'What's that?'
'A public house where fighters train. As an avid follower of the sport, Guttridge knew it well – though he called himself Jake Bransby whenever he was there. Over a hundred people from the Seven Stars went to that championship contest on the excursion train.'
'How did you find that out?'
'Victor Leeming visited the place for me,' said Colbeck, 'though he was not exactly made welcome.' He flicked a hand. 'However, I'm spoiling your story. I'm sorry.'
'It was what happened afterwards that puzzled Mrs Guttridge,' she said, 'though she thought nothing of it at the time.'
'Of what?'
'That evening – when he got back from Bethnal Green – her husband seemed to have been running and that was most unusual for him. He was out of breath and sweating. For the next few weeks, he never stirred out of the house after dark. He used to go off to these 'friends' regularly, it seems, but he suddenly stopped altogether.'
'Did she know why?'
'Not until a few days after her husband had been murdered. One of her neighbours – an old Irish woman – was leaving some flowers on her step when Mrs Guttridge opened the door and saw her there. They'd never talked properly before,' said Madeleine, 'but they'd waved to each other in the street. The old woman lived almost opposite.'
'And?'
'She remembered something.'
'Was it about Guttridge?'
'Yes, Robert. She remembered looking out of her bedroom window the night that he came hurrying back home. A man was following him. He stood outside the house for some time.'
'And Guttridge said nothing to his wife about this man?'
'Not a word. I thought it might be important so I made a point of calling on the old lady – Mrs O'Rourke, by name – when I left.'
'That was very enterprising.'
'She told me the same story.'
'Was she able to describe this man?'
'Not very well,' said Madeleine, 'because it was getting dark and her eyesight is not good. All she could tell me was he was short and fat. Oh, and he walked in this strange way.'
'With a limp?'
'No, he waddled from side to side.'
'Age?'
'Mrs O'Rourke couldn't be sure but the man wasn't young.' She smiled hopefully. 'Was I right to pass on this information to you?'
'Yes,' he said, 'and I'm very grateful. It could just be someone he fell out with at the Seven Stars but, then, a man spoiling for a fight wouldn't have gone all the way back to Hoxton to confront him. He would have tackled Guttridge outside the pub,' he went on, recalling what had happened to Leeming. 'It sounds to me as if this man was more interested in simply finding out where Guttridge lived.'
'Do you think that he might be the killer?'
'It's possible, Madeleine, but unlikely.'
'Why?'
'A short, fat man with a strange walk doesn't strike me as someone who could overpower Jacob Guttridge, not to mention Narcissus Jones. I shook hands with the prison chaplain. He was a powerful man.'
'Then who do you think this person was, Robert?'
'An intermediary,' he decided. 'Someone who found out where the hangman lived and who established that he'd be on that excursion train. He could be the link that I've been searching for,' said Colbeck, 'and you've been kind enough to find him for me.'
'Ever since you took me to Hoxton, I feel involved in the case.'
'You are – very much so.'
Mary arrived with a tray and set out the tea things on the table. She stayed long enough to pour them a cup each then gave a little curtsey before going out again. Colbeck picked up the cake stand and offered it to Madeleine.
'Thank you,' she said, choosing a cake daintily, 'I'm hungry. I was so anxious to get here that I didn't have time for lunch.'
'Then you must let me buy you dinner in recompense.'
'Oh, I can't stay. I have to get back to cook for Father. He likes his meal on the table when he comes home of an evening.' She nibbled her cake and swallowed before speaking again. 'I made a note of the train times. One leaves for London on the hour.'
'I'll come to the station with you,' he promised, 'and I insist that you take the rest of those cakes. You've earned them, Madeleine.'
'I might have one more,' she said, eyeing the selection, 'but that's all. What a day! I attend a funeral, go back to Hoxton with the widow, talk to an Irishwoman, catch a train to Ashford and have tea with you at the Saracen's Head. I think that I could enjoy being a detective.'
'It's not all as simple as this, I'm afraid. You only have to ask Sergeant Leeming. When he went to the Seven Stars in Bethnal Green, he was beaten senseless because he was asking too many questions.'
'Gracious! Is he all right?'
'Victor has great powers of recovery,' Colbeck told her. 'And he's very tenacious. That's imperative in our line of work.'
'Is he here with you in Ashford?'
'Of course. At the moment, he's questioning one of the local constables and he'll stick at it until he's found out everything that he needs to know.'
'Let's start with the names at the top of the list,' said Victor Leeming, showing him the petition. 'Do you know who these people are?'
'Yes, Sergeant.'
'Begin with Timothy Lodge.' He wrote the name in his notebook. 'Does he live in Ashford?'
'He's the town barber. His shop is in Bank Street.'
'What manner of man is he?'
'Very knowledgeable,' said George Butterkiss. 'He can talk to you on any subject under the sun while he's cutting your hair or trimming your beard. What you must never do is to get him on to religion.'
'Why not?'
'Timothy is the organist at the Baptist church in St John's Lane. He's always trying to convert people to his faith.'
'We can forget him, I think,' said Leeming, crossing the name off in his notebook. 'Who's the next person on the list?'
'Horace Fillimore. A butcher.'
'That sounds more promising.'
'Not really, Sergeant,' contradicted Butterkiss. 'Horace must be nearly eighty now. Nathan Hawkshaw used to work for him. He took the shop over when Horace retired.'
Another name was eliminated from the notebook as soon as Leeming had finished writing it. The two men were in an upstairs room above the tailor's shop where Butterkiss had once toiled. Having sold the shop, he had kept the living accommodation. Even in his own home, the constable wore his uniform as if to distance himself from his former existence. Pleased to be involved in the murder investigation again, he described each of the people on the list whose signatures he could decipher. One name jumped up out him.
'Amos Lockyer!' he exclaimed.
'Who?'
'Right here, do you see?'
