The Railway Detective Collection: The Railway Detective, the Excursion Train, the Railway Viaduct (The Railway Detective Series)

by Edward Marston

  It was Madeleine Andrews.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Robert Colbeck escorted her into the Saracen’s Head and indicated some chairs. When they sat opposite each other near the window, he beamed at her, still unable to believe that she had come all the way from London to see him. For her part, Madeleine Andrews was delighted to have found him so quickly and to have been made so welcome. She was amused by the look of complete surprise on his face.

  ‘What’s the matter, Robert?’

  ‘Did you really take the train by yourself?’ he asked.

  ‘My father’s an engine driver,’ she reminded him. ‘I’m well used to the railway, you know.’

  ‘Young ladies like you don’t often travel alone. Except, of course,’ he added, gallantly, ‘that there’s nobody quite like you, Madeleine.’ She smiled at the compliment. ‘You create your own rules.’

  ‘Do you disapprove?’

  ‘Not in the least. But how did you know where to find me?’

  ‘Your name was on the front page of the newspaper. The report said that you were conducting an investigation in Ashford.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ he said with a sigh, ‘I suppose it was too much to ask to keep my whereabouts secret for long. We’ll have a batch of reporters down here in due course, assailing me with questions I refuse to answer and generally getting in my way. I’d hoped to avoid that.’ He feasted his eyes on her. ‘I’m so pleased to see you, Madeleine.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Where were you going when I saw you in the high street?’

  ‘To the Saracen’s Head.’

  ‘You knew that I was staying here?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, ‘but I guessed that you’d choose the best place in the town. When I asked at the station where that would be, they directed me here.’

  He laughed. ‘You’re a detective in your own right.’

  ‘That’s what brought me to Ashford.’

  Mary interrupted them to see if they required anything. Colbeck ordered a pot of tea and some cakes before sending the girl on her way. He switched his attention back to Madeleine again.

  ‘I’m a detective by accident,’ she explained. ‘I don’t know why but, when I saw that Jacob Guttridge’s funeral was being held today, I took it into my head to go to it.’

  He was stunned. ‘You went to Hoxton alone?’

  ‘I do most things on my own, Robert, and I felt perfectly safe inside a church. Unfortunately, there was hardly anyone there for the service. It was very sad.’

  ‘What about Michael Guttridge?’

  ‘No sign of him – or of his wife. That upset his mother.’

  ‘You spoke to her?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Madeleine. ‘I didn’t mean to. I kept out of the way during the ceremony and didn’t think that she even knew I was there. But Mrs Guttridge did notice me somehow. She said how grateful she was to see me then invited me back to the house.’

  ‘What sort of state was she in?’

  ‘Very calm, in view of the fact that she’d just buried her husband. Mrs Guttridge must have a lot of willpower. After my mother’s funeral, I was unable to speak, let alone hold a conversation like that.’

  ‘I put it down to her religion.’

  ‘She told me that her priest, Father Cleary, had been a rock.’

  ‘Why did she invite you back to the house?’

  ‘Because she wanted to talk to someone and she said that it was easier for her to speak to a stranger like me.’

  ‘So you were a mother-confessor.’

  ‘Mrs Guttridge seemed to trust me,’ said Madeleine. ‘She didn’t admit this but I had the feeling that she was using me to get information back to you. She’s not an educated woman, Robert, but she’s quite shrewd in her own way. She knew that you only took me to the house because she was more likely to confide in a woman.’

  ‘I’m glad that I did take you, Madeleine,’ he said with an admiring glance. ‘Extremely glad.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘Much as I like Victor, you’re far more appealing to the eye.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ she said with mock annoyance, ‘I was only there as decoration, was I?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he replied. ‘I took you along for the pleasure of your company and because I thought that Mrs Guttridge would find you less threatening than a Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard.’

  ‘She did, Robert.’

  ‘What did you learn this time?’

  ‘Quite a lot,’ said Madeleine. ‘After we left the house that day, she prayed for the courage to go into the room that her husband had always kept locked. It was a revelation to her.’

  ‘I took away the most distressing items in his bizarre collection but I had to leave some of his souvenirs behind – and his bottles of brandy.’

  ‘It was the alcohol that really upset her. She only agreed to marry Jacob Guttridge because he promised to stop drinking. She firmly believed that he had. But what disturbed her about that room,’ she went on, ‘was how dirty and untidy it was. She called it an animal’s lair. You saw how house-proud she was. She was disgusted that her husband spent so much time, behind a locked door, in that squalor.’

  ‘Gloating over his mementos and drinking brandy.’

  ‘It helped Mrs Guttridge to accept his death more easily. She said that God had punished him for going astray. When she saw what was in that room, she realised that her husband’s life away from her was much more important to him than their marriage. I tried to comfort her,’ said Madeleine. ‘I told her that very few men could meet the high moral standards that she set.’

  ‘Jacob Guttridge went to the other extreme. He executed people on the gallows then gloried in their deaths.’ Colbeck chose not to mention the hangman’s passion for retaining the clothing of his female victims. ‘It gave him a weird satisfaction of some sort. But I’m holding you up,’ he said, penitently. ‘Do please go on.’

