The Excursion Train

CHAPTER SIX

Before he set out, Victor Leeming took the precaution of changing into a shabby old suit that he kept at the office for just such occasions. Although it was invariably crumpled, the clothing he wore to Scotland Yard every day was too close to that of a gentleman to allow him an easy passage through Bethnal Green, the most miserable and poverty-stricken district in the whole of the city. His aim was to be as nondescript as possible so that he could merge with his surroundings. For that reason, he traded his hat for a battered cap and his shoes for a pair of ancient boots. When he left the building, he looked more like a disreputable costermonger than a detective. Some of the cabs that he tried to hail refused to stop for him, fearing that he would be unable to pay his fare.

It was over a year since he had been in Bethnal Green but he remembered its notorious reek all too well. No sooner did he reach the area than it assaulted his nostrils once more. In a space enclosed between a hoarding on either side of the Eastern Counties Railway was a vast ditch that had been turned into an open sewer, filled with ever-increasing quantities of excrement, dead cats and dogs, rancid food and disgusting refuse of every imaginable kind. Passing within thirty yards of this stagnant lake, Leeming had to put a hand across his nose to block out the stench. Denizens of Bethnal Green had long been habituated to the stink of decomposition.

The Seven Stars lay on the edge of an infamous area known as the Nichol. Named after Nichol Street, one of its main thoroughfares, it was a stronghold for villains of every kind, fifteen acres of sin, crime and sheer deprivation that operated by rules entirely of its own making. Leeming was a brave man, raised in one of the roughest parts of London, but even he would not have tried to walk alone through the Nichol after dusk. Its filthy streets, shadowed lanes and dark passages were a breeding ground for thieves, pickpockets and prostitutes. Its squalid tenements, slum cottages and ramshackle pubs teemed with beggars, orphans, destitute families, ruthless criminals and fugitives from the law. Bethnal Green was a haven for the most desperate characters in the underworld.

Glad that he was visiting the place in broad daylight, Leeming noticed how many animals were roaming the streets. Snarling cats fought over territory with furious commitment while skinny dogs scavenged among the rubbish. The undernourished horses and donkeys that pulled passing carts looked as if they could barely stand. Loud squawks and even louder yells of encouragement disclosed that a cockfight was being held nearby. Unwashed children played desultory games or lounged in gangs on corners. Cries of pain came from behind closed doors as violent men asserted their dominance over wives and mistresses.

Wherever he went, Leeming knew, dozens of pairs of eyes were upon him. He had never endured such hostile surveillance before. It was like a weight pressing down on him. When he entered the Seven Stars, however, the burden was immediately lifted. He collected a few casual looks from the ragged patrons scattered around the bar but they were too busy enjoying their drinks or their gossip to bother overmuch about the newcomer. Leeming sauntered across to the counter and ordered some beer. Filled with chairs and tables, the room was large, low and in a state of obvious neglect but its atmosphere was welcoming enough. The landlord served his customer with a toothless grin.

'There you are, sir,' he said as he put a foaming tankard on the counter. 'Best beer in Bethnal Green.'

'So I heard.' Leeming paid for the drink then sipped it, managing a smile even though it was far too bitter for his taste. 'And he was right. You serve a good brew.'

'Ben, sir. Everyone calls me Ben. I own the place.'

'You run a good house, Ben.'

'Thank you.'

'My first visit won't be my last.'

The landlord appraised him. 'Where are you from, sir?'

'Clerkenwell.'

'Ah, I see.' A burst of cheering and applause came from the back of the establishment and Leeming turned his head questioningly. 'The lads are staging a bout or two. Fond of milling, sir?'

'That's why I came.'

'Then you're in the right place.'

Ben Millgate beamed proudly. He was a short, stubby man in his fifties with a bald pate that was tattooed with scars, and a craggy face. No stranger to a brawl himself, he had other scars on his bare forearms and both ears had been thickened by repeated punishment.

'Did you see the fight at Twyford?' asked Millgate.

'No – worse luck! I'd have given a week's wages to be there.'

'The Bargeman was robbed and so were we.'

'That's what I was told,' said Leeming, nodding seriously. 'They reckon that Mad Isaac fought dirty.'

'That lousy Jew was full of tricks,' said Millgate, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. 'So were his friends. I was there and saw it with my own eyes. When the Bargemen staggered back against the ropes, one of Mad Isaac's men punched him in the kidneys. Another time, he was hit with a cudgel. And, three times in a row, that sneaky Jew kicked him when he was on the ground.'

'He should have been disqualified.'

'The referee and the umpires had been bribed.'

'They must've been,' agreed Leeming. 'Rotten, I call it. I had money on the Bargeman to win. He's a true champion.'

'And fought like one as well. Gave no quarter.'

'So I gather. My friend was there to support him. More or less worships the Bargeman. In fact, it was Jake who told me about your beer. Comes in here a lot to watch the young boxers learning their craft.'

