The Excursion Train

It was situated at a well-chosen point on the River Medway, a wide and sometimes turbulent waterway, the main artery of the town for centuries. From the wharves that lined the river, large quantities of local stone, corn, fruit, sand and other goods were shipped, and over fifty barges traded there regularly, giving employment to hundreds of people. The Medway was crossed by a stone bridge with five arches, and plundered assiduously by the local anglers. Occasional flooding was deemed to be an acceptable price to pay for the convenience of living beside such an important river.

Robert Colbeck reached the town by courtesy of the South Eastern Railway, the journey a continuous pleasure to someone who enjoyed travelling by train as much as he did. Since there was no direct line from London to Maidstone, he was obliged to change at Paddock Wood and eventually came into the station at the end of Hart Street on the western side of the town. It was market day and, though he did not get there until mid-afternoon, hundreds of customers still haggled beside the stalls, booths and carts that lined High Street, Week Street and King Street. Someone rang a hand bell, the last of the livestock complained noisily in their pens and the din was compounded by the incessant clucking of poultry in their baskets and by the competing cries of the vendors.

Even from the railway station, Colbeck could hear the noise and he was grateful that he did not have to walk directly through the market, where his elegant attire would make him incongruous among the more homespun garments on show. As it was, he attracted a lot of curious glances. Maidstone prison was a forbidding sight. Erected behind the Sessions House, it had four hundred night cells and was encircled by a high perimeter wall that acted as a stern warning to any would-be malefactors. The man on duty at the gate was so unaccustomed to the appearance of a Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard that he refused to admit Colbeck until word had been sent to the governor.

There was a long delay. Taken aback by news of his unexpected visitor, Henry Ferriday nevertheless agreed to see him, deciding that he would not have come all that way from London unless it were on a matter of some importance. Colbeck was admitted and escorted to the governor's office, a small, untidy, cheerless room that overlooked the exercise yard. Ferriday welcomed him with a warm handshake and an inquisitive frown. He waved the detective to a chair.

'Well,' he said, resuming his own seat behind the desk, 'to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, Inspector?'

'I'm hoping that you can help me with an investigation.'

'We are always ready to do that.'

'It concerns the murder of Jacob Guttridge.'

'Yes,' said Ferriday, shaking his head, 'we saw mention of that in the newspapers. He was here only a matter of weeks ago, you know.'

'Was it the first time he'd carried out an execution at Maidstone?'

'No, no, Inspector. It would have been his third visit.'

Henry Ferriday was a lean man of middle years with hollow cheeks and large, mobile eyes. He had compensated for a dramatic loss of hair by trying to grow a beard but the experiment had been only a limited success. In his black frock coat, and with his sharp features, he looked like a giant crow. While he talked, he kept peering nervously over his shoulder as if fearing that someone would smash a way through the barred window behind him. From the way that the governor talked, Colbeck judged him to be a kind, humane man who had come into the prison service out of a sense of vocation and who still retained vestiges of an idealism that had largely melted away in the white-hot furnace of daily experience.

'In the past,' he explained, 'we were happy with Mr Guttridge's services – insofar as any happiness can attend an execution, that is. Personally, I find them rather disgusting events and I hate being forced to witness them. My digestion is never the same for days afterwards.'

'Tell me about the most recent execution, if you will.'

'Nathan Hawkshaw?'

'Yes, Governor. Was he a local man?'

'He was a butcher in Ashford, twenty miles or so from here. And butchery was involved in his crime, alas,' he said, tossing another glance over his shoulder. 'Hawkshaw was hanged for the murder of Joseph Dykes whom he hacked to death with a meat cleaver. It was a brutal assault. And the worst of it was that Hawkshaw refused to show the slightest remorse. He said that he was glad Dykes was dead though he insisted that he was innocent of the crime.'

'Was there any doubt about his guilt?'

'Not as far as the court was concerned, Inspector, and we are guided by the sentences that they hand down. Hawkshaw's was a capital offence so we sent for Mr Guttridge.'

'Do you happen to know the details of the case?' asked Colbeck. 'I'd be grateful for anything that you can tell me. This was the last execution carried out by Mr Guttridge and it may have some bearing on his death.'

'I fail to see how.'

'Humour me, if you please. I came in search of facts.'

'Then the person you should be talking to,' said Ferriday, getting up to cross to the door, 'is our chaplain, the Reverend Jones. He struggled hard with Nathan Hawkshaw but to no avail.' He opened the door. 'Narcissus will furnish you with all the details you need.'

'Narcissus?'

'That's his name, Inspector. Narcissus Jones.' He spoke briefly to someone in the corridor outside then closed the door. 'Our chaplain is Welsh. He's a man of strong opinions.'

'Not always the case with a man of the cloth.'

'Prison plays havoc with a man's spiritual values. Even the most pious Christian will question his faith when he has worked in this godforsaken hell-hole for any length of time. Yet it has not affected the chaplain in that way,' said Ferriday, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his lapel so that he had an excuse to look behind him. 'If anything, life within these walls has only reinforced his commitment.'

'That's comforting to hear.'

'Narcissus Jones is a species of saint.'

Colbeck was not at all sure that he wanted to discuss a murder investigation with a Welsh saint but he had no alternative. In any case, after the fulsome praise that the governor had heaped on the man, the detective was interested to meet him. Ferriday seemed to be slightly in awe of the chaplain, almost to the point of deference. Colbeck fished.

'You say that Nathan Hawkshaw protested his innocence?'

'Most prisoners do that, Inspector,' said the other, wearily. 'The worse their crimes, in my experience, the louder they deny their guilt. Hawkshaw was unusual in one respect, though, I have to concede that.'

'Oh?'

'A campaign was launched on his behalf.'

'What sort of campaign?' asked Colbeck. 'A plea for his release?'

'A full-throated demand for it,' replied Ferriday. 'Quite a sizeable number of people were involved. They had leaflets printed, claiming that Hawkshaw was innocent and they even brought banners and placards to the execution. It made the ordeal even more horrible.' There was a tap on the door. 'Ah, that will be the chaplain. He raised his voice. 'Come in!'

The door opened and the Reverend Narcissus Jones stepped into the room. He was even taller than Colbeck, a solid man in his forties with broad shoulders and huge hands. Dark hair of impressive luxuriance fell back from the high forehead and almost touched the edge of his clerical collar. His features were rugged, his nose bulbous, his eyes small and darting. Colbeck's first impression was that he bore less resemblance to a species of saint than to a species of farm animal. Ferriday was still on his feet. Introduced to the newcomer, Colbeck got up to exchange a handshake with him and to feel the power in his grip. Reverend Narcissus Jones liked to display his strength.

When all three of them were seated again, the governor explained the purpose of Colbeck's visit. The piggy eyes of the chaplain flashed.