Hanging Murder

by A J Wright

  ‘Is that how he got his scar? Trouble at university?’

  Now Batsford laughed out loud. ‘Gilbert likes to tell the story that the scar is an old duelling wound. From his time at university in Germany.’

  ‘I thought you said…’

  ‘Sergeant. Gilbert Crosby has never been to Germany in his life. He got his scar in some other place.’

  ‘Where?’

  Another hesitation. Then, ‘Prison. Gilbert served three months a few years ago. He was arrested in a police raid on a notorious gambling club in London – the Bedford Club. Gilbert was fined – it wasn’t the first time, by the way. He’s an inveterate gambler. But, of course, he couldn’t pay. He asked Simeon for the money, as was his wont, but poor Violet persuaded him to refuse.’

  ‘Why did she do that?’

  ‘She was very protective of Simeon’s reputation. Said she was tired of Gilbert continually bringing shame on his brother’s name and that perhaps he needed a sharp lesson in the realities of life. Violet had a rather strictly moral way of looking at things. Simeon agreed, and Gilbert was sent down once more, as it were.’

  Brennan cast a glance at Jaggery, who had temporarily left their company and was engaged in conversation with a butcher.

  ‘He got the scar in prison?’

  ‘Indeed. He told Simeon that he was attacked by a fellow inmate who’d sharpened the handle of a spoon.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Simeon told me it was the gambling again. And if you gamble in those hellish places and become indebted…’

  Brennan thought about what he’d been told. It was certainly food for thought.

  Jaggery caught up with them, clumsily trying to conceal a small paper parcel, from whose shape, Brennan suspected, contained several large sausages.

  ‘Mr Batsford, are you aware that there was another murder last night?’

  Batsford stopped and looked at Brennan closely.

  ‘I don’t know anything about that. Who was the victim?’

  ‘A fellow journalist. A Miss Maria Woodruff.’

  ‘What?’ Batsford’s face took on a pale, stony expression. Then he swallowed hard, and for a second, Brennan thought the man was about to faint.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ he asked as Jaggery fetched up beside the journalist, just in case.

  Batsford stretched out an arm and leaned against the counter of a hardware stall. ‘Miss Woodruff? But that’s not possible.’

  ‘You knew her then?’

  Batsford took a deep breath. ‘How did she die?’

  ‘There was a wound. To the back of her head.’

  The journalist stared at the floor for a long time.

  ‘Mr Batsford?’

  The man looked up. ‘Yes, Sergeant. I knew her. She was my wife.’

  *

  The three of them sat around a small table in the cramped confines of the Market Hall office. Upon seeing the distressed state Ralph Batsford was in, the hall manager had immediately offered his sanctuary to Detective Sergeant Brennan, whom he knew well, and had miraculously reappeared five minutes later with three steaming hot mugs of tea. He then left them, stating his intention to take his hourly promenade.

  After a few minutes, during which time Batsford cradled his mug, more for the warmth it gave than the sustenance it contained, Brennan spoke gently.

  ‘I’d like to ask a few questions, Mr Batsford, but you can take all the time in the world to answer them.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I assume you and your wife were separated? The names…’

  Batsford took a sip from his mug, glanced quickly at the mute, stern-faced constable beside him then held Brennan’s gaze. ‘Yes. She left me six months ago. Reverted to her maiden name.’

  ‘Can I ask why?’

  Batsford looked over the rim of his mug. ‘You’re a direct one.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Sometimes I have to be.’

  ‘We held different views,’ Batsford began. ‘About several things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Again, Batsford gave Jaggery a quick glance. To Brennan, it seemed he was more apprehensive about the constable’s large and menacing presence than facing the questions he was asking. As usual, Jaggery showed no emotion other than sternness, like a statue hewn from granite.

  ‘The profession she had decided to pursue, for one thing.’ Despite the grievous news he had just been given, the man couldn’t keep traces of bitterness from his voice. ‘It was ludicrous.’ His tone immediately grew softer as he added, ‘I wanted one thing and she wanted another.’

  ‘What did you want?’

  ‘A family.’

