by A J Wright
‘What d’you mean?’ There was a hint of resentment in her voice.
He nodded to the pot. ‘All this food. It gives one a warm feeling.’
‘How d’you know? You’ve not tasted it.’
He smiled. ‘You misunderstand me. I meant it’s a good feeling to know that your neighbours have contributed to—’
‘—They’ve give us nowt.’
He frowned. He knew full well that the Dowlings had no money and relied on the mission for what little relief they were given. Before he could make a discreet enquiry, young Terence Dowling spoke up.
‘It were me,’ he said, giving him a defiant look and thrusting his chest out proudly.
‘You’ve left the pit? Got another job?’
‘No.’
‘Well then?’
Before the boy could answer, his mother gave him a warning glance.
Say no more.
But Terence had more to say. ‘I did a job for some bloke.’
‘What sort of job?’
‘He give me three pounds if I did what ’e asked. He said two at first but I towd ’im it were three or ’e could whistle. So ’e give me three.’
Walter Anders felt his heart sink. A variety of possibilities played out in his mind like some devilish phantasmagoria. He looked at the boy then at his mother. There was no appearance of shame in either of them, Mrs Higham seemingly resigned to the boy’s admission now that the cat was out of the bag.
With some apprehension, Walter asked his next question. ‘What did this man ask you to do, Terence? No matter how painful it is to answer, answer you must if we can begin to seek forgiveness and redemption.’
Terence looked at his mother. She reached over the pot, took a ladle from the hooks beside the range and gave the contents a stir.
‘Might as well tell ’im now,’ she said.
‘I just did what ’e wanted me to. I weren’t bothered.’
‘But surely you know that such things are wrong, Terence?’ Walter said.
The boy shrugged. ‘It were only the bar in t’Royal. They’re all stuck up buggers anyroad what stay there.’
Walter’s eyes grew wide. ‘A man staying at the Royal took you to his room?’
Terence gave a harsh laugh. ‘Bugger off!’
His mother lifted the ladle, dripping with stew juice and pointed it menacingly at their charitable visitor. ‘What sort o’ boy d’you think our Terry is?’
‘I was simply pointing out…’
Terence frowned. ‘You’ve allus told us pubs were evil places anyroad. So it can’t be wrong, can it? Besides, it were only a brick.’
‘What?’ said Walter, confusion creasing his brow.
‘What I threw. It were only a brick. Straight through the bloody winder. An’ I got three pounds for it from that bloke. Daft sod, eh, Mr Anders?’
His mother gave a proud nod towards the pot bubbling on the range.
*
When the young constable had left the hotel, proudly patting the notebook he’d brought with him, one of the guests he’d just spoken to watched him walk briskly down the steps and turn to his left, heading back to the station.
Cocky bastard! the guest thought. But no match for me.
His thoughts quickly reverted to the events of Monday night. He’d never done that sort of thing before, but by God, it had felt good. He felt truly liberated for the very first time. But now, he told himself, now was the time to be extra vigilant. He’d heard of too many instances where overconfidence had led to misjudgement, and misjudgement had led to blunders. Then, inevitably, arrest.
He just needed to tread very carefully, do nothing to attract attention.
Then everything would be all right.
And then he could do it again.
18.
Detective Brennan’s Notes
Violet Crosby Murder
1. Last seen alive 6.30 p.m. Monday 29th November. Husband, Simeon Crosby, spoke to her as he left. Overheard by Ralph Batsford. (Crosby says she was in bed, reading. If she were seeing Maria Woodruff later, against her husband’s wishes, wouldn’t she be undressed at that point? Did he know what she was planning? Motive enough to kill her?)
2. Ralph Batsford excused himself from Constable Palin and went back into hotel ‘to get his notebook’. Genuine? Or was there a darker reason? Did he go up to Crosby room, knock on door and strangle Violet? (But this was minutes after her husband left. If she were still alive then and undressed – to fool her husband – would she have dressed so quickly? Possible – but likely? Again, what was the motive?)
