'Jake, you say?'
'Jake Bransby.'
'Oh, yes,' said Millgate, cheerily, 'I know him.' 'He's a bit on the quiet side.'
'That's him, sir, and no question. A shy fellow but he understands milling. He comes in regular, does Jake. Friend of yours, is he?'
'A good friend.'
'When I drew up a list to see how many of us would be going to the fight, Jake was one of the first to call out his name.'
'You went there as a group?'
'The Seven Stars sent over a hundred people to Twyford,' bragged Millgate. 'Well, you'd expect it. The Bargeman trains here.'
'How is he now, Ben? He must've taken a real beating.'
'Took one and gave one to Mad Isaac. But he's as strong as an ox. Back on his feet within a day or two. As a matter of fact,' he went on, head turning towards the back room as more applause rang out, 'he's watching the novices showing off what they've learnt.'
'Then I'll take the opportunity to shake his hand,' said Leeming with genuine interest. 'I've followed his career from the start. I knew he had the makings of a champion when I saw him fight Amos Greer in a field near Newport Pagnell.'
'I was there as well. The Bargeman fair killed him.'
'He did at that. Greer was out cold.' He glanced around the bar. 'So all your regular customers went on that excursion train, did they?'
'Every last one of them.'
'What about newcomers?'
'Newcomers?'
'Strangers. People who drifted in for the first time.'
'We don't get many of those at the Seven Stars.'
'In that case, they would have stuck out.'
Millgate smirked. 'Like a pig in a pair of silk drawers.'
'Can you recall anyone who popped in here recently?' asked Leeming, pretending only casual interest. 'When you were drawing up that list for the excursion train, I mean?'
Ben Millgate's face went blank and he scratched the scars on the top of his head. A memory eventually seemed to come to the surface.
'Now that you mention it, sir,' he said, 'there was someone and he was certainly no Bethnal Green man. I could tell that just to look at the bugger. Odd thing is, he was asking about your friend, Jake Bransby.'
'Really? Could you describe this man?'
'Annie was the one who spoke to him, sir – she's my wife. You'd best ask her about it. Annie'll be in the back room with the others,' said Millgate, moving away. 'I'll take you through so that you can meet her. Bring your drink and you'll see the Bargeman in there as well.'
'Wonderful!' said Leeming.
Millgate lifted a hinged flap in the counter and opened the little door to step through into the bar. He led the visitor to the room at the rear then stepped back so that Leeming could enter it first. His arrival coincided with the loudest cheers yet as one of the young boxers knocked his opponent to the floor with a well-timed uppercut. The Sergeant was instantly enthralled.Crowded around the ring were dozens of people, veteran fighters, local men who followed the sport, eager youths hoping to take it up and a few women in gaudy dresses. Leeming also noticed a couple of well-dressed gentlemen, standing near the edge of the ring, members of the Fancy in search of new talent to sponsor, potential champions on whom they could wager extravagant amounts.
The fallen boxer got to his feet and was quickly revived by his bottleman. Scolded, advised and ordered to fight harder, he came out for the next round with greater determination. Both men pounded away at each other. Ordinarily, Leeming would have watched with fascination had his attention not been diverted to the far corner where a legendary prizefighter was standing. It was the first time he had seen his hero so close and he marvelled at the size and bearing of the man. In the course of their fight, Isaac Rosen had left his signature all over Bill Hignett's face. One eye was still closed, both cheeks were badly puffed and there were ugly gashes above his eyebrows. The Bargeman's hands were heavily bandaged and some more bandaging could be seen under the brim of his hat but the various wounds only increased the man's stature in Leeming's eyes. He felt an almost childlike thrill.
Millgate, meanwhile, had been talking to his wife and to a couple of men standing beside her. They looked across at Leeming. Annie Millgate, a stringy woman with a vivacity that took years off her, tripped over to the visitor and took him companionably by the arm.
'I can tell you about that man, sir,' she said, pulling him away, 'but not in here. It's like Bedlam when a fight starts. Come into the yard where we can talk proper.'
