The Excursion Train

CHAPTER FOUR

Because of its proximity to Scotland Yard, one of the pubs frequented by members of the Detective Department was the Lamb and Flag, a well-run establishment with a friendly atmosphere, a cheery landlord and excellent beer. While he waited for Colbeck to arrive, Victor Leeming nursed a tankard of bitter, taking only occasional sips so that he could make it last. Seated alone at a table on the far side of the bar, the Sergeant consulted his watch. The lateness of the hour worried him. He was still wondering what had kept the Inspector when Colbeck came in through the door, exchanged greetings with other police colleagues and made his way across the bar through the swirling cigarette smoke.

'I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Victor,' said Colbeck, joining him. 'Can I get you something else to drink?'

'No, thank you, sir. One is all that I dare touch. If I'm late back, as I will be, I can tell my wife that it's because of my work. Estelle accepts that. Let her think that I've been drinking heavily, however, and all hell will break loose. She'll call me names that I wouldn't care to repeat.'

'I'm glad you brought up the subject of names.'

'Are you, sir?'

'Yes, I've a tale to tell you on that score. Excuse me a moment.'

Colbeck went across to the counter and ordered a whisky and soda for himself. When he returned to the table, he took off his hat and sat opposite Leeming, who was in his customary sombre mood. Colbeck raised his glass to his companion.

'Good health, Victor!'

'I could do with it and all, sir,' admitted Leeming. 'Five minutes in that morgue and I feel as if I'm ready for the slab myself. It fair turns my stomach to go in there. How can anyone work in a place like that?'

'It takes special qualities.'

'Well, I don't have them. I know that. It's eerie.'

'I didn't find it so when I was there earlier,' said Colbeck, tasting his drink. 'Nor should you, Victor. By now, you should have got used to the sight of dead bodies. Over the years, we've seen enough of them and the one certain thing about policing this city is that we'll be forced to look at many more before we retire.'

'That's what depresses me, Inspector.'

'Learn to take it in your stride, man.'

'If only I could,' said Leeming, solemnly. 'But did you say that you'd been to the morgue as well?'

'I was accompanying the son of the murder victim. He made a positive identification of the body – all too positive, as it happens.'

'What do you mean?'

'That I've never seen anyone laugh in those circumstances before. And that's what Michael Guttridge did. When he looked at his father, he seemed to think it an occasion for hilarity.'

Leeming was nonplussed. 'Michael Guttridge?' he said. 'How could he be the son? The dead man's name was Bransby.'

'It was and it wasn't, Victor.'

'Well, it can't have been both.'

'As a matter of fact, it can.'

Colbeck told him about the visit to Hoxton and drew a gasp of amazement from the other when he revealed that the man who had been killed on the excursion train was none other than a public hangman. The Sergeant was even more surprised to learn of the way that Michael Guttridge and his wife had behaved on receipt of the news of the murder.

'That's disgraceful,' he said. 'It's downright indecent.'

'I made that point very forcefully to the young man.'

'And he actually laughed over the corpse?'

'I took him to task for that as well.'

'What did he say?'

'That he couldn't help himself,' said Colbeck. 'In fairness, once we left the building, he did apologise for his unseemly conduct in the morgue. I suppose that I should be grateful that his wife was not with us. Given her intransigent attitude to her father-in-law, she might have stood over the body and applauded.'

'Has she no feelings at all?'

'Far too many of them, Victor.'

Colbeck explained about her relationship with the Guttridge family and how it had made the iron enter her soul. A father himself, Leeming could not believe what he was hearing.

'My children would never treat me like that,' he said, indignantly.

'You'd never give them cause.'

'They love me as their father and do as they're told – some of the time, anyway. If I was to die, they'd be heartbroken. So would Estelle.'

'What if you were to become a public executioner?'

'That would never happen!'

'But supposing it did, Victor. Let me put it to you as a hypothetical question. In that event, would your children stand by you?'

'Of course.'

'How can you be so sure?'

