‘All I want is for this dreadful crime to be solved as soon as possible.’ She could not hide her joy. ‘But, yes, it will be nice if Robert finds the time to call on us.’
Once he had set his mind on a course of action, Inspector Colbeck was not easily deflected. The search for William Cathcart took him to four separate locations but that did not trouble him. He simply pressed on until he finally ran the man to earth at Newgate. He did not have to ask for Cathcart this time because the hangman was clearly visible on the scaffold outside the prison, testing the apparatus in preparation for an execution that was due to take place the next day. Colbeck understood why extra care was being taken on this occasion. Cathcart had bungled his last execution at Newgate, leaving the prisoner dangling in agony until the hangman had dispatched him by swinging on his feet to break his neck. Reviled by the huge crowd attending the event, Cathcart had also been pilloried in the press.
Colbeck waited until the grisly rehearsal was over then introduced himself and asked for a word with Cathcart. Seeing the opportunity for a free drink, the latter immediately took the detective across the road to the public house that would be turned into a grandstand on the following day, giving those that could afford the high prices a privileged view of the execution. Colbeck bought his companion a glass of brandy but had no alcohol himself. They found a settle in a quiet corner.
‘I can guess why you’ve come, Inspector,’ said Cathcart, slyly. ‘The murder of Jake Guttridge.’
‘You’ve obviously seen the newspapers.’
‘Never read the blessed things. They always print such lies about me. Criminal, what they say. Deserves ’angin ’in my opinion. I’d like to string them reporters up in line, so I would.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Then cut out their ’earts and livers for good measure.’
‘I can see why you’re not popular with the gentlemen of the press.’
William Cathcart was an unappealing individual. One of eleven children, he had been raised in poverty by parents who struggled to get by and who were unable to provide him with any real education. The boy’s life had been unremittingly hard. Cathcart was in his late twenties when he secured the post of public executioner for London and Middlesex, and the capital provided him with plenty of practice at first. Notwithstanding this, he showed very little improvement in his chosen craft. Coarse, ugly and bearded, he was now in his fifties, a portly man in black frock coat and black trousers, proud of what he did and quick to defend himself against his critics with the foulest of language. Conscious of the man’s reputation, Colbeck did not look forward to the interview with any pleasure.
‘How well did you know Jacob Guttridge?’ he began.
‘Too well!’ snarled the other.
‘In what way?’
‘Jake was my blinkin’ shadow, weren’t ’e? Always tryin’ to copy wor I did. ’Cos I was an ’angman, Jake takes it up. ’Cos I earned a crust as a shoemaker, Jake ’as to be a cobbler. Everythin’ I did, Jake manages to do as well.’ He smacked the table with the flat of his hand. ‘The bugger even moved after me to ’Oxton, though ’e couldn’t afford to live in Poole Street where I do. I’d never ’ave stood for that, Inspector.’
‘I get the impression that you didn’t altogether like the man,’ said Colbeck with mild irony. ‘You must have worked together at some point.’
‘Oh, we did. Jake begged me to let ’im act as my assistant a couple of times. Watched me like an ’awk to see ’ow it was done. Then ’e ’as the gall to say that ’e can do it better. Better!’ cried Cathcart. ‘You’re lookin’ at a man who’s topped some of the worst rogues that ever crawled on this earth. It was me who ’anged that Swiss villain, Kervoyseay.’
‘Courvoisier,’ said Colbeck, pronouncing the name correctly. ‘He was the butler who murdered his employer, Lord William Russell.’
‘Then there was Fred Mannin’ and ’is wife, Marie,’ boasted the other. ‘I strung the pair of ’em up at ’Orsemonger Lane a few years back. They danced a jig at the end of my rope ’cos they killed ’er fancy man, Marie Mannin’, that is. Nasty pair, they were.’
Colbeck recalled the event well. He also remembered the letter of protest that was published in The Times on the following day, written by no less a person than Charles Dickens. An execution that Cathcart obviously listed among his successes had, in fact, provoked widespread disapproval. There was a gruesome smugness about the man that Colbeck found very distasteful but his personal feelings had to be put aside. He probed for information.
