Hanging Murder

by A J Wright

  A solitary waiter stood by the small entrance to the kitchen area looking bored. He was somewhat surprised, therefore, when he saw Gilbert Crosby make an entrance. The hangman’s brother! He stood in the doorway, ignoring the waiter, and surveyed the room with an expression of curiosity and boldness, almost daring the other two diners to make a comment. He made his way to a table in the centre of the room and stood there while the waiter scurried across and pulled back his chair. Gilbert grunted and sat down.

  A few minutes later, as he was being served, the door once more opened and Ralph Batsford walked in. David Morgan and Edgar Dodds, the other two diners, gave each other a curious gaze, and the older one leaned forward and said something. The waiter, who was waiting to see where Mr Batsford would choose to sit, caught sight of the younger guest, Mr Morgan, shaking his head sharply. Mr Dodds, who had by now finished his breakfast, dabbed his mouth with his napkin.

  Batsford saw Gilbert about to tuck into his breakfast and made his way over to him, the waiter following. As he passed the only other occupied table, he heard Mr Dodds say, Nothing to worry about.

  The waiter drew back a chair for Mr Batsford.

  ‘There you are!’ Batsford said.

  Gilbert held his fork mid-air. ‘Who do you think I am? Doctor Livingstone?’ He put the fork to his mouth and began to eat. ‘Where did you think I’d be at this time?’

  Batsford seemed about to give some retort but thought better of it. Instead, he sat down and faced the hangman’s brother, resting both arms on the table. He gave the waiter his order and watched him walk away, noting how the chap approached the nearby table and asked the two men sitting there if everything was to their satisfaction.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ Batsford asked, a hint of accusation in his voice.

  ‘Tolerably. Under the circumstances.’

  ‘I thought you might have called in to see Simeon this morning. Before breakfast, that is.’

  Gilbert frowned. ‘If I know my brother, he’d like to be left alone. With his thoughts. You’ve spoken to him?’

  ‘I have. A few minutes ago. He hasn’t slept, you know.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe, actually. He may have slept fitfully and laid awake for hours but I’m sure he dropped off some time. Everyone does.’

  Batsford leaned forward, his voice an urgent whisper. ‘Gilbert? Where were you? All yesterday? The night before?’

  Gilbert skewered a piece of kidney and forced it into the yolk of his egg. Then he said quietly, ‘I had a stroll on the moon.’

  The journalist snorted.

  ‘How old am I, Batsford?’

  The question appeared to throw the journalist. ‘Thirty?’

  ‘Thirty-one. Old enough to do what I wish, when I wish, and with whom I wish. Now I believe that should answer your question.’

  ‘It doesn’t answer Simeon’s question.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was the first thing he asked me when I went to his room this morning. It’s evidently been playing on his mind. So. I shall ask again. Where were you?’

  Gilbert waited, lifted the kidney, dripping with dark yellow egg yolk, and placed it in his mouth. He began to chew and for a second, closed his eyes to savour the blend of tastes. Then he said, almost in a sing-song voice, ‘My dear Batsford, you can go to blazes. Do you hear me?’

  *

  Brennan had escorted his visitor to the small room they used for interviews. The last time he had taken him to his office, the stench had lingered for days. It wasn’t so much the tattered and filthy clothes the man wore, although they had a unique aroma that wouldn’t be out of place in a badly kept dairy. It was more his breath. Brennan hadn’t smelt anything like it. It was obvious from the foul smell and the brown teeth that the man had never seen the need to use toothpaste or carbolic tooth powder, not even salt and bicarbonate of soda. However, the reason for the foul odour lay more in what he did rather than didn’t do.

  He made money (when he wasn’t stealing, that is) by going round the public houses in Wigan and district and providing the entertainment reflected in his nickname.

  In a leather-lined pocket, Rat-Yed would bring a live rat into the pub – normally the vault, where only the men would be drinking – collect a sizeable sum to ensure his performance, put the rat’s head in his mouth and bite it off. The men would cheer, and the women – if he put on his show in the lounge of the pub – would cover their faces and struggle to keep down the bile fast rising to their throats.

