Leeming admired the mahogany cabinet beside him. ‘My wife would covet some of this lovely furniture,’ he said, stroking the wood.
‘It’s not for sale, I fear,’ warned Colbeck with a fond smile. ‘I inherited it with the house. My father was a cabinetmaker. Most of the things in here are examples of his handiwork.’
‘He must have been a fine craftsman.’
‘He was, Victor, but he never wanted his son to follow in his footsteps. My father had boundless faith in the powers of education. That’s why I was packed off to school at such an early age.’
The clock on the desk began to strike and Leeming realised how late it was. It was time to go home. He downed the last of the whisky in one gulp then rose to his feet.
‘What will
‘Going to Birmingham. I need to speak to the bank manager.’
‘Better you than me. I hate long train journeys. They unsettle my stomach. To be honest, I don’t like travelling by rail at all.’
‘Really? I love it. Believe it or not, there was a time in my youth when I toyed with the notion of being an engine driver.’
‘The life of a cab driver has more attraction for me.’
‘You prefer the horse to the steam locomotive?’
‘I do, Inspector.’
‘Then you’re behind the times, Victor,’ said Colbeck. ‘The railways are here to stay. In any race between them, a steam train will always beat a horse and carriage.’
‘That’s not what happened today, sir.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The mail train came a poor second,’ argued Leeming. ‘It was put out of action completely while the robbers escaped overland by horse. I think that there’s a message in that.’
Colbeck pondered. ‘Thank you, Victor,’ he said at length. ‘I do believe that you’re right. There was indeed a message.’
The fight was over almost as soon as it had begun. After exchanging loud threats and colourful expletives, the two men leapt to their feet and squared up to each other. But before either of them could land a telling blow, they were grabbed by the scruff of their necks, marched to the door and thrown out into the alleyway with such force that they tumbled into accumulated filth on the ground. Rubbing his hands together, the giant Irishman who had ejected them sauntered back to the crowded bar.
‘I see that you haven’t lost your touch,’ said a voice in the gloom.
‘Who are you?’ growled Brendan Mulryne, turning to the man.
‘I was waiting for you to remember.’
Mulryne blinked. ‘Haven’t I heard that voice before somewhere?’
‘You should have. It gave you a roasting often enough.’
‘Holy Mary!’ exclaimed the other, moving him closer to one of the oil lamps so that he could see the stranger more clearly. ‘It’s never Mr Colbeck, is it?’
‘The very same.’
Mulryne stared at him in the amazement. The Black Dog was one of the largest and most insalubrious public houses in Devil’s Acre and the last place where the Irishman would have expected to find someone as refined as Robert Colbeck. The detective had taken trouble to blend in. Forsaking his usual attire, he looked like a costermonger down on his luck. His clothes were torn and shabby, his cap pulled down over his forehead. Colbeck had even grimed his face by way of disguise and adopted a slouch. He had been standing next to Mulryne for minutes and evaded recognition. The Irishman was baffled.
‘What, in God’s sacred name, are you doing here?’ he said.
‘Looking for you, Brendan.’
‘I’ve done nothing illegal. Well,’ he added with a chuckle, ‘nothing that I’d own up to in a court of law. The Devil’s Acre is a world apart. We have our own rules here.’
‘I’ve just seen one of them being enforced.’
Colbeck bought his friend a pint of beer then the two of them adjourned to a table in the corner. It was some time since the detective had seen Mulryne but the man had not changed. Standing well over six feet tall, he had the physique of a wrestler and massive hands. His gnarled face looked as if it had been inexpertly carved out of rock but it was shining with a mixture of pleasure and surprise now. During his years in the Metropolitan Police, Mulryne had been the ideal person to break up a tavern brawl or to arrest a violent offender. The problem was that he had been too eager in the exercise of his duties and was eventually dismissed from the service. The Irishman never forgot that it was Robert Colbeck who had spoken up on his behalf and tried to save his job for him.
A pall of tobacco smoke combined with the dim lighting to make it difficult for them to see each other properly. The place was full and the hubbub loud. They had to raise their voices to be heard.
‘How is life treating you, Brendan?’ asked Colbeck.
‘Very well, sir.’
‘You don’t have to show any deference to me now.’
‘No,’ said Mulryne with a grin that revealed several missing teeth. ‘I suppose not. Especially when you’re dressed like that. But, yes, I’m happy here at The Black Dog. I keep the customers in order and help behind the bar now and then.’
‘What do you get in return?’
‘Bed, board and all the beer I can drink. Then, of course, there’s the privileges.’
‘Privileges?’
‘We’ve new barmaids coming here all the time,’ said Mulryne with a twinkle in his eye. ‘I help them to settle in.’
‘Would you be interested in doing some work for me?’
Mulryne was hesitant. ‘That depends.’
‘I’d pay you well,’ said Colbeck.
‘It’s not a question of money. The Devil’s Acre is my home now. I’ve lots of friends here. If you’re wanting help to put any of them in jail, then you’ve come to the wrong shop.’
‘The man I’m after is no friend of yours, Brendan.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he doesn’t really belong in this seventh circle of hell,’ said Colbeck. ‘He’s an outsider, who’s taken refuge here. A gambler who drifted in here to play cards and to lose his money.’
‘We’ve lots of idiots like that,’ said Mulryne. ‘They always lose. There’s not an honest game of cards in the whole of the Devil’s Acre.’
‘He still hasn’t realised that.’
‘Why do you want him?’
‘It’s in connection with a serious crime that was committed earlier today — a train robbery.’
‘Train robbery!’ echoed the other with disgust. ‘Jesus, what will they think of next? There was never anything like that in my time. The only people I ever arrested were beggars, footpads, cracksmen, flimps, doxies, screevers and murderers — all good, decent, straightforward villains. But now they’re robbing trains, are they? That’s shameful!’
‘It was a mail train,’ said Colbeck. ‘A substantial amount of money was also being carried. They got away with everything.’
‘How does this gambler fit into it?’
‘That’s what I need to ask him, Brendan — with your help.’
‘Ah, no. My days as a bobby are over.’
‘I accept that. What I’m asking you is a personal favour.’
‘Is it that important, Mr Colbeck?’
‘It is,’ said the other. ‘I’d not be here otherwise. It’s been a long day and walking through the Devil’s Acre in the dark is not how I’d choose to spend my nights. No offence, Brendan,’ he added, glancing around at some of the sinister faces nearby, ‘but the company in The Black Dog is a little too primitive for my taste.’
Mulryne laughed. ‘That’s why I like it here,’ he said. ‘The place is alive. The sweepings of London come in
