Authors: Edward Marston
‘Where?’
‘Bethnal Green. His hero was Bill Hignett.’
‘The Bargeman? How do you know that, sir?’
‘Because there was a signed print of him at the house. If he wanted to see Hignett in action, all that he had to do was to go to the Seven Stars in Bethnal Green and watch him spar. There’s a room at the back of the inn where the Bargeman trains and passes on his skills to a lot of younger boxers.’
‘And you think that Mr Guttridge went there?’
‘Almost certainly. It allowed him to do two things that were very important to him – enjoy some milling and drink his fill.’
‘He could get his beer much closer to home than that.’
‘Not in Hoxton,’ reasoned Colbeck. ‘That was on his doorstep and he was careful to keep his neighbours at arm’s length in case he let slip his guilty secret. He’d feel safer in Bethnal Green as part of a crowd that cheered on Bill Hignett.’
‘How does the killer fit into your theory?’
‘Rather hazily at the moment,’ admitted Colbeck, thinking it through. ‘Somehow, he discovered that Mr Guttridge had a passion for boxing, followed him to Bethnal Green and established that he would be going to the fight near Twyford on that day. All that he had to do then,’ he concluded, taking a handkerchief from his pocket by way of demonstration, ‘was to wait at Paddington station until his victim arrived, stay on his heels and get into the same second-class carriage. When the excursion train stopped at Twyford and the hordes charged off,’ he went on, using the handkerchief like a garrotte, ‘he choked the life out of his victim.’
Leeming fingered his throat uneasily. ‘Put that away, sir.’
‘I was just trying to illustrate a point.’
‘So what do you wish me to do?’
‘Go to the Seven Stars and mix with the regular patrons. Ask if any of them recall a Jake Bransby – don’t use his real name because we can be certain that
he
didn’t do so. And be discreet, Victor. Someone may have realised that Bransby was really Jacob Guttridge, the hangman. Choose your words carefully.’
‘I will.’
‘You may even get a chance to meet the Bargeman, if he’s recovered from the fight.’
‘What about the killer?’
‘If he
did
trail Mr Guttridge there,’ said Colbeck, tucking his handkerchief into his pocket, ‘it should be possible to find out. Only the true disciples of pugilism would stand for ages around that boxing ring in Bethnal Green. A stranger would be noticed immediately. Make your way there, Victor. See if any outsider drifted into the Seven Stars in recent weeks. If at all possible, get a description of him.’
‘Right, sir,’ said Leeming, pleased with his instructions. ‘If nothing else, this will get me out from under the Superintendent’s big feet. I’ll go immediately. What about you, sir?’
‘I’ll be on a train to Maidstone,’ replied Colbeck, taking a copy of
Bradshaw’s Guide
from his desk drawer. ‘I want to find out if N really does stand for Nathan Hawkshaw.’
The county town of Kent lay at the heart of what was popularly known as the Garden of England. Rich soil and a temperate climate combined to make it a haven for fruitgrowers and the hops were reckoned to be the finest in the kingdom, spreading satisfaction and drunken stupor far and wide among the nation’s beer drinkers. A parliamentary
and municipal borough, Maidstone was an assize town with a long and varied history, its earlier ecclesiastical dominance reflected in the ancient, but expertly restored, Pilgrims’ Chapel, its ruined priory, its noble palace, formerly belonging to the Archbishop of Canterbury, and its imposing churches.
It was situated at a well-chosen point on the River Medway, a wide and sometimes turbulent waterway, the main artery of the town for centuries. From the wharves that lined the river, large quantities of local stone, corn, fruit, sand and other goods were shipped, and over fifty barges traded there regularly, giving employment to hundreds of people. The Medway was crossed by a stone bridge with five arches, and plundered assiduously by the local anglers. Occasional flooding was deemed to be an acceptable price to pay for the convenience of living beside such an important river.
Robert Colbeck reached the town by courtesy of the South Eastern Railway, the journey a continuous pleasure to someone who enjoyed travelling by train as much as he did. Since there was no direct line from London to Maidstone, he was obliged to change at Paddock Wood and eventually came into the station at the end of Hart Street on the western side of the town. It was market day and, though he did not get there until mid-afternoon, hundreds of customers still haggled beside the stalls, booths and carts that lined High Street, Week Street and King Street. Someone rang a hand bell, the last of the livestock complained noisily in their pens and the din was compounded by the incessant clucking of poultry in their baskets and by the competing cries of the vendors.
