Edward Marston - The excursion train

It was over a year since he had been in Bethnal Green but he remembered its notorious reek all too well. No sooner did he reach the area than it assaulted his nostrils once more. In a space enclosed between a hoarding on either side of the Eastern Counties Railway was a vast ditch that had been turned into an open sewer, filled with ever-increasing quantities of excrement, dead cats and dogs, rancid food and disgusting refuse of every imaginable kind. Passing within thirty yards of this stagnant lake, Leeming had to put a hand across his nose to block out the stench. Denizens of Bethnal Green had long been habituated to the stink of decomposition.

The Seven Stars lay on the edge of an infamous area known as the Nichol. Named after Nichol Street, one of its main thoroughfares, it was a stronghold for villains of every kind, fifteen acres of sin, crime and sheer deprivation that operated by rules entirely of its own making. Leeming was a brave man, raised in one of the roughest parts of London, but even he would not have tried to walk alone through the Nichol after dusk. Its filthy streets, shadowed lanes and dark passages were a breeding ground for thieves, pickpockets and prostitutes. Its squalid tenements, slum cottages and ramshackle pubs teemed with beggars, orphans, destitute families, ruthless criminals and fugitives from the law. Bethnal Green was a haven for the most desperate characters in the underworld.

Glad that he was visiting the place in broad daylight, Leeming noticed how many animals were roaming the streets. Snarling cats fought over territory with furious commitment while skinny dogs scavenged among the rubbish. The undernourished horses and donkeys that pulled passing carts looked as if they could barely stand. Loud squawks and even louder yells of encouragement disclosed that a cockfight was being held nearby. Unwashed children played desultory games or lounged in gangs on corners. Cries of pain came from behind closed doors as violent men asserted their dominance over wives and mistresses.

Wherever he went, Leeming knew, dozens of pairs of eyes were upon him. He had never endured such hostile surveillance before. It was like a weight pressing down on him. When he entered the Seven Stars, however, the burden was immediately lifted. He collected a few casual looks from the ragged patrons scattered around the bar but they were too busy enjoying their drinks or their gossip to bother overmuch about the newcomer. Leeming sauntered across to the counter and ordered some beer. Filled with chairs and tables, the room was large, low and in a state of obvious neglect but its atmosphere was welcoming enough. The landlord served his customer with a toothless grin.

'There you are, sir,' he said as he put a foaming tankard on the counter. 'Best beer in Bethnal Green.'

'So I heard.' Leeming paid for the drink then sipped it, managing a smile even though it was far too bitter for his taste. 'And he was right. You serve a good brew.'

'Ben, sir. Everyone calls me Ben. I own the place.'

'You run a good house, Ben.'

'Thank you.'

'My first visit won't be my last.'

The landlord appraised him. 'Where are you from, sir?'

'Clerkenwell.'

'Ah, I see.' A burst of cheering and applause came from the back of the establishment and Leeming turned his head questioningly. 'The lads are staging a bout or two. Fond of milling, sir?'

'That's why I came.'

'Then you're in the right place.'

Ben Millgate beamed proudly. He was a short, stubby man in his fifties with a bald pate that was tattooed with scars, and a craggy face. No stranger to a brawl himself, he had other scars on his bare forearms and both ears had been thickened by repeated punishment.

'Did you see the fight at Twyford?' asked Millgate.

'No – worse luck! I'd have given a week's wages to be there.'

'The Bargeman was robbed and so were we.'

'That's what I was told,' said Leeming, nodding seriously. 'They reckon that Mad Isaac fought dirty.'

'That lousy Jew was full of tricks,' said Millgate, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. 'So were his friends. I was there and saw it with my own eyes. When the Bargemen staggered back against the ropes, one of Mad Isaac's men punched him in the kidneys. Another time, he was hit with a cudgel. And, three times in a row, that sneaky Jew kicked him when he was on the ground.'

'He should have been disqualified.'

'The referee and the umpires had been bribed.'

'They must've been,' agreed Leeming. 'Rotten, I call it. I had money on the Bargeman to win. He's a true champion.'

'And fought like one as well. Gave no quarter.'

'So I gather. My friend was there to support him. More or less worships the Bargeman. In fact, it was Jake who told me about your beer. Comes in here a lot to watch the young boxers learning their craft.'

'Jake, you say?'

'Jake Bransby.'

'Oh, yes,' said Millgate, cheerily, 'I know him.' 'He's a bit on the quiet side.'

'That's him, sir, and no question. A shy fellow but he understands milling. He comes in regular, does Jake. Friend of yours, is he?'

'A good friend.'

'When I drew up a list to see how many of us would be going to the fight, Jake was one of the first to call out his name.'

'You went there as a group?'

'The Seven Stars sent over a hundred people to Twyford,' bragged Millgate. 'Well, you'd expect it. The Bargeman trains here.'

'How is he now, Ben? He must've taken a real beating.'

'Took one and gave one to Mad Isaac. But he's as strong as an ox. Back on his feet within a day or two. As a matter of fact,' he went on, head turning towards the back room as more applause rang out, 'he's watching the novices showing off what they've learnt.'

'Then I'll take the opportunity to shake his hand,' said Leeming with genuine interest. 'I've followed his career from the start. I knew he had the makings of a champion when I saw him fight Amos Greer in a field near Newport Pagnell.'

'I was there as well. The Bargeman fair killed him.'

'He did at that. Greer was out cold.' He glanced around the bar. 'So all your regular customers went on that excursion train, did they?'

'Every last one of them.'

'What about newcomers?'

'Newcomers?'

'Strangers. People who drifted in for the first time.'

'We don't get many of those at the Seven Stars.'

'In that case, they would have stuck out.'

Millgate smirked. 'Like a pig in a pair of silk drawers.'

'Can you recall anyone who popped in here recently?' asked Leeming, pretending only casual interest. 'When you were drawing up that list for the excursion train, I mean?'

Ben Millgate's face went blank and he scratched the scars on the top of his head. A memory eventually seemed to come to the surface.

'Now that you mention it, sir,' he said, 'there was someone and he was certainly no Bethnal Green man. I could tell that just to look at the bugger. Odd thing is, he was asking about your friend, Jake Bransby.'

'Really? Could you describe this man?'

'Annie was the one who spoke to him, sir – she's my wife. You'd best ask her about it. Annie'll be in the back room with the others,' said Millgate, moving away. 'I'll take you through so that you can meet her. Bring your drink and you'll see the Bargeman in there as well.'

'Wonderful!' said Leeming.

Millgate lifted a hinged flap in the counter and opened the little door to step through into the bar. He led the visitor to the room at the rear then stepped back so that Leeming could enter it first. His arrival coincided with the loudest cheers yet as one of the young boxers knocked his opponent to the floor with a well-timed uppercut. The Sergeant was instantly enthralled.Crowded around the ring were dozens of people, veteran fighters, local men who followed the sport, eager youths hoping to take it up and a few women in gaudy dresses. Leeming also noticed a couple of well-dressed gentlemen, standing near the edge of the ring, members of the Fancy in search of new talent to sponsor, potential champions on whom they could wager extravagant amounts.