3. If she were still alive when both men left… what time was she murdered?
4. Someone threw a brick through the window of the hotel bar. While everyone was at the Public Hall, Miss Woodruff went to the Royal and asked to see Mrs Crosby just after eight. Then, according to the receptionist, Gray, who’d gone outside to catch the culprit, Miss Woodruff was standing at the desk waiting to see Mrs Crosby. (Did she throw the brick? Pay someone to throw it? If so, why? To give her time to kill Mrs Crosby? But what possible motive did she have?) No response when George the bellboy went upstairs. Was she already dead at that point?
5. Who was the man George, the bellboy, bumped into on the stairs, going down, according to the boy? A guest, he reckoned. Knew George by name. Morgan? Dodds? Couldn’t have been Simeon C or Batsford – they were at Public Hall. But Gilbert Crosby?
6. Where was Gilbert Crosby from Monday night to Tuesday night? Reappeared after body found. Motive? Violet Crosby urged her husband not to pay his fine for gambling. Sent to prison. Got his scar in a prison brawl. Bitter?
7. Thomas Evelyne. Despises what Simeon Crosby stands for. Says he was attacked by police in King Street. Woke up on steps of St Joseph’s. Where was he from time of disturbance in King Street until Fr Clooney roused him? Is his stand against capital punishment a strong enough motive to murder Violet Crosby? Hypocritical, to say the least, if so. Besides, why her and not Simeon himself?
8. Oscar Pardew. Escaped lunatic. Says he merely wanted to shake Crosby’s hand after hangman executed the murderer of his father who was killed in a gambling row. Is he a realistic suspect, considering his state of mind? Would he have the cunning sense to enter the Royal, persuade Mrs Crosby to open her door and then not only kill her but make his escape? Would he then make such a show of himself by assaulting Evelyne in the Queen’s? Unlikely suspect!
9. The two travelling salesmen, Morgan and Dodds. Morgan was evasive when asked where he came from. Chester. Dodds – travelling salesman with no wares. No interest in who was murdered. Why? Also, Dodds said he was downstairs having cigar after evening meal until around 8.45. Why didn’t he mention the brick smashing the hotel window? He was downstairs at the time. Or was he?
Maria Woodruff Murder (including interviews with Constable Palin)
1. Simeon Crosby. In his hotel room, grieving over his wife’s death. Did he leave the hotel? Not seen by anyone, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t venture out. Motive? Resentment because of her involvement with his wife? Enough to kill? Potentially, twice?
2. Gilbert Crosby. In his hotel room. Could have left, as per Simeon above. Motive? Any connection with Maria Woodruff?
3. Ralph Batsford. In his hotel room. As above. Denied seeing Maria Woodruff in Wigan yet admits she was his estranged wife. Secretive buggar. Motive for killing her? Professional jealousy towards her success as journalist? Her involvement with Violet Crosby? Or something else?
4. Who was the man Maria Woodruff was seen arguing with in Market Place? When she told him to get back to his golden goose? Batsford? Gilbert Crosby? More than likely Batsford. No love lost between them. But the second part of what Rat-Yed heard her say: I’ll get back to mine. What – or who – did she mean by that? Who was her golden goose? The man living a lie?
5. Morgan and Dodds. In their hotel rooms. No alibis. No apparent link with either of the two victims. No reported sightings of them with VC or MW. Innocent or careful
? Nervous when asked where they came from. Check addresses! (Palin says Dodds was aggressive when questioned.)
6. Oscar Pardew. He spoke to Miss Woodruff Monday night in the Market Square. Did she find something interesting or peculiar about him? Is it likely he killed her for whatever reason and then let himself be found following morning in a railway station lamp room? Motive for murder? Unclear.
7. Thomas Evelyne. Not in his hotel room when Constable Jaggery called Monday night. Where was he? Says he was out seeking Pardew after trouble in Queen’s. Did he meet Maria Woodruff on his travels? Kill her? Motive? Unclear.
8. Maria said she’d come here to write a story and she’d leave here writing another. What did she mean by that? What was her new story, and how did it link with the murder of Violet Crosby?
