Hanging Murder

by A J Wright

  ‘Her husband is in the process of writing his own book, is he not?’

  A flash of anger bolted across her face, but it vanished quickly, like lightning in a disturbed sky.

  ‘He isn’t writing his own book, as you say. He’s merely providing the information. Someone else is doing the writing.’

  ‘Ah yes. Mr Batsford. Another journalist. Do you know him, by any chance?’

  A frown spread across her forehead. ‘There are male journalists, Sergeant Brennan, a huge number of them, and there are female ones. Pitifully few of us as yet. Let’s say there is a distance to travel before the two sides meet on a mutually respectful level.’

  ‘So you know him?’

  ‘I’ve met him, yes.’

  From the set expression on her face, he knew he would get no further with this particular line of questioning.

  ‘Mrs Crosby arranged to meet you tonight? At what time?’

  ‘I was to call here at the hotel and ask to be shown to her room just after eight. By which time her husband would be well into his verbal stride. We would then have just short of an hour to ourselves. I spent the earlier part of the evening listening to Mr Thomas Evelyne address the crowd in the Market Square.’

  ‘You’ve spoken with Mr Evelyne?’

  A slight hesitation. ‘I have. It’s important to gather as many views as you can. I had intended to speak with him tomorrow, but he’s leaving early.’ She glanced down at her hands.

  Was she keeping something back?

  ‘Do you know where Mr Evelyne is staying?’

  ‘The Queen’s Hotel, he told me.’

  He wrote the information in his notebook.

  ‘I see. So, what happened when you came here?’

  ‘I stood there at the desk, gave my name and my appointment and waited for the bellboy to return, fully expecting him to escort me to her room. But he came back and said there was no answer when he knocked. I asked him to go back. She might well have fallen asleep, I told him. I also told him to knock louder.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That officious fool behind the desk told him not to. So I asked to go up myself and save the boy’s legs any further trouble and then the man got quite brusque. Said it was against the rules or some such nonsense. We had words. Then I left.’

  ‘You didn’t return?’

  ‘I did.’

  Brennan’s eyes widened. ‘When?’

  ‘About five minutes ago when you came across the road and dragged me back here.’ The smile that accompanied her words contained not a hint of humour.

  ‘Why did you come back here? Morbid curiosity?’

  ‘Professional curiosity, Sergeant. I’m staying at the Victoria Hotel, near the station. I heard people talking excitedly about what had happened here and so I returned. I am, as I say, a reporter. And reporters are interested in news.’ She suddenly opened the bag she was carrying and extracted a small, leather-bound notebook, holding it almost with reverence. ‘The notes in here will turn miraculously into articles, to be read throughout the land.’ He saw something in her eyes, a sudden shiftiness, which suggested that this woman wasn’t telling him the whole truth.

  ‘It looked to me you were hiding across there. Surely a reporter would be more… assertive?’

  She took a deep breath and returned the notebook to her bag. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a woman. A male reporter would bluster his way into the hotel on some pretext. I was here earlier, and I don’t think I’d be welcome.’

  ‘Aren’t you contradicting yourself? You come as a journalist and hide because you’re a woman?’

  ‘I was biding my time.’

  ‘For what?’

  A slight hesitation, then, ‘Any opportunity to show itself. Mr Crosby out for a walk, for example.’

  ‘Mr Crosby would be hardly likely to do that now, would he? With his wife lying dead in a mortuary.’

  ‘True, but I was referring to Mr Crosby’s brother. I believe there was some distance between him and his sister-in-law.’

  ‘She told you?’

  ‘I can read between the lines, Sergeant. Sometimes things unsaid speak louder than things said.’

  For a second, she glanced down and examined her hands once more.

  ‘Now if that will be all?’

  Brennan nodded and watched her leave the room, one question gnawing at him.

  What are you leaving unsaid, Miss Woodruff?

  *

  When she left the Royal Hotel, Maria Woodruff knew exactly what she had to do. She was angry at the way the policeman had spoken to her. Angry, too, at the thoughts that were swirling around her head like peevish wasps. She stormed across the road and turned left, deciding that there would be nothing to gain from staying around the hotel now, her original intentions having been quashed by her unfortunate encounter with Sergeant Brennan.