'Jake, you say?'

'Jake Bransby.'

'Oh, yes,' said Millgate, cheerily, 'I know him.' 'He's a bit on the quiet side.'

'That's him, sir, and no question. A shy fellow but he understands milling. He comes in regular, does Jake. Friend of yours, is he?'

'A good friend.'

'When I drew up a list to see how many of us would be going to the fight, Jake was one of the first to call out his name.'

'You went there as a group?'

'The Seven Stars sent over a hundred people to Twyford,' bragged Millgate. 'Well, you'd expect it. The Bargeman trains here.'

'How is he now, Ben? He must've taken a real beating.'

'Took one and gave one to Mad Isaac. But he's as strong as an ox. Back on his feet within a day or two. As a matter of fact,' he went on, head turning towards the back room as more applause rang out, 'he's watching the novices showing off what they've learnt.'

'Then I'll take the opportunity to shake his hand,' said Leeming with genuine interest. 'I've followed his career from the start. I knew he had the makings of a champion when I saw him fight Amos Greer in a field near Newport Pagnell.'

'I was there as well. The Bargeman fair killed him.'

'He did at that. Greer was out cold.' He glanced around the bar. 'So all your regular customers went on that excursion train, did they?'

'Every last one of them.'

'What about newcomers?'

'Newcomers?'

'Strangers. People who drifted in for the first time.'

'We don't get many of those at the Seven Stars.'

'In that case, they would have stuck out.'

Millgate smirked. 'Like a pig in a pair of silk drawers.'

'Can you recall anyone who popped in here recently?' asked Leeming, pretending only casual interest. 'When you were drawing up that list for the excursion train, I mean?'

Ben Millgate's face went blank and he scratched the scars on the top of his head. A memory eventually seemed to come to the surface.

'Now that you mention it, sir,' he said, 'there was someone and he was certainly no Bethnal Green man. I could tell that just to look at the bugger. Odd thing is, he was asking about your friend, Jake Bransby.'

'Really? Could you describe this man?'

'Annie was the one who spoke to him, sir – she's my wife. You'd best ask her about it. Annie'll be in the back room with the others,' said Millgate, moving away. 'I'll take you through so that you can meet her. Bring your drink and you'll see the Bargeman in there as well.'

'Wonderful!' said Leeming.

Millgate lifted a hinged flap in the counter and opened the little door to step through into the bar. He led the visitor to the room at the rear then stepped back so that Leeming could enter it first. His arrival coincided with the loudest cheers yet as one of the young boxers knocked his opponent to the floor with a well-timed uppercut. The Sergeant was instantly enthralled.Crowded around the ring were dozens of people, veteran fighters, local men who followed the sport, eager youths hoping to take it up and a few women in gaudy dresses. Leeming also noticed a couple of well-dressed gentlemen, standing near the edge of the ring, members of the Fancy in search of new talent to sponsor, potential champions on whom they could wager extravagant amounts.

The fallen boxer got to his feet and was quickly revived by his bottleman. Scolded, advised and ordered to fight harder, he came out for the next round with greater determination. Both men pounded away at each other. Ordinarily, Leeming would have watched with fascination had his attention not been diverted to the far corner where a legendary prizefighter was standing. It was the first time he had seen his hero so close and he marvelled at the size and bearing of the man. In the course of their fight, Isaac Rosen had left his signature all over Bill Hignett's face. One eye was still closed, both cheeks were badly puffed and there were ugly gashes above his eyebrows. The Bargeman's hands were heavily bandaged and some more bandaging could be seen under the brim of his hat but the various wounds only increased the man's stature in Leeming's eyes. He felt an almost childlike thrill.

Millgate, meanwhile, had been talking to his wife and to a couple of men standing beside her. They looked across at Leeming. Annie Millgate, a stringy woman with a vivacity that took years off her, tripped over to the visitor and took him companionably by the arm.

'I can tell you about that man, sir,' she said, pulling him away, 'but not in here. It's like Bedlam when a fight starts. Come into the yard where we can talk proper.'

'Thank you.'

'My husband says that you know Jake Bransby.'

'Very well,' replied Leeming, still admiring the Bargeman. 'He's told me about the Seven Stars so many times.'

'This way, sir.'

Annie Millgate opened a door and ushered him through it. Leeming found himself in a yard that was filled with empty crates and barrels. A mangy dog yelped. The detective turned to smile at the landlord's wife.

'You must be Annie,' he said.

But there was no time for proper introductions. Before he knew what was happening, Leeming was grabbed from behind by strong hands and spun round. Held by one man in a grip of iron, he was hit hard by someone who had been taught how and where to punch. The tankard fell from Leeming's fingers, hitting the ground and spilling its contents over his boots. His nose was soon gushing with blood and his body felt as if it were being trampled by a herd of stampeding horses. A fearsome blow to the chin sent him to the ground where he was kicked hard. The mangy dog sniffed him then licked his face.

Ben Millgate came out to get in a gratuitous kick of his own.

'Jake Bransby?' he said with a sneer. 'Think we can't read, do you? It was in all the newspapers. That two-faced bastard was a public hangman and he got what he deserved on that train.'

'What shall we do with him, Ben?' asked his wife.

'Like us to finish 'im off?' volunteered one of the men.

'We'd enjoy that,' said the other, baring his jagged teeth.

'No,' decreed Millgate, spitting on the ground. 'Annie will search him for money first then you can toss this nosey devil into a cesspit so that he'll stink of Bethnal Green for weeks to come. That'll teach him to come lying to me about Jake Bransby!'

'My father taught me how to make a Dog's Nose,' he said, stirring the concoction with a spoon. 'You got to get the proportions right, you see, Inspector. Warm porter, gin, sugar and nutmeg. Delicious!'

'I'm sure,' said Colbeck.

'Will you join me?'

'No, thank you, Sergeant. It's too strong for me.'

'My favourite tipple at the end of the day.'

The two men were in the snug little cottage that belonged to Sergeant Obadiah Lugg, a seasoned member of Maidstone's police force. Having learnt that it was Lugg who had arrested Nathan Hawkshaw on a charge of murder, Colbeck tracked him down in his home on the edge of the town. A portly individual in his forties with a big, round, rubicund face, Lugg had an amiable manner and a habit of chuckling at the end of each sentence. He settled into the chair opposite his visitor and sipped his drink with patent relish.

'Perfect!' he cried.

'You deserve it, Sergeant. You do a valuable job in the town.'

'There's only fifteen of us in all, you know – two sergeants and a body of twelve men with Tom Fawcett as our inspector.Fifteen of us to police a town with over 20,000 people in it.'

'It must be hard work,' said Colbeck.

'Hard but rewarding, Inspector. When the force was founded in 1836, I joined it right away. I was a railway policeman before that. We made a difference from the start. The streets of Maidstone used to swarm with bad characters and loose women but not any more,' he said with a chuckle. 'Everyone will tell you how we cleaned the place up. Of course, Tom must take most of the credit.'

'Tom? Is that the Tom Fawcett you mentioned?'

'That's him. A drum major in the army before he took over here and he made us all stand to attention.' Colbeck gave a half-smile as he thought of Superintendent Tallis. 'Trouble is that Tom is near seventy so he can't go on forever. Do you know what he told me?'

'I'd love to hear it, Sergeant,' said Colbeck, steering him away from his reminiscences, 'but I have a train to catch soon. What I'd really like you to tell me about is the arrest of Nathan Hawkshaw.'

'He resisted. I had to use my truncheon.'

'What were the circumstances of the crime?'

'There'd been bad blood between him and Joe Dykes for some time,' recalled Lugg, taking another sip of his drink. 'Hawkshaw had been heard threatening to kill him. Then this fair was held at Lenham and that's when it happened. The two of them had this quarrel. Next thing you know, Dykes is found dead behind some bushes. And I do mean dead,' he added with a chuckle. 'The body had been hacked to pieces like it was a side of beef.'

'Were there any witnesses?'

'Several people saw the argument between them.'

'Were any blows exchanged?'

'No, Inspector, nothing beyond a few prods and pushes. Everyone reckons that Dykes just laughed and went into the pub. An hour later, he'd been slaughtered.'

'So there were no witnesses to the actual killing?'

'None, sir. But it had to be Nathan Hawkshaw.'

'Why?'

'Because he hated Dykes so much. Think of them threats he'd made. And,' declared Lugg, as if producing incontrovertible proof, 'the murder weapon was one of Hawkshaw's meat cleavers. He admitted that.'

'Yet he protested his innocence.'

'I've never met a villain who didn't do that.'

'Nor me,' said Colbeck with a pained smile. 'You can catch them red-handed and they always have a plausible explanation. Tell me about Hawkshaw. Had he been in trouble with the police before?'

'They've only two constables in Ashford so it's hardly a police force. I interviewed both men and they spoke well of Nathan Hawkshaw. Said he was a good butcher and a decent family man. He kept himself out of mischief.'

'What about Dykes?'

'Ah,' replied Lugg, 'he was much more of a problem. Drunk and disorderly, assaulting a constable, petty theft – Joe Dykes had seen the inside of prison more than once. Nasty piece of work, he was. Even the chaplain found him a handful when he was put in Maidstone prison.' He grinned broadly. 'What did you think of Narcissus?'

Colbeck was tactful. 'The Reverend Jones seemed to be dedicated to his work,' he said, quietly. 'It must be a thankless task.'