'Thank you.'
'My husband says that you know Jake Bransby.'
'Very well,' replied Leeming, still admiring the Bargeman. 'He's told me about the Seven Stars so many times.'
'This way, sir.'
Annie Millgate opened a door and ushered him through it. Leeming found himself in a yard that was filled with empty crates and barrels. A mangy dog yelped. The detective turned to smile at the landlord's wife.
'You must be Annie,' he said.
But there was no time for proper introductions. Before he knew what was happening, Leeming was grabbed from behind by strong hands and spun round. Held by one man in a grip of iron, he was hit hard by someone who had been taught how and where to punch. The tankard fell from Leeming's fingers, hitting the ground and spilling its contents over his boots. His nose was soon gushing with blood and his body felt as if it were being trampled by a herd of stampeding horses. A fearsome blow to the chin sent him to the ground where he was kicked hard. The mangy dog sniffed him then licked his face.
Ben Millgate came out to get in a gratuitous kick of his own.
'Jake Bransby?' he said with a sneer. 'Think we can't read, do you? It was in all the newspapers. That two-faced bastard was a public hangman and he got what he deserved on that train.'
'What shall we do with him, Ben?' asked his wife.
'Like us to finish 'im off?' volunteered one of the men.
'We'd enjoy that,' said the other, baring his jagged teeth.
'No,' decreed Millgate, spitting on the ground. 'Annie will search him for money first then you can toss this nosey devil into a cesspit so that he'll stink of Bethnal Green for weeks to come. That'll teach him to come lying to me about Jake Bransby!'
'My father taught me how to make a Dog's Nose,' he said, stirring the concoction with a spoon. 'You got to get the proportions right, you see, Inspector. Warm porter, gin, sugar and nutmeg. Delicious!'
'I'm sure,' said Colbeck.
'Will you join me?'
'No, thank you, Sergeant. It's too strong for me.'
'My favourite tipple at the end of the day.'
The two men were in the snug little cottage that belonged to Sergeant Obadiah Lugg, a seasoned member of Maidstone's police force. Having learnt that it was Lugg who had arrested Nathan Hawkshaw on a charge of murder, Colbeck tracked him down in his home on the edge of the town. A portly individual in his forties with a big, round, rubicund face, Lugg had an amiable manner and a habit of chuckling at the end of each sentence. He settled into the chair opposite his visitor and sipped his drink with patent relish.
'Perfect!' he cried.
'You deserve it, Sergeant. You do a valuable job in the town.'
'There's only fifteen of us in all, you know – two sergeants and a body of twelve men with Tom Fawcett as our inspector.Fifteen of us to police a town with over 20,000 people in it.'
'It must be hard work,' said Colbeck.
'Hard but rewarding, Inspector. When the force was founded in 1836, I joined it right away. I was a railway policeman before that. We made a difference from the start. The streets of Maidstone used to swarm with bad characters and loose women but not any more,' he said with a chuckle. 'Everyone will tell you how we cleaned the place up. Of course, Tom must take most of the credit.'
'Tom? Is that the Tom Fawcett you mentioned?'
'That's him. A drum major in the army before he took over here and he made us all stand to attention.' Colbeck gave a half-smile as he thought of S
uperintendent Tallis. 'Trouble is that Tom is near seventy so he can't go on forever. Do you know what he told me?'
'I'd love to hear it, Sergeant,' said Colbeck, steering him away from his reminiscences, 'but I have a train to catch soon. What I'd really like you to tell me about is the arrest of Nathan Hawkshaw.'
'He resisted. I had to use my truncheon.'
'What were the circumstances of the crime?'
'There'd been bad blood between him and Joe Dykes for some time,' recalled Lugg, taking another sip of his drink. 'Hawkshaw had been heard threatening to kill him. Then this fair was held at Lenham and that's when it happened. The two of them had this quarrel. Next thing you know, Dykes is found dead behind some bushes. And I do mean dead,' he added with a chuckle. 'The body had been hacked to pieces like it was a side of beef.'
'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 y
ou 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.
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