cupped his hands to shout up at the birds.

'Who won?' he yelled. 'Was it the Bargeman?'

The trouble had begun when the fight was only an hour old. Supporters of Mad Isaac had been inflamed by what they felt were unfair tactics on the part of his opponent. When they grappled in the middle of the ring, the Bargeman used his forehead to crack down on the bridge of the other man's nose and uncorked the blood. As the fighters swung round crazily in an impromptu dance, the men from Bradford thought that they saw the Negro inflict a bite on their man's neck. They shrieked with rage. Rosen was quick to take revenge. Seized by a madness that turned him into a howling wolf, he lifted the Bargeman bodily and flung him to the ground with a force that winded him. What infuriated the London mob was that he seemed to get in a sly kick to the Negro's groin.

Demands for a disqualification rang out on all sides and a few private fights started on the fringes. The Bargeman, however, had great powers of recovery. Helped back to his corner by his seconds, he needed only a swig of water and a brief rest on a wooden stool before he was able to fight again. When the contest restarted, his arms were flailing like black windmills. And so it went on for another forty arduous rounds, advantage swinging first one way, then the other, the audience keeping up such hullabaloo that it was like watching a brawl in Bedlam. When the rowdier element began to take over, brandishing staves and cudgels, the gentry began to withdraw, worried for the safety of their vehicles and their horses in the seething morass of danger.

The end finally came. It was disputed belligerently by almost half of the spectators. Both men had taken severe punishment and were tottering on the edge of complete fatigue. The Bargeman then found the energy to launch one more savage attack, sending his opponent reeling back against the ropes. Moving in for the kill, he tried to get the Jew in a bear hug to crush the last vestiges of resistance but he suddenly backed away with his hands to his eyes. Nobody had seen Mad Isaac use his fingers yet the Bargeman was temporarily blinded. He was then hit with a relay of punches that sent him staggering backwards and, as he was in the act of dropping to one knee to gain quarter, he was caught with a thunderous uppercut that laid him out flat. It was all over.

Cries of 'Foul!' from the Londoners mingled with roars of delight from the Bradford contingent. The noise was deafening. Every one of the Bargeman's fans believed that he had been hit unfairly though, in truth, few had actually witnessed the blow. Most were in no position to see over the ranks of hats in front of them or they were so befuddled with drink that their vision was impaired. Partisans to a man, they nevertheless took up the chant for retribution. The umpires claimed that they had not seen anything underhand and the referee, sensing that a disqualification would put his life at risk, declared Mad Isaac to be the winner. At that precise moment, thousands of pounds were won and lost in bets.

The more sporting members of the Fancy immediately contributed to a purse for the gallant loser, who was carried back to his corner by his seconds. Because the Bargeman had given a good account of himself in the ring, coins were tossed into the hat with generosity. But there were hundreds of people who disputed the decision and sought to advance their argument with fists, whip handles, sticks, stones, clubs and hammers. The two fighters were not the only ones to shed copious blood that afternoon in Berkshire.

At the point when the whole scene was about to descend into utter chaos, someone fired a warning pistol in the air. A magistrate was on his way to stop the event with a detachment of dragoons at his back. It was time to disappear. Brawls were abandoned in mid-punch and everyone took to their heels. Hustled on to separate carts, the Bargeman and Mad Isaac were driven off in opposite directions by their backers, determined that two brave men would not feel the wrath of the law. Hurt, angry and consumed with righteous indignation, the London mob headed towards their excursion train, licking their wounds and cursing their fate. Having invested time, money and high emotion into the contest, they were going home empty-handed. It made them burn with frustration. They had come with high hopes of victory but were slinking away like a beaten army.

'The Bargeman lost,' said Leeming in dismay as the first of them came in sight. 'I can tell from the look of them.'

'Inquire about the fight at a later stage,' ordered Colbeck. 'All that concerns us now are the passengers who were in the same carriage as Jacob Bransby on their way here.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And don't expect me to share your sorrow, Victor. You may as well know that I put a sovereign on Mad Isaac to win.'

Leeming groaned. 'I had two on the Bargeman.'

