‘Yet he still went on gambling?’
‘Yes, Inspector.’
‘Do you know where he went to play cards?’
‘I do now,’ she said, vengefully. ‘I got it out of him in the end. I mean, I had a right to know. I’m his wife, Inspector. Sometimes, he’d be away all night at this place. I had a right to be told where it was.’
‘And where was it, Mrs Ings?’
‘Devil’s Acre.’
‘I see.’
Colbeck knew the area only too well. It was a favoured haunt of the criminal fraternity and notorious for its brothels and gambling dens. If her husband were a regular visitor to Devil’s Acre, then Maud Ings had been right to describe his addiction as a disease. No decent or sensible man would even dare to venture into such a hazardous district. Colbeck was seeing an aspect of William Ings that had been carefully hidden from his employer. Herbert Shipperley might believe that Ings had an unblemished character but the man consorted regularly with criminals around a card table.
Colbeck was certain that he had picked up a scent at last.
‘Is that where your husband is now?’ he asked. ‘Playing cards?’
‘Probably.’
‘Can you be a little more precise, Mrs Ings?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘He wouldn’t tell me exactly where he went in case I tried to follow him there. And I would have, Inspector,’ she went on with an edge of desperation. ‘William left us with no money.’
‘He left you with a roof over your head.’
‘That’s true, Inspector. I’ve still got a home for myself and the children. It’s one consolation. And he did promise that he’d send me something when the money came through.’
‘From his wages, you mean?’
‘Well, I don’t think it would be from his winnings at a card table,’ she said, ‘because he always seemed to lose.’ She peered at Colbeck. ‘Why are you so interested in my husband? I still don’t understand why you came here looking for him.’
‘Earlier today,’ he explained, ‘there was a train robbery.’
‘He’d never get involved in anything like that,’ she protested.
‘Not directly, perhaps, but the mail train that was ambushed was carrying a consignment of money. Mr Ings was one of the few men who knew that the money would be in transit today.’
‘That doesn’t mean he betrayed the secret.’
‘No,’ he conceded, ‘and it may well be that your husband is completely innocent. What I need to do is to establish that innocence as soon as is possible so that we can eliminate him from our inquiries. Now,’ he said, softly, ‘I realise that this is a difficult time for you but I must press you on the matter of his whereabouts.’
‘I told you, Inspector. I don’t know where he is.’
‘You must have some idea, Mrs Ings.’
‘None at all.’
‘When did he leave?’
‘Last weekend.’
‘Did he offer you no explanation?’
‘William simply packed a bag and walked out of the house.’
‘He must have had somewhere to go to,’ insisted Colbeck, watching her carefully. ‘Somewhere — or someone.’
Her cheeks reddened. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Inspector.’
‘I think that you do.’
‘William is not that sort of man.’
‘Your husband is a trusted employee at the Post Office,’ he told her, calmly, ‘a man with access to important information. On the eve of a serious crime that may be linked to his place of work, Mr Ings not only pleads illness and stays away, he leaves his wife and children to fend for themselves while he goes elsewhere.’ He fixed her with a piercing stare. ‘I think that we have rather more than a curious coincidence here, Mrs Ings. Don’t you?’
Maud Ings was in a quandary. Wanting to protect her husband, she was deeply hurt by his treatment of her. Refusing to accept that he could be involved in a crime, she came to see that the evidence was pointing against him. She wrestled with her conscience for a long time but Colbeck did not rush her, recognising that her situation was already exerting almost unbearable pressure upon the woman. She was the discarded wife of a man who might turn out to be involved in a major crime. It took time for her to adjust to the full horror of her predicament.
Eventually, she capitulated and gabbled the information.
‘I don’t know the woman’s name,’ she said with rancour, ‘but I think that she lives in the Devil’s Acre.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Superintendent Edward Tallis was just finishing another cigar when there was a knock on the door of his office. It was late but he rarely left his desk before ten o’clock at night, believing that long hours and continual vigilance were required to police a city as large and volatile as London. He cleared his throat noisily.
‘Come in,’ he called, stubbing out his cigar in an ashtray.
Robert Colbeck entered. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said.
‘I was wondering when you’d deign to put in an appearance.’
‘Sergeant Leeming and I have been very busy.’
‘To what effect?’
‘I believe that we’ve made slight headway, Superintendent.’
‘Is that all?’
‘There’s still a lot of intelligence to gather,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I wanted to keep you abreast of developments. Is this a convenient time?’
‘No,’ said Tallis, grumpily, ‘it most definitely is not. My head is pounding, my bad tooth is aching and I’m extremely tired. This is a highly inconvenient time, Inspector, but I’ll endure it with good grace. Take a seat and tell me what you have to report.’
Colbeck chose a leather armchair and settled back into it. Relying solely on his memory, he gave a concise account of the progress of the investigation and drew a periodic grunt of approval from the other man. He took it as a good sign that Tallis did not even try to interrupt him. Colbeck just wished that the cigar smoke were not quite so acrid, mingling, as it did, with the stink from the gas lighting to produce a foul compound.