'My father taught me how to make a Dog's Nose,' he said, stirring the concoction with a spoon. 'You got to get the proportions right, you see, Inspector. Warm porter, gin, sugar and nutmeg. Delicious!'
'I'm sure,' said Colbeck.
'Will you join me?'
'No, thank you, Sergeant. It's too strong for me.'
'My favourite tipple at the end of the day.'
The two men were in the snug little cottage that belonged to Sergeant Obadiah Lugg, a seasoned member of Maidstone's police force. Having learnt that it was Lugg who had arrested Nathan Hawkshaw on a charge of murder, Colbeck tracked him down in his home on the edge of the town. A portly individual in his forties with a big, round, rubicund face, Lugg had an amiable manner and a habit of chuckling at the end of each sentence. He settled into the chair opposite his visitor and sipped his drink with patent relish.
'Perfect!' he cried.
'You deserve it, Sergeant. You do a valuable job in the town.'
'There's only fifteen of us in all, you know – two sergeants and a body of twelve men with Tom Fawcett as our inspector.Fifteen of us to police a town with over 20,000 people in it.'
'It must be hard work,' said Colbeck.
'Hard but rewarding, Inspector. When the force was founded in 1836, I joined it right away. I was a railway policeman before that. We made a difference from the start. The streets of Maidstone used to swarm with bad characters and loose women but not any more,' he said with a chuckle. 'Everyone will tell you how we cleaned the place up. Of course, Tom must take most of the credit.'
'Tom? Is that the Tom Fawcett you mentioned?'
'That's him. A drum major in the army before he took over here and he made us all stand to attention.' Colbeck gave a half-smile as he thought of Superintendent Tallis. 'Trouble is that Tom is near seventy so he can't go on forever. Do you know what he told me?'
'I'd love to hear it, Sergeant,' said Colbeck, steering him away from his reminiscences, 'but I have a train to catch soon. What I'd really like you to tell me about is the arrest of Nathan Hawkshaw.'
'He resisted. I had to use my truncheon.'
'What were the circumstances of the crime?'
'There'd been bad blood between him and Joe Dykes for some time,' recalled Lugg, taking another sip of his drink. 'Hawkshaw had been heard threatening to kill him. Then this fair was held at Lenham and that's when it happened. The two of them had this quarrel. Next thing you know, Dykes is found dead behind some bushes. And I do mean dead,' he added with a chuckle. 'The body had been hacked to pieces like it was a side of beef.'
'Were there any witnesses?'
'Several people saw the argument between them.'
'Were any blows exchanged?'
'No, Inspector, nothing beyond a few prods and pushes. Everyone reckons that Dykes just laughed and went into the pub. An hour later, he'd been slaughtered.'
'So there were no witnesses to the actual killing?'
'None, sir. But it had to be Nathan Hawkshaw.'
'Why?'
'Because he hated Dykes so much. Think of them threats he'd made. And,' declared Lugg, as if producing incontrovertible proof, 'the murder weapon was one of Hawkshaw's meat cleavers. He admitted that.'
'Yet he protested his innocence.'
'I've never met a villain who didn't do that.'
'Nor me,' said Colbeck with a pained smile. 'You can catch them red-handed and they always have a plausible explanation. Tell me about Hawkshaw. Had he been in trouble with the police before?'
'They've only two constables in Ashford so it's hardly a police force. I interviewed both men and they spoke well of Nathan Hawkshaw. Said he was a good butcher and a decent family man. He kept himself out of mischief.'
'What about Dykes?'
'Ah,' replied Lugg, 'he was much more of a problem. Drunk and disorderly, assaulting a constable, petty theft – Joe Dykes had seen the inside of prison more than once. Nasty piece of work, he was. Even the chaplain found him a handful when he was put in Maidstone prison.' He grinned broadly. 'What did you think of Narcissus?'
Colbeck was tactful. 'The Reverend Jones seemed to be dedicated to his work,' he said, quietly. 'It must be a thankless task.'
'I feel sorry sometimes for those shut away in there. Nobody quite like a Welshman for loving the sound of his own voice, is there? Narcissus can talk the hind leg off a donkey. Imagine being locked in a cell with him preaching at you through the bars.' He let out a cackle and slapped his thigh. 'No wonder Hawkshaw tried to hit the chaplain.'
'You heard about that incident?'
'Narcissus Jones told everyone about it, Inspector. That's the kind of man he is – unlike the governor. Henry Ferriday would never tell tales about what happens behind those high walls. He's more secretive.'
'If Hawkshaw struck out at the chaplain,' noted Colbeck, 'he must be inclined to violence. Yet you say he'd no record of unruly behaviour.'
'None at all, Inspector.'
'What caused the animosity between him and Dykes?'
'All sorts of things.'
'Such as?'
'Emily, for start.'
'Emily?'
'Nathan Hawkshaw's daughter. Dykes tried to rape her.'
When he first came to his senses, Victor Leeming was lying in a cesspit surrounded by jeering children. There was blood down the front of his jacket and every part of his body was aching violently. Through his swollen lips, he could not even muster the strength to shout at those who were enjoying his misfortune. In trying to move, he set off some fresh spasms of pain down his arms and legs. His body seemed to be on fire. It was the foul smell and the humiliation that finally got him out of there. Braving the agony, he hauled himself upright, relieved to find that he could actually stand on his own feet. While he gathered his wits, the children subjected him to another barrage of abuse. Leeming had to swing a bruised arm to get rid of them.
A frail old woman took pity on him and explained that there was a pump in a nearby street. Dragging himself there, he doused himself with water in order to bring himself fully awake and to get rid of the worst of the malodorous scum in which he was coated. When he slunk away from the pump, Leeming was sodden. Since no cab would dare to stop for him, he had to trudge all the way back to Whitehall in squelching boots, afraid that he might be accosted in the street by a uniformed constable on suspicion of vagrancy. Because of the smell, everyone he passed gave him a wide berth but he eventually got back to Scotland Yard.
Brushing past a couple of amused colleagues, he dived into the washroom, stripped to his underclothing and washed himself again from head to foot. He could not bear to look in a mirror. When he saw the bruises on his body, his first thought was how his wife would react to the hideous blotching. His sole consolation was that nothing appeared to be broken although his pride was in dire need of repair. The discarded suit was still giving off an appalling stink so he bundled it up, gathered the other items of clothing and peeped out of the door. Seeing that the coast was clear, he tried to make a dash for his office but his weary legs would only move at a slow amble. Before the injured detective could reach safety, a bristling Edward Tallis suddenly turned into the corridor and held his nose in horror.
'Damnation!' he exploded. 'Is that you, Leeming?'
'Yes, Superintendent.'
'What on earth is that repulsive stench?'
Leeming sniffed the air. 'I can't smell anything, sir.'
'Well, everyone within a mile can smell you. What have you been doing, man – crawling through the sewers?'