  As she made her way into Market Place, where a tram was shunting its way along the reversing triangle, she caught sight of a small group of men standing beneath a large lamp in the centre of the road, clapping their hands and shuffling their feet.

  Why not simply go home? It’s freezing. Men are such fools!

  One or two of them nudged each other and made crude comments in loud whispers. There was a burst of laughter. For a moment, Maria was tempted to make her way towards them, confront their despicable lewdness and shame them in full view of the rest of the people on the street. But she contained the impulse.

  No point in making a show of myself. These men will never change. As hard and unyielding and intelligent as the cobbles they stood on. Besides, I have much to do.

  She walked on, head held slightly higher, ignoring their filth. It was why she failed to notice the one who was following her, the one who had been behind her since she left the Royal Hotel.

  *

  Brennan recognised Constable Jaggery’s mood at once. He’d appeared to be quite in his element when the trouble started in King Street – there was nothing Freddie Jaggery liked more than a good scrap – and he’d dragged several subdued offenders back to the station where inevitably he would have shown them to their overnight accommodation with great relish. Now, though, with the action presumably over for the night and with the slow and (in Jaggery’s view) tedious process of investigation facing him, he looked in low spirits.

  ‘Bit of a bugger, though,’ he said as he and Brennan stood in the deserted dining room.

  ‘What is, Constable?’

  ‘I mean, meladdo’s a hangman an’ lo an’ be-bloody-hold, it’s his wife wot gets her neck stretched.’

  ‘Not quite true. Though I agree with the sentiment.’

  Jaggery shrugged morosely as if he felt that he’d made a contribution to the investigation by his shrewd observation and it had been disregarded.

  Brennan reached into his pocket and took out his notebook. Opening it, he extracted the slip of paper that Gray had given him from Eastoe, with the names of the other two guests at the hotel. Commercial travellers, apparently.

  ‘We have two more people to interview, Constable,’ he said. ‘Plenty to do yet, I’m afraid.’

  He was met with a stony silence.

  *

  It took a while for someone to come to the door. The young man who opened it took one look at the large uniformed constable, and his face was immediately drained of colour. He looked along the second-floor corridor and quickly invited them inside. The room – number five – Brennan noted, was along the corridor, around the corner and three doors away from where Violet Crosby was found.

  David Morgan was around twenty-five. He was clean-shaven, with bright blue eyes and light-coloured hair. He was quite handsome, but there was a nervousness, almost a shiftiness in the way he held eye contact for no more than a few seconds before looking elsewhere. He was wearing a dressing gown that had been hastily tied at the waist, and his ruffled hair suggested he’d had his sleep disturbed.

  The room was like the others – small, compact. On the bedside table
lay a gilt-edged framed photograph of a very pretty young woman.

  ‘Your wife, Mr Morgan?’ said Brennan with a nod in that direction.

  ‘Yes,’ said Morgan, casting a lingering glance at the small picture. ‘I bring her with me on my travels. Silly, I know, but she keeps me company. It can be lonely in my position. I’m a commercial traveller, you know?’

  ‘You know why we’re here?’

  For a moment, there was a flicker of concern on the young man’s face. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

  ‘I gather something awful has happened,’ he replied.

  ‘Yes. It has.’ He paused and took out his notebook and pencil, opening on a fresh page.

  Morgan moved over to the bed, sitting on the edge with one leg dangling in mid-air. ‘I was asleep, you see – early start tomorrow – and I heard shouting. I thought I was dreaming.’

  ‘As a matter of course, I’m asking those few residents who are staying here about their whereabouts earlier tonight.’

  ‘Earlier? What time?’

  ‘Any time from, say, six thirty.’

  ‘I was here,’ Morgan replied. ‘Having a lie-down. Then I went down to the dining room around quarter past seven, ate my evening meal. Pork cutlets with tomato sauce. Quite delicious, too.’

  ‘Was anyone else in the dining room?’

