Hanging Murder

by A J Wright

  ‘It was put there by one of your overly enthusiastic constables, swinging his truncheon like a windmill on a gusty day.’

  ‘Doing his duty.’ Brennan’s voice was a blend of defiance and defence.

  ‘That depends on your point of view. My point of view was the sight of a wooden implement crashing down on my skull.’

  ‘It doesn’t really answer my question, does it? Where were you after the trouble?’

  ‘I found myself staggering up the street like a drunken man, if you must know. Then I must have blacked out because the next thing I know I’m waking up in some church doorway and there’s a priest standing over me. I thought I’d died.’

  Brennan reached for his notebook and pencil. ‘Which church?’

  Evelyne shook his head. ‘Blowed if I know. It was past the station though. Under the bridge there and to the left.’

  He put his pen down. He knew which church he meant. St Joseph’s, in Caroline Street. The church he attended every Sunday with Ellen and Barry.

  ‘Would the priest be Father Clooney?’

  Evelyne shrugged. ‘No idea. But the man took me into his home and gave me a small glass of brandy. Then I left.’ He smiled. ‘The man gave me his blessing.’

  He would, thought Brennan. Father Fergal Clooney was a veritable saint. He would need to speak with the good father to corroborate what Evelyne had just told him.

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘I really have no idea, Sergeant.’

  Brennan shifted in his seat. ‘When you were out seeking revenge on the man who soaked you with beer, did you happen to see a young woman, alone?’

  ‘What sort of woman?’ Evelyne’s tone suggested he’d put a less than respectable meaning to the sergeant’s words.

  ‘I mean the young woman who attended your gathering last night on the Market Square. Miss Maria Woodruff.’

  ‘Ah. You mean the female journalist? She came to see me yesterday afternoon, as a matter of fact. Seeking my views on Crosby and his work.’ He paused. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Did you see Miss Woodruff last night when you left the Queen’s?’

  Evelyne shook his head. ‘No. And again, why?’

  Brennan told him.

  ‘My God! And only yesterday… What in God’s name is going on in this town?’

  ‘You saw her speak with anyone at the Market Square?’

  Evelyne thought for a moment then said, ‘As a matter of fact, I did. She was standing towards the back of the crowd – she was the sort of young woman it’s hard to miss – and I saw her talking to someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The madman who tried to drown me. She was engaged in what seemed to be a deep conversation with him last evening. I don’t think it ended well.’

  Brennan stood and dismissed Evelyne, instructing him not to leave Wigan until he gave permission.

  ‘I’ve been away for too long, Sergeant,’ said the man.

  Whether he’d meant it as a warning that he would be leaving with or without official permission, or as a plea for understanding from one married man to another, Brennan couldn’t be sure.

  Nor could he give a damn.

  *

  It came as something of a shock to Ralph Batsford when Simeon Crosby entered the dining room and sat down between him and Gilbert. The man’s eyes were red-rimmed, and he wondered what demons had assailed him in the darkness of his room. Somehow, his fleshy features seemed to have shrunk, become greyer, with none of the animation he was wont to show. Now, he sat and stared at his brother. No word was spoken, and a heavy silence hovered around them like mist in a graveyard.

  Morgan and Dodds, still seated at their table, looked at each other; both nodded and stood up. It looked as though Morgan, the younger of the two, was intending to approach the latest arrival, but Dodds grabbed his arm and whispered something in his ear. Both then left the dining room.

  Gilbert, for his part, was studiously trying to ignore his brother, concentrating instead on his breakfast and dragging his fork around the plate for the crumbs that were left. Finally, after ensuring it was now clear, he quietly placed knife and fork on the plate, dabbed his mouth with a napkin and looked across the table at his brother for the first time.

  Batsford couldn’t quite make out the nature of the mute exchange between them. Certainly Simeon’s expression was almost without any feeling whatsoever, only a glimmer in the bloodshot eyes from time to time denoting some faint hint of hostility. Gilbert, on the other hand, had adopted a pose that was devoid of confrontation, his features gradually developing a softness, a show of concern.

