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.'
'Tell me about the people in the carriage.'
'We were jammed in there like sardines.'
'How many of them did you know?'
'Only one,' replied Pritchard. 'My brother. That's him, sitting in the corner,' he went on, pointing into the carriage at a youth whose face and coat were spattered with blood. 'Cecil chanced his arm against one of those Bradford cullies and came off worst.'
'Did he speak to Jacob Bransby at any point?'
'No, sir. He was sat on the other side of me. Couldn't take his eyes off the woman who was opposite him.'
'A woman?' echoed Colbeck with interest, looking around. 'I've not seen any women getting back into the second-class carriages.'
'She must be making her way back home by other means.'
'What sort of woman was she, Mr Pritchard?'
'That sort, sir,' returned the bank clerk.
'Age?'
'Anything from thirty upward,' said Pritchard. 'Too old for my brother, I know that, and too pricey in any case.'
'Why do you say that?'
'She wasn't a common trull you might see walking the streets, sir. I mean, she was almost respectable. Except that a respectable woman wouldn't be going on an excursion train to a fight, would she? She could only have been there for one thing.'
'Did you see her at the contest?'
'In that crowd?' Pritchard gave a derisive laugh. 'Not a chance! Besides, I didn't look. I was too busy cheering on the Bargeman.'
'Apart from Jacob Bransby, your brother and this woman, can you recall anyone else who was in that carriage with you?'
'Not really, sir. They were all strangers to me. To be honest, I've had so much to drink that I wouldn't recognise any of them if they stood in front of me.' He gave a sudden belch. 'Pardon me, Inspector.'
'What happened when the train reached Twyford?'
'We all got out.'
'Did you see Mr Bransby leave his seat?'
'I didn't notice,' admitted Pritchard. 'There was a mad dash for the door because we were so keen to get out.'
'Did the woman leave before you?'
'Oh, no. She had to take her chances with the rest of us. Cecil and me pushed past her in the rush. That was the last we saw of her.'
'So she could have held back deliberately?'
'Who knows, Inspector? If she did, it wasn't because she'd taken a fancy to Mr Bransby. He was an ugly devil,' said Pritchard, 'and he was so miserable. You'd never have thought he was on his way to a championship fight.'
'No?'
'No, sir. He looked as if he was going to a funeral.'
Colbeck made no comment.
CHAPTER THREE
The excursion train reached Paddington that evening without any undue incident. There were some heated arguments in the third-class carriages and a few minor scuffles but the railway policemen soon brought them under control. Most of the passengers were still too numbed by the defeat of their hero, the Bargeman, to cause any mayhem themselves and they were noticeably quieter on their way back. Those in the second-class carriage that had brought Jacob Bransby to Twyford were quite unaware of the fact a murder had taken place there. When he interviewed Felix Pritchard earlier, Inspector Colbeck had been careful to say nothing about the crime, explaining that he was simply making routine inquiries about a missing person. Unbeknown to the excursionists, a corpse travelled back to London in the guard's van with two detectives from the Metropolitan Police and an irate Tod Galway.
'It ain't decent, Inspector,' asserted the guard.
'The body could hardly be left where it was,' said Colbeck.
'You should 'ave sent it back by other means.'
'What other means?'
'Any way but on my train.'
'Mr Bransby had a return ticket in his pocket. That entitles him to be on this particular train and here he will be.'
'Bleedin' liberty, that's what it is!'
'Show some respect for the dead. And to us,' added Colbeck, sternly. 'Do you think we want to ride back to London in the company of a murder victim and a grumbling railwayman?'
Galway lapsed into a sullen silence until the train shuddered to a halt in the station. Victor Leeming was given the job of organising the transfer of the dead body to the police morgue, first waiting until the train had been emptied of passengers so that a degree of privacy could be ensured. Colbeck, meanwhile, took a hansom cab back to Scotland Yard and delivered his report to Super
intendent Tallis. The latter listened to the recital with mounting irritation.
'Nobody saw a thing?' he asked, shaking his head in wonder. 'A man is throttled aboard a crowded train and not a single pair of eyes witnesses the event?'
'No, sir.'
'I find that hard to believe.'
'Everyone rushed out of the train in order to get to the fight.'
'Then why didn't this Mr Bransby join them?'
'I have a theory about that, Superintendent.'
'Ah,' sighed Tallis, rolling his eyes. 'Another of your famous theories, eh? I prefer to work with hard facts and clear evidence. They are much more reliable guides. Very well,' he conceded, flicking a wrist, 'let's hear this latest wild guess of yours.'
'I believe that the woman was involved.'
'A female assassin? Isn't that stretching supposition too far?'
'She was no assassin,' argued Colbeck. 'The woman was there as an accomplice to distract the victim. While she delayed him, the killer attacked from behind.'
'What put that notion into your head, Inspector?'
'The fact that she was in that carriage at all.'
'There's no mystery in that,' said Tallis, darkly. 'We both know why she was there. Such creatures always follow a crowd. Clearly, she was looking for a better class of customer than she'd find among the ruffians in third-class.'
'I've only Mr Pritchard's word that the woman was, in fact, a prostitute. He could well have been mistaken. He confessed that he'd been drinking before he boarded the train so his judgement may not be altogether sound. What interests me,' Colbeck continued, 'was that the woman did not return to the train at Twyford.'
'Perhaps she went astray.'
'Deliberately.'
'You've no means of knowing that.'
'I have this instinct, sir.'
'We need more than theory and instinct to solve this murder, Inspector. We need definite clues. So far you seem to have drawn a complete blank.' He glowered at Colbeck. 'What's your next move?'
'To visit the home of the deceased. He wore a wedding ring so he must have a wife and family. They deserve to know what has happened to him. I intend to go to Hoxton at once.'
'What about Sergeant Leeming?'
'He's on his way to the morgue with Mr Bransby, sir. I told him to stay there until the doctor had examined the body in case any important new details came to light. Victor and I will confer later on.'
'For an exchange of theories?' said Tallis with gruff sarcasm.
'Useful information can always be picked up from the doctor even before a full autopsy is carried out. He may, for instance, give us a more accurate idea of what murder weapon was used.'
'Bring me news of any progress that you make.'
'Of course, sir.'
'Soon.'
'We'll do our best.'
'I trust that you will. I've already had the railway company on to me, demanding an early arrest. A murder on one of their trains is a bad advertisement for them. It deters other passengers from travelling. The crime must be solved quickly. But they must bear some responsibility,' said Tallis, wagging a finger. 'If the Great Western Railway hadn't condoned an illegal fight and transported the sweepings of the slums to it, this murder would never have been committed.'
'It would, Superintendent,' said Colbeck, firmly, 'albeit at another time and in another place. Theft was not the motive or the man's wallet would have been taken. No,' he insisted, 'this was not an opportunist crime. It was a calculated homicide. Jacob Bransby was being stalked.'
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.
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