‘That was Sergeant Leeming,’ he explained. ‘I’m afraid that Victor is not blessed with the most handsome face in London, though his wife loves him dearly nevertheless.’
‘It was his manner, Inspector.’
‘Polite but rough-edged. I know what you mean. Victor spent years, pounding his beat in uniform. It leaves its mark on a man. My time in uniform was considerably shorter. However,’ he went on, looking up Whitehall, ‘you did not come here to be bored by my life story. Let me help you find a cab.’
‘I had planned to walk some of the way, Inspector.’
‘I’d advise against it, Miss Andrews. It is not always safe for an attractive woman to stroll unaccompanied at this time of day.’
‘I am well able to look after myself.’
‘It will be dark before long.’
‘I am not afraid of the dark.’
‘Why take any risks?’
Seeing a cab approach in the distance, he raised a hand.
‘There is no risk involved,’ she said with a show of spirit. ‘Please do not stop the cab on my account. If I wished to take it, I am quite capable of hailing it myself.’
He lowered his hand. ‘I beg your pardon.’
‘You must not worry about me. I am much stronger than I may appear. After all, I did come here on foot.’
He was taken aback. ‘You walked from Camden Town?’
‘It was good exercise,’ she replied. ‘Goodbye, Inspector Colbeck.’
‘Goodbye, Miss Andrews. It was a pleasure to meet you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I will see you again tomorrow,’ he said, relishing the thought. ‘I hope that you’ll forgive me if I arrive by Hansom cab.’
She gave him a faint smile before walking off up Whitehall. Colbeck stood for a moment to watch her then he went back into the building. As soon as the detective had disappeared, a figure stepped out from the doorway in which he had been hiding. He was a dark-eyed young man of medium height in an ill-fitting brown suit. Pulling his cap down, he set off in pursuit of Madeleine Andrews.
By the time he got back to The Black Dog, the fight had already started. Several people were involved and they had reached the stage of hurling chairs at each other or defending themselves with a broken bottle. Brendan Mulryne did not hesitate. Hurling himself into the middle of the fray, he banged heads together, kicked one man in the groin and felled a second with an uppercut. But even he could not stop the brawl. When it spilt out into the street, he was carried along with it, flailing away with both fists and inflicting indiscriminate punishment.
Mulryne did not go unscathed. He took some heavy blows himself and the brick that was thrown at him opened a gash above his eye. Blood streamed down his face. It only served to enrage him and to make him more determined to flatten every man within reach. Roaring with anger, he punched, kicked, grappled, gouged and even sank his teeth into a forearm that was wrapped unwisely across his face. Well over a dozen people had been involved in the fracas but, apart from the Irishman, only three were left standing.
As he bore down on them, they took to their heels and Mulryne went after the trio, resolved to teach them to stay away from The Black Dog in future. One of them tripped and fell headlong. Mulryne was on him at once, heaving him to his feet and slamming him against a wall until he heard bones crack. The next moment, a length of iron pipe struck the back of Mulryne’s head and sent him to his knees. The two friends of the man who had fallen had come back to rescue him. Hurt by the blow, the Irishman had the presence of mind to roll over quickly so that he dodged a second murderous swipe.
He was on his feet in an instant, grabbing the pipe and wresting it from the man holding it. Mulryne used it to club him to the ground. When the second man started to belabour him, he tossed the pipe away, lifted his assailant up and hurled him through a window. Yells of protest came from the occupants of the house. Dazed by the blow to his head and exhausted by the fight, Mulryne swayed unsteadily on his feet, both hands to his wounds to stem the bleeding. He did not even hear the sound of the police whistles.
Robert Colbeck sat in his office and reviewed the evidence with Victor Leeming. While no arrests had yet been made, they felt that they had a clear picture of how the robbery had taken place, and what help had been given to the gang responsible by employees in the Post Office and the lock industry. The Sergeant still believed that someone from the Royal Mint was implicated as well. Colbeck told him about the interview with Madeleine Andrews and how he had been able to still her fears.
‘The young lady was well-dressed for a railwayman’s daughter.’
‘Did you think that she’d be wearing rags and walking barefoot?’
‘She looked so neat and tidy, sir.’
‘Engine drivers are the best-paid men on the railway,’ said Colbeck, ‘and quite rightly. They have to be able to read, write and understand the mechanism of the locomotive. That’s why so many of them begin as fitters before becoming firemen. Caleb Andrews earns enough to bring up his daughter properly.’
‘I could tell from her voice that she’d had schooling.’
‘I think that she’s an intelligent woman.’
‘And a very fetching one,’ said Leeming with a grin.
‘She thought that you were a typical policeman, Victor.’
‘Is that good or bad, sir?’
Colbeck was tactful. ‘You’ll have to ask the young lady herself.’ There was a tap on the door. ‘Come in!’ he said.
The door opened and a policeman entered in uniform.
‘I was asked to give this to you, Inspector Colbeck,’ he said, handing over the envelope that he was carrying.
‘I’m told that it’s quite urgent. I’m to wait for a reply.’
‘Very well.’ Colbeck opened the envelope and read the note inside. He scrunched up the paper in his hand. ‘There’s no reply,’ he said. ‘I’ll come with you myself.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Bad news, Inspector?’ wondered Leeming.
‘No, Victor,’ said Colbeck, smoothly. ‘A slight problem has arisen, that’s all. It will not take me long to sort it out. Excuse me.’
The only time that Brendan Mulryne had seen the inside of a police cell was when he had thrown the people he had arrested into one. It was different being on the other side of the law. When the door had slammed shut upon him, he was locked in a small, bare, cheerless room that was no more than a brick rectangle. The tiny window, high in the back wall, was simply a ventilation slit with thick iron bars in it. The place reeked of stale vomit and urine.
The bed was a hard wooden bench with no mattress or blankets. Sitting on the edge of it, Mulryne wished that his head would stop aching. His wounds had been tended, and the blood wiped from his face, but it was obvious that he had been in a fight. His craggy face was covered with cuts and abrasions, his knuckles were raw. His black eye and split lip would both take time to heal. It had been a savage brawl yet he was not sorry to have been in it. His only regret was that he had been arrested as a result. It meant that he would lose money and leave The Black Dog unguarded for some time.
When a key scraped in the lock, he hoped that someone was bringing him a cup of tea to revive him. But it was not the custody sergeant who stepped into the cell. Instead, Inspector Robert Colbeck came in and looked down at the offender with more disappointment than sympathy. His voice was uncharacteristically harsh.
‘Why ever did you get yourself locked up in here, Brendan?’
‘It was a mistake,’ argued Mulryne.
‘Police records do not lie,’ said Colbeck. ‘According to the book, you have been charged with taking part in an affray, causing criminal damage, inflicting grievous bodily harm and — shocking for someone who used to wear a police uniform — resisting arrest.’
‘Do you think that I wanted to be shut away here?’
‘Why make things worse for yourself?’