The excursion train irc-2

by Edward Marston

  'Is there anything that I can get you, Mrs Bransby?' he inquired.

  'No, Inspector.'

  'A glass of water, perhaps?'

  'I'll be well in a moment.'

  'Are you sure there isn't a friend I could invite in?'

  'Yes,' she said with sudden contempt. 'Quite sure. I don't want anyone here knowing my business. I can manage on my own.' She made an effort to pull herself together. 'How did it happen?'

  'This may not be the time to go into details,' he said, trying to keep the full horror from her at this stage. 'Suffice it to say that it was a quick death. Your husband would not have lingered in agony.'

  'Where was he killed?'

  'At Twyford Station. When the train stopped, everyone rushed to get off. Evidently, someone took advantage of the commotion to attack Mr Bransby.' Hands clasped in her lap, she gazed down at them. 'We found a bill for some leather on him. Was your husband a cobbler?'

  'Yes, Inspector.'

  'Did he work from home?'

  'He has a shed in the yard at the back of the house.'

  'The bill is your property now,' he said, reaching inside his coat, 'and so is his wallet.' Colbeck extracted them and set them on a small table close to her. 'There were also a few coins in a secret pocket,' he went on, fishing them out to place beside the other items. 'That was not all that we found on your husband, Mrs Bransby.' She glanced up. 'Do you know what I'm talking about?'

  'His watch.'

  'It's a very expensive one.'

  'But paid for, Inspector,' she declared, 'like everything else in this house. Jake earned that watch, he did. He worked hard for it. That's why he took such good care of it. I sewed the pouch into his waistcoat for him. That watch was got honestly, I swear it.'

  'I'm sure that it was,' said Colbeck, producing the watch from a pocket and giving it to her. 'But it was a rather unexpected thing to find on your husband.' He brought out the dagger. 'And so was this. Do you know why he carried it?'

  'This is a dangerous place to live.'

  'I know that. I walked the beat in Hoxton as a constable.'

  'Jake never felt safe here.'

  'Then why did you move to this part of London?'

  'We had to go somewhere,' she said with an air of resignation. 'And we'd tried three or four other places.'

  'Couldn't you settle anywhere?' he probed.

  'My husband was a restless man.'

  'But a cobbler depends on building up local trade,' he noted. 'Every time you moved, he must have had to search for new customers.'

  'We got by.'

  'Obviously.'

  'And we never borrowed a penny – unlike some around here.'

  'That's very much to your credit, Mrs Bransby.'

  'We had too much pride, Inspector. We cared. That's why I dislike the neighbours. They have no pride. No self-respect.'

  There was an edge of defiance in her voice that puzzled him. Minutes ago, she had learnt of the murder of her husband yet she seemed to have set that aside. Louise Bransby was more concerned with correcting any false impression that he might have formed about a humble cobbler who lived in an unwholesome part of the city. Colbeck did not sense any deep love for the dead man but his wife was showing a loyalty towards him that verged on the combative.

  'How long were you married, Mrs Bransby?' he asked.

  'Twenty-eight years.'

  'And you have a son, you say?'

  'Yes. His name is Michael.'

  'Any other children?'

  'No, Inspector,' she replied, crisply. 'The Lord only saw fit to allow us one son and we would never question His wisdom.' After glancing down wistfully at the gold watch, she turned back to Colbeck. 'Do you have any idea who did this terrible thing to Jake?'

  'Not at the moment. I was hoping that you might be able to help.'

  'Me?'

  'You knew your husband better than anybody, Mrs Bransby. Did he have any particular enemies?'

  'Jake was a good man, Inspector. He was a true believer.'

  'I don't doubt that,' said Colbeck, 'but the fact remains that someone had a reason to kill him. This was no random act of murder. Mr Bransby was carefully singled out. Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against him?'

  'No, Inspector,' she replied, avoiding his gaze.

  'Are you quite certain?' he pressed.

  'Yes.'

  'Did he have arguments with anyone? Or a feud with a rival cobbler, perhaps? To take a man's life like that requires a very strong motive. Who might have had that motive, Mrs Bransby?'

  'How would I know?' she said, rising to her feet as if flustered. 'Excuse me, Inspector, this terrible news changes everything. I've a lot of thinking to do. If you don't mind, I'd like to be left alone now.'

  'Of course,' he agreed, getting up immediately, 'but there is one request that I have to make of you, I fear.'

  'What's that?'

  'The body will need to be formally identified.'

  'But you know that it was Jake. You found those things on him.'

  'All the same, we do need confirmation from a family member.'

  'I want to remember my husband as he was,' she said. 'I'd hate to see him.' Her voice trailed off and there was a long pause. She became more assertive. 'I'm sorry but I can't do it.'

  'Then perhaps your son would replace you. He'll have to be told about his father's death. Does he live close by? I'll pay him a visit this evening and apprise him of the situation.'

  'No, no, you mustn't do that.'

  'Why not?'

  'You keep Michael out of this.'

  'One of you has to identify the body,' Colbeck told her. 'The doctor is unable to put the correct name on the death certificate until we are absolutely sure who the man is.'

  She bit her lip. 'I know it's my husband. Take my word for it.'

  'We need more than that, Mrs Bransby.'

  'Why?'

  'There are procedures to follow. I appreciate that you might find it too distressing to visit the morgue yourself so I'll have to ask your son to come in your place. Where can I find him?'

  A hunted look came into her eyes. Her lips were pursed and the muscles in her face twitched visibly. Wrestling with her conscience, she turned for help to the Virgin Mary, only to be met with apparent reproof. It made her start. After swallowing hard, she blurted out the truth.

  'I didn't mean to lie to you, Inspector,' she confessed. 'I was brought up to believe in honesty but that was not always possible. You must understand the position we were in.'

  'I'm not blaming you for anything,' he promised, trying to calm her. 'And I do sympathise with your position. It can't have been easy for either of you to be on the move all the time, pulling up roots, finding new accommodation, living among strangers. You told me that your husband was restless. I believe that he also lived in fear.'

  'He did – we both did.'

  'Is that why you never stayed long in one place?'

  'Yes, Inspector.'

  'What kept you on the run?'

  'They did,' she said, bitterly. 'That's why we had to hide behind a lie. But sooner or later, someone always found out and our lives were made a misery. It was so painful. I mean, someone has to do it, Inspector, and Jake felt that he was called. We prayed together for a sign and we believed that it was given to us.'

  'A sign?'

  'Jake would never have taken the job without guidance.'

  'I don't quite follow, Mrs Bransby.'

  'Guttridge,' she corrected. 'My name is Mrs Guttridge. Bransby was my maiden name. We only used it as a disguise. As a policeman, you must have heard of my husband – he was Jacob Guttridge.'

  Colbeck was taken aback. 'The public executioner?'

  'Yes, sir. Jake was not only a cobbler – he was a hangman as well.'

  Victor Leeming did not like visiting the police morgue. The place was cold, cheerless and unsettling. He could not understand how some of those who worked there could exchange happy banter and even whistle at the
ir work. He found it worryingly inappropriate. To the detective, it was an ordeal to spend any time in such an oppressive atmosphere. Robust, direct and fearless in most situations, Leeming was oddly sensitive in the presence of the deceased, reminded all too keenly of his own mortality. He hoped that he would not have to stay there long.

  The doctor took time to arrive but, once he did, he was briskly professional as he examined a body that had been stripped and cleaned in readiness. After washing his hands, Leonard Keyworth joined the other man in the vestibule. Short, squat and bearded, the doctor was a bustling man in his late forties. Leeming stood by with his notebook.

  'Well, Doctor?' he prompted.

  'Death by asphyxiation,' said Keyworth, staring at him over the top of his pince-nez, 'but I daresay that you worked that out for yourself. It was a very unpleasant way to die. The garrotte was pulled so tight that it almost severed his windpipe.'

  'Inspector Colbeck thought a piece of wire was used.'

  'Almost certainly. The kind used to cut cheese, for instance.'

  'How long would it have taken?'

  'Not as long as you might suppose,' said the doctor. 'I can't be sure until I carry out a post-mortem but my guess is that he was not a healthy man. Cheeks and nose of that colour usually indicate heavy drinking and he was decidedly overweight. There were other telltale symptoms as well. I suspect that he may well have been a man with a heart condition, short of breath at the best of times. That might have hastened his death.'

  'A heart attack brought on by the assault?'

  'Possibly. I'll stay with my initial diagnosis for the time being. The prime cause of death was asphyxiation.'

  'Right,' said Leeming, wishing that he could spell the word.

  'This time, it seems, someone finally succeeded.'

  'In what way?'

  'It was not the first attempt on his life, Sergeant.'

  Leeming blinked. 'How do you know?'

  'When a man has a wound like that on his back,' said the doctor, removing his pince-nez, 'it was not put there by accident. There's an even larger scar on his stomach. He's been attacked before.'

  'No wonder he carried a weapon of his own.'

  'A weapon?'

  'He had a dagger strapped to his leg,' explained Leeming.

  'Then he was obviously unable to reach it. The killer had the advantage of surprise, taking him from behind when he least expected it. Do you have any notion of the victim's identity?'

  'According to a bill in his pocket, his name was Jacob Bransby.'

  'A manual worker of some kind, I'd say.'

  'The Inspector is fairly certain that he's a cobbler.'

  'Not a very good one, it appears.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because he has too many discontented customers,' said Keyworth with a mirthless laugh. 'Three of them at least didn't like the way that he mended their shoes.'