  Now, as he sat opposite Brennan, he gave a wide, brown-toothed grin and placed both hands across his threadbare jacket.

  ‘I’ve not got all day,’ said Brennan. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ve getten a bit o’ news, like.’

  ‘What news?’

  ‘I heerd a young wench got done in last night.’

  Brennan sat forward, interested despite the proximity. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Dost know, Micky lad, I’ve not ’ad a butty for a while. An’ as for a pie, well…’

  Brennan reached into his pocket and pulled out a sixpence. He placed it on the table between them.

  ‘A tanner?’ said Rat-Yed, unimpressed.

  ‘I’ve had a flat week.’

  Rat-Yed sneered. ‘Bugger off. Bobbies get overtime like dogs get fleas. Can’t avoid it.’

  Brennan took out another sixpence and placed it next to the first one. ‘Well? About the young woman.’

  Rat-Yed lunged forward and scraped the two coins into his hand. ‘I got told she were pretty.’

  ‘She was.’

  ‘Aye. She looked pretty an’ all.’

  ‘What do you mean? You saw her?’

  ‘I did. Last night. I were stood under t’Big Lamp.’

  The Big Lamp was a well-known meeting place in the town, near where the trams took on water in Market Place.

  ‘There were a few of us. An’ this bonny wench comes strollin’ past. You know what some of ’em are like. Nasty buggers with their mouths, they are.’

  There speaks an expert, thought Brennan.

  ‘How do you know it’s the woman who was found this morning?’

  ‘Lennie Lawson were with us last night. An’ he sneaked a peek at the lass’s body this mornin’ in Livesey’s Yard. The lad who works there were tellin’ every bugger what ’e’d found when he’d sent for you lot. Place were full o’ folk before your lads turned up.’

  ‘Go on then. You say she walked past you last night?’

  ‘Aye. Anyroad, she ignores what some of ’em were shoutin’, sticks her nose in th’air an’ walks on. Only some bugger were followin’ ’er.’

  Now Brennan was very much interested. He paused then said, ‘How do you know he was following her?’

  ‘Because she gets to t’top o’ Wallgate an’ turns round fast. I thought she were gonna give him a bloody driver smack around ’is chops, she looked that angry. But she didn’t. The chap starts talkin’ an’ she starts arguin’ an’ shakin’ ’er ’ead an’ shoutin’ an’ then she turns round and buggers off. Bloke turns round an’ goes t’other road.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  Rat-Yed shrugged. ‘Dunno. We buggered off ourselves then. Bloody freezin’, it were. He just went back the way ’e’d come.’

  ‘Towards the Royal?’

  ‘Aye. Might be.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  Rat-Yed frowned, and for a moment, Brennan thought he might ask for further remuneration. If he had done, he would have found himself downstairs in a cold, damp cell. But the man might well have read Brennan’s mind, for he said, ‘It were dark. But ’e were dressed smart. Not from round ’ere, anyroad.’

  ‘His build?’

  Rat-Yed shrugged. ‘Didn’t take much notice. Like I said, it were dark.’

  It was exasperating, but Brennan gave a sigh and stood up. ‘Well, thanks for coming in. It helps a little.’

  At the door, Rat-Yed turned round, flashing his row of brown teeth. Brennan, close
r to the man now, was put in mind of a badly kept cemetery and headstones warped out of the perpendicular.

  ‘Shit an’ sod it!’ he exclaimed. ‘I nearly forgot!’

  ‘What?’ Brennan moved his head to one side as a waft of foul air headed his way.

  ‘When the lass shouted at that chap. She said summat we all heard.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘She said, You get back to your golden goose. I’ll get back to mine.’

  ‘That it?’

  ‘It’s all I heerd. What the bloody ’ell’s a golden goose, eh, Micky? Th’only goose I’ve ever seen is white.’