  ‘Simeon,’ he said in a voice not much above a whisper. ‘If there’s anything I can do…’

  ‘There is,’ came the sudden reply that appeared to startle his brother, who had clearly expected more of a negative response.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You know the police, especially that detective sergeant, won’t allow you to leave the town until certain matters are explained to his satisfaction.’

  Gilbert flashed a quick glance in Batsford’s direction.

  ‘Nor,’ Simeon went on, ‘will he allow any of us to leave.’

  ‘How can I be of help?’

  ‘You can explain where you were on Monday night and all day yesterday. That’s what you can do.’

  ‘I have already given Sergeant Brennan that information.’

  Simeon slowly shook his head. ‘What did you tell him?’

  Gilbert scowled. ‘I sought company. That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘I see.’ Simeon turned to Batsford and said, ‘Ralph? If you don’t mind?’

  With a sharp glance in Gilbert’s direction, Batsford nodded and left the table. When he reached the door, he cast a final glance in their direction and left the room.

  ‘Now,’ said Simeon, waving a hand around the room, which was now empty. ‘You forget, dear brother. I know you well.’

  Gilbert shifted in his seat, lifted up the knife from his plate and balanced it in the palm of his hand. ‘Your point?’

  ‘My wife was murdered last night. I’m not in the mood for confrontation. But the truth will come out sooner or later. Let me be the first to know. I know you’re lying through your teeth. And so, I suspect, does Sergeant Brennan. Tell me the truth. Before it’s too late.’

  *

  The cells at the Wigan Borough Police Station were below ground level. The only glimpse of daylight, for anyone unfortunate enough to occupy one, came through a narrow gap at the top of the wall farthest from the door. And even that meagre light was often blacked out by the feet of passers-by or the shunting, rattling tram labouring its way along King Street.

  Oscar Pardew, his hands now covered in bandages, courtesy of the police doctor, sat facing such a gap as Sergeant Brennan sat down on the iron-framed bed beside him. Having ascertained his name from the front desk – which Oscar had given without demur when the charge of breaking and entering had been put to him – Brennan gave a nod of recognition.

  Only that morning, the duty sergeant had received word from Haydock Lodge that one of their inmates, an Oscar Pardew, had taken flight and was last seen at Newton-le-Willows Station catching a train to Wigan. When the aforementioned lunatic had been conveniently brought in by two constables, it had considerably lightened his day, for the arrest would go down in his report as a fine example of rapid police work, even in the face of a double murder inquiry.

  Now, Brennan sat next to Pardew rather than facing him across a desk. No telling how lunatics would respond, of course, but giving an appearance of friendliness would be far better than confrontation.

  ‘How did you cut your hands, Oscar?’ Brennan asked.

  ‘I explained all that to those policemen.’

  ‘Explain it to this policeman.’

  Oscar sighed heavily. ‘Your men smashed my father’s photograph. I reached inside and cut my hand on the sharp pieces of glass. Have you ever cut yourself on a sharp piece of glass? It hurts,
and blood comes.’

  His hands had indeed been cut, consistent with broken glass. In fact, the doctor who’d dressed his wounds told him he’d picked out a few nasty-looking slivers.

  ‘Do you remember last night, Oscar?’ he began. ‘When you went to the Market Square to hear Thomas Evelyne speak?’

  Oscar gave a brief frown then nodded.

  ‘You spoke to a young woman there, didn’t you?’

  Again, a frown then a more vigorous nod.

  ‘What did you speak about?’

  Oscar looked beyond Brennan’s head, to the feet passing by above them. ‘She asked me why I was there.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I wanted to see Mr Crosby. And I heard that everyone who wanted to see Mr Crosby was meeting on the square. So I asked people where it was, and they told me.’

  ‘Yes, but what did you say when the young woman asked you why you wished to see Mr Crosby?’

  ‘I wanted to shake his hand.’ He held up his bandaged hands.

  It was Brennan’s turn to frown. ‘But the meeting was for those people who disliked what Mr Crosby did.’