‘Does it worry you to be a figure who inspires hatred?’ he asked.
‘Not at all,’ returned Cathcart with a chuckle. ‘I thrives on it. In any case, most of the cullies who come to goggle at an ’angin’ looks up to me really. They’re always ready to buy me a drink afterwards and listen to my adventures. Yes, and I never ’ave any trouble sellin’ the rope wor done the job. I cuts it up into slices, Inspector. You’ve no idea ’ow much some people will pay for six inches of ’emp when it’s been round the neck of a murderer.’
‘Let’s get back to Jacob Guttridge, shall we?’
‘Then there’s another way to make extra money,’ said Cathcart, warming to his theme. ‘You lets people touch the ’and of the dead man, see, ’cos it’s supposed to cure wens and that. Don’t believe it myself,’ he added with a throaty chuckle, ‘but I makes a pretty penny out of it.’
‘Some of which you give to your mother, I understand.’
As Colbeck had intended it to do, the comment stopped Cathcart in his tracks. Two years earlier, the hangman had been taken to court for refusing to support his elderly mother, who was in a workhouse. Though he earned a regular wage from Newgate, and supplemented it by performing executions elsewhere in the country, he had had the effrontery to plead poverty and was sharply reprimanded by the magistrate. In the end, as Colbeck knew, the man sitting opposite him had been forced to pay a weekly amount to his mother, who, though almost eighty, preferred to remain in a country workhouse. It was a case that reflected very badly on the public executioner.
‘I’m a dutiful son,’ he attested. ‘I done right by my mother.’
‘It’s reassuring to hear that,’ said Colbeck, ‘but it’s Mr Guttridge that I came to talk about. You claimed just now that you don’t mind if people hate you because of what you do. Jacob Guttridge did. He was so nervous about it that he used a false name.’
‘That’s why ’e’d never be another Bill Cathcart.’
‘He obviously tried to be.’
‘Jealousy, that’s wor it was. Jake knew, in his ’eart, that I was the master. But did ’e take my advice? Nah!’ said Cathcart with contempt. ‘I told ’im to use a short drop like me but ’e always used too much rope. Know wor ’appened at ’is first go?’
‘No,’ said Colbeck. ‘Tell me.’
‘Jake allowed such a long drop that ’e took orff the prisoner’s ’ead, clean as a whistle. They never let ’im work at Norwich again.’
‘Were there other instances where mistakes were made?’
‘Dozens of ’em, Inspector.’
‘Recently, perhaps?’
‘There was talk of some trouble in Ireland, I think.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘Who knows? I don’t follow Jake’s career. But I can tell this,’ said Cathcart, slipping his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. ‘If I was in the salt-box, waitin’ to be took to the gallows, I’d much rather ’ave someone like me to do the necessary than Jake Guttridge.’
‘Why do you say that, Mr Cathcart?’
‘Because I tries to give ’em a quick, clean, merciful death and put ’em out of their misery right way. It’s not ’ow Jake did it.’
‘No?’
‘That psalm-singin’ fool made their sufferin’ worse before they got anywhere near the scaffold. A condemned man needs peace and quiet to fit ’is mind for the awful day. Last thing ’e wants is someone like Jake, givin’ ’im religious bloody tracts or read
in’ poetry and suchlike at ’im. All that a public ’angman is there to do,’ announced Cathcart with the air of unassailable authority, ‘is to ’ang the poor devil who’s in the condemned cell. Not try to save ’is blinkin’ soul when the likelihood is that ’e ain’t got one to save. Follow me, Inspector?’
Even allowing for natural prejudice, Colbeck could see that the portrait painted of Jacob Guttridge was very unflattering. Driven to take on the job by a combination of need and religious mania, he had proved less than successful as a public executioner. Yet he still had regular commissions from various parts of the country.
‘Have you never been afraid, Mr Cathcart?’ he asked.
‘No, Inspector. Why should I be?’
‘A man in your line of work must have had death threats.’
