‘We’ll need to speak to all three of them.’
‘Is that necessary, Inspector?’
‘I think so,’ said Colbeck. ‘What time will they arrive for work tomorrow morning?’ The other man looked uncomfortable. Colbeck took a step closer. ‘Is there a problem, Mr Shipperley?’
‘Yes,’ he confessed. ‘Mr Dyer and Mr Finlayson will definitely be here but I can’t guarantee that Mr Ings will turn up.’
‘Oh? Why is that, pray?’
‘He’s been sick all week and unable to work.’
Leeming put a tick against one of the names in his notebook.
When she heard the knock on the front door, Maud Ings rushed to open it, first drawing back the heavy bolts. Her expectation changed instantly to disappointment when she saw, by the light of her lamp, that the caller was a complete stranger. Inspector Robert Colbeck touched the brim of his hat politely then explained who he was. Mrs Ings was alarmed to hear of his occupation.
‘Has something happened to William?’ she asked.
‘Not that I know of, Mrs Ings.’
‘That’s a relief!’
‘My understanding was that your husband was at home.’
She shifted her feet uneasily. ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘His employer told me that he was ill.’
‘Why?’ she said in surprise. ‘Has he not been to work?’
‘I wonder if I might come in,’ said Colbeck, quietly.
The house was at the end of a terrace not far from Euston Station. It was small and neat with a presentable exterior. Once inside, however, Colbeck saw signs of sustained neglect. Wallpaper was starting to peel on some walls and the paint work was in a poor condition. There was a distinct smell of damp. The room into which he was conducted had no more than a few sticks of furniture in it and a threadbare carpet. There was an air of neglect about Maud Ings as well. She was a slim, shapeless woman in her late thirties with a haggard face and unkempt hair. He could see from the red-rimmed eyes that she had been crying. A moist handkerchief protruded from the sleeve of her dress.
Embarrassed by her appearance, she took off her apron then adjusted her hair with a hand. She gave him an apologetic smile.
‘Excuse me, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I was not expecting company.’
‘But you were expecting someone, Mrs Ings. I could tell that by the alacrity with which you opened the door. Did you think that I might be your husband?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does he not have a key to his own front door?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then why did you bolt it against him?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Perhaps you should sit down,’ he suggested, seeing her distress. ‘I’m sorry that I called at such an inopportune hour but I had no choice. It’s imperative that I speak to Mr Ings.’
‘Why?’ she asked, sitting down.
‘It’s a matter that relates to his work at the Post Office.’
‘Is he in trouble, Inspector?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘What has he done?’
‘Well,’ he replied, taking the chair opposite her, ‘Mr Ings failed to report for work this week. He sent word to say that he was sick.’
‘But there’s nothing wrong with him.’
‘So why did he lie to his employers?’
Maud Ings bit her lip. ‘William has never let them down before,’ she said with vestigial affection for her husband. ‘He works long hours at the Post Office. They don’t appreciate what he does.’ She gave a shrug. ‘It may be that he is unwell. That’s the only thing that would keep him away. The truth is that I haven’t seen him this week.’
‘And why is that, Mrs Ings?’
‘My husband is…staying elsewhere.’
‘Do you have an address for him?’
‘No,’ she said, bitterly, ‘and I don’t really want it.’
Colbeck took a swift inventory of the room then looked at her more closely. Maud Ings was evidently a woman who was at the end of her tether. Apparently abandoned by her husband, she was still hoping that he might come back to her even though he had caused her obvious suffering. The remains of her youthful prettiness were all but obscured now. Colbeck treated her with great sympathy.
‘I regret that I have to ask you about your private life,’ he said, ‘but it’s germane to my investigation. Mrs Ings, it’s not difficult to see that you and your husband were short of money.’
‘I did my best,’ she said, defensively. ‘I always managed on what he gave me, however little it was.’
‘Yet Mr Ings earned a reasonable wage at the Post Office.’
‘Earned it and threw it away, Inspector.’
‘Was he a drinking man?’
‘No,’ she replied, as another flicker of affection showed, ‘William was no drunkard. I can clear him of that charge. He was a good man at heart — kind and considerate.’ Her voice darkened. ‘At least, he was for a time. That was before he caught the disease.’
‘What disease?’
‘Gambling. It ruined our marriage, Inspector.’
‘I take it that he was not a successful gambler.’