9. Who was the man she described as living a lie? Is he the double killer?
19.
Summons for a Witness
Whereas, I am credibly informed that you can give evidence on behalf of our sovereign lady the Queen, touching the death of Violet Crosby, now lying dead in the parish of Wigan, in the said county of Lancashire. These are, therefore, by virtue of my office, in Her Majesty’s name, to charge and command you personally to be and appear before me at the Wigan Borough Police Court in the said parish of Wigan at six of the clock in the evening on the day of Friday 23 November, then and there to give evidence and be examined on Her Majesty's behalf, before me and my inquest, touching the premises.
Hereof fail not, as you will answer at your peril. Given under my hand and seal this day of 21 November, one thousand eight hundred and ninety-four.
A Milligan, Coroner
The formal inquest into the death of Violet Crosby, under the jurisdiction of the coroner, was to be held at the Wigan Borough Police Court on Friday. This meant, of course, that all the people involved, however remotely, would need to present themselves at the inquest if requested. The following Monday had been set aside for the second inquest, into Maria Woodruff’s death.
It was a requirement of the proceedings that the jury and the coroner view the body – though not necessarily at the same time – at the first sitting of the inquest, after which the coroner would take the jury into a private room, call over the names of the jury and explain to them the object of the inquiry – namely to ascertain by what means the deceased came by her death. He had already made a proclamation for the attendances of witnesses, and Detective Sergeant Brennan was given the notices to serve on the relevant witnesses.
Failure to appear at the inquest would prompt the coroner to issue a summons for contempt, which would involve arrest and enforcement of the summons.
The inquest would, of course, bring in a verdict of murder. It had the authority to imply guilt, and that would result in the accused’s immediate arrest after the inquest closed.
But I’ll have the bugger before that! Brennan promised himself as he patted the swathe of summonses in his inside pocket and approached the Royal Hotel.
He had been busy that morning.
First, he’d made use of the station telephone. It was an instrument he didn’t really like using – he liked to see people’s faces when he spoke to them – but these calls were a matter of urgency. He rang the police stations in Chester and Blackburn, asking for urgent verification on the two addresses he’d been given by Morgan and Dodds. In both instances, he was given assurances that they would check on them immediately. Then he continued on his route away from town and headed for St Joseph’s Church in Caroline Street, where he spoke with Father Clooney, who confirmed Evelyne’s story of being found unconscious on the steps of the church bar one possibly significant detail.
‘Sure the poor fella had a lump on his head the size of a rugby ball,’ said the priest. ‘And shaped like one too!’
‘What time was this, Father?’
‘Let me see now. I’d just got back from visiting poor David Vose. The man’s not long for this world, Michael.’
Brennan knew David Vose, who lived in Fowden Street, round the corner from where he himself lived. He was, at one time, a bantam cock of a bloke, wiry and muscular with a chirpy sense of humour. He’d worked down the pit most of his life. Now, on the increasingly rare occasions he saw him on the street, the man had lost his cheerful swagger, and his body seemed wizened, the muscles wasted and the gaunt look in his sunken eyes speaking silent volumes.
‘It must have been after nine o’clock when I heard a faint knocking. Sure, I thought it was the ragamuffins who sometimes stand in the nave and yell during the mass. They think playing knock-and-run on a church door is hilarious.’
Brennan thought of his young son, Barry, whose friend had only recently been trying to persuade him to join in a similar game. He suppressed a smile. He’d done much the same himself, a sin he always under-confessed the following Saturday morning when he described it as talking and playing in church. That is all I can remember, Father. He often worried if lying in the confessional were a mortal or simply a venial sin.
‘Anyway,’ said Father Clooney, breaking into his thoughts, ‘I took him in and gave him a little something to bring him round.’
When Brennan left Caroline Street, he reflected on the comparative severity of lying to a priest and lying to a policeman. Which was worse?
Depends on the reason, he thought. And we both deal in confessions.