‘Dozens of ’em,’ confessed the other with a broad grin. ‘Took ’em as a compliment. Never stopped me from sleepin’ soundly at nights. I been swore at, spat at, punched at, kicked at, and ’ad all kinds of things thrown at me in the ’eat of the moment, but I just got on with my work.’
‘Do you carry any weapons?’
‘I’ve no need.’
‘Mr Guttridge did. He had a dagger strapped to his leg. You and he are as different as chalk and cheese,’ said Colbeck, stroking his chin. ‘Both of you did the same office yet it affected you in contrasting ways. You walk abroad without a care in the world while Jake Guttridge sneaked around under a false name. Why did he do that?’
‘Cowardice.’
‘He was certainly afraid of something – or of someone.’
‘Then the idiot should never ’ave taken on the job in the first place. A man should be ’appy in ’is work – like me. Then ’e’s got good reason to do it properly, see?’ He held up his glass. ‘Another brandy wouldn’t come amiss, Inspector. Pay up and I’ll tell you about ’ow I topped Esther ’Ibner, the murderess, ’ere at Newgate. My first execution.’
‘Another time,’ said Colbeck, getting up. ‘Solving a heinous crime like this takes precedence over everything else. But thank you for your help, Mr Cathcart. Your comments have been illuminating.’
‘Will you be ’ere tomorrow, Inspector?’
‘Here?’
‘For the entertainment,’ said Cathcart, merrily. ‘I always work best when there’s a big audience. Maybe Jake will be lookin’ down at me from a front row seat in ’eaven. I’ll be able to show ’im wor a proper execution looks like, won’t I?’
His raucous laughter filled the bar.
Louise Guttridge had been unfair to her neighbours. Because she shut them out of her life, she never really got to know any of them. She was therefore taken aback by the spontaneous acts of kindness shown by unnamed people in her street. All that most of them knew was that her husband had died. Posies of flowers appeared on her doorstep and condolences were scrawled on pieces of paper. Those who could not write simply slipped a card under her door. Louise Guttridge was deeply moved though she feared that more hostile messages might be delivered when the nature of her husband’s work became common knowledge.
As in all periods of crisis, she turned to her religion for succour. With the blinds drawn down, she sat in the front room, playing with her rosary beads and reciting prayers she had learnt by heart, trying to fill her mind with holy thoughts so that she could block out the horror that had devastated her life. She was dressed in black taffeta, her widow’s weeds, inherited from her mother, giving off a fearsome smell of mothballs. Her faith was a great comfort to her but it did not still her apprehensions completely. She was now alone. The death of her husband had cut her off from the only regular human contact she had enjoyed. She had now been delivered up to strangers.
Closing her eyes, she offered up a prayer for the soul of the deceased and coupled it with a plea that his killer should soon be caught, convicted and hanged. In her mind, one life had to be paid for with another. Until that happened, she could never rest. While the murderer remained at liberty, she would forever be tortured by thoughts of who and where he might be, and why he had committed the hideous crime.
Hoxton was to blame. She was fervent in that belief. Disliking and distrusting the area, she wished that they had never moved there. The tragedy that, from the very start, she felt was imminent had now taken place. The irony was that it had prompted a display of sympathy and generosity among her neighbours that she had never realised was there. In losing a husband, she had gained unlikely friends.
She was still lost in prayer when she heard a knock on her door. The sudden intrusion alarmed her. It was as if she had been shaken roughly awake and she required a moment to gather herself together. A second knock made her move towards the front door. Then she hesitated. What if it were someone who had discovered she was the wife of Jacob Guttridge and come to confront her? Should she lie low and ignore the summons? Or should she answer the door and simply brazen it out? A third knock – much firmer than the others – helped her to make her decision. She could hide no longer behind her maiden name. It was time to behave like the woman she really was – the widow of a hangman. Gathering up her skirt, she hurried to the door and opened it wide.
