The Excursion Train (10 page)

‘Nervousness. The baying of that huge crowd upset him.’

‘It did not upset me and many of them were abusing me by name.’

‘You were an example to us all, Narcissus.’

‘With the exception of the hangman.’

‘What exactly did he do wrong?’ inquired Colbeck.

‘Everything, Inspector,’ the Welshman told him. ‘I thought that Hawkshaw was a benighted heathen but, to his credit, at the very last, he showed a glimmering of Christian feeling. When he saw there was no escape from his fate, he finally began to pray. And what does that fool of an executioner do, Inspector?’

‘Tell me.’

‘He pulled the bolt before the prayers were over.’

‘It was most regrettable,’ commented Ferriday.

‘Mr Guttridge lost his nerve,’ accused Jones, ‘and fled from the scene without even checking that he had done his job properly.’

‘I take it that he hadn’t,’ said Colbeck.

‘No, Inspector. When the trap sprang open, Hawkshaw somehow contrived to get his heels on the edge so that he did not fall through it. You can imagine how that inflamed the crowd. The mood was riotous.’

‘What did you do?’

‘The only thing that we could do,’ said Ferriday, flicking a glance behind him to check for eavesdroppers. ‘I had Mr Guttridge brought out again and ordered him to dispatch the prisoner quickly. But, when he tried to push Hawkshaw’s feet away from the trap, the man kicked out violently at him and – the sight will stay for me forever – his supporters urged him on with manic cries as they fought to get at us. Truly, I feared for my own life.’

‘In the end,’ said Jones, taking up the story, ‘Mr Guttridge beat his legs away and he dropped through the trap, but the fall did not break his neck. He was jerking wildly around in the air. Everyone could see the rope twisting and turning. That really made passions rage.’

‘I sent Guttridge below to pull on his legs,’ said Ferriday, swallowing hard, ‘but he could not even do that properly. One of the warders had to assist him. Nathan Hawkshaw was left hanging there, in agony, for well over five minutes. It was an abomination.’

‘And Mr Guttridge was to blame?’ said Colbeck.

‘Regrettably, he was.’

‘If all this took place in front of his loved ones, it must have fired some of them up to seek revenge against him.’

‘Death threats were shouted from all sides.’

‘I deplore those threats,’ said Jones, ‘but I sympathise with the impulse to make them. If I’m honest – and honesty is the essence of my character –
I
could have called for Mr Guttridge’s head at that point in time. He was a disgrace to his calling.
Ieusi Mawr
!’ he exclaimed with an angry fist in the air. ‘Had there been another rope on the scaffold, I’d gladly have hanged that drunken buffoon alongside the prisoner, then swung on his legs to break that worthless neck of his.’

Henry Ferriday turned to Colbeck with a weak smile.

‘I did warn you that the chaplain had strong opinions,’ he said.

Before he set out, Victor Leeming took the precaution of changing into a shabby old suit that he kept at the office for just such occasions. Although it was invariably crumpled, the clothing he wore to Scotland Yard every day was too close to that of a gentleman to allow him an easy passage through Bethnal Green, the most miserable and poverty-stricken district in the whole of the city. His aim was to be as nondescript as possible so that he could merge with his surroundings. For that reason, he traded his hat for a battered cap and his shoes for a pair of ancient boots. When he left the building, he looked more like a disreputable costermonger than a detective. Some of the cabs that he tried to hail refused to stop for him, fearing that he would be unable to pay his fare.

It was over a year since he had been in Bethnal Green but he remembered its notorious reek all too well. No sooner did he reach the area than it assaulted his nostrils once more. In a space enclosed between a hoarding on either side of the Eastern Counties Railway was a vast ditch that had been turned into an open sewer, filled with ever-increasing quantities of excrement, dead cats and dogs, rancid food and disgusting refuse of every imaginable kind. Passing within thirty yards of this stagnant lake, Leeming had to put a hand across his nose
to block out the stench. Denizens of Bethnal Green had long been habituated to the stink of decomposition.