  He thought for a while, then said, ‘Mr Dodds was there. He can vouch for me.’

  ‘He’s the other guest, isn’t he? Another commercial traveller?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you returned to this room?’

  ‘Indeed, yes. When I’d finished my orange jelly, that is. That hadn’t quite set, a mixture of jelly and soup if truth were known.’ He’d meant it to be humorous, but when he saw the policemen fail to catch the humour he gave a nervous cough.

  ‘What time did you come back here?’

  Morgan thought for a few seconds. ‘Just after eight, I think. I was quite alone.’

  A curious thing to say, thought Brennan.

  ‘Did you hear or see anything when you got back?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Anything at all, Mr Morgan.’

  The man thought for a moment then said, ‘Nothing, Sergeant.’ He glanced at the photograph and smiled. ‘I just went to bed for an early night. It’s my Manchester day tomorrow.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped from the bed and reached down beneath its frame to pull out a rather large leather suitcase which he lifted onto the bed. He then flicked it open.

  ‘Bloody ’ell!’ was Jaggery’s response when he saw what was inside. At the moment, he had the advantage over his sergeant until Morgan turned the case round and displayed the contents.

  The case was packed full of a variety of sweets: hard-boiled peppermints and lemon, Turkish delight, jelly beans, peanut brittle, aniseed twists, their bright colours enhanced by the sudden waft of tangy, sugary aromas.

  Forgetting for a moment where and who he was, Jaggery reached forward and pointed at a small packet. ‘Them’s me favourite!’ he declared, his eyes shining.

  ‘Ah yes. Everton Toffee Mints. Very popular in Liverpool, where Nobletts make them.’ He reached inside and took out one of the mints, handing it to a now beaming Jaggery.

  ‘Leave it!’ Brennan snapped.

  Reluctantly, Jaggery handed the sweet back.

  ‘We also sell Brierley’s Sweet Rollers and Machine Boiling Pans, though naturally, I can’t carry them round in this,’ said Morgan, avoiding Brennan’s gaze and patting the suitcase with some pride. ‘Tomorrow, I’m in Manchester, doing my usual rounds.’

  ‘That might not be possible, I’m afraid.’ Brennan’s voice had suddenly become flinty.

  ‘Why not? I mean, it’s my job, you see.’

  ‘I do see, Mr Morgan, but you must see that this is an investigation into a brutal murder, and until I have some answers, I can’t allow anyone who was here tonight to leave.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Brennan gave him a meaningful look.

  You’re not that stupid, pal.

  Morgan’s shoulders slumped.

  ‘Did you happen to call for room service at any time?’

  ‘No. Like I said, I went to bed early. You woke me up, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘You heard no commotion earlier? Shouting? Sounds of a scuffle on the corridor?’

  The young man licked his lips and seemed flustered by the question. Finally, he said, ‘I’m a heavy sleeper, Sergeant.’ He nodded towards the framed photograph. ‘My wife is always complaining about it.’

  ‘Did you hear anything tonight on this floor? Any time after you came up for your early night?’

  Morgan thought for a while then shook his head. ‘No. The place seemed as quiet as the… It was very quiet, Sergeant.’

  ‘I see.’ Brennan looked down at his notebook and said, ‘Where are you from, Mr Morgan?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Your home address?’

  Morgan cast another quick glance at the young woman, smiling serenely behind the glass frame. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I wish to know.’

  Jaggery, who was standing by the door, shifted his stance and coughed. He recognised the sergeant’s tone of voice.

  Morgan swallowed and gave an address in Chester. ‘It’s near the cathedral,’ he added in a belated attempt to be helpful.

  The address was the same as the one recorded in the hotel register.

  Brennan closed his notebook, reminded him of his warning not to leave the hotel – ‘Manchester Day or no Manchester Day’ – then bade him goodnight.

  Once they were in the corridor, Jaggery said, ‘He got on your nerves, didn’t ’e, Sergeant?’

  Brennan merely grunted and made his way to the stairs. Their next visit was to Room One on the first floor.

  Another commercial traveller.

