The Excursion Train

'Thank you.'

'Although the sensible option would be for you to move out.'

The woman shrugged helplessly. 'Where can I go?'

'We have a spare room at our house,' offered Madeleine, taking pity on her. 'You could come to us for a while.'

'That's very kind of you, Miss Andrews, but I couldn't. I'll stay here till I can sell the house and get out for good.'

Her pallor was accentuated by the black dress and there were bags under her eyes that showed how little sleep she had had since receiving news of her husband's murder. But she was not in distress and the visit of her parish priest had undoubtedly bolstered her.

'I came to tell you that the body has been identified,' said Colbeck. 'Your son was prevailed upon to come to the morgue with me.'

'Yes, Inspector. He told me.'

Colbeck was startled. 'You've seen him?'

'He called here yesterday.'

'What did he say, Mrs Guttridge?'

'Very little,' she replied. 'Michael said all that he needed to say three years ago when he married that spiteful creature against our will. Rebecca Eames turned our son against us.'

'Yet he does appear to have made the effort to come here.'

'Yes.' There was a long pause before she remembered the rules of hospitality. 'But do sit down, please. May I get you something?'

'A cup of tea would be welcome,' said Colbeck. 'Miss Andrews?'

'Yes, please.'

The other woman indicated the chairs. 'Take a seat while I get it.'

'Let me help you,' said Madeleine, following her out to the kitchen.

Left alone, Colbeck was able to study the room more carefully than he had been able to do on his first visit. Whatever her shortcomings as a mother, Louise Guttridge was a fastidious housekeeper. There was not a hint of dust to be seen anywhere. The mirror on one wall had been polished to a high sheen, the tiles around the fireplace gleamed, and the picture rail looked as if it had been painted that morning. She had even run a vigorous duster around the pot holding the aspidistra and over the black-leading on the grate. Trapped in a false identity and confined largely to the house, she had made it as habitable as possible.

Nor had her spiritual cleanliness been neglected. The crucifix and the Virgin Mary looked down on a well-thumbed Bible and a Catholic missal, side by side on the small table. Colbeck could all but smell the incense in the air. The two women seemed to be taking their time in the kitchen but he did not worry about that. The longer they were alone together, the more likely it was that Madeleine could learn something of consequence. He was especially pleased with the way that she had offered the older woman shelter at her own home, a truly sympathetic response to the predicament in which Louise Guttridge found herself.

Colbeck sat down and waited, noting that there was virtually no sign of anything in the room that had been put there by the deceased. A man who was so passionate about prizefighting might be expected to have a few sporting prints on the wall. His twin occupations of cobbler and hangman had also been excluded but that was understandable. It was pre-eminently His wife's domain, leading Colbeck to wonder just how much time the husband had spent in there with her. While Guttridge had also been religious, his regular consumption of alcohol – confirmed by the post-mortem – had pointed to someone with all too human failings. The former hangman might pray with his wife for guidance but, Colbeck was certain, he did not take her to a public house with him, still less to a boxing match.

The others finally came in from the kitchen and it was Madeleine who was carrying the tray. It was a promising sign. The older woman moved the Bible and the missal so that the tray could be set down on the table. Louise Guttridge stood beside it, ready to pour the tea.

'Mrs Guttridge has just told me about her husband's collection,' said Madeleine, sitting opposite Colbeck. 'It's in the spare room.'

'A collection?' he repeated. 'Of what kind?'

'To do with his work,' explained the widow, removing the tea cosy so that she could take hold of the handle. 'Jacob liked to keep souvenirs. A cup of tea, Miss Andrews?'

'Yes, please,' said Madeleine.

'Help yourself to milk and sugar.'

'Thank you, Mrs Guttridge.'

Colbeck bided his time until his own cup had been poured and he had added a splash of milk. The revelation about the spare room filled him with hope. He stirred his tea.

'Why didn't you mention this collection before?' he wondered.

'Because it was nothing to do with me,' said Louise Guttridge, taking a seat with her own cup of tea. 'Jacob never let me in there – not that I would have cared to see such horrible things, mind you. He kept the room locked.'

'Do you have the key?'

'Yes, Inspector. I found it when I was going through my husband's things last night. But I couldn't bring myself to go into the room.'

'Somebody will have to do so,' said Madeleine, casually. 'Would you like Inspector Colbeck to spare you the trouble? I'm sure that he will have no qualms about what he might find.'

'None at all,' he added, grateful for the ease with which she had made the suggestion. 'I'd be only too glad to help.'

'The decision is yours, Mrs Guttridge.'

The other woman hesitated. Tempted to accept the offer, she felt that it would be an invasion of her privacy and that – at such a vulnerable moment for her – was deeply troubling. In her eyes, there was another drawback. The detective might relieve her of a repellent task but, in the process, he might discover things that she did not wish to know about her late husband. Colbeck was quick to point out a more positive result of any search.

'My job is to catch your husband's killer,' he reminded her. 'It may well be that your spare room contains clues that will lead me to him. It's imperative that I be given access to it.'

'It was Jacob's room. Nobody else was allowed in there.'

'I think that I should find out why, don't you?' Louise Guttridge agonised over the decision for a full minute.

'I'll get the key,' she said at length.

When he got to the top of the stairs, Colbeck took the opportunity to peer into the main bedroom at the front of the house. Immaculately clean, it contained a dressing table, an upright chair, a wardrobe with mirrors and a bed over which another crucifix kept guard. The room was small but uncluttered and he saw the hand of the wife at work once again. He went across to the back room and slipped the key into the lock, wondering what he would find on the other side of the varnished timber. Opening the door, he stepped into another world.

The contrast could not have been greater. The tiny, cramped room was the complete antithesis of the other parts of the house. Where they had been spick and span, Jacob Guttridge's den was in total disarray. In place of the odour of sanctity there was a lingering smell of decay. Instead of looking up to heaven, the hangman preferred to stare down into the mouth of hell. The only pieces of furniture in the room were a long table and a single bed, both littered with newspapers, pieces of rope, advertisements for executions and other grim mementos of his craft. Most ghoulish of all were items of clothing that had been worn by condemned men and, more particularly, by women, their names written on scraps of paper that had been pinned to the material.

The walls, too, were covered in drawings, warrants, newspaper articles and curling advertisements, haphazardly arranged but all the more striking as a result. Amid the hideous catalogue of death, Colbeck noticed prints of prizefighters – one of them was the Bargeman – but the overwhelming impression was of a black museum in which Jacob Guttridge had gloried with almost necrophiliac pleasure. Had the law permitted it, the detective mused, the hangman would have parboiled the heads of his victims and had them dangling from the ceiling like so many Chinese lanterns. Guttridge had relished his work.

Below in the front room, Louise Guttridge was being distracted by Madeleine, sublimely unaware of the essential character of the man with whom she had slept for so many years in the shadow of a crucifix. The house that bore her clear imprint was really a facade behind which she could hide as Mrs Bransby. It was the back bedroom that told the truth about the building and its owner. Colbeck resolved that the wife should not be subjected to the discovery that he had just made. Even with the aid of Father Cleary, he was not sure that she would survive the ordeal.