'Because we're a real family,' said Leeming with passion. 'That's all that counts, sir. Blood is thicker than water, you know. Well, we see it every day in our work, don't we? We've met some of the most evil villains in London and they always have wives and children who dote on them.'

'True.'

'Murderers, rapists, screevers, palmers, patterers, kidnappers, blackmailers – they can do no wrong in the eyes of their nearest and dearest.'

'That's a fair point.'

'Look at that man we arrested last month on a charge of beating a pimp to death with an iron bar. His wife swore that he didn't have a violent bone in his body. She never even asked what he was doing in that brothel in the first place.'

'Guttridge's case is somewhat different.'

'It all comes back to family loyalty,' insisted Leeming. 'Most people have got it. If he had nothing to do with his father for three years, this Michael Guttridge was the odd man out. How could he turn his back on his parents like that? I mean, how could he look at himself in the shaving mirror of a morning?'

'Very easily, Victor. He'd had a miserable childhood.'

'It makes no difference, sir. There are obligations.'

'You were clearly a more dutiful son than Michael Guttridge. The pity of it is,' said Colbeck, drinking some more whisky, 'that it robs us of a valuable line of inquiry. Since he shunned his father all that time, Michael was unable to give me the names of any possible suspects. Come to that, nor was the dead man's wife.'

'We're in the dark, then.'

'Not necessarily. One thing is self-evident. If you supplement your income as a cobbler by hanging people, you are not going to make many friends. Jacob Guttridge must have aroused undying hatred among the families of his various victims.'

'Lots of them will have wanted to strike back at him.'

'Exactly,' said Colbeck with a sigh. 'Our problem is that we may well end up with far too many suspects. Still, you've heard my story. What did you discover at the morgue?'

'Very little beyond the fact that the place scares me.'

'Whom did you speak to?'

'Doctor Keyworth.'

'Leonard's a good man. He knows his job.'

'What he told me,' said Leeming, flicking open the pages of his pad in search of the relevant place, 'was very interesting.'

He gave a halting account of his talk with the doctor, struggling to read his own writing by the light of the gas lamp. Colbeck was not surprised to learn that there had been two earlier attacks on Guttridge. It accounted for the fact that he was armed when he went out in public.

'Doctor Keyworth will have more to tell us when he's finished cutting him up,' said Leeming, closing his book. He opened it again at once. 'By the way, sir, how do you spell asphyxiation?'

Colbeck chuckled. 'Differently from you, I expect.'

'I wrote in "strangling" just to be on the safe side.'

'An admirable compromise, Victor.'

'So where do we go from here?'

'You must go home to your wife and family while I have the more forbidding task of placating the Superintendent. Because it's bound to attract a lot of publicity, Mr Tallis wants a bulletin about this case every five minutes. That's why I suggested that we meet here,' said Colbeck, lifting his glass. 'I felt that I needed a dram before facing him.'

'I'd need a whole bottle of whisky.'

'His bark is far worse than his bite.'

'Both frighten me. Will Mr Tallis still be in his office this late?'

'The rumour is that he never leaves it. Give the man his due – his dedication is exemplary. Mr Tallis is married to his job.'

'I'd prefer to be married to a woman,' confided Leeming with a rare smile. 'When I get back, Estelle will make me a nice cup of tea and tell me what she and the children have been up to all day. Then we'll climb into a warm bed together. Who does all that for the Superintendent?'

''He has his own rewards, Victor.' Colbeck became businesslike. 'Tomorrow, we start the hunt for the killer. You can begin by reviewing the executions that involved Jacob Guttridge. Start with the most recent ones and work backward.'

'That could take me ages.'

'Not really. He was only an occasional hangman, taking over the work that others were unable to tackle. If he'd had a regular income from the noose, Guttridge wouldn't have had to keep working as a cobbler – or to live in such a small house.'

'I'll get in touch with the 'Home Office. They should have details.'

'All they will tell you is who was sentenced to be hanged, the nature of the crime and the place of execution. You must dig deeper than that. Find out everything you can about the individual cases. I'm convinced that that's where we'll track down our man.'

'And woman, sir.'

'What?'

'You thought he had a female accomplice.'

'It's a strong possibility.' Colbeck drained his glass. 'Get a good night's sleep, Victor. You need to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to make a start.'

'What will you be doing, sir?'

'Learning more about the mysterious Jacob Guttridge.'

'And how will you do that?'

'By talking to the man who has been the hangman for London and Middlesex for over twenty years.'

'William Cathcart?'

'He's the only person really qualified to talk about Guttridge in his professional capacity. 'Hangmen are an exclusive breed. They cling together. Cathcart will tell me all I need to know about the technique of executing a condemned prisoner.' Colbeck's eyes twinkled. 'Unless you'd rather talk to him, that is.'

'No, thank you,' replied Leeming with a shiver.

'It might be an education for you, Victor.'

'That's what I'm afraid of, sir.'

'In a sense, he is a colleague of ours. We provide his customers.'

'I wouldn't want to get within a mile of a man like that. Think how much blood he's got on his hands. 'He's topped dozens and dozens. no, Inspector, I'll leave Mr Cathcart to you.'

Word of any disaster travelled with amazing speed among railwaymen. Whenever the boiler of a locomotive burst, or a train came off the track or someone was inadvertently crushed to death between the buffers, news of the event soon reached those who worked in the industry. Caleb Andrews was employed by the London and North Western Railway, one of the fiercest rivals of the GWR, but he had heard about the murder at Twyford by mid-evening. It was the main topic of discussion among the drivers and fireman at Euston. To learn more about what had occurred, he was up even earlier than usual so that he could walk to the newsagent's to collect a morning paper. When he got back home, he found breakfast waiting for him on the table. 'His daughter, Madeleine, who lived alone with her father and who ran the household, was as anxious for detail as he was.

'What does it say, Father?' she asked.

'I haven't had time to read it yet,' said Andrews, taking a leather case from his inside pocket. 'Let me put my glasses on first.'

'A murder on a train! It's terrifying.'

'First one I've ever come across, Maddy.'

'Do they tell you who the victim was?'

Sitting at the table, Andrews put on his spectacles and squinted through the lenses at the front page of the newspaper. 'His eyebrows shot up and he released a whistle of surprise through his teeth.

'Well,' pressed Madeleine, looking over his shoulder. 'What was the man's name?'

'Jacob Guttridge,' he replied. 'The Jacob Guttridge.'

'Am I supposed to have heard of him?'

'Every criminal in London has, Maddy. 'He's a Jack Ketch.'

'A hangman?'

'Not any more. 'He's not as famous as Mr Cathcart, of course, but he's put the noose around lots of guilty necks, that much I do know. It says here,' he went on, scanning the opening paragraph, 'that he was on an excursion train taking passengers to a prizefight.'

'I thought they were banned.'

'There are always ways of getting around that particular law. I tell you this, Maddy, I'd have been tempted to watch that fight myself if I'd been given the chance. The Bargeman was up against Mad Isaac.'

Andrews put his face closer to the small print so that he could read it more easily. A diminutive figure in his early fifties, he had a fringe beard that was salted with grey and thinning hair that curled around a face lined by a lifetime on the railway. Renowned among his colleagues for his blistering tongue and forthright opinions, Andrews had a softer side to him as well. The death of a beloved wife had all but broken his spirit. What helped him to go on and regain a sense of purpose was the presence and devotion of his only child, Madeleine, an alert, handsome, spirited young woman, who knew how to cope with his sudden changes of mood and his many idiosyncrasies. She had undoubtedly been her father's salvation.

When he got to the end of a column, Andrews let out a cackle.

'What is it?' she said.

'Nothing, nothing,' he replied, airily.

'You can't fool me. I know you better than that.'

'I came across another name I recognised, that's all, Maddy. It would have no interest for you.' He gave her a wicked smile. 'Or would it, I wonder?'

'Her face ignited. 'Robert?'

'Inspector Colbeck's been put in charge of the case.'