  ‘It was what she told me next that made me come here, Robert. On the day when he hanged Nathan Hawkshaw, his wife expected him home that night. But he never turned up.’

  ‘He was probably too afraid to leave the prison in case the mob got their hands on him. What explanation did he give her?’

  ‘That he was delayed on business.’

  ‘Had that sort of thing happened before?’

  ‘Once or twice,’ she said. ‘Mrs Guttridge was vexed that, as soon as he got home on the following day, he went straight out again to see some friends in Bethnal Green.’

  ‘He must have been going to the Seven Stars.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A public house where fighters train. As an avid follower of the sport, Guttridge knew it well – though he called himself Jake Bransby whenever he was there. Over a hundred people from the Seven Stars went to that championship contest on the excursion train.’

  ‘How did you find that out?’

  ‘Victor Leeming visited the place for me,’ said Colbeck, ‘though he was not exactly made welcome.’ He flicked a hand. ‘However, I’m spoiling your story. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It was what happened afterwards that puzzled Mrs Guttridge,’ she said, ‘though she thought nothing of it at the time.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘That evening – when he got back from Bethnal Green – her husband seemed to have been running and that was most unusual for him. He was out of breath and sweating. For the next few weeks, he never stirred out of the house after dark. He used to go off to these “friends” regularly, it seems, but he suddenly stopped altogether.’

  ‘Did she know why?’

  ‘Not until a few days after her husband had been murdered. One of her neighbours – an old Irish woman – was leaving some flowers on her step when Mrs Guttridge opened the door and saw her there. They’d never talked properly before,’ said Madeleine, ‘but they’d waved to each other in the street. The old woman lived almost opposite.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She remembered something.’


  ‘Was it about Guttridge?’

  ‘Yes, Robert. She remembered looking out of her bedroom window the night that he came hurrying back home. A man was following him. He stood outside the house for some time.’

  ‘And Guttridge said nothing to his wife about this man?’

  ‘Not a word. I thought it might be important so I made a point of calling on the old lady – Mrs O’Rourke, by name – when I left.’

  ‘That was very enterprising.’

  ‘She told me the same story.’

  ‘Was she able to describe this man?’

  ‘Not very well,’ said Madeleine, ‘because it was getting dark and her eyesight is not good. All she could tell me was he was short and fat. Oh, and he walked in this strange way.’

  ‘With a limp?’

  ‘No, he waddled from side to side.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Mrs O’Rourke couldn’t be sure but the man wasn’t young.’ She smiled hopefully. ‘Was I right to pass on this information to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and I’m very grateful. It could just be someone he fell out with at the Seven Stars but, then, a man spoiling for a fight wouldn’t have gone all the way back to Hoxton to confront him. He would have tackled Guttridge outside the pub,’ he went on, recalling what had happened to Leeming. ‘It sounds to me as if this man was more interested in simply finding out where Guttridge lived.’

  ‘Do you think that he might be the killer?’

  ‘It’s possible, Madeleine, but unlikely.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A short, fat man with a strange walk doesn’t strike me as someone who could overpower Jacob Guttridge, not to mention Narcissus Jones. I shook hands with the prison chaplain. He was a powerful man.’

  ‘Then who do you think this person was, Robert?’

  ‘An intermediary,’ he decided. ‘Someone who found out where the hangman lived and who established that he’d be on that excursion train. He could be the link that I’ve been searching for,’ said Colbeck, ‘and you’ve been kind enough to find him for me.’

  ‘Ever since you took me to Hoxton, I feel involved in the case.’

  ‘You are – very much so.’

  Mary arrived with a tray and set out the tea things on the table. She stayed long enough to pour them a cup each then gave a little curtsey before going out again. Colbeck picked up the cake stand and offered it to Madeleine.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, choosing a cake daintily, ‘I’m hungry. I was so anxious to get here that I didn’t have time for lunch.’

  ‘Then you must let me buy you dinner in recompense.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t stay. I have to get back to cook for Father. He likes his meal on the table when he comes home of an evening.’ She nibbled her cake and swallowed before speaking again. ‘I made a note of the train times. One leaves for London on the hour.’

  ‘I’ll come to the station with you,’ he promised, ‘and I insist that you take the rest of those cakes. You’ve earned them, Madeleine.’

  ‘I might have one more,’ she said, eyeing the selection, ‘but that’s all. What a day! I attend a funeral, go back to Hoxton with the widow, talk to an Irishwoman, catch a train to Ashford and have tea with you at the Saracen’s Head. I think that I could enjoy being a detective.’

  ‘It’s not all as simple as this, I’m afraid. You only have to ask Sergeant Leeming. When he went to the Seven Stars in Bethnal Green, he was beaten senseless because he was asking too many questions.’

  ‘Gracious! Is he all right?’

  ‘Victor has great powers of recovery,’ Colbeck told her. ‘And he’s very tenacious. That’s imperative in our line of work.’

  ‘Is he here with you in Ashford?’

