Murder at the Manchester Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘He was arrested and put in the local jail while awaiting transfer to the main jail in Cork city, where he was to stand trial for murder.’

  ‘From the way you’re telling this, I’m guessing that something happened to change that.’

  O’Brien nodded. ‘Gully escaped from Kanturk Jail. How is unclear, but there is a suggestion that he may have had help. Anyway, he disappeared, and there’s been no sign of him in the area since. Which is strange, because in that area everyone knows everyone. And very few would be on Con Gully’s side. His wife’s family, for sure, want to lay their hands on him. Plus, there’s a reward for his recapture.’

  ‘You think he might have fled to England?’

  ‘It’s possible. And the O’Donnells aren’t the only people in Manchester from that part of north Cork.’

  ‘So it’s possible that Con Gully fled and sought refuge with friends here, and spotted Kathleen when she arrived.’

  ‘Although it may just be conjecture.’ He sighed. ‘I may be totally wrong and Con Gully could have fled west to Connemara, or somewhere else in England. London’s full of Irish, as is Liverpool.’

  ‘But if he did come to Manchester and recognised Kathleen as someone from his home area, he’d feel the need to silence her. And, if Eileen was with her at the time, he’d need to silence her as well.’ Abigail mused over this, then asked, ‘If there’s a reward for Gully’s arrest, wouldn’t it be of benefit to the people who told you about this to take it to the police?’

  O’Brien shook his head. ‘It doesn’t work that way. The person who told me about this heard about it in a letter from a brother of his back in Kanturk. Neither he nor his brother are fond of the police, and the police aren’t fond of them. There’s no way on God’s earth they’d talk to the police.’

  ‘How about you?’ asked Abigail. ‘You could pass it on.’

  Again, O’Brien shook his head. ‘The people in my parish trust me to keep their secrets. Not just the things they tell me in confession. Yes, they expect me to gossip and chatter, but if it was discovered that I’d gone to the police with something I’d been told by a member of my parish …’ He gave a sigh. ‘I might as well give it up here and now.’

  ‘But you’re telling me.’

  ‘Mr Wilson’s an ex-policeman, and I believe a good man. He’s not got the taint of the local force. He could take it to the local constabulary.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘I’m doing this because I hate what happened to Kathleen. And, if it is Con Gully who did this, I’d like him brought to justice. For this, and for what he did to his poor late wife in Kanturk.’

  ‘We’ll do what we can, Father,’ said Abigail. ‘But the police inspector has made it pretty clear he has no time for Mr Wilson. I doubt if he’ll listen to us. But I promise we’ll do all we can to get him to. But just in case it isn’t this man Gully, I’d still like to talk to the O’Donnell girls.’

  Daniel also decided to take a hansom to Hector Bleasdale’s house as it was in Gorton, a part of Manchester he was as yet unfamiliar with. In his letter, Bleasdale had added: You will find my house not far from the Belle Vue Zoological Gardens.

  Another place for Abigail and I to visit, when we have time to spare, Daniel reflected.

  The borough of Gorton was very different from either Ancoats or Hulme, the houses more spacious and not crammed together as the back-to-backs had been, with floral displays in tubs lining the pavements, along with stone troughs filled with water for the horses that pulled the buses and the wagons. Despite the presence of the blooms with their various scents, it was the smell of horse dung that prevailed. But not as badly as that of the middens in Ancoats, Daniel reflected.

  Hector Bleasdale’s home was a neat terraced house in a long and immaculately kept road. Once more, Daniel compared Gorton with Ancoats and Hulme, and was just feeling relieved that Abigail had been persuaded to take a cab to see Father O’Brien, when he remembered that appearances were often deceptive. As a detective in London he’d seen just as many violent murders in the wealthy areas of Chelsea and Kensington and Maida Vale as he had in the poorer districts.

  So Abigail is right, after all, he thought ruefully.

  Hector Bleasdale was a short and very round man, wearing a waistcoat that strained at its buttons over his large stomach. He was in his late fifties, almost bald, with just a few thin strands of hair stretched across his scalp. He smiled in welcome as he opened the door to Daniel.

