'We don't have to care about it ever again.'
'That's wonderful!'
'Excuse me,' said Colbeck, letting his displeasure show, 'but I don't think that this is an occasion for celebration. A man has been brutally murdered. At least, have the grace to express some sorrow.'
Guttridge was blunt. 'We can't show what we don't feel.'
'So there's no use in pretending, is there?' said his wife, hands on hips in a challenging pose. 'I had no time for Michael's father.'
'No, and you had no time for me while I lived under the same roof with my parents. I had to make a choice – you or them.' Guttridge smiled fondly. 'I'm glad that I picked the right one.'
'Were you so ashamed of your father?' asked Colbeck.
'Wouldn't you be, Inspector? He was a common hangman. He lived by blood money. You can't get any lower than that.'
'I think you're doing him an injustice.'
'Am I?' retorted Guttridge, angrily. 'You didn't have to put up with the sneers and jibes. Once people knew what my father did, they turned on my mother and me as well. You'd have thought it was us who put the nooses around people's necks.'
'If your father had had his way,' his wife reminded him, 'you would have.' Rebecca Guttridge swung round to face Colbeck. 'He tried to turn Michael into his assistant. Going to prisons and killing people with a rope. It was disgusting!' Her eyes flashed back to her husband. 'I could never marry a man who did something like that.'
'I know, Becky. That's why I left home.'
'What trade do you follow?' said Colbeck.
'An honest one, Inspector. I'm a carpenter.'
'When were you estranged from your parents?'
'Three years ago.'
'I made him,' said Rebecca Guttridge. 'We've had nothing to do with them since. We've tried to live down the shame.'
'It should not have affected you,' maintained Colbeck.
'It did, Inspector. It was like a disease. Tell him, Michael.'
'Rebecca is right,' said her husband. 'When I lived with my parents in Southwark, I'd served my apprenticeship and was working for a builder. I was getting on well. Then my father applied for a job as a hangman. My life changed immediately. When the word got round, they treated me as if I was a leper. I was sacked outright and the only way I could find work was to use a false name – Michael Eames.'
'It's my maiden name,' volunteered Rebecca. 'I took Michael's name at the altar but we find it easier to live under mine. There's no stain on it.'
'I'm sorry that you see it that way,' said Colbeck. 'I can't expect either of you to admire Mr Guttridge for what he did, but you should have respected his right to do it. According to his wife, he only undertook the job because of religious conviction.'
'Ha!' snorted the carpenter. 'He always used that excuse.'
'What do you mean?'
'When he beat me as a child, he used to claim that it was God's wish. When he locked me in a room for days on end, he said the same thing. My father wouldn't go to the privy unless it was by religious conviction.'
'Michael!' exclaimed his wife.
'I'm sorry, Becky. I don't mean to be crude.'
'He's gone now. Just try to forget him.'
'Oh, I will.'
'We're free of him at last. We can lead proper lives.'
Michael Guttridge gave her an affectionate squeeze and Colbeck looked on with disapproval. During his interview with Louise Guttridge, he had realised that some kind of rift had opened up between the parents and their son but he had no idea of its full extent. Because of their family connection with a public executioner, the carpenter and his wife had endured a twilight existence, bitter, resentful, always on guard, unable to outrun the long shadow of the gallows. They were almost gleeful now, sharing a mutual pleasure that made their faces light up. It seemed to Colbeck to be a strange and reprehensible way to respond to the news of a foul murder.
'What about your mother?' he asked.
'She always took my father's part,' said Guttridge with rancour. 'Mother was even more religious than him. She kept looking for signs from above. We had to be guided, she'd say.'
'Mrs Guttridge had no time for me,' Rebecca put in.
'She tried to turn me away from Becky. Mother told me that she was not right for me. It was not proper. Yes,' he went on, wincing at the memory, 'that was the word she used – proper. It was one of my father's favourite words as well. You can see why we never invited them to the wedding.'
'They wouldn't have come in any case,' observed Rebecca. 'They never thought I was good enough for their son.'
'Becky was brought up as a Methodist,' explained her husband. 'I came from a strict Roman Catholic family.'
'I gathered that,' said Colbeck, recalling his encounter with the widow, 'but, when I asked about your mother, I was not talking about the past. I was referring to the present – and to the future.'
'The future?'
'Your mother has lost everything, Mr Guttridge. She and your father were obviously very close. To lose him in such a cruel way has been a dreadful blow for her. Can't you see that?'
'Mother will get by,' said the other with a shrug. 'Somehow or other. She's as hard as nails.'
'It sounds to me as if you've inherited that trait from her.'
'Don't say that about Michael,' chided Rebecca.
'I speak as I find.'
'My husband is the kindest man in the world.'
'Then perhaps he can show some of that kindness to his mother. Mrs Guttridge is in great distress. She's alone, confused, frightened. She's living in a house she dislikes among people she detests and the most important thing in her life has just been snatched from her.' Colbeck looked from one to the other. 'Don't you have the slightest feeling of pity for her?'
'None at all,' snapped Rebecca.
'Put yourself in her position. How would you cope if it had been your husband who had been murdered on a train?'
'I won't even think such a horrid thought!'
'Inspector Colbeck has a point,' admitted Guttridge as family ties exerted their pull. 'It's unfair to blame Mother for what happened. It was my father who took on that rotten job and who made me hate my name. And he's gone now – for good.' He gave a wan smile. 'Maybe it is time to let bygones be bygones.'
'No, Michael,' urged Rebecca. 'I won't let you do that.'
'She's my mother, Becky.'
'A woman who looked down on me and said that I was not fit to be your wife. She insulted me.'
'Only because she didn't know you properly.'
'She didn't want to know me.'
'I can't turn my back on her,' he said, earnestly.
'You managed to do it before.'
'That was because of my father.'
There was a long, silent battle between them and Colbeck did not interfere. Michael Guttridge was at last afflicted by a modicum of guilt. His wife remained cold and unforgiving. At length, however, she did consent to take his hand and receive a conciliatory kiss on the cheek. Colbeck chose the moment to speak up again.
'I came to ask you a favour, Mr Guttridge,' he said.
'Eames,' attested his wife. 'Everyone knows us under that name.'
'Listen to what the Inspector has to say,' said her husband.
'Someone has to identify the body,' explained Colbeck, 'and your mother is not able to do that. It will only take