Even from the railway station, Colbeck could hear the noise and he was grateful that he did not have to walk directly through the market, where his elegant attire would make him
incongruous among the more homespun garments on show. As it was, he attracted a lot of curious glances. Maidstone prison was a forbidding sight. Erected behind the Sessions House, it had four hundred night cells and was encircled by a high perimeter wall that acted as a stern warning to any would-be malefactors. The man on duty at the gate was so unaccustomed to the appearance of a Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard that he refused to admit Colbeck until word had been sent to the governor.
There was a long delay. Taken aback by news of his unexpected visitor, Henry Ferriday nevertheless agreed to see him, deciding that he would not have come all that way from London unless it were on a matter of some importance. Colbeck was admitted and escorted to the governor’s office, a small, untidy, cheerless room that overlooked the exercise yard. Ferriday welcomed him with a warm handshake and an inquisitive frown. He waved the detective to a chair.
‘Well,’ he said, resuming his own seat behind the desk, ‘to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, Inspector?’
‘I’m hoping that you can help me with an investigation.’
‘We are always ready to do that.’
‘It concerns the murder of Jacob Guttridge.’
‘Yes,’ said Ferriday, shaking his head, ‘we saw mention of that in the newspapers. He was here only a matter of weeks ago, you know.’
‘Was it the first time he’d carried out an execution at Maidstone?’
‘No, no, Inspector. It would have been his third visit.’
Henry Ferriday was a lean man of middle years with hollow cheeks and large, mobile eyes. He had compensated for a dramatic loss of hair by trying to grow a beard but the
experiment had been only a limited success. In his black frock coat, and with his sharp features, he looked like a giant crow. While he talked, he kept peering nervously over his shoulder as if fearing that someone would smash a way through the barred window behind him. From the way that the governor talked, Colbeck judged him to be a kind, humane man who had come into the prison service out of a sense of vocation and who still retained vestiges of an idealism that had largely melted away in the white-hot furnace of daily experience.
‘In the past,’ he explained, ‘we were happy with Mr Guttridge’s services – insofar as any happiness can attend an execution, that is. Personally, I find them rather disgusting events and I hate being forced to witness them. My digestion is never the same for days afterwards.’
‘Tell me about the most recent execution, if you will.’
‘Nathan Hawkshaw?’
‘Yes, Governor. Was he a local man?’
‘He was a butcher in Ashford, twenty miles or so from here. And butchery was involved in his crime, alas,’ he said, tossing another glance over his shoulder. ‘Hawkshaw was hanged for the murder of Joseph Dykes whom he hacked to death with a meat cleaver. It was a brutal assault. And the worst of it was that Hawkshaw refused to show the slightest remorse. He said that he was glad Dykes was dead though he insisted that he was innocent of the crime.’
‘Was there any doubt about his guilt?’
‘Not as far as the court was concerned, Inspector, and we are guided by the sentences that they hand down. Hawkshaw’s was a capital offence so we sent for Mr Guttridge.’
‘Do you happen to know the details of the case?’ asked Colbeck. ‘I’d be grateful for anything that you can tell me. This
was the last execution carried out by Mr Guttridge and it may have some bearing on his death.’
‘I fail to see how.’
‘Humour me, if you please. I came in search of facts.’
‘Then the person you should be talking to,’ said Ferriday, getting up to cross to the door, ‘is our chaplain, the Reverend Jones. He struggled hard with Nathan Hawkshaw but to no avail.’ He opened the door. ‘Narcissus will furnish you with all the details you need.’
‘Narcissus?’
‘That’s his name, Inspector. Narcissus Jones.’ He spoke briefly to someone in the corridor outside then closed the door. ‘Our chaplain is Welsh. He’s a man of strong opinions.’
‘Not always the case with a man of the cloth.’
‘Prison plays havoc with a man’s spiritual values. Even the most pious Christian will question his faith when he has worked in this godforsaken hell-hole for any length of time. Yet it has not affected the chaplain in that way,’ said Ferriday, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his lapel so that he had an excuse to look behind him. ‘If anything, life within these walls has only reinforced his commitment.’
‘That’s comforting to hear.’
‘Narcissus Jones is a species of saint.’