  ‘Mr Wilson!’ He beamed. ‘This is a pleasure. Of course I am aware of who you are; your fame has spread this far north.’

  ‘I fear you flatter me, Mr Bleasdale.’ Daniel smiled back. ‘I was just an ordinary policeman, but I was fortunate to be working with Inspector Abberline and at Scotland Yard during a time of some notoriety.’

  ‘Would you care for tea or coffee?’ asked Bleasdale. ‘My housekeeper is a grand provider.’

  ‘A coffee would be greatly appreciated, thank you,’ said Daniel.

  Bleasdale picked up a small bell which he rang to summon his housekeeper in order to request a pot of coffee – ‘and some tasty biscuits, please, Mrs Barden’ – then he gestured for Daniel to sit in one of the comfortable leather armchairs, while he took the other.

  ‘Before we begin, I promised Mr Steggles I’d ask how the exhibition about the army planned for the museum is going.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Bleasdale, ‘I was just wondering about that myself. I haven’t heard from Brigadier Wentworth lately about what the next move is. I was planning to call on him and see if he’s made any progress on what sort of things he’d like to see. I think it would be a great opportunity to promote the local regiments, with features on heroes of the past, focusing on their great engagements, which I’m sure would help to bring in more recruits. It is people who are the lifeblood of the army, after all.’

  ‘Very true,’ said Daniel. ‘And if you receive any news from the brigadier …’

  ‘I shall be in touch with Mr Steggles at once,’ Bleasdale assured him.

  The door opened and his housekeeper appeared bearing a tray with coffee and biscuits, which she placed on the low table between them.

  Bleasdale smiled. ‘Thank you, Mrs Barden.’ He picked up a cup and settled back in his chair. ‘You mentioned in your note you were interested in military affairs in Manchester some eighty years ago. That covers quite a large canvas. Which particular aspects are you researching?’

  ‘To be honest, I’m not sure,’ admitted Daniel. ‘But I’m guessing it must have been something quite impactful.’

  He hesitated, wondering how much to tell Bleasdale, having promised Steggles that he and Abigail would be doing their best to keep the museum’s involvement with the murders in confidence. Then he realised that would be irrelevant as soon as Bickerstaff’s article appeared in the Guardian. Bleasdale’s next words resolved any dilemma he might have had, when the historian asked, ‘Is this anything to do with the dead woman found at the museum?’

  ‘You know about that?’

  Bleasdale nodded. ‘I went to the museum on Saturday to talk to Steggles about the army exhibition he’s been planning, but he wasn’t there. So I fell into conversation with Jonty Hawkins and he told me about the poor young woman being found. Stabbed! How dreadful!’

  ‘Yes, and the coincidence is that her death happened after she began to make her own enquiries about the history of the army in Manchester all those years ago. In fact, William Bickerstaff of the Manchester Guardian suggested I ask you about Peterloo.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Bleasdale nodded.

  ‘He described it as the massacre of working people.’

  ‘I think “massacre” is too strong a word. At Peterloo, or St Peter’s Field to give it its proper name, fifteen people died. Tragic, but by no means a massacre.’

  ‘What actually happened?’

  Bleasdale looked thoughtful for a moment, then he said, ‘There was a public meeting at St Peter’s Field in Manchester on 16th August 1819 at which a radical politici
an was to speak. I can’t give you chapter and verse on the politics behind the meeting, my interest is in military history, but I’m sure you can find out the details. There are plenty of people who are very vocal about radical politics in Manchester.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘William Bickerstaff, who you mentioned, I would count as one of them.’

  Daniel nodded. ‘Yes, I gathered that. He said he would give me his side of the story after I’d heard yours.’

  Bleasdale gave a wry smile. ‘I am a practical man. Mr Bickerstaff is more – shall one say – emotional. But to the facts, as I know them. A large crowd had gathered for the meeting. Estimates put the number at between 50,000 people and 150,000.’

  Daniel stared at him, stunned. ‘That many!’

  ‘Yes. There was a great interest in social conditions, and a lot of ill feeling about social deprivation in the area. As I said, I’m sure Mr Bickerstaff can let you know about social conditions and the radical movement of the time. The meeting was to be addressed by Henry Hunt, a radical orator. Truth to tell, I don’t believe the authorities had expected such a large crowd, so the task of controlling them had initially been given to special constables.’

  ‘How many?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘According to the records, by noon there were several hundred.’

  ‘To arrange for several hundred special constables would have taken advance planning,’ pointed out Daniel. ‘Which suggests the authorities had been expecting a very large crowd.’

  ‘Or a small crowd with the constables outnumbering them,’ countered Bleasdale.

  ‘True,’ admitted Daniel. ‘So how did troops become involved? I assume they did.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bleasdale. ‘Henry Hunt’s carriage arrived about one o’clock and he took to the platform, along with some others.’

  ‘Who were the others?’

  ‘I’m not sure of all of them. I do know they included a man called Joseph Johnson, who’d organised the meeting, and a reformer and cotton manufacturer, John Knight.’

  ‘I’d be interested to know why their names stick in the memory?’

  ‘Because their names were on the arrest warrant.’

  ‘The arrest warrant?’

  Bleasdale nodded. ‘William Hulton, the chairman of the magistrates, was in a house on the edge of St Peter’s Field along with other members of the committee, and it was from there he watched the events unfold. He decided, from the very warm welcome that enormous crowd gave Hunt when he took to the platform, that there was a risk of rioting. So he issued an arrest warrant for Hunt, Johnson and Knight. When he gave the warrant to the constable, a man called Jonathan Andrews, Andrews said he wouldn’t be able to make his way through the crowd to serve it without the help of the military. So Hulton sent letters to Major Trafford, the commanding officer of the Manchester and Salford Yeomanry, and Lieutenant Colonel L’Estrange, the overall military commander for Manchester, asking them to attend urgently at St Peter’s Field in order to preserve the peace.

  ‘The Manchester and Salford Yeomanry were nearest, in Portland Street, and they immediately set off for St Peter’s Field.’ He hesitated, then added sadly, ‘Because of the phrase about them being needed urgently to preserve the peace, they drew their sabres and proceeded to the field at a gallop. In their haste, one trooper knocked down a woman in Cooper Street. Unfortunately, she dropped her two-year-old son she was carrying at the time. He died.’

  ‘Soldiers on horseback galloping and brandishing their sabres, it was lucky more weren’t killed in that charge,’ said Daniel gravely.

  ‘Actually, they were,’ said Bleasdale in sombre tones. ‘But only on their arrival at the field. The Yeomanry made a cavalry charge towards the platform where the speakers stood, but their horses became stuck in the crowds. Some of the troopers panicked and began to lay about them with their sabres. Panic spread throughout the crowd and some began throwing objects at the soldiers.

  ‘It was then that William Hulton ordered L’Estrange to send in his troops. He said afterwards it was done to protect the Yeomanry who were bring attacked by the crowd.

  ‘L’Estrange sent in the 15th Hussars, who charged the crowd with sabres drawn. The crowd rushed to get away from them, but the 88th Regiment of Foot, with bayonets fixed to their rifles, blocked the main exit from St Peter’s Field into Peter Street, stopping them escaping that way.’

  ‘So the soldiers trapped them and continued cutting them down,’ said Daniel.

  ‘The soldiers were just following orders,’ said Bleasdale defensively. ‘The responsibility stands not with the army or the soldiers but with William Hulton, who ordered them into action.’

  Daniel nodded thoughtfully. ‘I would imagine certain people in the military here wouldn’t be keen on someone digging up what happened at Peterloo, after all this time,’ he said.

  ‘If you’re suggesting that someone in the military killed this poor woman to stop her asking awkward questions, I think that highly unlikely,’ said Bleasdale. ‘Everyone here knows about Peterloo and what happened. It was tragic, but it’s now part of history from long ago, just as the Peninsular War or the Anglo-American War could be seen. There is nothing hidden to reveal about what happened at St Peter’s Field. It’s all been documented. There are no secrets about it for anyone to feel the need to kill to protect them.’

  ‘Indeed. I have one last question, if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Of a military nature?’ asked Bleasdale.

  ‘Regarding conventions of dress. Do you know which officers might carry a bladed weapon about them when they are in civilian clothes. In a scabbard. For example, a bayonet.’

  ‘Very few, I would think,’ said Bleasdale. ‘If an officer or a gentleman wished to carry a blade for his own protection as a civilian, I believe most prefer a sword stick. I’m sure you’re familiar with them. Ostensibly it looks like a walking stick …’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen them,’ said Daniel. ‘But if an officer chose to carry a bayonet in a scabbard about them while in civilian dress, which ranks might that be?’

  ‘Only the higher ranks,’ said Bleasdale. ‘General, lieutenant general, major general, brigadier, colonel, lieutenant colonel. Possibly a major.’

  ‘What about a regimental sergeant major?’

  Bleasdale frowned. ‘An RSM is defined as a warrant officer class 1, but comes under the heading of other ranks,’ he said. ‘An RSM is not of officer class.’

  ‘But he may carry a bayonet about his person?’

  ‘When in uniform,’ said Bleasdale.

  ‘And out of uniform?’

  ‘It would be most irregular.’

  ‘But not impossible.’

  ‘No,’ said Bleasdale. ‘But, as I say, it would be irregular.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The wooden chair that Patrick O’Donnell had occupied the previous day was still outside the house, but there was no sign of Patrick himself. Instead a small boy was sitting on the chair and he stood up as he saw the priest and Abigail approach.

  ‘Is your da in, Thomas?’ asked O’Brien.

  ‘He’s not well,’ said the small boy.

  O’Brien nodded and gave Abigail a meaningful glance, which said: He’s taken to seeking solace in the bottle again.

  ‘So who’s at home today?’ he asked.

  ‘Breda’s upstairs with the baby,’ said Thomas. ‘Peter, Marie and Molly have gone to the infirmary. It’s Ma’s funeral tomorrow.’

  ‘A pauper’s funeral, I’m afraid,’ whispered the priest to Abigail. Aloud he said, ‘We’ll go up and see Breda. This lady is here to talk to her.’ Abigail followed the priest up the narrow stairs and entered a bedroom. Abigail stood, adjusting her eyes to the gloom in the small bedroom, caused in part by the layer of soot that covered the outside of the single window. A smell of earthy damp and urine pervaded the room. A girl of sixteen was sitting on the bed, sewing a torn pair of trousers. Other items of clothing with rips and tears in them were on the bed beside her, as was a sleeping
baby wrapped in a woollen shawl. Next to them sat a young girl of about three, sucking her thumb and looking with blank eyes at the priest.

  ‘That’s young Margaret, baby Sean and Breda,’ introduced O’Brien. ‘I see you’re hard at work, Breda.’

  ‘We want the boys to look right for the funeral,’ said Breda.

  ‘Breda, this is Miss Fenton,’ O’Brien introduced Abigail. ‘She’s a detective.’

  Breda stared at Abigail. ‘A woman detective?’

  Abigail gave a wry smile. ‘I know it’s unusual, but the fact is I work with someone else who was a police detective, and we both investigate things. Right now we’ve been asked to look into what happened to your mother and Kathleen.’

  ‘Do you think the same person killed them both?’ asked Breda.

  ‘We don’t know,’ admitted Abigail. ‘At this stage we’re trying to gather as much information as we can to try and find out what happened, and why. Were you here when Kathleen arrived from Ireland?’

  Breda nodded.

  ‘Did you speak much to Kathleen?’

  ‘Only to say hello,’ said Breda. ‘I’m usually busy doing things around the house.’

  ‘Now I’ve done the introduction, I’ll leave you two together and go downstairs and have a word with Thomas,’ said O’Brien. ‘Is that all right with you, Breda?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ said Breda.

  ‘If you need me for anything, just call,’ O’Brien said to Abigail.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ said Abigail, sitting down on the bed after the priest had left them.

  ‘Better than some,’ said Breda. ‘He’s honest and decent and he doesn’t put his hands on you.’

  ‘He seems to care,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Yes, he does,’ Breda agreed. ‘He said you’d be coming round to ask questions about Kathleen today. You and a man.’