  *

  Edgar Dodds rubbed his eyes as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Granted, thought Brennan, the sight of Freddie Jaggery standing in your doorway was enough to alarm anyone.

  Dodds was around his mid-thirties, slightly greying around the temples, his small moustache also betraying tiny wisps of grey. His expression seemed to be much more worldly-wise than David Morgan – there was a sagging to his jowls that gave him a hangdog appearance, more suited to an undertaker than a commercial traveller, and Brennan wondered how on earth this man – a commercial traveller – could speak with enthusiasm about whatever goods he was hawking around the shops. On the bedside table, a half-smoked cigar was smouldering in a tray, and the atmosphere in the room felt heavy with the lingering wisps of cigar smoke.

  Notebook at the ready, Brennan asked his whereabouts earlier that evening.

  ‘Why on earth would you want to know that?’ said Dodds in a reasonable, even friendly tone.

  ‘You’re aware of what’s happened here tonight?’ Brennan asked.

  ‘I’ve been asleep, Sergeant. I leave early tomorrow. Something woke me about ten minutes ago – footsteps, people talking. I needed some sustenance.’ He pointed to the cigar.

  ‘I’m afraid you won’t be leaving tomorrow, sir. You see,’ he went on quickly as the man was about to protest, ‘there’s been a murder.’

  ‘My goodness!’

  ‘And I’m asking the other guests their whereabouts earlier. Say, from six thirty to half-past eight.’

  Dodds brushed a hand through his hair, giving him a more dishevelled look. ‘I ate alone downstairs. Seven o’clock.’

  ‘Did you see anyone in the dining room?’

  A slight hesitation, then, ‘Yes, I believe I saw Mr Morgan. He’s a traveller, too, you know.’

  ‘We’ve already spoken to him. What time did you get back to your room?’

  ‘I stayed down for a cigar. Mr Morgan had left by then. Said he was having an early night. I suppose it was quarter to nine when I came up.’

  ‘I
see.’ Brennan wrote something down in his notebook. ‘You didn’t hear or see anything untoward?’

  ‘No, Sergeant.’

  ‘What exactly do you sell, Mr Dodds?’

  ‘Cigars, Sergeant.’

  ‘You must be very popular.’

  ‘Cigars are very soothing.’

  ‘I like a cigar myself. Might I have a glance at your stock?’

  Dodds gave a frown and shook his head. ‘Oh, I’m not carrying any stock, Sergeant. There’s no need, you see? I just take orders.’

  Brennan regarded him for an uncomfortable length of time. Then he asked him where he lived.

  ‘I don’t see how that can be of any help,’ came the rather anxious reply.

  ‘Nevertheless, I want your home address.’ Brennan’s voice had suddenly adopted a harsher tone.

  Dodds took a deep breath and gave him an address in Feilden Street, Blackburn. As with Morgan, the address given tallied with the one in the hotel register.

  Brennan reminded him of his instruction not to leave the hotel in the morning then bade him goodnight.

  As soon as they were alone in the corridor Jaggery said, ‘He’s lyin’, Sergeant.’

  ‘Oh I know that,’ said Brennan.

  ‘I mean, a travelling salesman wi’ nowt on ’im? Should ’ave a case bulgin’ wi’ cigars.’

  ‘Oh, I agree. But did you notice something else, Constable?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘When I told him there’d been a murder, he didn’t ask the obvious question.’

  Jaggery kept quiet, not willing to admit that the obvious question wasn’t obvious at all.

  ‘He didn’t ask who’d been murdered,’ Brennan explained patiently. ‘Doesn’t that strike you as strange, Constable?’

  Jaggery had to admit it did.

  ‘There was something else he said – or didn’t say – that was strange. Did you notice it, Constable?’

  Jaggery, who felt increasingly that he was undergoing some sort of test, shook his head. There was only so much thinking you could do.

  Brennan didn’t elaborate. Instead, he placed a friendly hand on his constable’s shoulder, causing his heart to sink. Whenever the sergeant did that, it meant something unpleasant.

  ‘And now I need you to find a Mr Thomas Evelyne. Do you think you can do that?’