Murder at the Manchester Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  He tapped at the door, and at the command ‘Come in!’, entered.

  Charles Prestwich Scott, more commonly known as CP, sat stiffly behind his desk, a serious look on his face. But then, that was not unusual; CP took many things seriously – his Liberal Party politics, social conditions, and especially the reputation of the Manchester Guardian as a forward-looking newspaper. He was in his late forties and cut a well-known figure in Manchester with his formal dress, his high starched collars, his bushy beard.

  ‘Mr Bickerstaff,’ he said.

  ‘You wanted to see me, CP?’ asked Bickerstaff, taking the chair that Scott gestured towards.

  ‘Yes,’ said Scott. ‘I’ve received a letter from Bernard Steggles at the museum accusing you of dishonesty. He says he asked you to submit the article you intended to write to him for his approval as a prerequisite of him agreeing for the article to appear. He says he had agreed to the article being written, mentioning the museum, providing it avoided political bias. You sent him the article, which he approved, but the one you put into print was very different. Very different. He says in his letter it attacks the police as corrupt and calls for social insurrection against the ruling establishment. I have read your article and, indeed, that is the message you convey in it.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Bickerstaff. ‘I made certain changes after Mr Steggles had approved the story because I felt the existing tone was too bland.’

  ‘Without referring those changes back to him?’

  ‘Surely our job is to report the news with comment as and where we see fit,’ snapped Bickerstaff. ‘I didn’t realise that we were in the pocket of the ruling class and were here to act as a mouthpiece for the establishment. I thought this was supposed to be a radical newspaper!’

  ‘It is also a newspaper that prides itself on its honesty!’ thundered Scott, and there was no mistaking the anger in his voice or on his face. ‘You have lied and deliberately deceived one of the most honourable and respected people in Manchester. According to Mr Steggles, you also did the same to Mr Wilson and Miss Fenton. You have brought shame and disrepute to this newspaper.’

  ‘I did what I thought was best.’

  ‘You betrayed the confidence that was entrusted to you.’

  ‘For the common good.’

  ‘No, for your own agenda. I have warned you about this before, Bickerstaff. Yes, the Manchester Guardian is proud of its crusading liberal style, but we do not cheat and lie. You have broken a special trust. You cannot be trusted. You are dismissed with immediate effect.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ exclaimed Bickerstaff, leaping to his feet.

  ‘I have just done it,’ snapped the editor. ‘Clear your personal items from your desk and leave. You will not be allowed back into the building.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sergeant Merton spent most of the day trawling pubs and drinking dens that he knew Dapper Dan frequented, finally tracking him down in a den with no name on the fringes of Ancoats.

  ‘Well, well!’ Daly smiled. ‘Pete Merton, as I live and breathe. Is this a social visit?’

  Merton shook his head. ‘It’s not social or official,’ he said.

  Daly caught the worried tone to the sergeant’s voice and frowned, apprehensive. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve been told to bring you in for questioning.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Grimley.’

  Daly shook his head. ‘No way,’ he said firmly. ‘We all know how he questions people. Well, I’m not going to sit there and let him beat me to a pulp. What’s this all about, anyway?’

  ‘You know that young Irish woman who got stabbed in the museum?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Well, someone told Grimley that you and her had had an argument, and she belted you.’

  ‘Rubbish!’

  ‘There were witnesses.’

  ‘I never touched the girl!’

  ‘No, but she touched you, that’s what the word is.’

  ‘And Grimley thinks I did her in because of that?’ He stared at Merton, incredulousness on his face. ‘Do you know how many times I’ve been hit by a woman? And I’ve never done anything back about it!’

  ‘Oh, come on, Dan! I’ve seen ’em.’

  ‘Yeah, all right, maybe the odd slap, just to keep ’em in order. But nothing else! Nothing worse! And certainly nothing like this! I don’t even carry a knife!’ He glared at Merton. ‘Anyway, what do I pay you for? The agreement is you keep me out of trouble.’