'I feel sorry sometimes for those shut away in there. Nobody quite like a Welshman for loving the sound of his own voice, is there? Narcissus can talk the hind leg off a donkey. Imagine being locked in a cell with him preaching at you through the bars.' He let out a cackle and slapped his thigh. 'No wonder Hawkshaw tried to hit the chaplain.'

'You heard about that incident?'

'Narcissus Jones told everyone about it, Inspector. That's the kind of man he is – unlike the governor. Henry Ferriday would never tell tales about what happens behind those high walls. He's more secretive.'

'If Hawkshaw struck out at the chaplain,' noted Colbeck, 'he must be inclined to violence. Yet you say he'd no record of unruly behaviour.'

'None at all, Inspector.'

'What caused the animosity between him and Dykes?'

'All sorts of things.'

'Such as?'

'Emily, for start.'

'Emily?'

'Nathan Hawkshaw's daughter. Dykes tried to rape her.'

When he first came to his senses, Victor Leeming was lying in a cesspit surrounded by jeering children. There was blood down the front of his jacket and every part of his body was aching violently. Through his swollen lips, he could not even muster the strength to shout at those who were enjoying his misfortune. In trying to move, he set off some fresh spasms of pain down his arms and legs. His body seemed to be on fire. It was the foul smell and the humiliation that finally got him out of there. Braving the agony, he hauled himself upright, relieved to find that he could actually stand on his own feet. While he gathered his wits, the children subjected him to another barrage of abuse. Leeming had to swing a bruised arm to get rid of them.

A frail old woman took pity on him and explained that there was a pump in a nearby street. Dragging himself there, he doused himself with water in order to bring himself fully awake and to get rid of the worst of the malodorous scum in which he was coated. When he slunk away from the pump, Leeming was sodden. Since no cab would dare to stop for him, he had to trudge all the way back to Whitehall in squelching boots, afraid that he might be accosted in the street by a uniformed constable on suspicion of vagrancy. Because of the smell, everyone he passed gave him a wide berth but he eventually got back to Scotland Yard.

Brushing past a couple of amused colleagues, he dived into the washroom, stripped to his underclothing and washed himself again from head to foot. He could not bear to look in a mirror. When he saw the bruises on his body, his first thought was how his wife would react to the hideous blotching. His sole consolation was that nothing appeared to be broken although his pride was in dire need of repair. The discarded suit was still giving off an appalling stink so he bundled it up, gathered the other items of clothing and peeped out of the door. Seeing that the coast was clear, he tried to make a dash for his office but his weary legs would only move at a slow amble. Before the injured detective could reach safety, a bristling Edward Tallis suddenly turned into the corridor and held his nose in horror.

'Damnation!' he exploded. 'Is that you, Leeming?'

'Yes, Superintendent.'

'What on earth is that repulsive stench?'

Leeming sniffed the air. 'I can't smell anything, sir.'

'Well, everyone within a mile can smell you. What have you been doing, man – crawling through the sewers?' He saw the bruises on the Sergeant. 'And how did you get those marks on your body?'

'I was assaulted,' said Leeming.

'By whom?'

'Two men in Bethnal Green. They knocked me unconscious.'

'Dear me!' said Tallis, mellowing instantly. 'You poor fellow.'

Showing a compassion that took Leeming by surprise, he moved forward to hold him by the arm and help him into the office that the Sergeant shared with Inspector Colbeck. The Superintendent lowered the stricken detective into a chair then took the suit from him so that he could dump it in the wastepaper basket. After opening the window to let in fresh air, he returned to take a closer look at Leeming.

'No serious injuries?' he inquired.

'I don't think so, sir.'

'Let me send for a doctor.'

'No, no,' said Leeming, embarrassed to be sitting there in his underclothing. 'I'll be fine, sir. I was lucky. All I have are aches and pains. They'll go away in time. I just need to put on some clean things.'

'These, meanwhile, can go out,' decided Tallis, grabbing the wastepaper basket and tipping its contents unceremoniously through the open window. 'I'm sorry but I found that stink so offensive.' He replaced the basket beside the desk. 'Why don't I give you a few minutes to get dressed and spruce yourself up?'

'Thank you, Superintendent.'

'Comb your hair before you come to my office.'

'I will, sir. I didn't mean to turn up in this state.'

'Was it an unprovoked assault?'

'Yes and no,' said Leeming, ruefully. 'I think I upset someone when I asked a wrong question.'

'Well, I shall want to ask a few right ones in due course,' growled Tallis, resuming his normal role as the established martinet of the Detective Department. 'The first thing I'll demand to know is what the blazes you were doing in Bethnal Green?'

'Making inquiries, sir.'

'About what? No, no,' he said, quickly, stopping him with a raised palm before he could speak, 'I can wait. Make yourself presentable first. And dab some cold water on those lips of yours.'

'Yes, Superintendent.'

'I'll expect you in ten minutes. Bring the Inspector with you. I've no doubt that he'll be as interested as I am to hear how you got yourself in that condition.'

