The Excursion Train

'It could be Noonan,' said the other, snapping his fingers. 'I was looking at the case just before you came in. Sean Noonan was hanged for murder in Dublin a year ago.'

'Then he's unlikely to be our man.'

'N stands for Noonan, doesn't it?'

'Yes,' agreed Colbeck, 'but it's unlikely that a surname would be used. In all probability, that note was sent to Mr Guttridge by a family member or by a close friend of the condemned man, and they would surely refer to him by his Christian name. We should be looking for a Neil, Nigel or Norman.'

'None of those spring to mind, sir.'

'Where's that list?'

'Wait!' said Leeming. 'There was a Nairn McCracken from Perth.'

'Too long ago,' decided Colbeck, picking up the paper from the table and studying it. 'I'm convinced that we want a more recent case. According to this, McCracken was executed in 1849. I don't think that someone would wait three years to wreak revenge on his behalf.'

'Maybe they'd already had two attempts. Doctor Keyworth told us that there were scars on the body of the deceased.'

'Put there in separate incidents, that much is clear. According to the post-mortem, the stomach wound was several years old, inflicted long before Guttridge went anywhere near Perth.' He tapped the list. 'Now this is much more promising.'

'Who is he, sir?'

'Nathan Hawkshaw. Executed less than a month ago.'

'I remember him. It was in Maidstone.'

'What do we know about the case?'

'Precious little. He murdered someone called Joseph Dykes. That's all I can tell you, Inspector. I could find no details.'

'Then I'll have to go in search of them.'

'To Kent?'

'It's not far by train.' He smiled as Leeming pulled a face. 'Yes, I know that you hate rail travel, Victor, so I won't subject you to the ordeal just yet. I've a more attractive assignment for you.'

'I won't find searching through this lot very attractive,' complained Leeming, gazing down at the items in the cloak. 'What sort of man would want to keep things like this?'

'One with a rather macabre outlook on life – and on death, for that matter. Have no fear. We'll lock all this away for the time being.' He tied the cloak into a knot again. 'What I need you to do for me is to find the answer to something that's puzzled me from the start.'

'And what's that, sir?'

'How did the killer know that Jacob Guttridge would be on that excursion train and in that particular carriage?'

'He must have followed him.'

'Granted,' said Colbeck, 'but how did he find him in the first place? You've seen the lengths that Guttridge went to in order to preserve his anonymity. He changed his name, moved house often and never got too friendly with his neighbours.'

'So?'

'Whoever tracked him down went to enormous trouble.'

'Then bided his time until Guttridge caught that excursion train.'

'No, Victor. The killer could not possibly have watched that house in Hoxton day and night. It's dangerous enough for those who live there. A stranger would be taking serious risks if he lurked in those streets.'

'What's the explanation then?'

'I'm not sure,' said Colbeck, removing his hat and running a hand through his dark, wavy hair. 'At least, not entirely sure.'

'But you have a theory, I can tell.'

'Perhaps.'

'Come on, sir. I know that look in your eye.'

'The Superintendent calls my theories misbegotten brainstorms.'

'Who cares what he calls them? They usually turn out to be right in the long run. You have a gift for putting yourself into the mind of the criminal and Mr Tallis can't understand that. Neither can I, if truth be told,' he said, cheerfully. 'What's your theory, sir?'

'Most of Jacob Guttridge's time was spent at home, working as a cobbler in his shed. His wife confirms that. Now, what would get him out of the house?'

'An execution.'

'What else?'

'Going to Mass every Sunday. We know that he was devout.'

'In every way,' observed Colbeck with a glance at the bundle on his desk. 'He worshipped at more than one altar. But where else might he have gone, Victor?'

'I don't know.'

'Yes, you do. Think. Where was he killed?'

'On an excursion train.'

'Why was he there?'

'He was on his way to a prizefight.'

'Then that may be how he was tracked.'

'Was it, sir?'

'Mr Guttridge was one of the Fancy. He idolised those bareknuckle boxers and couldn't miss an opportunity to see a championship contest.'

'But a fight like that comes around once in a blue moon.'

'A public contest might,' said Colbeck, 'but there are exhibition bouts being staged all the time for real followers of the sport. And I can guess where Mr Guttridge went to watch them.'

'Where?'

'Bethnal Green. His hero was Bill Hignett.'

'The Bargeman? How do you know that, sir?'

'Because there was a signed print of him at the house. If he wanted to see Hignett in action, all that he had to do was to go to the Seven Stars in Bethnal Green and watch him spar. There's a room at the back of the inn where the Bargeman trains and passes on his skills to a lot of younger boxers.'

'And you think that Mr Guttridge went there?'

'Almost certainly. It allowed him to do two things that were very important to him – enjoy some milling and drink his fill.'

'He could get his beer much closer to home than that.'

'Not in Hoxton,' reasoned Colbeck. 'That was on his doorstep and he was careful to keep his neighbours at arm's length in case he let slip his guilty secret. He'd feel safer in Bethnal Green as part of a crowd that cheered on Bill Hignett.'

'How does the killer fit into your theory?'

'Rather hazily at the moment,' admitted Colbeck, thinking it through. 'Somehow, he discovered that Mr Guttridge had a passion for boxing, followed him to Bethnal Green and established that he would be going to the fight near Twyford on that day. All that he had to do then,' he concluded, taking a handkerchief from his pocket by way of demonstration, 'was to wait at Paddington station until his victim arrived, stay on his heels and get into the same second-class carriage. When the excursion train stopped at Twyford and the hordes charged off,' he went on, using the handkerchief like a garrotte, 'he choked the life out of his victim.'

Leeming fingered his throat uneasily. 'Put that away, sir.'

'I was just trying to illustrate a point.'

'So what do you wish me to do?'

'Go to the Seven Stars and mix with the regular patrons. Ask if any of them recall a Jake Bransby – don't use his real name because we can be certain that he didn't do so. And be discreet, Victor. Someone may have realised that Bransby was really Jacob Guttridge, the hangman. Choose your words carefully.'

'I will.'

'You may even get a chance to meet the Bargeman, if he's recovered from the fight.'

'What about the killer?'

'If he did trail Mr Guttridge there,' said Colbeck, tucking his handkerchief into his pocket, 'it should be possible to find out. Only the true disciples of pugilism would stand for ages around that boxing ring in Bethnal Green. A stranger would be noticed immediately. Make your way there, Victor. See if any outsider drifted into the Seven Stars in recent weeks. If at all possible, get a description of him.'

'Right, sir,' said Leeming, pleased with his instructions. 'If nothing else, this will get me out from under the Superintendent's big feet. I'll go immediately. What about you, sir?'

'I'll be on a train to Maidstone,' replied Colbeck, taking a copy of Bradshaw's Guide from his desk drawer. 'I want to find out if N really does stand for Nathan Hawkshaw.'

The county town of Kent lay at the heart of what was popularly known as the Garden of England. Rich soil and a temperate climate combined to make it a haven for fruitgrowers and the hops were reckoned to be the finest in the kingdom, spreading satisfaction and drunken stupor far and wide among the nation's beer drinkers. A parliamentary and municipal borough, Maidstone was an assize town with a long and varied history, its earlier ecclesiastical dominance reflected in the ancient, but expertly restored, Pilgrims' Chapel, its ruined priory, its noble palace, formerly belonging to the Archbishop of Canterbury, and its imposing churches.