'Well,' pressed Madeleine, looking over his shoulder. 'What was the man's name?'
'Jacob Guttridge,' he replied. 'The Jacob Guttridge.'
'Am I supposed to have heard of him?'
'Every criminal in London has, Maddy. 'He's a Jack Ketch.'
'A hangman?'
'Not any more. 'He's not as famous as Mr Cathcart, of course, but he's put the noose around lots of guilty necks, that much I do know. It says here,' he went on, scanning the opening paragraph, 'that he was on an excursion train taking passengers to a prizefight.'
'I thought they were banned.'
'There are always ways of getting around that particular law. I tell you this, Maddy, I'd have been tempted to watch that fight myself if I'd been given the chance. The Bargeman was up against Mad Isaac.'
Andrews put his face closer to the small print so that he could read it more easily. A diminutive figure in his early fifties, he had a fringe beard that was salted with grey and thinning hair that curled around a face lined by a lifetime on the railway. Renowned among his colleagues for his blistering tongue and forthright opinions, Andrews had a softer side to him as well. The death of a beloved wife had all but broken his spirit. What helped him to go on and regain a sense of purpose was the presence and devotion of his only child, Madeleine, an alert, handsome, spirited young woman, who knew how to cope with his sudden changes of mood and his many idiosyncrasies. She had undoubtedly been her father's salvation.
When he got to the end of a column, Andrews let out a cackle.
'What is it?' she said.
'Nothing, nothing,' he replied, airily.
'You can't fool me. I know you better than that.'
'I came across another name I recognised, that's all, Maddy. It would have no interest for you.' He gave her a wicked smile. 'Or would it, I wonder?'
'Her face ignited. 'Robert?'
'Inspector Colbeck's been put in charge of the case.'
'Let me see,' said Madeleine, excitedly, almost snatching the paper from him. 'Her eye fell on the name she sought. 'It's true. Robert is leading the investigation. The murder will soon be solved.'
'The only crime I want to solve is the theft of my paper,' he complained, extending a hand. 'Give it here, Maddy.'
'When I've finished with it.'
'Who went to the shop to buy it?'
'Eat your breakfast, Father. You don't want to be late.'
'There's plenty of time yet.'
She surrendered the newspaper reluctantly and sat opposite him. Madeleine was delighted to see that the Railway Detective was involved in the case. When the mail train had been robbed the previous year, her father had been the driver and he was badly injured by one of the men who had ambushed him. Robert Colbeck had not only hunted down and arrested the gang responsible for the crime, he had rescued Madeleine when she was abducted and used as a hostage. As a result of it all, the two of them had been drawn together into a friendship that had grown steadily over the intervening months without ever quite blossoming into a romance. Colbeck was always a welcome visitor at the little house in Camden.
Andrews remained buried in the newspaper article.
'We should be seeing the Inspector very soon,' he observed.
'I hope so.'
'Whenever he's dealing with a crime on the railway, he drops in for my advice. I know that you like to think he comes to see you,' teased Andrews, 'but I'm the person that he really wants to talk to, Maddy. I've taught him all he knows about trains.'
'That's not true, Father,' she responded, loyally. 'Be fair to him. Robert has always taken a special interest in trains. When you first met him, you couldn't believe that he knew the difference between a Bury and a Crampton locomotive.'
But she was talking to herself. Andrews was so engrossed in the newspaper account that he did not hear her. It was only when he had read every word about the murder on the excursion train three times that He set the paper aside and picked up his spoon. He attacked his breakfast with relish.
'One thing, anyway,' he said as he ate his porridge.
'What's that?'
'You'll have a chance to wear that new dress of yours, Maddy.'
'Father!' she rebuked.
'Be honest. You always make a special effort for the Inspector.'
'All I want is for this dreadful crime to be solved as soon as possible.' She could not hide her joy. 'But, yes, it will be nice if Robert finds the time to call on us.'
Once he had set his mind on a course of action, Inspector Colbeck was not easily deflected. The search for William Cathcart took him to four separate locations but that did not trouble him. He simply pressed on until he finally ran the man to earth at Newgate. He did not have to ask for Cathcart this time because the hangman was clearly visible on the scaffold outside the prison, testing the apparatus in preparation for an execution that was due to take place the next day. Colbeck understood why extra care was being taken on this occasion.
Cathcart had bungled his last execution at Newgate, leaving the prisoner dangling in agony until the hangman had dispatched him by swinging on his feet to break his neck. Reviled by the huge crowd attending the event, Cathcart had also been pilloried in the press.
Colbeck waited until the grisly rehearsal was over then introduced himself and asked for a word with Cathcart. Seeing the opportunity for a free drink, the latter immediately took the detective across the road to the public house that would be turned into a grandstand on the following day, giving those that could afford the high prices a privileged view of the execution. Colbeck bought his companion a glass of brandy but had no alcohol himself. They found a settle in a quiet corner.
'I can guess why you've come, Inspector,' said Cathcart, slyly. 'The murder of Jake Guttridge.'
'You've obviously seen the newspapers.'
'Never read the blessed things. They always print such lies about me. Criminal, what they say. Deserves 'angin ' in my opinion. I'd like to string them reporters up in line, so I would.'
'I'm sure.'
'Then cut out their 'earts and livers for good measure.'
'I can see why you're not popular with the gentlemen of the press.'
William Cathcart was an unappealing individual. One of eleven children, he had been raised in poverty by parents who struggled to get by and who were unable to provide him with any real education. The boy's life had been unremittingly hard. Cathcart was in his late twenties when he secured the post of public executioner for London and Middlesex, and the capital provided him with plenty of practice at first. Notwithstanding this, he showed very little improvement in his chosen craft. Coarse, ugly and bearded, he was now in his fifties, a portly man in black frock coat and black trousers, proud of what he did and quick to defend himself against his critics with the foulest of language. Conscious of the man's reputation, Colbeck did not look forward to the interview with any pleasure.
'How well did you know Jacob Guttridge?' he began.
'Too well!' snarled the other.
'In what way?'
'Jake was my blinkin' shadow, weren't 'e? Always tryin' to copy wor I did. 'Cos I was an 'angman, Jake takes it up. 'Cos I earned a crust as a shoemaker, Jake 'as to be a cobbler. Everythin' I did, Jake manages to do as well.' He smacked the table with the flat of his hand. 'The bugger even moved after me to 'Oxton, though 'e couldn't afford to live in Poole Street where I do. I'd never 'ave stood for that, Inspector.'
'I get the impression that you didn't altogether like the man,' said Colbeck with mild irony. 'You must have worked together at some point.'
'Oh, we did. Jake begged me to let 'im act as my assistant a couple of times. Watched me like an 'awk to see