  ‘And I would, but in this case Mossop’s on Grimley’s back, so he’s on mine.’

  ‘So square Grimley. Bung him a few quid, like you have before.’

  Merton shook his head. ‘That won’t work in this case, Dan.’

  ‘Well … square the super!’

  ‘You’re talking mad, now, Dan. The super’s on the straight and narrow.’ He hesitated. ‘I was going to suggest you did a runner. Just for a day or so, until this all blows over.’

  ‘Leave?’

  ‘Think of it as a holiday. A week away. Blackpool, say. Then I tell Grimley that I couldn’t find you. Trust me, it’ll all soon die down.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ said Daly. ‘Better than being on the end of Grimley’s flying fists. But you find who did it, Pete! Killed the girl, that is. So I can come back. I’ve got a lot invested in this area.’

  As Daniel had forecast, their return to Newton Street police station was not welcomed with open arms. A message from the sergeant at the desk brought a scowling Inspector Grimley from his office.

  ‘You two again!’ he growled. ‘Don’t you think I’ve got work to do?’

  ‘Something’s happened that may have a bearing on the case,’ said Daniel. ‘A woman called Eve Preston was stabbed. Her body’s in the mortuary.’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of that,’ said Grimley. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me she’s another victim of our mystery killer.’

  ‘There’s one thing that connects them,’ said Daniel. ‘After the photograph of the dead woman appeared in the newspaper, Eve Preston called on us at our hotel and told us the young woman was called Deborah, that she was a pickpocket, and the person who she thought had killed her was a man called Terry Brady. She said he could be found at the Iron Duke pub in Hulme.’

  Grimley stared angrily at them. ‘You didn’t think it was worth telling me this before, but you bothered to let me know about this mystery escaped Irish murderer and Dan Daly?’

  ‘We believe she was either lying or mistaken,’ defended Abigail. ‘We’ve just told you, Eve Preston said the dead woman was called Deborah and was a pickpocket who worked with this Terry Brady. Immediately afterwards we discovered that she was actually called Kathleen Donlan and had just arrived in England from Ireland, so it was wrong information.’

  ‘Except perhaps the bit about Terry Brady murdering her,’ snapped Grimley. ‘Maybe she knew what he’d done and was telling the truth about that bit, but decided to colour the rest of it.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’ demanded Abigail.

  ‘Who knows,’ barked Grimley angrily. ‘Eve Preston could have told us if I’d known about it and had a word with her, but it’s a bit late for that now.’

  ‘Once we knew her information was false there was no sense in spending more time on it,’ said Daniel.

  ‘No? If you had, she might still be alive now instead of being dead on a table in the morgue!’

  ‘There was obviously something about this Terry Brady that had upset her, which is why she came to us,’ said Daniel. ‘So the obvious thing is to pull in this Terry Brady and talk to him.’

  ‘Don’t try to tell me my job,’ snapped Grimley. ‘That was my first thought as soon as you told me about her and what she told you. So if you’ll excuse me and get out of my hair, I’m going to get some proper police work done and send some men to the Iron Duke.’

  He muttered darkly under his breath as he watched them leave. ‘
Damn interfering amateurs playing at detectives.’

  He was still standing in reception when Sergeant Merton arrived, an unhappy expression on his face.

  ‘What are you looking so miserable about?’ demanded Grimley.

  ‘Dapper Dan,’ said Merton, and he gave a rueful sigh. ‘He’s vanished.’

  ‘What do you mean, vanished?’ barked Grimley.

  ‘Like I said, he’s done a runner. I’ve been to every place he hangs out, and everyone says there’s no sign of him. One of my narks reckoned he’s gone to Newcastle.’

  Grimley stared at his sergeant. ‘Why would he go to Newcastle?’ he said, incredulous.