'Inspector Colbeck is not here at the moment.'

'Then where the devil is he?'

'In Maidstone.'

'Maidstone!' echoed the other. 'He's supposed to be solving a crime that took place in an excursion train at Twyford. Whatever has taken him to Maidstone?' He shuddered visibly.'You don't need to tell me that. Inspector Colbeck has developed another theory, hasn't he?'

'Based on sound reasoning, sir.'

'And what about your visit to Bethnal Green?' asked Tallis with undisguised sarcasm. 'Was that based on sound reasoning as well?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You and I have something in common, Sergeant.'

'Do we, Superintendent?'

'Yes, we do. We're both martyrs to the Inspector's predilection for wild and often lunatic theories. So,' he said, pulling out his cigar case from an inside pocket, 'he decided to go to Maidstone, did he? I suppose that I should be grateful it was not the Isle of Wight.'

The return journey gave Robert Colbeck valuable thinking time. As the train rattled along, he reflected on what he had learnt from his visit to Kent. Henry Ferriday and the Reverend Narcissus Jones had explained with dramatic clarity how the hangman's performance on the scaffold had embedded a fierce hatred in the family and friends of the condemned man. On his two previous visits to the town, Guttridge must have acquitted himself fairly well in order to be invited back a third time. It was to prove his downfall. Colbeck had no doubt whatsoever that the murder in the excursion train had been committed by someone who was in the crowd outside Maidstone prison on the fateful day.

Obadiah Lugg had also been a useful source of information.He was not only keen to describe how he had arrested Nathan Hawkshaw and taken him into custody, he was able to show his visitor copies of the local newspapers that contained details of the case and lurid accounts of the execution. Like the hangman, Lugg was a man who hoarded souvenirs of his work but, in the case of the chuckling Sergeant, they were far less disturbing. Along with the other members of the Maidstone police force, and supported by dozens of special constables, Lugg had been on duty during the execution of Hawkshaw and gave his own testimony to the ineptitude of the hangman and the effect that it had on an already restive crowd.

What interested Colbeck were the contradictory assessments of Hawkshaw's character and he struggled to reconcile them. As a butcher, the man had been liked and respected, leading an apparently blameless existence and causing no problems for the two constables representing law and order in Ashford. During his arrest, however, he had to be overpowered by Obadiah Lugg and the two men whom the Sergeant had wisely taken with him in support. At the prison, too, Hawkshaw had resorted to violence at one point though – having met Narcissus Jones – Colbeck could well understand how the chaplain's robust Christianity might prove irksome. Yet the same man who had struck out in frustration at an ordained priest had elected to pray on the scaffold before he was hanged. Was he an innocent man, searching for divine intervention in his hour of need, or had he finally admitted guilt before God and begged forgiveness for his crime?

It was clear that those who knew Hawkshaw best had a genuine belief in his innocence, an important factor in Colbeck's judgement of the man. Yet the evidence against him had been strong enough to support a death sentence and, according to all the reports of the trial that the detective had read in Lugg's collection of newspapers, Hawkshaw had been unable to account for his whereabouts at the time of the murder. It was a point that the prosecution team had exploited to the full and it had cost the prisoner his life.

Robert Colbeck was a former barrister, a man who had abandoned the histrionics of the courtroom to grapple with what he considered to be the more important tasks of preventing crime wherever possible and hunting down those who committed it. He could see from the newspaper accounts that Hawkshaw had not been well defended by his barrister and that all the publicity had gone to the flamboyant man who led the prosecution. Wanting to know much more about the conduct of the trial, Colbeck made a note of his name and resolved to contact him.

Tonbridge flew past the window of his first-class carriage but the Railway Detective was too lost in thought to notice it. He spared only a glance as they steamed through Redhill, his mind still engrossed by the murder of Joseph Dykes at Lenham and its relationship to a calculated killing on an excursion train. One thing was undeniable. Nathan Hawkshaw had motive, means and opportunity to kill a man he loathed. Since his daughter had been the victim of a sexual assault by Dykes, it was only natural that the butcher would confront him. Whether that confrontation led to a murderous attack, however, was an open question.

When he reached London, Colbeck had still not decided whether an innocent or a guilty man had gone to the gallows in Maidstone. The prison governor had insisted that the case was firmly closed now that Hawkshaw had been executed. The Inspector disagreed. It was time to resurrect the hanged man. One way or another – however long it might take – Colbeck was determined to find out the truth.

'How are you getting on, Maddy?' asked Caleb Andrews, standing behind her to look at the painting. 'Oh, yes,' he said, patting her on the back in appreciation, 'that's good, that's very good.'

'I'll have to stop soon. It's getting dark.'

'Sit beside the oil lamp.'

'I prefer natural light. I can see the colours properly in that.'

'You have a real gift, you know.'

'That's what Robert said.'