  Oscar took a deep breath. ‘Mr Crosby is a good man. He killed the man who killed my father.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Crosby put a rope around his neck, and he dropped straight through a trap door.’

  Brennan held up his hand. ‘No, I mean what happened when your father was killed?’

  ‘He was playing cards, and a man was cheating, and Father told him and told everyone, and the man didn’t like it so he waited for my father after the card game and stabbed him there, and I was away in India.’

  He raised a finger and pressed it against Brennan’s chest, to mark the spot where his father had been fatally stabbed.

  It took Brennan a while to recover his composure. Oscar had spoken with such vehemence, such simple anger that he could almost feel the point of a knife against his breast.

  ‘What did the young woman say to you?’

  Oscar swallowed and took another deep breath, as if the questions he was being asked were causing him some confusion. Then he said, ‘She asked me did I believe in hanging, and I told her I did, most definitely. Mr Crosby hanged my father’s killer.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘She told me she’d come here to write a story, and she’d leave here writing another.’

  Brennan tried to keep the urgency from his voice. ‘What did she mean by that?’

  Oscar gave a shrug. ‘She didn’t say. I told her I’d been in India. Worked there for a while till I got word about my father and had to come home. I was ill on the ship, you see. And it was all because of the curse. I was sick. Father was stabbed. All because of the curse.’

  Brennan saw the man’s eyes begin to glaze over, his mind apparently adrift on an ocean of its own. He felt it best not to enquire into the nature of the curse.

  ‘And I told her about all that, and she said it was very interesting, but she’d never been on a ship and never been to India and had no intention of doing so.’ He leaned towards Brennan, whispering, ‘She’d heard how they treat women, you see.’

  ‘Just a few more questions, Mr Pardew, then I’ll leave you alone.’

  Oscar gave a small nod. He seemed disappointed that his new friend would be leaving him soon.

  ‘Why did you run through all those people last night? When the trouble started?’

  Oscar closed his eyes tightly shut, replaying the scene in his head. Then he opened them and said, ‘I wanted to shake his hand. Mr Crosby’s, I mean. And I saw him going into the hall, and I had no ticket. Then those policemen stopped me and hit me. That big brute of a man frightened me.’

  ‘Where did you go after the trouble in King Street?’

  Again he closed his eyes then spoke softly. ‘It was foggy.’

  Brennan frowned. ‘No it wasn’t.’

  Oscar pointed to his head. ‘In here I mean. Gets like that sometimes. It gets foggy, like I’m in a thick cloud. And I can’t remember things.’

  Brennan sighed. No alibi then. But was it feasible that this poor bugger was capable of sliding into the Royal Hotel and finding his way to Mrs Crosby, strangling her and leaving unseen? Furthermore, why would he do that?

  He stood up and moved to the cell door. ‘Someone will see to you soon,’ he said kindly. By now, the duty sergeant would have sent Haydock Lodge a telegram letting them know their escapee was now under lock and key. For the moment, however, the man was going nowhere.

  Once he was back in his office, he took out the piece of paper he’d found in Maria Woodruff’s hotel room. He read through the short telegram he held in his hand:

  Inconvenient and unprofessional. Need more. Who is the man?

  The telegram was sent from The Strand, London, and the sender was someone named L Townley, whose position, according to the transcripted section on the telegram, was Editor, The Graphic.

  But who was the man she’d evidently referred to? The murderer? Or someone quite unconnected to the case?

  The one person who could offer an explanation was now lying in the infirmary mortuary.

  17.

  On his way to speak with Ralph Batsford, Brennan paid a visit to the General Post Office, whose rather grand building took pride of place on Wallgate. He told Constable Jaggery to stand beside him and say nothing, yet look menacing – two things he had no trouble at all in fulfilling.

