Authors: Edward Marston
‘What about your mother?’ he asked.
‘She always took my father’s part,’ said Guttridge with rancour. ‘Mother was even more religious than him. She kept looking for signs from above. We had to be guided, she’d say.’
‘Mrs Guttridge had no time for me,’ Rebecca put in.
‘She tried to turn me away from Becky. Mother told me that she was not right for me. It was not proper. Yes,’ he went on, wincing at the memory, ‘that was the word she used – proper. It was one of my father’s favourite words as well. You can see why we never invited them to the wedding.’
‘They wouldn’t have come in any case,’ observed Rebecca. ‘They never thought I was good enough for their son.’
‘Becky was brought up as a Methodist,’ explained her husband. ‘I came from a strict Roman Catholic family.’
‘I gathered that,’ said Colbeck, recalling his encounter with the widow, ‘but, when I asked about your mother, I was not talking about the past. I was referring to the present – and to the future.’
‘The future?’
‘Your mother has lost everything, Mr Guttridge. She and your father were obviously very close. To lose him in such
a cruel way has been a dreadful blow for her. Can’t you see that?’
‘Mother will get by,’ said the other with a shrug. ‘Somehow or other. She’s as hard as nails.’
‘It sounds to me as if you’ve inherited that trait from her.’
‘Don’t say that about Michael,’ chided Rebecca.
‘I speak as I find.’
‘My husband is the kindest man in the world.’
‘Then perhaps he can show some of that kindness to his mother. Mrs Guttridge is in great distress. She’s alone, confused, frightened. She’s living in a house she dislikes among people she detests and the most important thing in her life has just been snatched from her.’ Colbeck looked from one to the other. ‘Don’t you have the slightest feeling of pity for her?’
‘None at all,’ snapped Rebecca.
‘Put yourself in her position. How would
you
cope if it had been your husband who had been murdered on a train?’
‘I won’t even think such a horrid thought!’
‘Inspector Colbeck has a point,’ admitted Guttridge as family ties exerted their pull. ‘It’s unfair to blame Mother for what happened. It was my father who took on that rotten job and who made me hate my name. And he’s gone now – for good.’ He gave a wan smile. ‘Maybe it is time to let bygones be bygones.’
‘No, Michael,’ urged Rebecca. ‘I won’t let you do that.’
‘She’s my mother, Becky.’
‘A woman who looked down on me and said that I was not fit to be your wife. She insulted me.’
‘Only because she didn’t know you properly.’
‘She didn’t
want
to know me.’
‘I can’t turn my back on her,’ he said, earnestly.
‘You managed to do it before.’
‘That was because of my father.’
There was a long, silent battle between them and Colbeck did not interfere. Michael Guttridge was at last afflicted by a modicum of guilt. His wife remained cold and unforgiving. At length, however, she did consent to take his hand and receive a conciliatory kiss on the cheek. Colbeck chose the moment to speak up again.
‘I came to ask you a favour, Mr Guttridge,’ he said.
‘Eames,’ attested his wife. ‘Everyone knows us under that name.’
‘Listen to what the Inspector has to say,’ said her husband.
‘Someone has to identify the body,’ explained Colbeck, ‘and your mother is not able to do that. It will only take a few moments but it has to be done for legal reasons. Would you consent to come to the morgue to make that identification?’
Guttridge was uncertain. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Let
her
go,’ said Rebecca. ‘It’s not your place.’
‘In the absence of the wife, an only son is the obvious person,’ remarked Colbeck. ‘It’s crucial that we have the right name on the death certificate. A false one will not suffice. We don’t want to compel a family member to perform this duty,’ he cautioned, ‘but it may come to that.’
The young carpenter walked to the window and looked out into the darkness. His wife stood at his shoulder and whispered something in his ear but he shook his head. Guttridge eventually turned round.
‘I’ll do it, Inspector.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Colbeck, glad to have wrested the concession from him. ‘It can wait until morning, if you prefer.’
‘No, I need to get it over with as soon as possible.’
‘Wait until tomorrow,’ advised Rebecca. ‘That will give us time to talk about it. I don’t want you to go at all.’
‘The decision has been made,’ said Colbeck, anxious to separate husband and wife. ‘We’ll take a cab there immediately.’
Guttridge nodded. ‘I’m ready, Inspector.’
‘Michael!’ protested his wife.
‘It has to be done, Becky.’
‘Have you forgotten everything that he
did
to us?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Guttridge, grimly. ‘I’m only doing this to spare Mother the trouble and to give myself some pleasure.’
‘Pleasure?’ reiterated Colbeck in surprise. ‘I can’t promise that you’ll find much pleasure in the police morgue, sir.’
‘Oh, but I will, Inspector.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll enjoy something that I’ve wanted for over twenty years.’ He was triumphant. ‘I’ll be able to see for certain that my father is dead.’
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.’