Madeleine stood back to admire her work, glad of her father's approval because he would not judge her work on artistic merit. As an engine driver, his concern was with accuracy and he could find no fault with her picture of a famous locomotive. After adding a touch more blue to the sky against which the Lord of the Isles was framed, she dipped her brush in a cup of water to clean it.

'You'll be painting in oils next,' said Andrews.

'No,' she replied. 'I prefer watercolours. Oils are for real artists.'

'You are a real artist, Maddy. I think so and I know that Inspector Colbeck does as well. He's an educated man. He knows about these things. I'm proud of you.'

'Thank you, Father.'

'That's the Lord of the Isles and no mistake,' he went on, slipping an arm around her shoulders. 'You've painted everything but the noise and the smell of the smoke. Well done!'

'It's not finished yet,' she said, moving away to take her paints and brush into the kitchen. She came back into the living room. 'I just hope that Robert likes it.'

'He'll love it, Maddy – or I'll know the reason why!'

Andrews laughed then watched her take the painting off the easel before standing both against the wall. He had always got on well with his daughter and enjoyed her affectionate bullying, but he knew that a time would come when she would inevitably move out.

'Has the Inspector said anything to you?' he wondered, idly.

'About what?'

'Well…' He gave a meaningful shrug.

'About what?' she repeated, looking him in the eye.

'Something that a handsome man and a pretty young woman usually get round to talking about.'

'Father!'

'Well – has he?'

'Robert and I are just friends.'

'That's all that your mother and me were until she let me kiss her under the mistletoe one Christmas,' he remembered with a fond smile. 'The trouble was that her parents came in and caught us. Her father gave me such a talking to that my ears burnt for a week. People were very strict in those days and I believe it was a good thing.' He shot her a quizzical glance. 'Do you think I'm strict enough with you, Maddy?'

'You're the person who needs a firmer hand,' she said, giving him a peck on the cheek, 'not me. And I've no complaints about the way you brought me up. How many other daughters have been allowed to sneak on to the footplate of a locomotive as I once was?'

'I could've lost my job over that.'

'You took the risk because you knew how much it meant to me.'

'And to me, Maddy. It was something we could share.' He sat down on the sofa. 'But you didn't answer my question.Have you and the Inspector got any kind of understanding?'

'Yes,' she replied with a touch of exasperation, 'we understand that we like each other as friends and that's that. Robert is too involved with his work to spare much time for me and I'm too busy running this house and looking after you.'

'At the moment.'

'Please!'

'Things could change.'

'Father, will you stop going on about it?'

'Well, I'm bound to wonder. He'd make a fine catch, Maddy.'

'Listen to you!' she cried. 'When I first met Robert, you kept telling me not to waste my time on someone who was out of my reach. He was above me, that's what you said. Too good for a girl from Camden.'

'That was before I got to know him proper. He may look fine and dandy but his father was only a cabinetmaker, a man who worked with his hands. I can respect that.'

'Try respecting me for a change.'

'I always do.'

'No, you don't, Father,' she said, vehemently. 'Left to you, I'd have been married off to Gideon Little, a fireman on the railway, somebody who suited you, regardless of what I felt about him. Now you're trying to push me at another man you like. Don't you think that I have the right to choose my own husband?'

'Calm down, calm down,' he said, getting to his feet.

'Then stop badgering me like this.'

'I was curious, that's all.'

'Robert and I are good friends. Nothing more.'

'It always starts out that way.'

'Nothing more,' she insisted. 'You must believe that.'

'Oh, I do, Maddy, but I can't ignore the signs.'

'What signs?'

'Him taking you out in that cab, for a start.'

'It was only for a ride,' she said, careful to say nothing about the visit to Hoxton. 'What was wrong with that?'

'Only that it's strange that a detective in the middle of a murder investigation can find time to take anyone for a ride in a hansom cab. Some of the neighbours saw him pick you up from here. They told me how attentive he was.'

'Robert is a gentleman. He's always attentive.'

'Then there's the other signs,' he pointed out, marshalling his case. 'The ones you can't hide, no matter how much you try.'

'What are you talking about?'

'The way your voice changes when you mention him. The way your face lights up when he calls here. And look at that painting you've been working on,' he added, indicating it. 'When someone spends that amount of time and effort on a present for a man, he begins to look like more than a friend.'

'Robert loves trains, that's all.'

'There – you have a bond between you.'

'Father-'

'I've got eyes, Maddy. I can see.'

'Well, will you please stop looking!' she shouted.

Caught on a raw spot, Madeleine was torn between anger and embarrassment. It was no use asking her father to accept the situation because she did not fully comprehend it herself. When her emotions were in a tangle, however, the last thing she needed was to be questioned about her friendship with Robert Colbeck. Unable to contain her fury, she snatched up the painting and fled upstairs. Andrews heard her bedroom door slam shut. Annoyed with himself for upsetting her, he nevertheless felt able to sit down with a wry smile.