  *

  Brennan was glad to see – or, more accurately, smell – the back of his visitor as he escorted him to the front entrance to the station. As he stood on the top step, breathing in some of that lovely, cold and refreshing Wigan air, he watched two constables walking towards him, a curious-looking fellow between them. He had an overcoat that had obviously seen better days, and his boots were scuffed and filthy. Watching Rat-Yed depart and this bloke arrive, he wondered if some mischievous spirit were testing him.

  ‘What have we got here then?’ he asked the constables.

  ‘We’ve got a right one ’ere, Sergeant. Broke into the lamp room at Wigan Station and got his head down for the night. Then when he’s found, he demands a ticket for Newton-le-bloody-Willows. When the young lad refuses, this feller starts getting all worked up and threatens every man and his dog. So we invited him along for a bit of a chat, like.’

  Brennan stepped to one side. ‘Be my guest,’ he said.

  Oscar Pardew stretched out his right hand and offered it to Brennan. ‘I saw you last night, sir, did I not?’

  Brennan looked down and saw streaks of caked blood covering the man’s hand. Several thoughts, none of them pleasant, swept over him. He knocked the hand to one side. ‘Last night?’ he asked mechanically. Then he realised this was the madman who’d charged all the way down King Street yelling out Simeon Crosby’s name. Once the trouble started, he’d somehow vanished from view.

  Was this Maria Woodruff’s blood?

  Was this the ‘scruffy-looking fellow’ she had been talking to last night – the one with the photograph of his dead father?

  ‘He doesn’t have a framed photograph on him, does he?’

  ‘Bloody ’ell, Sergeant!’ one of the constables exclaimed. ‘How the ’ellfire did you know that?’

  ‘I have powers you’ve never dreamed of, son.’ Brennan enjoyed seeing the awe on the young constable’s face.

  ‘It’s tucked inside his coat,’ said the other, older one. ‘We’ve got rid of the bits o’ glass. Says we broke it, little sod. No ’arm in lettin’ ’im keep the photograph itself though, eh, Sergeant?’

  ‘None at all. Now get him inside.’

  As they walked past him, Brennan scratched his head.

  It was going to be a very long day.

  *

  There was something dreadfully sad about Miss Woodruff’s hotel room. It was small, nondescript and was almost adjacent to the platform at the nearby station. But it was the things she’d left behind – three sets of clothing hanging in the wardrobe; a pair of white laced boots beneath the window; a hat with elaborate trimmings; and, much to the embarrassment of Constable Corns standing in the doorway, a scarlet corset draped over the bed – that gave a forlorn sense of loss to the place.

  Brennan went over to the small chest of drawers, but in each one, there was nothing of interest, only an array of silk handkerchiefs and stockings.

  Of her black leather-bound notebook there was no sign.

  It was as he was closing the top drawer that something nestled among the handkerchiefs caught his eye. It was a piece of paper. He took it out, unfolded it and quickly read its contents.

  ‘Found something, Sergeant?’ Constable Corns asked.

  ‘Yes, Constable.’

  As Brennan refolded the paper and slipped it into his pocket, Constable Corns couldn’t help feeling a little resentful. After all, the bugger could’ve told him what was on the piece of paper.

  Secretive sod.

  16.

  Thomas Evelyne didn’t take too kindly to being summoned from his room, where he had packed his case with the intention of leaving the town as quickly and as unobtrusively as possible. When he’d returned to the hotel the previous night, the landlord had given him the message left by the constable – that he was to make himself available to the police first thing in the morning – and had delivered the message with a look of distaste that implied how badly Evelyne had sullied the hotel’s good name.

  If he hadn’t gone out seeking revenge on the lunatic for drowning him in beer… such a pity he hadn’t found the fool.

  When he awoke this morning, therefore, he was irritated beyond measure to hear the sharp knocking on his door and the flinty, contemptuous voice of the landlord informing him that a police constable was waiting for him in the bar, and would he be so good as to settle his account before being taken to the station.

  The walk from the Queen’s Hotel had taken Evelyne and the constable past the saddler’s shop, where another constable was standing in the entrance to the yard and keeping the curious at bay, not that there was anything now for them to see – the body had been removed and William Livesey had been most anxious for them to take a look inside his establishment, where they could see for themselves something that would astonish them.