At the Queen’s Hotel, he found Thomas Evelyne seated at a solitary table in the vault, the plate of bacon and livers barely touched. He sat down opposite him and handed him a summons. He had several more in his possession.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Evelyne when he’d read the document. ‘What has Mrs Crosby’s death to do with me?’
Brennan spread his hands palms down on the table. ‘Because you’re a witness, Mr Evelyne. It’s quite possible that the trouble in King Street Monday night helped whoever killed Mrs Crosby.’
‘Helped? How?’
‘It created a diversion,’ said Brennan with a smile. ‘While all hell broke loose, the killer might well have sneaked away and carried out the murder.’ He made no mention of another possible diversion – the hurling of a brick through the hotel bar window.
Evelyne sighed. ‘I’ve been away from my wife for too long, Sergeant.’
‘And you’ll be away from her a bit longer, I’m afraid.’ He nodded down at the summons and shrugged. Out of my hands, pal.
He shivered as he made his way back up Wallgate and headed for the Royal Hotel. The temperature had dropped even further, and he could see the way people almost hugged themselves to keep warm.
Ellen had urged him to wear his muffler to keep out the cold. He had refused. As usual, she was right, and he was stubborn.
He focused on what he needed to do. He was determined to get to the bottom of where Gilbert Crosby had been from Monday to Tuesday night. If need be, he’d arrange for Constable Jaggery to drag him down King Street and into a nice, cold cell. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, though. Simeon Crosby was in mourning – as indeed was his brother Gilbert – and the last thing Brennan wanted was to cause the family more upset.
But he needed some answers.
When he arrived at the Royal, he was informed that Mr Gilbert Crosby had left the hotel some fifteen minutes earlier, expressing his intention to take some much-needed air.
‘If you ask me,’ said Mr Gray on the reception desk, in an air of professional confidence, ‘there’s bad blood between them two.’
‘Which two?’
‘The brothers, Sergeant. They came down those stairs in a right how d’ye do. The hangman’s face was flushed red, and that scar-faced brother of his kept shrugging him off and sayin’ he was tired of bein’ told what to do. As Mr Gilbert was makin’ for the door, his brother called out, Have you no sense of shame? Even now? Made no difference. Out he went.’
‘He wasn’t carrying a suitcase?’
Gray shook his head. ‘Oh no, Sergeant. I reckon he’ll be back once he’s had his fill
of Wigan air.’
Brennan bit his lip. Gilbert Crosby was beginning to annoy him. The sooner he placed the summons in his hands the better.
He made his way upstairs and knocked on Simeon Crosby’s door. It was Ralph Batsford who answered.
‘Any news, Sergeant?’ he asked. ‘Simeon has been sharing some of his fond memories of poor Violet.’
As Brennan entered the small room, he saw Crosby standing by the window, gazing out.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr Crosby. I wished to speak with your brother, but I hear he’s gone out.’
He noticed the man’s shoulders tense for a moment at the mention of his brother then slacken as he turned round to face his visitor.
‘What did you wish to see him about?’
Brennan shrugged. ‘His whereabouts since Monday night.’
Simeon Crosby glanced at Batsford. ‘He won’t say. I’ve asked him and urged him to speak with you. My brother’s a fool, Sergeant, but I’m sure you’ve already come to that conclusion yourself.’
‘I think he’s foolish,’ Brennan said carefully. ‘But perhaps you might have some idea. He has told me merely that he was with, shall we say, loose company?’
Simeon Crosby gave a bitter laugh that seemed hideously incongruous in this room of mourning.
Brennan’s next words were spoken with some caution. ‘I gather you and he had strong words in the past. When he was sent to prison.’
For a moment, Crosby flashed a glance at Batsford. It was a look of pure anger that vanished, to be replaced by a slow nod of acceptance. ‘He was on a path of self-destruction,’ he said finally. ‘If I had paid his fine, as he begged me to, then within a week, he would have been back at the tables, and the whole thing would have started again. I had much on my mind back then, as my wife well knew.’
‘Such as?’
The hangman gave a small cough and looked once more at Batsford before continuing. ‘Because of my brother’s indiscretions, I’d become distracted and I had started to make mistakes. In my work.’