Colbeck was not at all sure that he wanted to discuss a murder investigation with a Welsh saint but he had no alternative. In any case, after the fulsome praise that the governor had heaped on the man, the detective was interested to meet him. Ferriday seemed to be slightly in awe of the chaplain, almost to the point of deference. Colbeck fished.
‘You say that Nathan Hawkshaw protested his innocence?’
‘Most prisoners do that, Inspector,’ said the other, wearily. ‘The worse their crimes, in my experience, the louder they deny their guilt. Hawkshaw was unusual in one respect, though, I have to concede that.’
‘Oh?’
‘A campaign was launched on his behalf.’
‘What sort of campaign?’ asked Colbeck. ‘A plea for his release?’
‘A full-throated demand for it,’ replied Ferriday. ‘Quite a sizeable number of people were involved. They had leaflets printed, claiming that Hawkshaw was innocent and they even brought banners and placards to the execution. It made the ordeal even more horrible.’ There was a tap on the door. ‘Ah, that will be the chaplain. He raised his voice. ‘Come in!’
The door opened and the Reverend Narcissus Jones stepped into the room. He was even taller than Colbeck, a solid man in his forties with broad shoulders and huge hands. Dark hair of impressive luxuriance fell back from the high forehead and almost touched the edge of his clerical collar. His features were rugged, his nose bulbous, his eyes small and darting. Colbeck’s first impression was that he bore less resemblance to a species of saint than to a species of farm animal. Ferriday was still on his feet. Introduced to the newcomer, Colbeck got up to exchange a handshake with him and to feel the power in his grip. Reverend Narcissus Jones liked to display his strength.
When all three of them were seated again, the governor explained the purpose of Colbeck’s visit. The piggy eyes of the chaplain flashed.
‘Oh, I remember Nathan Hawkshaw,’ he said in a lilting voice that was deeper and more melodious than anything Colbeck had ever heard coming from a human mouth before.
‘Distressing case. Very distressing. One of my rare failures as a chaplain. Is that not so, Governor?’
‘You did your best.’
‘I wrestled with him for days on end but I could find no way to awaken his conscience. Hawkshaw was adamant. Kept insisting that he was not responsible for the killing, thereby adding the crime of deceit to the charge of murder.’
‘The chaplain even had to overpower the man,’ recalled Ferriday.
‘Yes,’ said Jones, piqued by the memory. ‘The prisoner was so incensed with anger that he dared to strike at me and – what was far worse in my eyes – he had the audacity to take the Lord’s name in vain as he did so. I felled him with a punch – God help me!’
‘After that, we had to keep him under restraint.’
‘From what the governor has been telling me,’ said Colbeck to the muscular priest, ‘this Nathan Hawkshaw was not the only person convinced of his innocence. He had a group of supporters, I believe.’
‘A disorderly rabble from Ashford,’ said Jones with a loud sniff. ‘Thirty or more in number. They even tried to rescue Hawkshaw from the prison but the attempt was easily foiled. Instead, they chose to disrupt the execution.’
‘Fortunately,’ added Ferriday, ‘we had advance warning that there might be trouble. Extra constables were on duty to keep the crowd under control and they were certainly needed.’
‘That was largely Mr Guttridge’s fault. He stirred them up to the very edge of mutiny. I’ve never seen such incompetence on a scaffold.’
‘What happened?’ asked Colbeck.
‘The hangman made a few mistakes,’ said Ferriday, mildly.
‘A few?’ boomed Jones. ‘Let us be brutally frank, Governor. The fellow made nothing
but
mistakes. To begin with, he tried to take over my job and offer the prisoner spiritual sustenance. That was unforgivable.’ He checked himself and spoke with more control. ‘I know that one should not speak ill of the dead – especially if they die by violence – but I find it hard to think of Mr Guttridge without feeling a surge of anger. Giving the prisoner a religious tract, indeed! Reading a ridiculous poem at him! And that was not the sum of his imperfections. As soon as he arrived here, we could smell the brandy on his breath.’
‘Most executioners need a drink to steady their hand,’ remarked Colbeck, tolerantly. ‘Mr Cathcart is noted for his fondness for the bottle.’
‘I had a drink myself beforehand,’ confessed Ferriday.
‘That may be, Governor,’ said Jones, tossing his hair back, ‘but you did not let it interfere with the discharge of your duties. That was not the case with Mr Guttridge. He tripped on the steps as he went up on to the platform.’