The Excursion Train

'All that we can do, Victor – wait until the passengers come back. Only a relatively small number travelled here in these second-class carriages. We need to find someone who might remember Jacob Bransby.'

'One of them will remember him extremely well – the killer!'

'Yes, but I doubt if he'll oblige us by turning up so that we can question him. My guess is that he's already slipped away.'

'And miss the chance of seeing a fight like that?' said Leeming in amazement. 'More fool him, I say.' he brightened as an idea struck him. 'I'd love to watch the Bargeman hit lumps out of Mad Isaac. One of the policemen knows where the fight is taking place, sir. Why don't I rush over there to keep an eye on things?'

'Because you'd be too late, Victor.'

'Too late?'

'Look up there.'

Glancing up at the sky, Leeming saw a flock of birds flying in the general direction of London. He sighed as he realised that the fight must be over. The carrier pigeons were carrying word of the result. Several, he knew, would be winging their way to Bradford.

Leeming cupped his hands to shout up at the birds.

'Who won?' he yelled. 'Was it the Bargeman?'

The trouble had begun when the fight was only an hour old. Supporters of Mad Isaac had been inflamed by what they felt were unfair tactics on the part of his opponent. When they grappled in the middle of the ring, the Bargeman used his forehead to crack down on the bridge of the other man's nose and uncorked the blood. As the fighters swung round crazily in an impromptu dance, the men from Bradford thought that they saw the Negro inflict a bite on their man's neck. They shrieked with rage. Rosen was quick to take revenge. Seized by a madness that turned him into a howling wolf, he lifted the Bargeman bodily and flung him to the ground with a force that winded him. What infuriated the London mob was that he seemed to get in a sly kick to the Negro's groin.

Demands for a disqualification rang out on all sides and a few private fights started on the fringes. The Bargeman, however, had great powers of recovery. Helped back to his corner by his seconds, he needed only a swig of water and a brief rest on a wooden stool before he was able to fight again. When the contest restarted, his arms were flailing like black windmills. And so it went on for another forty arduous rounds, advantage swinging first one way, then the other, the audience keeping up such hullabaloo that it was like watching a brawl in Bedlam. When the rowdier element began to take over, brandishing staves and cudgels, the gentry began to withdraw, worried for the safety of their vehicles and their horses in the seething morass of danger.

The end finally came. It was disputed belligerently by almost half of the spectators. Both men had taken severe punishment and were tottering on the edge of complete fatigue. The Bargeman then found the energy to launch one more savage attack, sending his opponent reeling back against the ropes. Moving in for the kill, he tried to get the Jew in a bear hug to crush the last vestiges of resistance but he suddenly backed away with his hands to his eyes. Nobody had seen Mad Isaac use his fingers yet the Bargeman was temporarily blinded. He was then hit with a relay of punches that sent him staggering backwards and, as he was in the act of dropping to one knee to gain quarter, he was caught with a thunderous uppercut that laid him out flat. It was all over.

Cries of 'Foul!' from the Londoners mingled with roars of delight from the Bradford contingent. The noise was deafening. Every one of the Bargeman's fans believed that he had been hit unfairly though, in truth, few had actually witnessed the blow. Most were in no position to see over the ranks of hats in front of them or they were so befuddled with drink that their vision was impaired. Partisans to a man, they nevertheless took up the chant for retribution. The umpires claimed that they had not seen anything underhand and the referee, sensing that a disqualification would put his life at risk, declared Mad Isaac to be the winner. At that precise moment, thousands of pounds were won and lost in bets.

The more sporting members of the Fancy immediately contributed to a purse for the gallant loser, who was carried back to his corner by his seconds. Because the Bargeman had given a good account of himself in the ring, coins were tossed into the hat with generosity. But there were hundreds of people who disputed the decision and sought to advance their argument with fists, whip handles, sticks, stones, clubs and hammers. The two fighters were not the only ones to shed copious blood that afternoon in Berkshire.

At the point when the whole scene was about to descend into utter chaos, someone fired a warning pistol in the air. A magistrate was on his way to stop the event with a detachment of dragoons at his back. It was time to disappear. Brawls were abandoned in mid-punch and everyone took to their heels. Hustled on to separate carts, the Bargeman and Mad Isaac were driven off in opposite directions by their backers, determined that two brave men would not feel the wrath of the law. Hurt, angry and consumed with righteous indignation, the London mob headed towards their excursion train, licking their wounds and cursing their fate. Having invested time, money and high emotion into the contest, they were going home empty-handed. It made them burn with frustration. They had come with high hopes of victory but were slinking away like a beaten army.

'The Bargeman lost,' said Leeming in dismay as the first of them came in sight. 'I can tell from the look of them.'

'Inquire about the fight at a later stage,' ordered Colbeck. 'All that concerns us now are the passengers who were in the same carriage as Jacob Bransby on their way here.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And don't expect me to share your sorrow, Victor. You may as well know that I put a sovereign on Mad Isaac to win.'

Leeming groaned. 'I had two on the Bargeman.'

When the crowd reached the train, all that most of them wanted to do was to tumble into their seats and nurse their grievances. Some were in an aggressive mood and others tried to sneak into first-and second-class carriages without the appropriate tickets. Railway policemen were on hand to prevent them. Those who had been in the same carriage as Jacob Bransby were taken aside for questioning, but only one of them had actually spoken to the man whom Inspector Colbeck described.

'Yes,' said Felix Pritchard. 'I remember him, sir, though he didn't give me his name. Sat next to him, I did – shoulder to shoulder.'

'Did you talk to him?' asked Colbeck.

'I tried to but he didn't have very much to say for himself.'

'What was your impression of the man?'

'Well, now, let me see.'

Felix Pritchard was a tall, rangy young man with a coat that had been torn in the course of the afternoon and a hat that was badly scuffed. A bank clerk by profession, he had pleaded illness so that he could go to the fight but he was now having second thoughts about the wisdom of doing so. Apart from having backed the wrong man and lost money that he could not afford, he had drunk far too much beer and was feeling sick. As a witness, he was less than ideal. Colbeck was patient with him. Pritchard was all that he had.

'Start with his voice,' suggested the Inspector. 'Did it tell you where he came from?'

'Oh, yes, he was a true Cockney, just like me, sir.'

'Did he say what he did for a living?'

'That never came up in conversation,' said Pritchard, wishing that his stomach were not so rebellious. 'All we talked about was the fight.'

'And what did Mr Bransby have to say?'

'That, barring accidents, the Bargeman was bound to win.'

'Did he bet money on the result?'

'Of course. We all had.'

'Had he ever seen Bill Hignett fight before?'

'Yes,' said the other. 'He was a real disciple of the sport. Told me that he'd been all over the country to see fights. It was his hobby.'

'What else did he say?'

'Very little beyond the fact that he did a bit of milling in his youth. I think he was handy with his fists at one time but he didn't brag about it. He was one of those quiet types, who keep themselves to themselves.'