The excursion train irc-2 Page 7

  '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.'

  CHAPTER FIVE

  No matter how early he arrived at work, Victor Leeming could never get there before Edward Tallis. Having made a special effort to reach Scotland Yard by seven o'clock that morning, Leeming was dismayed to see the Superintendent coming out of his office and pounding down the corridor towards him like an army on the march.

  'Good morning, sir,' said the Sergeant.

  'What time do you call this, man? We've been here for hours.'

  'We, Superintendent?'

  'Inspector Colbeck and I,' growled Tallis. 'At least, I have one person who understands the importance of punctuality, even if deficient in other respects. While you sleep, the criminal underworld is about its nefarious business. What kept you?' A note of censure came into his voice. 'Family matters, no doubt.'

  'It was my wife who got me out of bed so early, sir.'

  'Indeed?'

  'Yes,' said Leeming, thrown on the defensive. 'As soon as we'd had breakfast with the children, I made my way here.'

  'You know my opinion of marriage. It gets in the way.'

  'We can't be on duty all the time, Superintendent.'

  'We should be, Sergeant – metaphorically speaking, that is. Admit a distraction into your life and you weaken your effectiveness.'

  'Estelle is no distraction – nor are my children.'

  'I dispute that.'

  'We're human beings, sir,' argued Leeming, stung by the attack on his family, 'not monks. What do you want – a celibate police force?'

  'I want men beneath me who put their work first.'

  'That's what I've always tried to do. And so has Inspector Colbeck.'

  'While awaiting your arrival,' said Tallis, pointedly, 'he and I have been studying the research that you did into Jacob Guttridge's record as a hangman. Though I have to admit that I'm not entirely sure that we're looking in the right place.'

  'Why not, sir?'

  'The killer may have no connection whatsoever with the man's former occupation. He might not even have known who Guttridge was.'

  'Then what was his motive?'

  'Villains of that stripe need no motive,' said the Superintendent, corrugating his brow until his eyebrows met in the middle. 'They have a destructive urge that is set off by drink or simply by an argument.'

  'Inspector Colbeck believes that-'

  'I am fully aware of what the Inspector believes,' snapped the other, cutting him off, 'but I prefer to keep an open mind. Make a wrong assumption at the start of an investigation and you find yourself going in circles.'

  'We know that, sir. Here, however, we have a significant clue.'

  'Do we?'

  'The Inspector saw it immediately,' said Leeming. 'The manner of the victim's death is critical. It would have been easier to stab him and much quicker to shoot him or bludgeon him to death. Instead, a piece of wire was used to strangle him.'

  'I'm familiar with the details.'

  'A man who made his living by the noose died in the same way. The killer carefully chose the means by which he took revenge.'

  'Did he?'

  'I think so, sir.'

  'I wonder.'

  'The Inspector's argument is very convincing.'

  'Not to me,' said Tallis, inflating his chest, 'because it is unproven. We've had killers before who favour the garrotte. Foreigners, usually. And there are footpads who like to disable their victims that way. This could be the work of someone quite unrelated to Guttridge's activities on the scaffold. A murderous Italian, for instance.'

  'The train was full of them, sir,' said Leeming, attempting humour.

  Tallis glared at him. 'Are you being facetious, Sergeant?' 'No, no. I meant that there would have been villains on board.'

  'Then I'll let it pass.'

  'Thank you, Superintendent.'

  'Now that you're finally here, let's have some work out of you.'

  'I plan to spend the entire day sifting through all the information that I gathered about various executions.'

  'You'll find that the Inspector has saved you some of the trouble.'

  'How?'

  'By getting here at the crack of dawn and applying himself to the task in hand.' He stepped in closer to the Sergeant. 'Do you see how efficient a man can be when he's not hampered by a wife and children?'

  'Only a family can make life worthwhile, sir,' contended
Leeming.

  'Tell that to Inspector Colbeck. But you had better be quick about it. He'll be leaving soon to pay a second visit to Mrs Guttridge.'

  Robert Colbeck offered his hand to help her up into the hansom cab. When he and Madeleine Andrews were safely ensconced inside, they were taken on a noisy, twisting, jolt-filled journey from Camden to Hoxton. They were driven down crowded streets, past busy markets, through heavy horse-drawn traffic and beneath a railway bridge over which a train decided to pass at that precise moment. The pungent smells of London were all around them. While Madeleine savoured the pleasure of being shoulder to shoulder with him, Colbeck patiently instructed her in what she had to do when they reached their destination.

