Authors: Edward Marston
‘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.