  The answer surprised Brennan. His early impressions of the man had been that he was detached, mercenary in his arrangement with the hangman, but here he was showing a side to his character that Brennan could recognise in himself. For Brennan, the family – his family – was the most important thing in his life.

  Batsford went on. ‘She had this insane ambition of becoming a journalist.’ He smiled bitterly. ‘She wasn’t content even with that. Once she gained a position with a magazine, she quickly expressed dissatisfaction with the assignments she was being given. She would be asked to describe a New Year’s Eve ball or a short piece on the German custom of decorating children’s graves on Christmas Eve. It isn’t real reporting! she’d say. She flatly refused to contemplate motherhood. To me, there is nothing more unfeminine than that. And so we agreed to a separation.’

  ‘Do you know why she had come to Wigan?’

  Brennan watched the man’s reaction closely. He, of course, knew the reason – Maria Woodruff had explained to him outside the Royal that she intended to conduct an interview with Violet Crosby, getting the wife’s perspective on being married to the hangman. But if Batsford was aware of that, what impact, if any, would that have had on his work as Simeon Crosby’s biographer?

  And there was also the puzzling comment she had made to Oscar Pardew: that she’d come here to write a story, and she’d leave here writing another.

  Batsford drained his mug and placed it gently on the table. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea, Sergeant.’

  ‘Did you speak with her? Here in Wigan?’

  Batsford gave Jaggery another look. Then said, ‘We were hardly on speaking terms, Sergeant.’

  ‘That doesn’t really answer my question, Mr Batsford.’

  ‘Then no. I never spoke to her.’

  Brennan frowned. He recalled what the malodorous Rat-Yed had told him, of an encounter between Maria Woodruff and a well-dressed man in Market Place on the night she was murdered. What was it he had heard her shout?

  Get back to your golden goose.

  Was the man Batsford? And if so, then the golden goose would be Crosby, whose story Batsford was chronicling. It made sense. What didn’t make any sense, if it were true, was why Batsford would lie about having seen his wife. Unless Batsford were telling the truth and hadn’t seen his estranged wife here in Wigan. In which case she met someone else last night. Who could that be? Simeon Crosby? His brother Gilbert? Unlikely to be the hangman, he reasoned, for he was the golden goose, wasn’t he? Besides, he’d just discovered his wife had been murdered. He wouldn’t have left the hotel to argue with a journalist, would he? Unless…

  It could, however, have been Gilbert Crosby – perhaps he, too, is benefiting from his brother’s celebrity? In the past, he’d certainly benefited from his generosity.

  Brennan shook the thoughts away for the time being.

  Batsford began to stand up. ‘I thank you for the concern you’ve shown me, Sergeant Brennan. I’d better return to the hotel.’

  Jaggery looked at Brennan for guidance. Should I drag the bugger back down into his seat? But Brennan shook his head.

  As Batsford opened the office door, he turned and said, ‘I presume I am to remain here? In Wigan?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Mr Batsford. There’ll be the inquest, for one thing. And my investigations, for another.’
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  Batsford sighed. ‘In that case, I suppose it’s my duty to send a telegram.’

  ‘To Miss Woodruff’s family?’

  ‘Oh no. She has no family to speak of. No, I meant her employers. She works for a prestigious London magazine, you know. The Graphic. You may have heard of it?’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Batsford. I’ve heard of it.’

  *

  As they walked back to the station, Brennan spoke his thoughts out loud.

  ‘You saw the telegram she sent to the editor in London. Who’s this man living a lie?’

  ‘Dunno, Sergeant.’

  Brennan smiled. Constable Jaggery often failed to understand the nature of a rhetorical question. ‘I think it’s time I sent a telegram of my own.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘Our friend, the editor.’

  ‘I thought meladdo back yonder were sendin’ him the bad news?’

  Brennan shook his head. ‘I’m after information. Might be clutching at straws, but it’s worth trying. Wouldn’t you think?’

  Jaggery merely scowled and mumbled, ‘Never sent one o’ them buggers in me life. Wouldn’t know where to start.’