  'The most important thing is to win her confidence,' he told her. 'Don't ask her anything at all at first. Let her volunteer any information that she wishes to give us.'

  'Yes, Robert.'

  'If she has the feeling that you are there solely to interrogate her, we'll get no response at all. Let her come to you, Madeleine.'

  'How will you introduce me?'

  'As a friend. Someone travelling with me.'

  'Not as a detective?' she teased.

  'That would rather give the game away. Besides,' he said, 'you're not there to search for anything. All you have to do is to listen.'

  She laughed. 'I'm used to doing that at home.'

  'Was your father always so garrulous?'

  'Not when my mother was alive,' she replied. 'In fact, the two of them were remarkably quiet. They'd just sit together happily of an evening without exchanging a word while I got on with my sketching. It's only since her death that Father became so talkative.'

  'I can understand that, Madeleine.'

  The coach eventually deposited them outside the house in Hoxton and they alighted to discover a fine drizzle starting to fall. An inquisitive dog was sniffing the petals of some flowers that had been left on the doorstep by a caring neighbour. At the approach of the visitors, the animal ran away and Colbeck was able to retrieve the posy. His gaze was then drawn to the noose that had been crudely painted on the front door of the house, clear evidence that Jacob Bransby's true identity had been revealed to the people of Hoxton.

  'Don't go in there, sir,' cautioned a boy. 'It's an 'angman's 'ouse.'

  'Really?' said Colbeck.

  'It'll prob'bly be 'aunted.'

  'Thank you for the warning.'

  The boy ran off to join some friends at the end of the street. Before Colbeck could knock on the door, it opened of its own accord and Louise Guttridge appeared with an elderly Roman Catholic priest, his face a mask of benignity. When she recognised the detective, she introduced Father Cleary and the two of them were introduced in turn to Madeleine. After an exchange of niceties, the clergyman left. The visitors were invited into the house and shown into the front room. Since the blinds were down, it was very gloomy but the Virgin Mary caught what little light was left and seemed to glow in appreciation.

  'These were outside,' said Colbeck, handing the flowers to Louise Guttridge. 'A kind gesture from a neighbour.'

  'Did you see what was on the front door?' she asked.

  'Yes,' he replied. 'When was that put there?'

  'Some time in the night.'

  'Has there been anything else? Warning letters? Broken windows? Unpleasant items being pushed through the letterbox?'

  'Not so far, Inspector.'

  'I'll call in at the police station later on and make sure that the officers on this beat pass much more often than usual.'

  'Thank you.'

  'Although the sensible option would be for you to move out.'

  The woman shrugged helplessly. 'Where can I go?'

  'We have a spare room at our house,' offered Madeleine, taking pity on her. 'You could come to us for a while.'

  'That's very kind of you, Miss Andrews, but I couldn't. I'll stay here till I can sell the house and get out for good.'

  Her pallor was accentuated by the black dress and there were bags under her eyes that showed how little sleep she had had since receiving news of her husband's murder. But she was not in distress and the visit of her parish priest had undoubtedly bolstered her.

  'I came to tell you that the body has been identified,' said Colbeck. 'Your son was prevailed upon to come to the morgue with me.'

  'Yes, Inspector. He told me.'

  Colbeck was startled. 'You've seen him?'

  'He called here yesterday.'

  'What did he say, Mrs Guttridge?'

  'Very little,' she replied. 'Michael said all that he needed to say three years ago when he married that spiteful creature against our will. Rebecca Eames turned our son against us.'

  'Yet he does appear to have made the effort to come here.'

  'Yes.' There was a long pause before she remembered the rules of hospitality. 'But do sit down, please. May I get you something?'

  'A cup of tea would be welcome,' said Colbeck. 'Miss Andrews?'

  'Yes, please.'

  The other woman indicated the chairs. 'Take a seat while I get it.'

  'Let me help you,' said Madeleine, following her out to the kitchen.

  Left alone, Colbeck was able to study the room more carefully than he had been able to do on his first visit. Whatever her shortcomings as a mother, Louise Guttridge was a fastidious housekeeper. There was not a hint of dust to be seen anywhere. The mirror on one wall had been polished to a high sheen, the tiles around the fireplace gleamed, and the picture rail looked as if it had been painted that morning. She had even run a vigorous duster around the pot holding the aspidistra and over the black-leading on the grate. Trapped in a false identity and confined largely to the house, she had made it as habitable as possible.

