The Excursion Train

At the time when the Domesday Book had been compiled, Hoxton was a manor of three hides, held by the Canons of St Paul's. It had been a tranquil place with green pastures and open meadows intersected by the river along which mills were conveniently sited. There was not the tiniest hint of its former rural beauty now. A part of Shoreditch, it belonged to a community of well over 100,000 souls in an unsightly urban sprawl. It was one of the worst parts of London with poverty and overcrowding as the salient features of its dark, narrow, filthy, cluttered streets. As the cab took him to the address on the tradesman's bill, Robert Colbeck reflected that Hoxton was hardly the district in which to find a man who carried a gold watch and a five pound note on his person. The dagger, however, was a more understandable accessory. In many parts of the area, a weapon of some sort was almost obligatory.

Colbeck was well acquainted with Hoxton, having been assigned a beat there during his days in uniform. He was wearily familiar with its brothels, gambling dens, penny gaffs, music halls, seedy public houses and ordinaries. He knew the rat- infested tenements where whole families were crammed into a single room and where disease ran amok in the insanitary conditions. He remembered the distinctive smell of Hoxton with its blend of menace, despair and rotting food. What had always struck him was not how many criminals gravitated to the place to form a thriving underworld but how many decent, hard-working, law-abiding people also lived there and managed to rise above their joyless surroundings.

After picking its way through the busy streets, the cab turned a corner and slowed down before stopping outside a terraced house. It was in one of the better parts of Hoxton but there was still a distinct whiff of decay about it. Children were playing with a ball in the fading light or watching an ancient man struggling to coax music out of his barrel organ. When they saw the cab, some of the younger ones scampered across to pat the horse and to ask the driver for a ride. Colbeck got out, paid his fare and knocked on the door of Jacob Bransby's house. There was a long wait before a curtain was twitched in the window. Moments later, the door opened and the curious face of a middle-aged woman peered around it.

'Can I help you, sir?'

'Mrs Bransby?'

'Yes,' she said after a considered pause.

'My name is Detective Inspector Colbeck,' he explained, displaying his warrant card. 'I wonder if I might have a word with you?'

Alarm sounded. 'Why? Has something happened to my husband? I expected him back before now.'

'Perhaps I could come in, Mrs Bransby,' he said, softly. 'This is not something that we should be discussing on your doorstep.'

She nodded and moved back to admit him. Removing his top hat, he stepped into a small passageway and waited until she shut the door behind them. Louise Bransby led him into the front room that was better furnished than he had expected. A lighted oil lamp bathed it in a warm glow. Over the mantelpiece was a picture of the Virgin Mary. On the opposite wall was a crucifix. The carpet had a new feel to it.

'Why don't you sit down?' he suggested.

'If you say so, Inspector.'

'Is there anyone else in the house?'

'No,' she said, lowering herself into an armchair. 'Jake and I live here alone. Our son has a home of his own now.'

'Is there a friend or a neighbour you'd like to call in?'

'Why?'

'You might need some company, Mrs Bransby.'

'Not from anyone round here,' she said, sharply. 'We have no friends in Hoxton.' She took a deep breath and steeled herself. 'I'm ready, Inspector. Tell me what brought you here.'

Louise Bransby was a plump woman in a blue dress that had been worn once too often. She had curly brown hair and an oval face that was disfigured by a frown. Colbeck sensed a quiet toughness about her that would make his task slightly easier. Whatever else she did, Louise Bransby seemed unlikely to collapse in hysterics or simply pass out.

'I'm afraid that I have some bad news for you,' he began.

'It's not his heart again, is it?' she asked with concern. 'The doctor warned him against getting too excited but Jake just had to go to that fight. He loved boxing. It gave him so much pleasure. He'd go anywhere to watch it.' She leant forward. 'Has he been taken ill?'

'It's worse than that,' said Colbeck, sitting on the upright chair beside her. 'Your husband is dead.' As she convulsed momentarily, he put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. 'I'm so sorry, Mrs Bransby. I hate to be the bearer of such sad tidings.'

She bit her lip. 'It was bound to happen sooner or later,' she said, wiping away a tear with her hand. 'I knew that. Jake would drive himself so. And I was afraid that it would all end once we came here. Moving to Hoxton was a bad mistake.'

'How long have you been in the house?'

'A couple of months.'

'Where were you before?'

'Clerkenwell.'

'Why did you come here?'

'That's private, sir,' she said, evasively. 'Not that it matters any more, I suppose. If my husband has died, I can get away from this place.' She clutched her hands to her breast. 'If only Jake had listened to that doctor! He was told to take it easy.' She read the look in Colbeck's eyes and stiffened. 'There's something you haven't told me, isn't there?' she asked, warily. 'It wasn't his heart, after all.'

'No, Mrs Bransby,' he said, gently. 'There's no way to hide the truth, I fear. Your husband was killed this afternoon.'

'Killed?' she gasped. 'There's been an accident?'

'Unfortunately not. At some time around noon today, Mr Bransby was murdered on an excursion train.'

'Holy Mary!' she exclaimed.

She looked up at the picture of the Virgin, crossed herself then brought both hands up to her face. Louise Bransby was too stunned to say anything. Lost in a world of her own, she needed several minutes to recover her composure. Colbeck waited beside her, ready to offer physical support if need be, relieved that she did not burst into tears or howl with anguish as other women had done in similar circumstances. Imparting news of a tragedy to a wife was a duty that had fallen to him more than once in Hoxton and it had always been an uncomfortable task.

When she eventually lowered her hands, her eyes were moist but there was no overt display of grief. Louise Bransby was a woman who had learnt to keep her emotions under control in difficult situations and Colbeck suspected that she had had a lot of experience in doing so. There was an innate strength about her that he admired, a practical streak, a capacity for dealing with things as they were instead of clinging on pointlessly to how they had been. He offered her a handkerchief but she shook her head.

'Is there anything that I can get you, Mrs Bransby?' he inquired.

'No, Inspector.'

'A glass of water, perhaps?'

'I'll be well in a moment.'

'Are you sure there isn't a friend I could invite in?'

'Yes,' she said with sudden contempt. 'Quite sure. I don't want anyone here knowing my business. I can manage on my own.' She made an effort to pull herself together. 'How did it happen?'

'This may not be the time to go into details,' he said, trying to keep the full horror from her at this stage. 'Suffice it to say that it was a quick death. Your husband would not have lingered in agony.'

'Where was he killed?'

'At Twyford Station. When the train stopped, everyone rushed to get off. Evidently, someone took advantage of the commotion to attack Mr Bransby.' Hands clasped in her lap, she gazed down at them. 'We found a bill for some leather on him. Was your husband a cobbler?'

'Yes, Inspector.'

'Did he work from home?'

'He has a shed in the yard at the back of the house.'

'The bill is your property now,' he said, reaching inside his coat, 'and so is his wallet.' Colbeck extracted them and set them on a small table close to her. 'There were also a few coins in a secret pocket,' he went on, fishing them out to place beside the other items. 'That was not all that we found on your husband, Mrs Bransby.' She glanced up. 'Do you know what I'm talking about?'