'Let me see,' said Madeleine, excitedly, almost snatching the paper from him. 'Her eye fell on the name she sought. 'It's true. Robert is leading the investigation. The murder will soon be solved.'

'The only crime I want to solve is the theft of my paper,' he complained, extending a hand. 'Give it here, Maddy.'

'When I've finished with it.'

'Who went to the shop to buy it?'

'Eat your breakfast, Father. You don't want to be late.'

'There's plenty of time yet.'

She surrendered the newspaper reluctantly and sat opposite him. Madeleine was delighted to see that the Railway Detective was involved in the case. When the mail train had been robbed the previous year, her father had been the driver and he was badly injured by one of the men who had ambushed him. Robert Colbeck had not only hunted down and arrested the gang responsible for the crime, he had rescued Madeleine when she was abducted and used as a hostage. As a result of it all, the two of them had been drawn together into a friendship that had grown steadily over the intervening months without ever quite blossoming into a romance. Colbeck was always a welcome visitor at the little house in Camden.

Andrews remained buried in the newspaper article.

'We should be seeing the Inspector very soon,' he observed.

'I hope so.'

'Whenever he's dealing with a crime on the railway, he drops in for my advice. I know that you like to think he comes to see you,' teased Andrews, 'but I'm the person that he really wants to talk to, Maddy. I've taught him all he knows about trains.'

'That's not true, Father,' she responded, loyally. 'Be fair to him. Robert has always taken a special interest in trains. When you first met him, you couldn't believe that he knew the difference between a Bury and a Crampton locomotive.'

But she was talking to herself. Andrews was so engrossed in the newspaper account that he did not hear her. It was only when he had read every word about the murder on the excursion train three times that He set the paper aside and picked up his spoon. He attacked his breakfast with relish.

'One thing, anyway,' he said as he ate his porridge.

'What's that?'

'You'll have a chance to wear that new dress of yours, Maddy.'

'Father!' she rebuked.

'Be honest. You always make a special effort for the Inspector.'

'All I want is for this dreadful crime to be solved as soon as possible.' She could not hide her joy. 'But, yes, it will be nice if Robert finds the time to call on us.'

Once he had set his mind on a course of action, Inspector Colbeck was not easily deflected. The search for William Cathcart took him to four separate locations but that did not trouble him. He simply pressed on until he finally ran the man to earth at Newgate. He did not have to ask for Cathcart this time because the hangman was clearly visible on the scaffold outside the prison, testing the apparatus in preparation for an execution that was due to take place the next day. Colbeck understood why extra care was being taken on this occasion.

Cathcart had bungled his last execution at Newgate, leaving the prisoner dangling in agony until the hangman had dispatched him by swinging on his feet to break his neck. Reviled by the huge crowd attending the event, Cathcart had also been pilloried in the press.

Colbeck waited until the grisly rehearsal was over then introduced himself and asked for a word with Cathcart. Seeing the opportunity for a free drink, the latter immediately took the detective across the road to the public house that would be turned into a grandstand on the following day, giving those that could afford the high prices a privileged view of the execution. Colbeck bought his companion a glass of brandy but had no alcohol himself. They found a settle in a quiet corner.

'I can guess why you've come, Inspector,' said Cathcart, slyly. 'The murder of Jake Guttridge.'

'You've obviously seen the newspapers.'

'Never read the blessed things. They always print such lies about me. Criminal, what they say. Deserves 'angin ' in my opinion. I'd like to string them reporters up in line, so I would.'

'I'm sure.'

'Then cut out their 'earts and livers for good measure.'

'I can see why you're not popular with the gentlemen of the press.'

William Cathcart was an unappealing individual. One of eleven children, he had been raised in poverty by parents who struggled to get by and who were unable to provide him with any real education. The boy's life had been unremittingly hard. Cathcart was in his late twenties when he secured the post of public executioner for London and Middlesex, and the capital provided him with plenty of practice at first. Notwithstanding this, he showed very little improvement in his chosen craft. Coarse, ugly and bearded, he was now in his fifties, a portly man in black frock coat and black trousers, proud of what he did and quick to defend himself against his critics with the foulest of language. Conscious of the man's reputation, Colbeck did not look forward to the interview with any pleasure.

'How well did you know Jacob Guttridge?' he began.

'Too well!' snarled the other.

'In what way?'

'Jake was my blinkin' shadow, weren't 'e? Always tryin' to copy wor I did. 'Cos I was an 'angman, Jake takes it up. 'Cos I earned a crust as a shoemaker, Jake 'as to be a cobbler. Everythin' I did, Jake manages to do as well.' He smacked the table with the flat of his hand. 'The bugger even moved after me to 'Oxton, though 'e couldn't afford to live in Poole Street where I do. I'd never 'ave stood for that, Inspector.'

'I get the impression that you didn't altogether like the man,' said Colbeck with mild irony. 'You must have worked together at some point.'

'Oh, we did. Jake begged me to let 'im act as my assistant a couple of times. Watched me like an 'awk to see 'ow it was done. Then 'e 'as the gall to say that 'e can do it better. Better!' cried Cathcart. 'You're lookin' at a man who's topped some of the worst rogues that ever crawled on this earth. It was me who 'anged that Swiss villain, Kervoyseay.'

'Courvoisier,' said Colbeck, pronouncing the name correctly. 'He was the butler who murdered his employer, Lord William Russell.'

'Then there was Fred Mannin' and 'is wife, Marie,' boasted the other. 'I strung the pair of 'em up at 'Orsemonger Lane a few years back. They danced a jig at the end of my rope 'cos they killed 'er fancy man, Marie Mannin', that is. Nasty pair, they were.'

Colbeck recalled the event well. He also remembered the letter of protest that was published in The Times on the following day, written by no less a person than Charles Dickens. An execution that Cathcart obviously listed among his successes had, in fact, provoked widespread disapproval. There was a gruesome smugness about the man that Colbeck found very distasteful but his personal feelings had to be put aside. He probed for information.

'Does it worry you to be a figure who inspires hatred?' he asked.

'Not at all,' returned Cathcart with a chuckle. 'I thrives on it. In any case, most of the cullies who come to goggle at an 'angin' looks up to me really. They're always ready to buy me a drink afterwards and listen to my adventures. Yes, and I never 'ave any trouble sellin' the rope wor done the job. I cuts it up into slices, Inspector. You've no idea 'ow much some people will pay for six inches of 'emp when it's been round the neck of a murderer.'

'Let's get back to Jacob Guttridge, shall we?'

'Then there's another way to make extra money,' said Cathcart, warming to his theme. 'You lets people touch the 'and of the dead man, see, 'cos it's supposed to cure wens and that. Don't believe it myself,' he added with a throaty chuckle, 'but I makes a pretty penny out of it.'

'Some of which you give to your mother, I understand.'

As Colbeck had intended it to do, the comment stopped Cathcart in his tracks. Two years earlier, the hangman had been taken to court for refusing to support his elderly mother, who was in a workhouse. Though he earned a regular wage from Newgate, and supplemented it by performing executions elsewhere in the country, he had had the effrontery to plead poverty and was sharply reprimanded by the magistrate. In the end, as Colbeck knew, the man sitting opposite him had been forced to pay a weekly amount to his mother, who, though almost eighty, preferred to remain in a country workhouse. It was a case that reflected very badly on the public executioner.

'I'm a dutiful son,' he attested. 'I done right by my mother.'

'It's reassuring to hear that,' said Colbeck, 'but it's Mr Guttridge that I came to talk about. You claimed just now that you don't mind if people hate you because of what you do. Jacob Guttridge did. He was so nervous about it that he used a false name.'

'That's why 'e'd never be another Bill Cathcart.'

'He obviously tried to be.'

'Jealousy, that's wor it was. Jake knew, in his 'eart, that I was the master. But did 'e take my advice? Nah!' said Cathcart with contempt. 'I told 'im to use a short drop like me but 'e always used too much rope. Know wor 'appened at 'is first go?'

'No,' said Colbeck. 'Tell me.'

'Jake allowed such a long drop that 'e took orff the prisoner's 'ead, clean as a whistle. They never let 'im work at Norwich again.'

'Were there other instances where mistakes were made?'

'Dozens of 'em, Inspector.'

'Recently, perhaps?'

'There was talk of some trouble in Ireland, I think.'

'What kind of trouble?'

'Who knows? I don't follow Jake's career. But I can tell this,' said Cathcart, slipping his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. 'If I was in the salt-box, waitin' to be took to the gallows, I'd much rather 'ave someone like me to do the necessary than Jake Guttridge.'

'Why do you say that, Mr Cathcart?'

'Because I tries to give 'em a quick, clean, merciful death and put 'em out of their misery right way. It's not 'ow Jake did it.'

'No?'

'That psalm-singin' fool made their sufferin' worse before they got anywhere near the scaffold. A condemned man needs peace and quiet to fit 'is mind for the awful day. Last thing 'e wants is someone like Jake, givin' 'im religious bloody tracts or readin' poetry and suchlike at 'im. All that a public 'angman is there to do,' announced Cathcart with the air of unassailable authority, 'is to 'ang the poor devil who's in the condemned cell. Not try to save 'is blinkin' soul when the likelihood is that 'e ain't got one to save. Follow me, Inspector?'

Even allowing for natural prejudice, Colbeck could see that the portrait painted of Jacob Guttridge was very unflattering. Driven to take on the job by a combination of need and religious mania, he had proved less than successful as a public executioner. Yet he still had regular commissions from various parts of the country.

'Have you never been afraid, Mr Cathcart?' he asked.

'No, Inspector. Why should I be?'

'A man in your line of work must have had death threats.'

'Dozens of 'em,' confessed the other with a broad grin. 'Took 'em as a compliment. Never stopped me from sleepin' soundly at nights. I been swore at, spat at, punched at, kicked at, and 'ad all kinds of things thrown at me in the 'eat of the moment, but I just got on with my work.'

'Do you carry any weapons?'

'I've no need.'

'Mr Guttridge did. He had a dagger strapped to his leg. You and he are as different as chalk and cheese,' said Colbeck, stroking his chin. 'Both of you did the same office yet it affected you in contrasting ways. You walk abroad without a care in the world while Jake Guttridge sneaked around under a false name. Why did he do that?'

'Cowardice.'

'He was certainly afraid of something – or of someone.'

'Then the idiot should never 'ave taken on the job in the first place. A man should be 'appy in 'is work – like me. Then 'e's got good reason to do it properly, see?' He held up his glass. 'Another brandy wouldn't come amiss, Inspector. Pay up and I'll tell you about 'ow I topped Esther 'Ibner, the murderess, 'ere at Newgate. My first execution.'

'Another time,' said Colbeck, getting up. 'Solving a heinous crime like this takes precedence over everything else. But thank you for your help, Mr Cathcart. Your comments have been illuminating.'

'Will you be 'ere tomorrow, Inspector?'

'Here?'

'For the entertainment,' said Cathcart, merrily. 'I always work best when there's a big audience. Maybe Jake will be lookin' down at me from a front row seat in 'eaven. I'll be able to show 'im wor a proper execution looks like, won't I?'

His raucous laughter filled the bar.

Louise Guttridge had been unfair to her neighbours. Because she shut them out of her life, she never really got to know any of them. She was therefore taken aback by the spontaneous acts of kindness shown by unnamed people in her street. All that most of them knew was that her husband had died. Posies of flowers appeared on her doorstep and condolences were scrawled on pieces of paper. Those who could not write simply slipped a card under her door. Louise Guttridge was deeply moved though she feared that more hostile messages might be delivered when the nature of her husband's work became common knowledge.

As in all periods of crisis, she turned to her religion for succour. With the blinds drawn down, she sat in the front room, playing with her rosary beads and reciting prayers she had learnt by heart, trying to fill her mind with holy thoughts so that she could block out the horror that had devastated her life. She was dressed in black taffeta, her widow's weeds, inherited from her mother, giving off a fearsome smell of mothballs. Her faith was a great comfort to her but it did not still her apprehensions completely. She was now alone. The death of her husband had cut her off from the only regular human contact she had enjoyed. She had now been delivered up to strangers.

Closing her eyes, she offered up a prayer for the soul of the deceased and coupled it with a plea that his killer should soon be caught, convicted and hanged. In her mind, one life had to be paid for with another. Until that happened, she could never rest. While the murderer remained at liberty, she would forever be tortured by thoughts of who and where he might be, and why he had committed the hideous crime.

Hoxton was to blame. She was fervent in that belief. Disliking and distrusting the area, she wished that they had never moved there. The tragedy that, from the very start, she felt was imminent had now taken place. The irony was that it had prompted a display of sympathy and generosity among her neighbours that she had never realised was there. In losing a husband, she had gained unlikely friends.

She was still lost in prayer when she heard a knock on her door. The sudden intrusion alarmed her. It was as if she had been shaken roughly awake and she required a moment to gather herself together. A second knock made her move towards the front door. Then she hesitated. What if it were someone who had discovered she was the wife of Jacob Guttridge and come to confront her? Should she lie low and ignore the summons? Or should she answer the door and simply brazen it out? A third knock – much firmer than the others – helped her to make her decision. She could hide no longer behind her maiden name. It was time to behave like the woman she really was – the widow of a hangman. Gathering up her skirt, she hurried to the door and opened it wide.

Louise Guttridge was so astonished to find her son standing there that she was struck dumb. He, too, was palpably unable to speak, seeing his mother for the first time in three years and unsure how his visit would be received. Michael Guttridge looked nervous rather than penitent, but the very fact that he was there touched her. Louise's feelings were ambivalent. Trying to smile, all that she could contrive was a grimace. He cleared his throat before speaking tentatively.

'Hello, Mother.'

'What do you want?' she asked, suspiciously. 'Have you come here to gloat?'

'Of course not.' He sounded hurt. 'May I come in?'

'I don't know, Michael.'

'But I'm your son.'

'You were – once.'

And she scrutinised him as if trying to convince herself of the fact.

'I knew that you'd need my advice,' said Caleb Andrews, nudging his elbow. 'Whenever there's a crime on the railway, bring it to me.'

'Thank you for the kind offer,' said Colbeck, amused.

'How can I help you this time, Inspector?'

'Actually, it was Madeleine I came to see.'

'But I'm the railwayman.'

'Stop playing games, Father,' said his daughter. 'You know quite well that Robert would not discuss a case with you.'

'All right, all right,' said Andrews, pretending to be offended. 'I know when I'm not wanted. I'll get out of your way.'

And with a wink at Madeleine, he went off upstairs to change out of his driver's uniform. Left alone with her, Colbeck was able to greet her properly by taking both hands and squeezing them affectionately. For her part, Madeleine was thrilled to see him again, glad that she had taken the precaution of wearing her new dress that evening. Colbeck stood back to admire it and gave her a smile of approval.

'We saw your name in the newspaper,' she said. 'I can see why the Great Western Railway asked for you.'

'It's a double-edged compliment. It means that the investigation falls into my lap, which is gratifying, but – if I fail – it also means that I take the full blame for letting a killer escape justice.'

'You won't fail, Robert. You never fail.'

'That's not true,' he admitted. 'I've made my share of mistakes since I joined the Metropolitan Police. Fortunately, I've been able to hide them behind my occasional successes. Detection is not a perfectible art, Madeleine – if only it were! All that we can do is to follow certain procedures and rely on instinct.'

'Your instinct solved the train robbery last year.'

'I did have a special incentive with regard to that case.'

'Thank you,' she said, returning his smile. 'But I don't think that I was your only inspiration. I'd never seen anyone so determined to track down the men responsible for a crime. Father was very impressed and it takes a lot to earn a word of praise from him.'

'He's so spry for his age.'

'Yes, he's fully recovered from his injuries now.'

'He's looking better than ever. And so are you,' he added, standing back to admire her. 'That dress is quite charming.'

'Oh, it's an old one that you just haven't seen before,' she lied.

'Everything in your wardrobe becomes you, Madeleine.'

'From someone like you, that's a real tribute.'

'It was intended to be.' They shared another warm smile. 'But I haven't asked how your own career is coming along.'

'It's hardly a career, Robert.'

'It could be, if you persist. You have genuine artistic talent.'

'I'm not so sure about that,' she said, modestly.

'You have, Madeleine. When you showed me those sketches you did, I could see their potential at once. That's why I introduced you to Mr Gostelow and he agreed with me. If you can learn the technique of lithography, then your work could reach a wider audience.'

'Who on earth would want to buy prints of mine?'

'I would for a start,' he promised her. 'What other woman could create such accurate pictures of locomotives? Most female artists content themselves with family portraits or gentle landscapes. None of them seem to have noticed that this is the railway age.'

'From the time when I was a small girl,' she said, 'I've always done drawings of trains. I suppose that it was to please Father.'

'It would please a lot of other people as well, Madeleine. However,' he went on, 'I didn't only come here for the pleasure of seeing you and talking about your future as an artist. I wanted to ask a favour.'

'Oh?'

'It concerns this murder on the excursion train.'

'How can I possibly help?'

'By being exactly what you are.'

'The daughter of an engine driver?'

'A kind and compassionate young woman,' he said. 'It fell to me to break the news of her husband's death to his widow, and I did so as gently as I could. In the circumstances, Mrs Guttridge bore up extremely well, almost as if she'd been preparing for such an appalling event. One can understand why. Her husband had been attacked twice before.'

'Was he injured?'

'Quite seriously.'

'I still don't see where I come in, Robert.'

'Let me tell you,' he said, taking her arm to move her to the sofa and sitting beside her. 'I had the distinct feeling that Mrs Guttridge was holding something back from me, something that could actually help the investigation. I don't think that she was deliberately trying to impede me but I was certain that she did not tell me all that she could.'

'The poor woman must have been in a state of shock.'

'It's the reason that I didn't press her too hard.'

'What do you want me to do?'

'Relate to her in a way that I can't, Madeleine. She sees me as a detective, a figure of authority and, most obvious of all, as a man. Mrs Guttridge could not confide in me. I could sense her resistance.'

'Is she any more likely to confide in someone like me?' asked Madeleine, guessing what he wanted her to do. 'You're trained to cope with these situations, Robert. I am not.'

'It doesn't require any previous experience. Your presence alone would be enough. It would make her feel less uneasy. With luck,' he said, 'it might break down that resistance I mentioned.'

'What exactly do you want me to do?'

'First of all, I want to assure you that you're under no compulsion at all. If you'd rather stay clear of the whole thing…'

'Don't be silly,' she interrupted, relishing the opportunity of working alongside him. 'I'll do anything that you ask. Coming from a railway family, I have a particular interest in solving this crime.'

'Thank you.'

'Just give me my instructions.'

'The first thing I must do is to swear you to secrecy,' he warned her. 'What I'm asking is highly irregular and my Superintendent would tear me to pieces if he were to find out. I won't even breathe a word of this to Victor Leeming, my Sergeant. He'd frown on the whole notion.'

'I won't tell a soul – not even Father.'

'Then welcome to the Detective Department,' he said, shaking her hand. 'You're the first woman at Scotland Yard and I could not imagine a better person to act as a pioneer.'

'You might think differently when you see me in action.'

'I doubt that, Madeleine. I have every confidence in you.'

'It will be an education to watch the Railway Detective at work.'

'That may be,' he said, enjoying her proximity, 'but I fancy that you're the one who'll achieve the breakthrough that we need. In this case, it may be a woman's touch that will be decisive.'