  Evelyne had asked what all the interest was around the shop, only to be given a single word response from his constable companion.

  ‘Morbid.’

  Once he arrived at the police station, the constable took him along a musty smelling corridor to a small office at the end. There, Detective Sergeant Brennan introduced himself and offered him a seat.

  ‘You caused quite a stir last night, Mr Evelyne,’ was Brennan’s opening comment.

  Evelyne looked at him questioningly. ‘You dragged me here to tell me that?’

  ‘If I’d wanted you dragged here, Mr Evelyne, I would have sent a quite different constable. Still, you’re here, and that’s all that matters. You came to Wigan to cause trouble, didn’t you?’

  ‘I came here to protest against the presence of Simeon Crosby.’

  ‘You dislike the man or his profession?’

  A slight flush spread across Evelyne’s face.

  ‘Both, I suppose,’ he said after a thoughtful pause. ‘Is this some sort of belated arrest? I wasn’t responsible for what happened last night, you know.’

  Brennan leaned forward. ‘What exactly are you talking about?’

  ‘Why, the violence outside the Public Hall. That wasn’t caused by me. It was that madman who tore through the crowd, screaming like a wild animal.’

  ‘Ah yes. The madman.’

  ‘And he came to my hotel last night and assaulted me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I took pity on him; he came into the place and seemed in a distressed state – his hands were bleeding. I presumed from the trouble outside the Public Hall. So I offered to buy him a drink. When I did so, he poured the whole damn pint over my head.’

  ‘I see. What did you do then?’

  ‘They threw the devil out, but I admit I was blazing mad. I went to my room, dried off and unfortunately let the incident seethe inside me. You know the feeling? You let the resentment build up so much that… well, I stormed downstairs and left the hotel in search of my assailant.’

  ‘With what purpose?’

  ‘Why, to treat him to a fish supper. What do you think?’

  ‘You didn’t find him?’

  ‘Fortunately for him, no.’

  ‘What time did you get back to the Queen’s?’

  Evelyne frowned. ‘Look. Just what is all this about?’

  Brennan sat back. ‘I sent a constable to the Queen’s Hotel last night, and you weren’t there.’

  ‘So? I told you, the trouble in that street was not of my doing. Am I being held resp
onsible for the action of a madman who later tried to drown me in beer?’

  ‘Certainly not. But I sent the constable because I wanted to ask you some questions about last night.’

  Evelyne blinked. ‘But I’ve already told you…’

  ‘You know that Mrs Crosby was found murdered last night?’

  ‘What?’ The man’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Word spreads fast in Wigan.’

  ‘I’m not from here.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Bolton.’

  Brennan took out his notebook. ‘Whereabouts?’

  Evelyne blinked several times. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to know.’ It was Brennan’s usual response to an unwilling witness. He knew it riled them, and it was intended to.

  Evelyne shook his head at the folly of the police but gave him his address. He then added, ‘Not too far to come to protest against Crosby, is it? Mind you, I’ve travelled further.’

  ‘You must have firm convictions.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘At any rate, Mrs Violet Crosby was found murdered when Mr Crosby returned from his talk at the Public Hall.’

  Evelyne looked down. ‘I see. That must have been dreadful for the man. Whatever my feelings towards him…’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘I wonder if you could tell me where you were last night? After the brawling I mean?’

  A flicker of concern flashed across the man’s face.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Because at the risk of repeating myself, I want to know, Mr Evelyne. That’s why.’

  Slowly, Evelyne raised his left hand and placed it on the top of his head.

  ‘Sergeant. Would you be so kind as to feel my head?’

  Brennan frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Please. Won’t take a minute.’

  Brennan gave a theatrical sigh and stood up. He walked around his desk and stood behind Evelyne. Then he rested his hand on the spot indicated. Through the thick hair, he could feel a sizeable lump sprouting from his scalp. ‘That must be painful,’ he said, quickly withdrawing his hand and returning to his seat.