  Robert Colbeck did not linger in Hoxton. Having learnt the dead man's real name and discovered his other occupation, the Inspector decided that revenge was the most likely motive for the murder. However, since Louise Guttridge knew nothing whatsoever of her husband's activities as a public executioner – a deliberate choice on her part – there was no point in tarrying. After warning her that details of the case would have to be released to the press and that her anonymity would soon be broken, he managed to prise the address of her son out of her, wondering why she was so reluctant to give it to him. Colbeck took his leave and walked through the drab streets until he could find a cab. It took him at a steady clatter to Thames Street.

  Michael Guttridge lived in a small but spotlessly clean house that was cheek by jowl with the river. He was a fleshy man in his twenties who bore almost no facial resemblance to his father. His wife, Rebecca, was younger, shorter and very much thinner than her husband, her youthful prettiness already starting to fade in the drudgery of domestic life. Surprised by a visit from a Detective Inspector, they invited Colbeck in and were told about events on the excursion train. Their reaction was not at all what the visitor had anticipated.

  'My father is dead?' asked Guttridge with an unmistakable note of relief in his voice. 'Is this true, Inspector?'

  'Yes, sir. I went to the scene of the crime myself.'

  'Then it's no more than he deserved.' He put an arm around his wife. 'It's over, Becky,' he said, excitedly. 'Do you see that? It's all over.'

  'Thank God!' she cried.

  'We don't have to care about it ever again.'

  'That's wonderful!'

  'Excuse me,' said Colbeck, letting his displeasure show, 'but I don't think that this is an occasion for celebration. A man has been brutally murdered. At least, have the grace to express some sorrow.'

  Guttridge was blunt. 'We can't show what we don't feel.'

  'So there's no use in pretending, is there?' said his wife, hands on hips in a challenging pose. 'I had no time for Michael's father.'

  'No, and you had no time for me while I lived under the same roof with my parents. I had to make a choice – you or them.' Guttridge smiled fondly. 'I'm glad that I picked the right one.'

  'Were you so ashamed of your father?' asked Colbeck.

  'Wouldn't you be, Inspector? He was a common hangman. He lived by blood money. You can't get any lower than that.'

  'I think you're doing him an injustice.'

  'Am I?' retorted Guttridge, angrily. 'You didn't have to put up with the sneers and jibes. Once people knew what my father did, they turned on my mother and me as well. You'd have thought it was us who put the nooses around people's necks.'

  'If your father had had his way,' his wife reminded him, 'you would have.' Rebecca Guttridge swung round to face Colbeck. 'He tried to turn Michael into his assistant. Going to prisons and killing people with a rope. It was disgusting!' Her eyes flashed back to her husband. 'I could never marry a man who did something like that.'

  'I know, Becky. That's why I left home.'

  'What trade do you follow?' said Colbeck.

  'An honest one, Inspector. I'm a carpenter.'

  'When were you estranged from your parents?'

  'Three years ago.'

  'I made him,' said Rebecca Guttridge. 'We've had nothing to do with them since. We've tried to live down the shame.'

  'It should not have affected you,' maintained Colbeck.

  'It did, Inspector. It was like a disease. Tell him, Michael.'

  'Rebecca is right,' said her husband. 'When I lived with my parents in Southwark, I'd served my apprenticeship and was working for a builder. I was getting on well. Then my father applied for a job as a hangman. My life changed immediately. When the word got round, they treated me as if I was a leper. I was sacked outright and the only way I could find work was to use a false name – Michael Eames.'

  'It's my maiden name,' volunteered Rebecca. 'I took Michael's name at the altar but we find it easier to live under mine. There's no stain on it.'

  'I'm sorry that you see it that way,' said Colbeck. 'I can't expect either of you to admire Mr Guttridge for what he did, but you should have respected his right to do it. According to his wife, he only undertook the job because of religious conviction.'

  'Ha!' snorted the carpenter. 'He always used that excuse.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'When he beat me as a child, he used to claim that it was God's wish. When he locked me in a room for days on end, he said the same thing. My father wouldn't go to the privy unless it was by religious conviction.'

  'Michael!' exclaimed his wife.

  'I'm sorry, Becky. I don't mean to be crude.'

  'He's gone now. Just try to forget him.'

  'Oh, I will.'

  'We're free of him at last. We can lead proper lives.'

  Michael Guttridge gave her an affectionate squeeze and Colbeck looked on with disapproval. During his interview with Louise Guttridge, he had realised that some kind of rift had opened up between the parents and their son but he had no idea of its full extent. Because of their famil
y connection with a public executioner, the carpenter and his wife had endured a twilight existence, bitter, resentful, always on guard, unable to outrun the long shadow of the gallows. They were almost gleeful now, sharing a mutual pleasure that made their faces light up. It seemed to Colbeck to be a strange and reprehensible way to respond to the news of a foul murder.

  '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?'