'I must remember to get some mistletoe for Christmas,' he said.

Even in the uncertain light from the gas lamp, Colbeck could see the damage inflicted on his face and, when Leeming got up to greet him, the Sergeant let out a grunt of pain. It was late evening when the Inspector got back to his office in Scotland Yard and he was distressed to find his colleague in such blatant discomfort. There was also a faint but very unpleasant whiff coming from him.

'What happened, Victor?' he asked.

'I saw seven stars at the Seven Stars,' said Leeming, laughing at his own feeble joke. 'I was fool enough to mention the name of Jake Bransby and took a beating for it.'

'How badly were you hurt?'

'I'll live, Inspector – just about. The Superintendent was so worried that he wanted to call in a doctor to examine me. Mr Tallis also made me wash three times but I still can't get rid of that stink.'

'How did you acquire it in the first place?'

'The worst possible way.'

Leeming had been waiting for a chance to tell his story to a more sympathetic audience and he left no detail out. What he could not tell Colbeck was who actually assaulted him and how he got from the yard at the rear of the public house to a cesspit some streets away. As he described the attack itself, his injuries started to throb violently and his swollen lips felt as if they had been stung by wasps. Reaching the end of his narrative, he took a long sip from the glass of water on the desk.

'I blame myself for this,' said Colbeck, apologetically.

'Why, sir?'

'I should never have sent you there.'

'I was getting on well until I tried to be too inquisitive.'

'I was hoping that they had not yet made the connection between Jacob Bransby and the public hangman but it was too much to ask. You have to admire his courage.'

'Yes,' agreed Leeming. 'Going in there among the ruffians of Bethnal Green when he must surely have stretched the necks of a few villains from that part of London. Just as well they never knew who he was or they'd have done more than sling him in a cesspit.'

'Your visit was not entirely wasted, Victor.'

'I hoped you'd say that.'

'You found out that almost everyone at the Seven Stars went off to support the Bargeman in that fight. They even drew up a list.'

'With a certain person from Hoxton near the top.'

'When the killer learnt that,' said Colbeck, 'he didn't need to follow his victim in search of the right moment to strike. He knew that Guttridge would be on that excursion train – so he waited.'

'With that woman.'

'With or without that woman, Victor. That's another little mystery for us to solve. Was she involved or was she just another passenger?'

'I've no idea.'

'Perhaps we'll find out when we go to Ashford tomorrow.'

Leeming gaped. 'Ashford?'

'If you feel strong enough to accompany me.'

'Yes, yes. Of course.'

'Are you certain about that?'

'Yes, I am,' said the other, straightening his shoulders. 'It'll take more than a few punches to keep me out of action, sir – though my wife may not see it that way. I'm dreading the moment when I walk through that door tonight. You know how Estelle can carry on.'

'Would you like me to speak to her?'

'Oh, no.'

'But I can tell her what sterling work you were doing for us in Bethnal Green when you were set upon. Praise can be soothing.'

'Estelle will need more than a few kind words from you to calm her down, sir. Leave my wife to me. I know how to handle her. Meanwhile,' he went on, nodding in the direction of the door, 'make sure you have a good story ready for the Superintendent. He'll come storming in here any moment to ask why you went to Maidstone.'

'How did he react when you struggled back here earlier?'

'He seemed very sorry for me at first – even helped me in here. And being the Superintendent, of course, he wanted retribution. Assaulting a police officer is a serious offence.'

'Except that they didn't know what your occupation was.'

'Thank God! I'd not be alive now, if they had.'

'Nobody involved in law enforcement is very welcome in Bethnal Green,' said Colbeck, 'and we both know why. It's the children I feel sorry for. They have no choice. If they're born there, crime is the only means by which they can survive.'

'Too true, sir.'

'So what did Mr Tallis want to do?'

'Send a bevy of constables to arrest the landlord and his wife,' said Leeming with a grimace, 'but I managed to talk him out of that. It was those two bruisers who set about me and I'd never recognise them again. Even if I did, it would be my word against that of everybody else in the Seven Stars and they'd swear blind that I was lying. I've got no witnesses to speak up for me.'

'That doesn't mean that we let these bullies get away with it, Victor,' said Colbeck, sharply, 'but I'm glad that you dissuaded the Superintendent from any precipitate action. It needs a more subtle approach. When time serves, we'll pay another visit to the Seven Stars.'

Leeming was vengeful. 'I'll look forward to that, sir.'

'Look forward to what?' demanded Tallis, bursting in through the door in time to hear the words. 'Ah!' he said, seeing Colbeck, 'you've deigned to return from your unauthorised visit to Maidstone, have you?'

'It was a very productive trip, sir,' replied Colbeck.

'That's beside the point.'

'You must allow me some latitude in a murder inquiry.'