  He asked to see the manager, who at first, was quite adamant in his refusal to allow the detective sergeant to be given access to their file of telegrams that had been despatched. But then Brennan pointed out that he was investigating a double murder, and the telegram he sought might well provide a crucial clue in apprehending the villain, and further, that if he were obstructed in any way from carrying out his duties, then the murderer might well strike again, and who would want that on his conscience for goodness’ sake? It would, indeed, be unfortunate if the manager’s recalcitrance were to find its way into the letters page of the Wigan Observer, or indeed the chief constable’s monthly report to the Watch Committee.

  Finally, a young clerk was sent to retrieve the telegram sent by Miss Woodruff. When he returned (with a quick glance at his superior and a look of quiet triumph on his face), Brennan held the original in his hand. Miss Woodruff’s elegant handwriting reminded him once more of the lively looking woman she had been.

  The telegram ran:

  Found a man living a lie. Need to delay article. Maria

  Brennan folded the paper and placed it in his pocket, despite admittedly half-hearted protests from the Post Office manager.

  A man living a lie.

  The phrase puzzled him, for it begged the obvious question – which man? And that begged another question: what was the lie he was living? That, of course, led inexorably to the third, most crucial question of all: was the lie potent enough to bring about the murder of two seemingly innocent women?

  Of course, the two murders could be completely unconnected, but he didn’t believe in coincidences. Two women, who had arranged to meet in secret, found murdered on the same night?

  Ralph Batsford was about to leave the hotel when he caught sight of Detective Sergeant Brennan approaching, with the lumbering constable alongside him. When the policemen reached the steps of the Royal, Batsford gave them a wave of acknowledgement.

  ‘Any news, Sergeant?’ he asked.

  Brennan suggested they go inside, but to his surprise, the journalist politely refused.

  ‘To be honest, Sergeant Brennan, I’m feeling rather claustrophobic at the moment. I know you said we hadn’t to leave town, and of course, that’s perfectly fine. But there are times when I feel the need for some fresh air. Simeon and Gilbert aren’t exactly on speaking terms. The atmosphere in the breakfast room is decidedly unfraternal and frosty. I thought I might take a stroll around town.’

  ‘What’s the matter with the Crosby brothers?’

  Batsford gave a sma
ll shrug. ‘Obviously, Simeon is completely destroyed by what happened. Gilbert should be supporting him. But…’

  ‘Are they close, would you say?’

  Batsford began to walk down the steps. ‘Look, why don’t we walk around the town? You can ask me anything you like.’

  A few minutes later, the three of them – Constable Jaggery labouring to keep up with their pace and remaining silent during the conversation – were walking down Market Street towards the Market Hall.

  ‘I think,’ said Batsford, ‘that Gilbert Crosby sometimes feels annoyed because of his brother’s… is fame the right word? He’s been coming with us on this small tour, and I have the feeling he’s waiting for Simeon to put a foot wrong – so he can gloat. Sibling rivalry and all that, I suppose.’

  ‘What does Gilbert Crosby do to earn his living? Or is he of independent means?’

  Batsford smiled. ‘Certainly not. Gilbert was the pride of the family, according to Simeon. Went to university – the Victoria University in Leeds, as a matter of fact – and was set fair for a career in the civil service. But then he got sent down.’

  ‘Kicked out, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. He fell in with a bad crowd, and his studies took very much second place to other pursuits.’

  ‘Such as?’

  They entered the Market Hall, and the noise immediately grew louder, with stallholders yelling out their wares to all and sundry (Good job the Inspector of Nuisances isn’t here, thought Brennan, knowing full well that raucous shouting like this was strictly against the council bye-laws.)

  ‘Perhaps we should leave the market for another day, Mr Batsford,’ said Brennan. ‘It’s quite loud in here.’

  Batsford shook his head. ‘Oh no, Sergeant. The place is teeming with life. And those smells! I’m perfectly happy to wander around the place while you continue your interrogation.’

  Brennan saw the expression in the man’s eyes. I’m no fool, they said.

  After a few moments adjusting to the sounds, Batsford said, ‘Well, Gilbert was sent down from Leeds ultimately, for gambling. He had many debts, and word spread. Missed lectures and tutorials and all sorts of deadlines for his work. They had no choice really.’