  ‘Of course. At the moment, he’s questioning one of the local constables and he’ll stick at it until he’s found out everything that he needs to know.’

  ‘Let’s start with the names at the top of the list,’ said Victor Leeming, showing him the petition. ‘Do you know who these people are?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  ‘Begin with Timothy Lodge.’ He wrote the name in his notebook. ‘Does he live in Ashford?’

  ‘He’s the town barber. His shop is in Bank Street.’

  ‘What manner of man is he?’

  ‘Very knowledgeable,’ said George Butterkiss. ‘He can talk to you on any subject under the sun while he’s cutting your hair or trimming your beard. What you must never do is to get him on to religion.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Timothy is the organist at the Baptist church in St John’s Lane. He’s always trying to convert people to his faith.’

  ‘We can forget him, I think,’ said Leeming, crossing the name off in his notebook. ‘Who’s the next person on the list?’

  ‘Horace Fillimore. A butcher.’

  ‘That sounds more promising.’

  ‘Not really, Sergeant,’ contradicted Butterkiss. ‘Horace must be nearly eighty now. Nathan Hawkshaw used to work for him. He took the shop over when Horace retired.’

  Another name was eliminated from the notebook as soon as Leeming had finished writing it. The two men were in an upstairs room above the tailor’s shop where Butterkiss had once toiled. Having sold the shop, he had kept the living accommodation. Even in his own home, the constable wore his uniform as if to distance himself from his former existence. Pleased to be involved in the murder investigation again, he described each of the people on the list whose signatures he could decipher. One name jumped up out him.

  ‘Amos Lockyer!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Right here, do you see?’

  ‘All I can see is a squiggle,’ said Leeming, glancing at the petition. ‘How on earth can you tell who wrote that?’

  ‘Because I used to work alongside Amos. I’d know that scrawl of his anywhere. He taught me all I know about policing. He left under a cloud but I still say that this town owed a lot to Amos Lockyer.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘He was like a bloodhound. He knew how to sniff out villains.’

  ‘Yet he’s no longer a policeman?’

  ‘No,’ said Butterkiss with patent regret. ‘It’s a great shame. Amos was dismissed for being drunk on duty and being in possession of a loaded pistol. There were also rumours that he took bribes but I don’t believe that for a second.’

  ‘Why were you surprised to see his name on the list?’

  ‘Because he doesn’t live here any more. Amos moved away a couple of years ago. The last I heard of him, he was working on a farm the other side of Charing. But the main reason that I didn’t expect to see his name here,’ said Butterkiss in bewilderment, ‘is that I’d expect him to side with the law. How could he call for Nathan Hawkshaw’s release when the man’s guilt was so obvious?’

  ‘Obvious to you, Constable,’ said Leeming, ‘but not to this friend of yours, evidently. Or to everyone else on that list.’

  ‘How many more names do you want to hear about?’

  ‘I think I have enough for the time being. You’ve been very helpful, especially as you’ve been able to give me so many addresses as well.’ He closed his notebook. ‘Inspector Colbeck wanted to know if you’d ever heard of a man called Angel.’

  ‘Angel?’ Butterkiss gave a hollow laugh. ‘Everyone in Kent has heard of that rogue.’

  ‘There is such a person then?’

  ‘Oh, yes. As arrant a villain as ever walked. Nothing was safe when Angel was around. He’d steal for the sake of it. He made Joe Dykes look like a plaster saint.’

  ‘We were told that he may have been at the Lenham fair.’

  ‘I’m sure that he was because that’s where the richest pickings are. Angel loved crowds. He was a cunning pickpocket. At a fair in Headcorn, he once stole a pair of shire horses.’

  ‘Someone had those in their pocket?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Butterkiss, unaware that he was being teased. ‘They were between the shafts of a wagon
. When the farmer got back to the wagon, the horses had vanished. Angel had gypsy blood and gypsies always have a way with animals.’

  ‘Did you ever meet him?’

  ‘I tried to arrest him once for spending the night in the Saracen’s Head without paying. The nerve of the man!’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was raining hard and he needed shelter. So he climbed in, as bold as brass, found an empty room and made himself at home. Before he left, he stole some food from the kitchen for breakfast.’

  ‘The fellow needs locking up for good.’

  ‘You have to catch him first and that was more than I managed to do. Angel is as slippery as an eel. The person who can really tell you about him is Amos Lockyer.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he had a lot of tussles with him,’ said Butterkiss. ‘Amos managed to find him once and put him behind bars. Next morning, when he went to the cell, the door was wide open and Angel had fled. The next we heard of him, he was running riot in the Sevenoaks area.’

  ‘How would he have got on with Joseph Dykes?’

  ‘Not very well. Joe was just a good-for-nothing, who stole to get money for his beer. Angel was a real criminal, a man who turned thieving into an art. He boasted about it.’

  ‘Was he violent?’

  ‘Not as a rule.’

  ‘What if someone was to upset Angel?’

  ‘Nobody would be stupid enough to do that or they’d regret it. He was a strong man – wiry and quick on his feet.’

  ‘Capable of killing someone?’ said Leeming.