  Nor had her spiritual cleanliness been neglected. The crucifix and the Virgin Mary looked down on a well-thumbed Bible and a Catholic missal, side by side on the small table. Colbeck could all but smell the incense in the air. The two women seemed to be taking their time in the kitchen but he did not worry about that. The longer they were alone together, the more likely it was that Madeleine could learn something of consequence. He was especially pleased with the way that she had offered the older woman shelter at her own home, a truly sympathetic response to the predicament in which Louise Guttridge found herself.

  Colbeck sat down and waited, noting that there was virtually no sign of anything in the room that had been put there by the deceased. A man who was so passionate about prizefighting might be expected to have a few sporting prints on the wall. His twin occupations of cobbler and hangman had also been excluded but that was understandable. It was pre-eminently His wife's domain, leading Colbeck to wonder just how much time the husband had spent in there with her. While Guttridge had also been religious, his regular consumption of alcohol – confirmed by the post-mortem – had pointed to someone with all too human failings. The former hangman might pray with his wife for guidance but, Colbeck was certain, he did not take her to a public house with him, still less to a boxing match.

  The others finally came in from the kitchen and it was Madeleine who was carrying the tray. It was a promising sign. The older woman moved the Bible and the missal so that the tray could be set down on the table. Louise Guttridge stood beside it, ready to pour the tea.

  'Mrs Guttridge has just told me about her husband's collection,' said Madeleine, sitting opposite Colbeck. 'It's in the spare room.'

  'A collection?' he repeated. 'Of what kind?'

  'To do with his work,' explained the widow, removing the tea cosy so that she could take hold of the handle. 'Jacob liked to keep souvenirs. A cup of tea, Miss Andrews?'

  'Yes, please,' said Madeleine.

  'Help yourself to milk and sugar.'

  'Thank you, Mrs Guttridge.'

  Colbeck bided his time until his own cup had been poured and he had added a splash of milk. The revelation about the spare room filled him with hope. He stirred his tea.

  'Why didn't you mention this collection before?
' he wondered.

  'Because it was nothing to do with me,' said Louise Guttridge, taking a seat with her own cup of tea. 'Jacob never let me in there – not that I would have cared to see such horrible things, mind you. He kept the room locked.'

  'Do you have the key?'

  'Yes, Inspector. I found it when I was going through my husband's things last night. But I couldn't bring myself to go into the room.'

  'Somebody will have to do so,' said Madeleine, casually. 'Would you like Inspector Colbeck to spare you the trouble? I'm sure that he will have no qualms about what he might find.'

  'None at all,' he added, grateful for the ease with which she had made the suggestion. 'I'd be only too glad to help.'

  'The decision is yours, Mrs Guttridge.'

  The other woman hesitated. Tempted to accept the offer, she felt that it would be an invasion of her privacy and that – at such a vulnerable moment for her – was deeply troubling. In her eyes, there was another drawback. The detective might relieve her of a repellent task but, in the process, he might discover things that she did not wish to know about her late husband. Colbeck was quick to point out a more positive result of any search.

  'My job is to catch your husband's killer,' he reminded her. 'It may well be that your spare room contains clues that will lead me to him. It's imperative that I be given access to it.'

  'It was Jacob's room. Nobody else was allowed in there.'

  'I think that I should find out why, don't you?' Louise Guttridge agonised over the decision for a full minute.

  'I'll get the key,' she said at length.

  When he got to the top of the stairs, Colbeck took the opportunity to peer into the main bedroom at the front of the house. Immaculately clean, it contained a dressing table, an upright chair, a wardrobe with mirrors and a bed over which another crucifix kept guard. The room was small but uncluttered and he saw the hand of the wife at work once again. He went across to the back room and slipped the key into the lock, wondering what he would find on the other side of the varnished timber. Opening the door, he stepped into another world.

  The contrast could not have been greater. The tiny, cramped room was the complete antithesis of the other parts of the house. Where they had been spick and span, Jacob Guttridge's den was in total disarray. In place of the odour of sanctity there was a lingering smell of decay. Instead of looking up to heaven, the hangman preferred to stare down into the mouth of hell. The only pieces of furniture in the room were a long table and a single bed, both littered with newspapers, pieces of rope, advertisements for executions and other grim mementos of his craft. Most ghoulish of all were items of clothing that had been worn by condemned men and, more particularly, by women, their names written on scraps of paper that had been pinned to the material.