  As they passed the General Post Office, Brennan asked Jaggery to wait while he sent his telegram. A few minutes later, he reappeared, and they crossed the road.

  They reached the Minorca Hotel, on the corner of Wallgate and King Street. Further down Wallgate, he saw a small group of children pushing each other near the entrance of the yard where Maria Woodruff’s body had been found a few hours earlier. Little sods should be in school, Brennan thought, not daring each other to enter what they’d inevitably rechristened the Haunted Yard.

  ‘Couldn’t be Simeon Crosby,’ Jaggery suddenly said.

  ‘What?’ said Brennan.

  ‘Livin’ a lie. I mean, we all know what that bugger does. Or did. Everybody knows of ’im.’ His brow creased in thought. ‘I reckon same thing applies to that brother of ’is. Bein’ the hangman’s brother.’

  ‘Who’s served time,’ Brennan added. ‘That might lead to a lie or two.’

  Jaggery rubbed his chin. ‘Aye.’

  ‘There’s Batsford, of course. A journalist.’

  ‘But they just report stuff, don’t they? I mean, they write what’s in the newspapers.’

  ‘A journalist isn’t just a journalist, Constable. Just like a hangman isn’t just a hangman. They have good points and bad points.’

  ‘Just like policemen, eh, Sergeant?’ Jaggery was beaming as if he’d just scored an important debating point.

  After a short silence, during which time they were halfway down King Street and nearing the Public Hall, Brennan said, ‘Maria Woodruff told Pardew she’d come to Wigan to write one story and would leave the town writing another. What exactly did she mean by that? The story she came to write was an interview with Crosby’s wife, which Crosby knew nothing about.’

  ‘What if Crosby found out, Sergeant? Lost his temper and felt betrayed by his missus? Killed ’er an’ then saw off Miss Woodruff.’ Before Brennan could respond, Jaggery began shaking his head. ‘Can’t ’ave done, though. His wife were alive when they left the hotel, weren’t she? An’ when he got back from ’is speech-makin’ she were dead. It’s what ’appened between them times that counts, I reckon. It’s a puzzler, Sergeant.’

  Brennan gave a thoughtful nod. It certainly was.

  *

  He was sitting at his desk, going through the various notes he had made concerning the case, when he heard a timid knock on the door.

  ‘Come in!’ he shouted.

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, the door opened. Constable Palin peered round. The young man looked nervous, hesitant, his youth emphasised rather than concealed by the thin wisps of lip-hair that could never be described as a moustache. Constable Jaggery had laughingly referred to the hairs as arse-fluff in the station canteen, much to the poor lad’s embarrassment and the rest of the constables’ amusement.

  ‘What is it, Constable Palin?’

  ‘Sorry to bother you, like, Sergeant, only—’

  ‘—Spit it out. I’m busy.’

  ‘Only I’ve summat to tell you.’

  Brennan sighed and indicated a chair.

  ‘I’ll stand, Sergeant. Not take a minute.’

  ‘Well then.’

  The young policeman bit his lip. ‘Last night, when I was on duty…’

  ‘Go on.’

  Brennan could see his face flush and waited for what he suspected was assuming all the hallmarks of a confession. He’d heard plenty in his time.

  ‘Well, I forgot to tell you summat. I don’t reckon it must be owt important but… anyroad, I were supposed to escort that Mr Batsford down to the Public Hall.’

  ‘I thought you did escort him? I saw you myself walking down King Street.’

  ‘Oh aye. It weren’t that. It were earlier, when he left the hotel and Mr Crosby got put in his carriage.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Well, Mr Batsford went back inside.’

  ‘Inside? You mean back into the hotel?’

  ‘Aye, Sergeant. Said he’d forgot his notebook. Had to go back upstairs an’ fetch it.’

  Brennan sat upright. If Batsford had gone back to his room, he’d had the opportunity to knock on Mrs Crosby’s door…

  ‘I didn’t think it were important, Sergeant. But I’ve thought about it an’ thought about it an’… I reckon it might be.’

  Brennan stood up. Constable Palin stepped back and actually flinched.