Louise Guttridge was so astonished to find her son standing there that she was struck dumb. He, too, was palpably unable to speak, seeing his mother for the first time in three years and unsure how his visit would be received. Michael Guttridge looked nervous rather than penitent, but the very fact that he was there touched her. Louise’s feelings were ambivalent. Trying to smile, all that she could contrive was a grimace. He cleared his throat before speaking tentatively.
‘Hello, Mother.’
‘What do you want?’ she asked, suspiciously. ‘Have you come here to gloat?’
‘Of course not.’ He sounded hurt. ‘May I come in?’
‘I don’t know, Michael.’
‘But I’m your son.’
‘You were – once.’
And she scrutinised him as if trying to convince herself of the fact.
‘I knew that you’d need my advice,’ said Caleb Andrews, nudging his elbow. ‘Whenever there’s a crime on the railway, bring it to me.’
‘Thank you for the kind offer,’ said Colbeck, amused.
‘How can I help you this time, Inspector?’
‘Actually, it was Madeleine I came to see.’
‘But I’m the railwayman.’
‘Stop playing games, Father,’ said his daughter. ‘You know quite well that Robert would not discuss a case with you.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Andrews, pretending to be offended. ‘I know when I’m not wanted. I’ll get out of your way.’
And with a wink at Madeleine, he went off upstairs to change out of his driver’s uniform. Left alone with her, Colbeck was able to greet her properly by taking both hands and squeezing them affectionately. For her part, Madeleine was thrilled to see him again, glad that she had taken the precaution of wearing her new dress that evening. Colbeck stood back to admire it and gave her a smile of approval.
‘We saw your name in the newspaper,’ she said. ‘I can see why the Great Western Railway asked for you.’
‘It’s a double-edged compliment. It means that the investigation falls into my lap, which is gratifying, but – if I fail – it also means that I take the full blame for letting a killer escape justice.’
‘You won’t fail, Robert. You never fail.’
‘That’s not true,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve made my share of mistakes since I joined the Metropolitan Police. Fortunately, I’ve been able to hide them behind my occasional successes. Detection is not a perfectible art, Madeleine – if only it were! All that we can do is to follow certain procedures and rely on instinct.’
‘Your instinct solved the train robbery last year.’
‘I did have a special incentive with regard to that case.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, returning his smile. ‘But I don’t think that I was your only inspiration. I’d never seen anyone so determined to track down t
he men responsible for a crime. Father was very impressed and it takes a lot to earn a word of praise from him.’
‘He’s so spry for his age.’
‘Yes, he’s fully recovered from his injuries now.’
‘He’s looking better than ever. And so are you,’ he added, standing back to admire her. ‘That dress is quite charming.’
‘Oh, it’s an old one that you just haven’t seen before,’ she lied.
‘Everything in your wardrobe becomes you, Madeleine.’
‘From someone like you, that’s a real tribute.’
‘It was intended to be.’ They shared another warm smile. ‘But I haven’t asked how your own career is coming along.’
‘It’s hardly a career, Robert.’
‘It could be, if you persist. You have genuine artistic talent.’
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ she said, modestly.
‘You have, Madeleine. When you showed me those sketches you did, I could see their potential at once. That’s why I introduced you to Mr Gostelow and he agreed with me. If you can learn the technique of lithography, then your work could reach a wider audience.’
‘Who on earth would want to buy prints of mine?’
‘I would for a start,’ he promised her. ‘What other woman could create such accurate pictures of locomotives? Most female artists content themselves with family portraits or gentle landscapes. None of them seem to have noticed that this is the railway age.’
‘From the time when I was a small girl,’ she said, ‘I’ve always done drawings of trains. I suppose that it was to please Father.’
‘It would please a lot of other people as well, Madeleine. However,’ he went on, ‘I didn’t only come here for the pleasure of seeing you and talking about your future as an artist. I wanted to ask a favour.’
‘Oh?’
‘It concerns this murder on the excursion train.’
‘How can I possibly help?’
‘By being exactly what you are.’
‘The daughter of an engine driver?’
The Railway Detective Collection: The Railway Detective, the Excursion Train, the Railway Viaduct (The Railway Detective Series) Page 32