The Seven Stars lay on the edge of an infamous area known as the Nichol. Named after Nichol Street, one of its main thoroughfares, it was a stronghold for villains of every kind, fifteen acres of sin, crime and sheer deprivation that operated by rules entirely of its own making. Leeming was a brave man, raised in one of the roughest parts of London, but even he would not have tried to walk alone through the Nichol after dusk. Its filthy streets, shadowed lanes and dark passages were a breeding ground for thieves, pickpockets and prostitutes. Its squalid tenements, slum cottages and ramshackle pubs teemed with beggars, orphans, destitute families, ruthless criminals and fugitives from the law. Bethnal Green was a haven for the most desperate characters in the underworld.

Glad that he was visiting the place in broad daylight, Leeming noticed how many animals were roaming the streets. Snarling cats fought over territory with furious commitment while skinny dogs scavenged among the rubbish. The undernourished horses and donkeys that pulled passing carts looked as if they could barely stand. Loud squawks and even louder yells of encouragement disclosed that a cockfight was being held nearby. Unwashed children played desultory games or lounged in gangs on corners. Cries of pain came from behind closed doors as violent men asserted their dominance over wives and mistresses.

Wherever he went, Leeming knew, dozens of pairs of eyes were upon him. He had never endured such hostile surveillance before. It was like a weight pressing down on him. When he entered the Seven Stars, however, the burden was immediately lifted. He collected a few casual looks from the ragged patrons
scattered around the bar but they were too busy enjoying their drinks or their gossip to bother overmuch about the newcomer. Leeming sauntered across to the counter and ordered some beer. Filled with chairs and tables, the room was large, low and in a state of obvious neglect but its atmosphere was welcoming enough. The landlord served his customer with a toothless grin.

‘There you are, sir,’ he said as he put a foaming tankard on the counter. ‘Best beer in Bethnal Green.’

‘So I heard.’ Leeming paid for the drink then sipped it, managing a smile even though it was far too bitter for his taste. ‘And he was right. You serve a good brew.’

‘Ben, sir. Everyone calls me Ben. I own the place.’

‘You run a good house, Ben.’

‘Thank you.’

‘My first visit won’t be my last.’

The landlord appraised him. ‘Where are you from, sir?’

‘Clerkenwell.’

‘Ah, I see.’ A burst of cheering and applause came from the back of the establishment and Leeming turned his head questioningly. ‘The lads are staging a bout or two. Fond of milling, sir?’

‘That’s why I came.’

‘Then you’re in the right place.’

Ben Millgate beamed proudly. He was a short, stubby man in his fifties with a bald pate that was tattooed with scars, and a craggy face. No stranger to a brawl himself, he had other scars on his bare forearms and both ears had been thickened by repeated punishment.

‘Did you see the fight at Twyford?’ asked Millgate.

‘No – worse luck! I’d have given a week’s wages to be
there.’

‘The Bargeman was robbed and so were we.’

‘That’s what I was told,’ said Leeming, nodding seriously. ‘They reckon that Mad Isaac fought dirty.’

‘That lousy Jew was full of tricks,’ said Millgate, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. ‘So were his friends. I was there and saw it with my own eyes. When the Bargemen staggered back against the ropes, one of Mad Isaac’s men punched him in the kidneys. Another time, he was hit with a cudgel. And, three times in a row, that sneaky Jew kicked him when he was on the ground.’

‘He should have been disqualified.’

‘The referee and the umpires had been bribed.’

‘They must’ve been,’ agreed Leeming. ‘Rotten, I call it. I had money on the Bargeman to win. He’s a true champion.’

‘And fought like one as well. Gave no quarter.’

‘So I gather. My friend was there to support him. More or less worships the Bargeman. In fact, it was Jake who told me about your beer. Comes in here a lot to watch the young boxers learning their craft.’

‘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 Superintendent 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.’