When the crowd reached the train, all that most of them wanted to do was to tumble into their seats and nurse their grievances. Some were in an aggressive mood and others tried to sneak into first-and second-class carriages without the appropriate tickets. Railway policemen were on hand to prevent them. Those who had been in the same carriage as Jacob Bransby were taken aside for questioning, but only one of them had actually spoken to the man whom Inspector Colbeck described.

'Yes,' said Felix Pritchard. 'I remember him, sir, though he didn't give me his name. Sat next to him, I did – shoulder to shoulder.'

'Did you talk to him?' asked Colbeck.

'I tried to but he didn't have very much to say for himself.'

'What was your impression of the man?'

'Well, now, let me see.'

Felix Pritchard was a tall, rangy young man with a coat that had been torn in the course of the afternoon and a hat that was badly scuffed. A bank clerk by profession, he had pleaded illness so that he could go to the fight but he was now having second thoughts about the wisdom of doing so. Apart from having backed the wrong man and lost money that he could not afford, he had drunk far too much beer and was feeling sick. As a witness, he was less than ideal. Colbeck was patient with him. Pritchard was all that he had.

'Start with his voice,' suggested the Inspector. 'Did it tell you where he came from?'

'Oh, yes, he was a true Cockney, just like me, sir.'

'Did he say what he did for a living?'

'That never came up in conversation,' said Pritchard, wishing that his stomach were not so rebellious. 'All we talked about was the fight.'

'And what did Mr Bransby have to say?'

'That, barring accidents, the Bargeman was bound to win.'

'Did he bet money on the result?'

'Of course. We all had.'

'Had he ever seen Bill Hignett fight before?'

'Yes,' said the other. 'He was a real disciple of the sport. Told me that he'd been all over the country to see fights. It was his hobby.'

'What else did he say?'

'Very little beyond the fact that he did a bit of milling in his youth. I think he was handy with his fists at one time but he didn't brag about it. He was one of those quiet types, who keep themselves to themselves.'

'Tell me about the people in the carriage.'

'We were jammed in there like sardines.'

'How many of them did you know?'

'Only one,' replied Pritchard. 'My brother. That's him, sitting in the corner,' he went on, pointing into the carriage at a youth whose face and coat were spattered with blood. 'Cecil chanced his arm against one of those Bradford cullies and came off worst.'

'Did he speak to Jacob Bransby at any point?'

'No, sir. He was sat on the other side of me. Couldn't take his eyes off the woman who was opposite him.'

'A woman?' echoed Colbeck with interest, looking around. 'I've not seen any women getting back into the second-class carriages.'

'She must be making her way back home by other means.'

'What sort of woman was she, Mr Pritchard?'

'That sort, sir,' returned the bank clerk.

'Age?'

'Anything from thirty upward,' said Pritchard. 'Too old for my brother, I know that, and too pricey in any case.'

'Why do you say that?'

'She wasn't a common trull you might see walking the streets, sir. I mean, she was almost respectable. Except that a respectable woman wouldn't be going on an excursion train to a fight, would she? She could only have been there for one thing.'

'Did you see her at the contest?'

'In that crowd?' Pritchard gave a derisive laugh. 'Not a chance! Besides, I didn't look. I was too busy cheering on the Bargeman.'

'Apart from Jacob Bransby, your brother and this woman, can you recall anyone else who was in that carriage with you?'

'Not really, sir. They were all strangers to me. To be honest, I've had so much to drink that I wouldn't recognise any of them if they stood in front of me.' He gave a sudden belch. 'Pardon me, Inspector.'

'What happened when the train reached Twyford?'

'We all got out.'

'Did you see Mr Bransby leave his seat?'

'I didn't notice,' admitted Pritchard. 'There was a mad dash for the door because we were so keen to get out.'

'Did the woman leave before you?'

'Oh, no. She had to take her chances with the rest of us. Cecil and me pushed past her in the rush. That was the last we saw of her.'

'So she could have held back deliberately?'

'Who knows, Inspector? If she did, it wasn't because she'd taken a fancy to Mr Bransby. He was an ugly devil,' said Pritchard, 'and he was so miserable. You'd never have thought he was on his way to a championship fight.'

'No?'

'No, sir. He looked as if he was going to a funeral.'

Colbeck made no comment.