  ‘Maybe he’s got business there,’ suggested Merton. ‘D’you want me to go to Newcastle and see if I can find him?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ snorted Grimley. ‘I reckon it’s a wild goose chase anyway. No, I’ve got another job for you. Go to the Iron Duke in Hulme and bring in a bloke called Terry Brady.’

  ‘The Iron Duke?’ said Merton doubtfully. ‘That’s a rough pub, guv.’

  ‘Well, take some men with you,’ snapped Grimley. ‘Men who know how to fight and aren’t afraid to crack a few heads if needed. But bring him in.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Sergeant Merton made his way towards the Iron Duke pub with a feeling of apprehension. Not because of the threat of violence that waited there; if that had been the case he would have done as Grimley ordered and brought reinforcements along with him. No, his worried state of mind concerned the lucrative business he’d built up over his time in the police and which now looked to be under threat. He knew the Iron Duke well, as he did most of the pubs and drinking dens in the poorer parts of Manchester. He’d built up good relationships with the owners and landlords of most of the pubs and dens, like Billy Scargell at the Iron Duke. Billy knew which of his clients was up to a bit of criminality. Nothing as bad as murder, usually robbery or burglary, pimping or running small gangs of pickpockets, often kids. In exchange for regular payment, shared with Billy, Merton would turn a blind eye to such activities, and if an arrest was made by someone else, Merton would find a way to square the situation. Where poor people were involved, money always had an impact.

  Merton had found a good trick was to hint that any money that was paid to him was shared higher up the scale, including Inspector Grimley. Most small-time criminals knew about Grimley’s reputation as a hard man with his fists and boots, and so were more than happy to pay up to keep out of his clutches. The truth was that none of the money that Merton received went to the inspector. In fact, as far as Merton knew, Grimley was unaware of his sergeant’s sideline. Grimley knew that Merton had his informers, his narks, as most coppers did, and it was generally accepted that those narks could be allowed a bit of leeway so long as they passed information about other criminals back. In Merton’s case, there was always some up-and-coming youngster trying to make a name for himself as a crook, who wasn’t yet part of Merton’s source of additional income, who could be arrested and brought in to fit a particular crime. And always from the poor. The poor knew there was no point in protesting their innocence. They had no rights. Every arrest made Merton look good in his boss’s eyes. All in all, it was a good system that had seen Merton prosper. But now it was under threat, and all because of those two busybodies, Wilson and the Fenton woman. If they hadn’t talked to Superintendent Mossop, the super wouldn’t have leant on Grimley, and the inspector wouldn’t have sent him after two of his clients, Dapper Dan Daly and now Terry Brady. The inspector seemed to have accepted the idea that Dapper Dan had done a runner, but would he swallow the same excuse twice if Merton told him that Brady, too, had vanished? It was unlikely, knowing the inspector.

  In which case, Grimley might well go to the Iron Duke himself and start shaking people up to find out where Terry Brady had gone. And if that happened, there was a good chance that someone like Billy Scargell might start protesting that this went against the payments that had been made to the inspector through the sergeant for them to be looked after.

  Merton shuddered at the thought of what Grimley’s reaction would be if he found out how Merton had been taking money in his name. The sergeant had seen the inspector at work on a suspect, giving out beatings that had made him feel sick to watch them. It was because of that, people found it easy to believe that someone that vicious and violent could also be corrupt. The truth was, Grimley was honest, damn him. Anyone offering him a bribe could expect a kick in the balls and a beating.

  There was only one way round this situation and that was to tell Terry Brady to vanish, just as he’d done with Dan Daly, and then report back to Grimley that Brady was dead. If Grimley asked to see Brady’s body, he’d say that Brady had got run over by a train and his body was so badly mangled it had gone straight for burial. Grimley might even believe it; lots of people got killed by trains.

  Yes, he decided, that was the answer. Brady would be dead, and when this was all over and Brady reappeared on the scene, if he was asked, Merton would say it was a case of mistaken identity. Everyone thought the bloke run over by the train was Brady because he looked like him. What was left of him, that was.

