were driven down crowded streets, past busy markets, through heavy horse-drawn traffic and beneath a railway bridge over which a train decided to pass at that precise moment. The pungent smells of London were all around them. While Madeleine savoured the pleasure of being shoulder to shoulder with him, Colbeck patiently instructed her in what she had to do when they reached their destination.
'The most important thing is to win her confidence,' he told her. 'Don't ask her anything at all at first. Let her volunteer any information that she wishes to give us.'
'Yes, Robert.'
'If she has the feeling that you are there solely to interrogate her, we'll get no response at all. Let her come to you, Madeleine.'
'How will you introduce me?'
'As a friend. Someone travelling with me.'
'Not as a detective?' she teased.
'That would rather give the game away. Besides,' he said, 'you're not there to search for anything. All you have to do is to listen.'
She laughed. 'I'm used to doing that at home.'
'Was your father always so garrulous?'
'Not when my mother was alive,' she replied. 'In fact, the two of them were remarkably quiet. They'd just sit together happily of an evening without exchanging a word while I got on with my sketching. It's only since her death that Father became so talkative.'
'I can understand that, Madeleine.'
The coach eventually deposited them outside the house in Hoxton and they alighted to discover a fine drizzle starting to fall. An inquisitive dog was sniffing the petals of some flowers that had been left on the doorstep by a caring neighbour. At the approach of the visitors, the animal ran away and Colbeck was able to retrieve the posy. His gaze was then drawn to the noose that had been crudely painted on the front door of the house, clear evidence that Jacob Bransby's true identity had been revealed to the people of Hoxton.
'Don't go in there, sir,' cautioned a boy. 'It's an 'angman's 'ouse.'
'Really?' said Colbeck.
'It'll prob'bly be 'aunted.'
'Thank you for the warning.'
The boy ran off to join some friends at the end of the street. Before Colbeck could knock on the door, it opened of its own accord and Louise Guttridge appeared with an elderly Roman Catholic priest, his face a mask of benignity. When she recognised the detective, she introduced Father Cleary and the two of them were introduced in turn to Madeleine. After an exchange of niceties, the clergyman left. The visitors were invited into the house and shown into the front room. Since the blinds were down, it was very gloomy but the Virgin Mary caught what little light was left and seemed to glow in appreciation.
'These were outside,' said Colbeck, handing the flowers to Louise Guttridge. 'A kind gesture from a neighbour.'
'Did you see what was on the front door?' she asked.
'Yes,' he replied. 'When was that put there?'
'Some time in the night.'
'Has there been anything else? Warning letters? Broken windows? Unpleasant items being pushed through the letterbox?'
'Not so far, Inspector.'
'I'll call in at the police station later on and make sure that the officers on this beat pass much more often than usual.'
'Thank you.'
'Although the sensible option would be for you to move out.'
The woman shrugged helplessly. 'Where can I go?'
'We have a spare room at our house,' offered Madeleine, taking pity on her. 'You could come to us for a while.'
'That's very kind of you, Miss Andrews, but I couldn't. I'll stay here till I can sell the house and get out for good.'
Her pallor was accentuated by the black dress and there were bags under her eyes that showed how little sleep she had had since receiving news of her husband's murder. But she was not in distress and the visit of her parish priest had undoubtedly bolstered her.
'I came to tell you that the body has been identified,' said Colbeck. 'Your son was prevailed upon to come to the morgue with me.'
'Yes, Inspector. He told me.'
Colbeck was startled. 'You've seen him?'
'He called here yesterday.'
'What did he say, Mrs Guttridge?'
'Very little,' she replied. 'Michael said all that he needed to say three years ago when he married that spiteful creature against our will. Rebecca Eames turned our son against us.'
'Yet he does appear to have made the effort to come here.'
'Yes.' There was a long pause before she remembered the rules of hospitality. 'But do sit down, please. May I get you something?'
'A cup of tea would be welcome,' said Colbeck. 'Miss Andrews?'
'Yes, please.'
The other woman indicated the chairs. 'Take a seat while I get it.'
'Let me help you,' said Madeleine, following her out to the kitchen.
Left alone, Colbeck was able to study the room more carefully than he had been able to do on his first visit. Whatever her shortcomings as a mother, Louise Guttridge was a fastidious housekeeper. There was not a hint of dust to be seen anywhere. The mirror on one wall had been polished to a high sheen, the tiles around the fireplace gleamed, and the picture rail looked as if it had been painted that morning. She had even run a vigorous duster around the pot holding the aspidistra and over the black-leading on the grate. Trapped in a false identity and confined largely to the house, she had made it as habitable as possible.
Nor had her spiritual cleanliness been neglected. The crucifix and the Virgin Mary looked down on a well- thumbed Bible and a Catholic missal, side by side on the small table. Colbeck could all but smell the incense in the air. The two women seemed to be taking their time in the kitchen but he did not worry about that. The longer they were alone together, the more likely it was that Madeleine could learn something of consequence. He was especially pleased with the way that she had offered the older woman shelter at her own home, a truly sympathetic response to the predicament in which Louise Guttridge found herself.
Colbeck sat down and waited, noting that there was virtually no sign of anything in the room that had been put there by the deceased. A man who was so passionate about prizefighting might be expected to have a few sporting prints on the wall. His twin occupations of cobbler and hangman had also been excluded but that was understandable. It was pre-eminently His wife's domain, leading Colbeck to wonder just how much time the husband had spent in there with her. While Guttridge had also been religious, his regular consumption of alcohol – confirmed by the post-mortem – had pointed to someone with all too human failings. The former hangman might pray with his wife for guidance but, Colbeck was certain, he did not take her to a public house with him, still less to a boxing match.
The others finally came in from the kitchen and it was Madeleine who was carrying the tray. It was a promising sign. The older woman moved the Bible and the missal so that the tray could be set down on the table. Louise Guttridge stood beside it, ready to pour the tea.
'Mrs Guttridge has just told me about her husband's collection,' said Madeleine, sitting opposite Colbeck. 'It's in the spare room.'
'A collection?' he repeated. 'Of what kind?'
'To do with his work,' explained the widow, removing the tea cosy so that she could take hold of the handle. 'Jacob liked to keep souvenirs. A cup of tea, Miss Andrews?'
'Yes, please,' said Madeleine.