  ‘Well done, lad,’ said Brennan.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You showed initiative. There’s not many would have seen how important such a detail was. But you did. Well done!’

  Constable Palin’s chest suddenly thrust forward proudly. ‘Thank you, Sergeant!’ he said with a smile that was a mixture of pride and relief.

  ‘And now I want you to do something for me.’

  ‘Sergeant?’

  Brennan reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper with a list of names. ‘These people are guests at the Royal. I want you to take Constable Johnson with you and speak to each of these guests. The Crosbys. Batsford. Morgan. Dodds. I want to know where they were last night from eleven o’clock.’

  The young constable frowned. ‘But wouldn’t they all’ve been in their rooms? After you’d left the place?’

  ‘Highly likely. And the problem with that is there’ll be no alibis to speak of. But I’ll need it confirming, all the same.’

  ‘You can count on me, Sergeant! I just fancy a bit o’ detective work!’

  With that, he turned around and marched out, head held a lot higher than when he came in.

  When he’d gone, Brennan stood there for a while. He knew exactly what the statements would say: everyone in their rooms, as Constable Palin had said, no one with an alibi. It would simply be a waste of his time to conduct such negative interviews. Especially if they were dealing with someone living a lie.

  Still, it gave the lad something to get his teeth into.

  *

  Walter Anders had been a missionary for the Wigan Temperance and Rescue Mission for over ten years. During that time, he had seen many unfortunates struggle pitifully against the vagaries of those hateful foes to contentment: Unemployment, Sickness and Death. Families had been rent asunder by them, and his heart had been affected when he was confronted with the results – children in rags, fathers with racking and sinister coughs and mothers with their faces wan, all ravaged by hunger and despair. Such circumstances had never been an excuse for straying from the law, however. As long as those in receipt of the mission’s beneficence realised that Salvation could brook no deviation from the straight and narrow path to God, then he would be there to offer what support and succour he could.

  This morning, as he walked briskly along St Patrick Street, he was carrying a large parcel wrapped in brown paper. It contained some bed sheets that had been donated to the mission, and he was looking forward to seeing the expression on
Mrs Dowling’s face when he presented this tangible example of relief to her and her family. Her husband’s sickness had lasted eight weeks, and his enforced absence from his job as a hewer down the pit had the unfortunate consequence of rendering his young son Terence, twelve, unemployed as well. Terence had worked as his father’s drawer down the pit and so when the sickness came, both father and son were forced to remain at home.

  Home was in Higham Street, in Scholes, just round the corner from St Patrick’s Roman Catholic Church. Scholes was Walter’s least favourite and most visited district, its rough-and-ready reputation giving it a most unsavoury name. He couldn’t help feeling that some people looked on him with suspicion, a few with downright hostility. Whether it was because of the way he was dressed – suit, tie, polished shoes – or because he was known as a member of the mission and therefore a dispenser, some felt, of charity or (even worse) an advocate of the Pledge, he wasn’t sure. On more than one occasion, he had attempted to bring succour to degraded and fallen women of the area, his efforts greeted with mixed results. But, as he often told himself, he was a missionary, and although his duties took him no further than the boundaries of the town, he saw it as his moral purpose to bring what relief he could. At least they didn’t blow poison darts from crocodile-infested rivers.

  It was with some surprise, therefore, that he was greeted with the most delicious aroma – a rich beef stew, by all accounts – when Mrs Dowling opened the door to let him in.

  ‘Something smells good!’ he said heartily.

  ‘Aye. First time we’ve ’ad a stew since Adam were a lad.’

  He entered the tiny front room and nodded to young Terrence, who was seated by the fire and peering over the heavy pot that rested on the range. His thin features seemed less skeletal today, the flames from the fire giving his face a ruddy glow.

  ‘And how’s Mr Dowling?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh still badly, though ’is chest’s not as bubblin’.’ She cast a quick glance at the ceiling.

  Walter coughed and handed her the sheets, which she took with an expression of gratitude and shame.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  He walked over to the pot and breathed in the smells of meat, onion and vegetables. ‘It seems there are many kind souls in Higham Street, Mrs Dowling,’ he said with a benign smile.