  Feeling more confident than he had done earlier, Merton arrived at the Iron Duke and made his way in. At this time of day there were just a few people in the pub, and Merton was surprised how subdued everyone appeared to be. Usually, whatever the hour, there was lively chatter going on, boisterous banter and the occasional song belted out in drunken tones, but today an air of sombre silence had descended.

  Merton walked to the bar, where Billy Scargell was wiping glasses, although the cloth he was using looked so filthy that Merton was sure it was adding dirt to the glass rather than cleaning it.

  ‘Afternoon, Billy,’ said Merton.

  ‘Sergeant.’ Scargell nodded, his expression unsmiling, which was unusual for the pub landlord.

  Something’s happened, thought Merton. Something bad.

  ‘Usual?’ asked Scargell.

  ‘Pint,’ said Merton, adding, ‘in an unwiped glass.’

  As Scargell poured his pint, Merton said, ‘I’m looking for Terry Brady.’

  At his words, there was a wailing sound from one of the women in the pub, followed by sobbing, and a hubbub as other patrons gathered round the woman to comfort her.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Merton.

  ‘Terry Brady was found a couple of hours ago,’ said Scargell. ‘It looks like someone had taken an axe to him.’

  Merton stared at Scargell, stunned. ‘Dead?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you think?’ hissed Scargell, his voice low as he shot a glance at the sobbing woman. ‘His head was cut almost in half.’

  Well, ain’t I the lucky one! thought Merton, relieved. The guv’nor will have to believe this!

  William Bickerstaff lifted the cloth package from the chest of drawers in his rented room and unwrapped the hessian to reveal the revolver inside. He held it, feeling the butt hard and snug in his grip. He’d bought the gun from a criminal he’d met while reporting a story. It had seemed an exciting thing to do at the time, though he had no intention of actually using it. Until now.

  A sense of anger filled him as he thought about what had happened. His attempts to bring social reform about through his writing had come to naught. Political pamphlets and tracts offered an opportunity, but the pages of the Manchester Guardian had meant his words reached thousands. And now that voice had been silenced. Now he was unemployed, and – even worse – unemployable because C. P. Scott wouldn’t give him a reference. He didn’t blame the editor for that; he did it from his own sense of strong belief in right and wrong. But in Bickerstaff’s mind there were a whole bevy of people who could be blamed for his situation. Starting with his father, Lord Trevelyan Norton-Wallace-Bickerstaff. Rich, privileged, and – to Bickerstaff’s shame – a major shareholder in many of the cotton mills, getting fat off the misery of the poor. Things had always been difficult between his father and himself.
And, also, between William and his two older brothers. When William had first shown signs of support for radical politics – or social justice, as Bickerstaff preferred to think of it – he had been derided at home, then verbally abused, and finally ordered to end his involvement in such politics, or leave his father’s house. He had chosen to leave and had taken this room in one of the poorer areas of the city, believing it would make him one of the people he aspired to help. It hadn’t. They heard his voice, the upper-class accent, even though he tried to disguise it, and were wary of him.

  The truth was, he didn’t fit. His upbringing had been intended to make him feel superior, part of the elite of society, but he hadn’t felt at ease in his family’s social class. But nor did he feel comfortable among the lower classes with their sweated labour and their drinking.

  And then he’d gone to that lecture at the university about social justice, and about Karl Marx, and suddenly he realised that there was something he could do. He could write about it, encouraging others, which meant exposing the corruption that lay behind the whole rotten system, showing them the human cost of this social disorder. The inhumanity. Yes, he had to admit, occasionally he’d skated a bit close to dangerous territory in some of his articles, but by keeping it general and not naming specific people, he’d been able to get away with it. Until now. Now, he was out in the cold.

  His grip on the revolver tightened and a sense of determination filled him.

  He would have his revenge, and at the same time he would bring about the change that was so very much needed. For that to happen he needed a high-profile victim. And he knew just the person. The one whose complaint had landed him in this position.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE