Edward Marston - The excursion train

'What about your mother?' he asked.

'She always took my father's part,' said Guttridge with rancour. 'Mother was even more religious than him. She kept looking for signs from above. We had to be guided, she'd say.'

'Mrs Guttridge had no time for me,' Rebecca put in.

'She tried to turn me away from Becky. Mother told me that she was not right for me. It was not proper. Yes,' he went on, wincing at the memory, 'that was the word she used – proper. It was one of my father's favourite words as well. You can see why we never invited them to the wedding.'

'They wouldn't have come in any case,' observed Rebecca. 'They never thought I was good enough for their son.'

'Becky was brought up as a Methodist,' explained her husband. 'I came from a strict Roman Catholic family.'

'I gathered that,' said Colbeck, recalling his encounter with the widow, 'but, when I asked about your mother, I was not talking about the past. I was referring to the present – and to the future.'

'The future?'

'Your mother has lost everything, Mr Guttridge. She and your father were obviously very close. To lose him in such a cruel way has been a dreadful blow for her. Can't you see that?'

'Mother will get by,' said the other with a shrug. 'Somehow or other. She's as hard as nails.'

'It sounds to me as if you've inherited that trait from her.'

'Don't say that about Michael,' chided Rebecca.

'I speak as I find.'

'My husband is the kindest man in the world.'

'Then perhaps he can show some of that kindness to his mother. Mrs Guttridge is in great distress. She's alone, confused, frightened. She's living in a house she dislikes among people she detests and the most important thing in her life has just been snatched from her.' Colbeck looked from one to the other. 'Don't you have the slightest feeling of pity for her?'

'None at all,' snapped Rebecca.

'Put yourself in her position. How would you cope if it had been your husband who had been murdered on a train?'

'I won't even think such a horrid thought!'

'Inspector Colbeck has a point,' admitted Guttridge as family ties exerted their pull. 'It's unfair to blame Mother for what happened. It was my father who took on that rotten job and who made me hate my name. And he's gone now – for good.' He gave a wan smile. 'Maybe it is time to let bygones be bygones.'

'No, Michael,' urged Rebecca. 'I won't let you do that.'

'She's my mother, Becky.'

'A woman who looked down on me and said that I was not fit to be your wife. She insulted me.'

'Only because she didn't know you properly.'

'She didn't want to know me.'

'I can't turn my back on her,' he said, earnestly.

'You managed to do it before.'

'That was because of my father.'

There was a long, silent battle between them and Colbeck did not interfere. Michael Guttridge was at last afflicted by a modicum of guilt. His wife remained cold and unforgiving. At length, however, she did consent to take his hand and receive a conciliatory kiss on the cheek. Colbeck chose the moment to speak up again.

'I came to ask you a favour, Mr Guttridge,' he said.

'Eames,' attested his wife. 'Everyone knows us under that name.'

'Listen to what the Inspector has to say,' said her husband.

'Someone has to identify the body,' explained Colbeck, 'and your mother is not able to do that. It will only take a few moments but it has to be done for legal reasons. Would you consent to come to the morgue to make that identification?'

Guttridge was uncertain. 'I don't know.'

'Let her go,' said Rebecca. 'It's not your place.'

'In the absence of the wife, an only son is the obvious person,' remarked Colbeck. 'It's crucial that we have the right name on the death certificate. A false one will not suffice. We don't want to compel a family member to perform this duty,' he cautioned, 'but it may come to that.'

The young carpenter walked to the window and looked out into the darkness. His wife stood at his shoulder and whispered something in his ear but he shook his head. Guttridge eventually turned round.

'I'll do it, Inspector.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Colbeck, glad to have wrested the concession from him. 'It can wait until morning, if you prefer.'

'No, I need to get it over with as soon as possible.'

'Wait until tomorrow,' advised Rebecca. 'That will give us time to talk about it. I don't want you to go at all.'

'The decision has been made,' said Colbeck, anxious to separate husband and wife. 'We'll take a cab there immediately.'

Guttridge nodded. 'I'm ready, Inspector.'

'Michael!' protested his wife.

'It has to be done, Becky.'

'Have you forgotten everything that he did to us?'

'No, I haven't,' said Guttridge, grimly. 'I'm only doing this to spare Mother the trouble and to give myself some pleasure.'

'Pleasure?' reiterated Colbeck in surprise. 'I can't promise that you'll find much pleasure in the police morgue, sir.'

'Oh, but I will, Inspector.'

'How?'

'I'll enjoy something that I've wanted for over twenty years.' He was triumphant. 'I'll be able to see for certain that my father is dead.'

Because of its proximity to Scotland Yard, one of the pubs frequented by members of the Detective Department was the Lamb and Flag, a well-run establishment with a friendly atmosphere, a cheery landlord and excellent beer. While he waited for Colbeck to arrive, Victor Leeming nursed a tankard of bitter, taking only occasional sips so that he could make it last. Seated alone at a table on the far side of the bar, the Sergeant consulted his watch. The lateness of the hour worried him. He was still wondering what had kept the Inspector when Colbeck came in through the door, exchanged greetings with other police colleagues and made his way across the bar through the swirling cigarette smoke.

'I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Victor,' said Colbeck, joining him. 'Can I get you something else to drink?'

'No, thank you, sir. One is all that I dare touch. If I'm late back, as I will be, I can tell my wife that it's because of my work. Estelle accepts that. Let her think that I've been drinking heavily, however, and all hell will break loose. She'll call me names that I wouldn't care to repeat.'

'I'm glad you brought up the subject of names.'

'Are you, sir?'

'Yes, I've a tale to tell you on that score. Excuse me a moment.'

Colbeck went across to the counter and ordered a whisky and soda for himself. When he returned to the table, he took off his hat and sat opposite Leeming, who was in his customary sombre mood. Colbeck raised his glass to his companion.

'Good health, Victor!'

'I could do with it and all, sir,' admitted Leeming. 'Five minutes in that morgue and I feel as if I'm ready for the slab myself. It fair turns my stomach to go in there. How can anyone work in a place like that?'

'It takes special qualities.'

'Well, I don't have them. I know that. It's eerie.'

'I didn't find it so when I was there earlier,' said Colbeck, tasting his drink. 'Nor should you, Victor. By now, you should have got used to the sight of dead bodies. Over the years, we've seen enough of them and the one certain thing about policing this city is that we'll be forced to look at many more before we retire.'

'That's what depresses me, Inspector.'

'Learn to take it in your stride, man.'

'If only I could,' said Leeming, solemnly. 'But did you say that you'd been to the morgue as well?'

'I was accompanying the son of the murder victim. He made a positive identification of the body – all too positive, as it happens.'

'What do you mean?'

'That I've never seen anyone laugh in those circumstances before. And that's what Michael Guttridge did. When he looked at his father, he seemed to think it an occasion for hilarity.'