she delayed him, the killer attacked from behind.'
'What put that notion into your head, Inspector?'
'The fact that she was in that carriage at all.'
'There's no mystery in that,' said Tallis, darkly. 'We both know why she was there. Such creatures always follow a crowd. Clearly, she was looking for a better class of customer than she'd find among the ruffians in third- class.'
'I've only Mr Pritchard's word that the woman was, in fact, a prostitute. He could well have been mistaken. He confessed that he'd been drinking before he boarded the train so his judgement may not be altogether sound. What interests me,' Colbeck continued, 'was that the woman did not return to the train at Twyford.'
'Perhaps she went astray.'
'Deliberately.'
'You've no means of knowing that.'
'I have this instinct, sir.'
'We need more than theory and instinct to solve this murder, Inspector. We need definite clues. So far you seem to have drawn a complete blank.' He glowered at Colbeck. 'What's your next move?'
'To visit the home of the deceased. He wore a wedding ring so he must have a wife and family. They deserve to know what has happened to him. I intend to go to Hoxton at once.'
'What about Sergeant Leeming?'
'He's on his way to the morgue with Mr Bransby, sir. I told him to stay there until the doctor had examined the body in case any important new details came to light. Victor and I will confer later on.'
'For an exchange of theories?' said Tallis with gruff sarcasm.
'Useful information can always be picked up from the doctor even before a full autopsy is carried out. He may, for instance, give us a more accurate idea of what murder weapon was used.'
'Bring me news of any progress that you make.'
'Of course, sir.'
'Soon.'
'We'll do our best.'
'I trust that you will. I've already had the railway company on to me, demanding an early arrest. A murder on one of their trains is a bad advertisement for them. It deters other passengers from travelling. The crime must be solved quickly. But they must bear some responsibility,' said Tallis, wagging a finger. 'If the Great Western Railway hadn't condoned an illegal fight and transported the sweepings of the slums to it, this murder would never have been committed.'
'It would, Superintendent,' said Colbeck, firmly, 'albeit at another time and in another place. Theft was not the motive or the man's wallet would have been taken. No,' he insisted, 'this was not an opportunist crime. It was a calculated homicide. Jacob Bransby was being stalked.'
At the time when the Domesday Book had been compiled, Hoxton was a manor of three hides, held by the Canons of St Paul's. It had been a tranquil place with green pastures and open meadows intersected by the river along which mills were conveniently sited. There was not the tiniest hint of its former rural beauty now. A part of Shoreditch, it belonged to a community of well over 100,000 souls in an unsightly urban sprawl. It was one of the worst parts of London with poverty and overcrowding as the salient features of its dark, narrow, filthy, cluttered streets. As the cab took him to the address on the tradesman's bill, Robert Colbeck reflected that Hoxton was hardly the district in which to find a man who carried a gold watch and a five pound note on his person. The dagger, however, was a more understandable accessory. In many parts of the area, a weapon of some sort was almost obligatory.
Colbeck was well acquainted with Hoxton, having been assigned a beat there during his days in uniform. He was wearily familiar with its brothels, gambling dens, penny gaffs, music halls, seedy public houses and ordinaries. He knew the rat- infested tenements where whole families were crammed into a single room and where disease ran amok in the insanitary conditions. He remembered the distinctive smell of Hoxton with its blend of menace, despair and rotting food. What had always struck him was not how many criminals gravitated to the place to form a thriving underworld but how many decent, hard-working, law-abiding people also lived there and managed to rise above their joyless surroundings.
After picking its way through the busy streets, the cab turned a corner and slowed down before stopping outside a terraced house. It was in one of the better parts of Hoxton but there was still a distinct whiff of decay about it. Children were playing with a ball in the fading light or watching an ancient man struggling to coax music out of his barrel organ. When they saw the cab, some of the younger ones scampered across to pat the horse and to ask the driver for a ride. Colbeck got out, paid his fare and knocked on the door of Jacob Bransby's house. There was a long wait before a curtain was twitched in the window. Moments later, the door opened and the curious face of a middle-aged woman peered around it.
'Can I help you, sir?'
'Mrs Bransby?'
'Yes,' she said after a considered pause.
'My name is Detective Inspector Colbeck,' he explained, displaying his warrant card. 'I wonder if I might have a word with you?'
Alarm sounded. 'Why? Has something happened to my husband? I expected him back before now.'
'Perhaps I could come in, Mrs Bransby,' he said, softly. 'This is not something that we should be discussing on your doorstep.'
She nodded and moved back to admit him. Removing his top hat, he stepped into a small passageway and waited until she shut the door behind them. Louise Bransby led him into the front room that was better furnished than he had expected. A lighted oil lamp bathed it in a warm glow. Over the mantelpiece was a picture of the Virgin Mary. On the opposite wall was a crucifix. The carpet had a new feel to it.
'Why don't you sit down?' he suggested.
'If you say so, Inspector.'
'Is there anyone else in the house?'
'No,' she said, lowering herself into an armchair. 'Jake and I live here alone. Our son has a home of his own now.'
'Is there a friend or a neighbour you'd like to call in?'
'Why?'
'You might need some company, Mrs Bransby.'
'Not from anyone round here,' she said, sharply. 'We have no friends in Hoxton.' She took a deep breath and steeled herself. 'I'm ready, Inspector. Tell me what brought you here.'
Louise Bransby was a plump woman in a blue dress that had been worn once too often. She had curly brown hair and an oval face that was disfigured by a frown. Colbeck sensed a quiet toughness about her that would make his task slightly easier. Whatever else she did, Louise Bransby seemed unlikely to collapse in hysterics or simply pass out.
'I'm afraid that I have some bad news for you,' he began.
'It's not his heart again, is it?' she asked with concern. 'The doctor warned him against getting too excited but Jake just had to go to that fight. He loved boxing. It gave him so much pleasure. He'd go anywhere to watch it.' She leant forward. 'Has he been taken ill?'
'It's worse than that,' said Colbeck, sitting on the upright chair beside her. 'Your husband is dead.' As she convulsed momentarily, he put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. 'I'm so sorry, Mrs Bransby. I hate to be the bearer of such sad tidings.'
She bit her lip. 'It was bound to happen sooner or later,' she said, wiping away a tear with her hand. 'I knew that. Jake would drive himself so. And I was afraid that it would all end once we came here. Moving to Hoxton was a bad mistake.'
'How long have you been in the house?'
'A couple of months.'
'Where were you before?'
'Clerkenwell.'