'I asked to be kept abreast of any developments. That means you inform me of your movements before the event rather than after it.'

'When I made the decision to go to Maidstone, you were in a meeting with the Commissioners and I could not interrupt that.'

'Then you should have waited until the meeting was over.'

'I'll not make any progress in this investigation by sitting on my hands in here, Superintendent,' said Colbeck, evenly. 'You demanded a speedy result so I moved with urgency.'

'So did I,' Leeming put in.

'Be quiet, Sergeant,' barked Tallis.

'Yes, sir.'

'And have a good bath before you come here tomorrow. You still smell like something that crawled out of a blocked drain.'

'Victor will not be in the office tomorrow,' said Colbeck. 'He and I will be going to Ashford in Kent.'

'How kind of you to tell me, Inspector!' returned the other with mock sweetness. 'It's always comforting to know where my detectives actually are.' His voice hardened. 'I trust that you have an extremely good reason for wanting to hare off to Kent again.'

'Yes, sir. That's where the killer of Jacob Guttridge lives.'

'And what makes you think that?'

'The Inspector has this theory, sir,' interjected Leeming, earning himself such a glare of naked hostility from Tallis that he wished he had not spoken. 'I'd better leave it to him to explain.'

'Thank you, Victor,' said Colbeck.

Legs wide apart, Tallis folded his arms. 'I'm waiting, Inspector,' he said, coldly. 'I want to hear about this productive trip to Kent.'

'So do I,' said Leeming, eager to learn what progress had been made. 'You obviously fared a lot better than I did today. Did you get to Maidstone prison, Inspector?' He caught Tallis's eye again and took a hasty step backwards. 'Sorry, sir. I didn't mean to hold him up.'

Colbeck had made copious notes during his visit but he had no need to refer to them. His training as a barrister had sharpened his memory and given him an ability to assemble facts in the most cogent way. His account was long, measured and admirably lucid, making it easy for both men to understand why he had spent so much time in Maidstone. Victor Leeming was intrigued to hear about such colourful characters as Reverend Narcissus Jones and Obadiah Lugg but it was the accumulation of pertinent facts that weighed much more with the Superintendent. It was not long before the folded arms dropped to his side and the stern expression faded from his countenance.

When the recitation finally ended, Tallis came close to a smile.

'You've done well, Inspector,' he admitted.

'Thank you, sir.'

'It looks as if you may at last have stumbled on a theory that has a grain of truth in it. Notwithstanding that, we are still a long way from making an arrest and that is what the Great Western Railway wants.'

'It's what we all want.'

'Then when do you expect it to take place?'

'In the fullness of time,' said Colbeck, smoothly.

'I need something more specific to tell the railway company,' said Tallis, 'and to appease the pack of reporters who keep knocking on my door.' He glanced at Leeming. 'I thank heaven that none of them were here when the Sergeant returned from Bethnal Green in all his glory. I tremble to think what the newspapers would have made of that.'

'I'd have been a laughing stock,' wailed Leeming.

'It's the bad publicity that concerns me. This Department has more than its share of critics. Whatever we do, we must not give them ammunition they can use against us.' He turned to Colbeck. 'So what do we tell them?'

'The same thing that we tell the railway company,' said Colbeck with a confident smile. 'That we have made significant progress but are unable to disclose details because the killer would be forewarned and might be put to flight. More to the point,' he continued, 'the Sergeant and I want to be able to shift our interest to Kent without having any reporters barking at our heels.'

'How long will we be in Ashford, sir?' asked Leeming, worriedly.

'A couple of days at least, Victor. Maybe more.'

'Then we'd have to stay the night there?'

'Your wife will have to forego the pleasures of matrimony for a short while, I fear,' said Colbeck, 'but she will be reassured by the fact that you're engaged in such an important investigation.'

'Only when you've taken that bath, Sergeant,' stipulated Tallis.

'Yes, sir,' said Leeming.

'I expect my men to be smart and well groomed.' He turned a censorious eye on the elegant Inspector. 'Though there is no need to take my instructions in that regard to extremes.'

'We'll take an early train to Ashford,' said Colbeck, ignoring the barbed comment from his superior. 'I suggest that you bring enough clothing for five days, Victor.'

'Five days!' gulped Leeming. 'What about my wife?'

'She is not included in this excursion,' said Tallis, sourly.

'Estelle will miss me.'

'The sooner we bring this investigation to a conclusion,' observed Colbeck, 'the sooner you'll be back with your family.But we must not expect instant results here. The only way to solve the murder of Jacob Guttridge is to find out what really happened to Joseph Dykes.'

'But we know that,' asserted Tallis. 'he was killed by Hawkshaw.'

'That's open to question, Superintendent. Far be it from me, as a barrister, to question the working of the judicial system, but I have a strange feeling – and it is only a feeling, not a theory – that there was a gross miscarriage of justice on the scaffold at Maidstone.'