by A J Wright
‘What mistakes?’
‘Once, I misjudged the drop, and the prisoner struggled at the end of the rope for a few minutes longer than was acceptable. And once, I found the gallows equipment must have been faulty, even though I’m sure I checked it, and so one lucky prisoner was allowed to serve a life sentence instead of swinging at the end of the rope. To make matters worse, the villain escaped from prison, but once he was recaptured, we renewed our acquaintance, shall we say? Another time, I made the mistake of arguing with a female prisoner who’d drowned her child, while the chaplain stood by tut-tutting and telling me to show some consideration. I must admit that made me laugh! The chaplain reported me to the governor.’ He sighed. ‘All this because of Gilbert and his… troubles.’
‘It was your wife who persuaded you to withhold the payment of the fine?’
‘Yes. It was the only way to cure his addiction.’
‘Did it work?’
‘I doubt it very much.’
‘Oh, before it slips my mind,’ Brennan said, reaching into his coat pocket and extracting the summonses. ‘A formality, of course, but a necessary one.’
He handed each man his summons. Batsford read it through and looked at Brennan, a frown creasing his brow. ‘This means I have to stay till Friday?’
‘Yes, Mr Batsford. Does that cause a problem for you?’
‘No, Sergeant. Not at all.’
‘And, of course, you’ll be summoned for your wife’s inquest. That will be on Monday, though the coroner hasn’t issued those yet.’
Batsford was about to say something but thought better of it.
Simeon Crosby simply looked at the summons and shook his head.
‘I have one here for your brother, Mr Crosby. Will he be back soon?’
‘I should imagine so.’
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. When Batsford opened it, the bellboy, George, was standing there.
‘Sergeant Brennan? Mr Eastoe says you’ve to come down at once.’
‘Oh? And why is that?’ Brennan asked lightly.
‘He says ’e’s got somebody responsible for what ’appened Monday night. Got ’im in ’is office and you’re to come an’ arrest ’im.’
*
When Brennan walked into Eastoe’s office, he was somewhat taken aback to be presented with a young boy, standing beside the manager’s desk with Eastoe himself seated behind it and a third person, whom Brennan didn’t recognise, sitting in a chair facing the desk.
‘Ah, Sergeant Brennan,’ said Eastoe with a satisfied smile on his face. ‘May I introduce Mr Walter Anders, who, among other things, is a senior missionary for the Wigan Missionary and Rescue Mission.’
Anders shook Brennan’s hand – a firm grip, thought Brennan. He was immediately struck by the man’s height – he must be well over six foot, he reflected, with the narrowest set of shoulders he’d ever seen. He wasn’t thin exactly, but there was an austerity about him that put Brennan in mind of some of the more ascetic monks he’d encountered back in Tipperary.
Brennan turned his attention to the boy, who stood with his head bowed, twisting his cap in his hands tightly, the way you’d squeeze out the last drops of rain if it were damp. He snivelled occasionally, but whether that was through some winter cold or the accompaniment to recently shed tears, he had no idea.
‘What’s this about catching who did it?’ Brennan asked. ‘And who did what, exactly?’
Eastoe sat back and held out his right hand, palm upward. ‘This is the wretched vandal who threw a brick through my hotel window,’ he said sharply.
Brennan frowned and addressed the boy. ‘What’s your name, lad?’
‘His name is Terence Dowling,’ Anders said before the boy could respond. ‘He lives in Scholes,’ he added in a tone that carried dark but unspoken implications.
Eastoe said, ‘Mr Anders here has told this miscreant that he must apologise to the hotel and work off the cost of what he damaged. Namely, one window and a valuable set of beer glasses. My inclination is for the boy to be arrested and charged with criminal damage.’
‘I visit the family regularly, Sergeant,’ Anders went on as if the manager hadn’t spoken, ‘and both father and son haven’t worked for two months. When I discovered what he’d done, I warned his mother that if young Terence here didn’t accept his responsibilities and confess, then the mission cannot continue to provide the support we have given ever since her husband was laid off with sickness.’
For a few moments, Brennan stared at young Terence, whose head had remained bowed throughout these opening comments.
‘Right,’ Brennan said, ‘I think I can manage from here, thank you.’
Both Eastoe and Anders stared at him, Eastoe expressing what they both seemed to feel.
‘You’re asking us to leave?’
‘I am indeed.’
‘Might I remind you, Sergeant Brennan, that this is my office?’
Anders chipped in. ‘And I should remain here with the boy to make sure he does admit to everything he did. Without my witnessing a confession I don’t think I could recommend…’
Brennan raised a hand. ‘You’ve shown great public spiritedness, Mr Anders, and I’m sure the chief constable will make mention of it in his report to the Watch Committee. I can assure you the boy will tell me what I wish to know. And spend time here in the Royal to work off what he owes. But in the meantime, I need to speak with him alone. I greatly appreciate your support. Gentlemen?’
He stood aside and waited until both men, grudgingly and with stern glances at young Dowling, had left the room. Then he went over to the boy and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘You can look up now, lad,’ he said in a gentle tone.
Terence Dowling raised his head. The rims of his eyes were a dark red with weeping, although there were no tears now. Brennan could see tiny specks of coal dust that appeared to be ingrained in the boy’s eye sockets. It was a common symptom of working down the pit, no matter how long they’d been away from the coalface. He was small, with a painful-looking rash around his mouth. A few of his teeth were missing, whether through decay or fighting, it was impossible to tell.
‘How old are you, Terence?’
‘Twelve.’
‘You work down the pit?’
‘I did. Till me dad got sick.’
‘I see. Why were you in town Tuesday night?’
The boy looked quickly away, then returned Brennan’s gaze. He’d already admitted the crime, his expression suggested. No point denying anything.
‘I were sellin’ newspapers. An’ I were bloody frozzen.’
Brennan knew that the practice of young boys selling newspapers on the streets at night had come to the attention of the Watch Committee. The Wigan branch of the Newsagents’ Union had objected to such a trade after nine o'clock.
‘Why did you throw a brick through the window?’
The boy shrugged. ‘’Cos I wanted to.’
‘Why?’
His shoulders sagged. Whatever it was he might be holding back had lost its strength.
‘Some bloke asked me to.’
Now Brennan was alert. ‘What bloke?’
‘I dunno. Never seen ’im before.’
‘He asked you to throw a brick through the window and you just did it?’
‘Offered me some money. Two quid. Told him to piss off. Then he offered three so I took it. Like I say, I were frozzen.’
‘What did he look like?’
Again the boy shrugged. ‘Dunno. It were dark.’
‘Tall? Short? Fat? Thin?’
‘One o’ them, aye.’
‘Well then, how did he speak?’
Terence Dowling looked at the policeman as if he were weak-minded. ‘With ’is mouth. How else?’
‘I mean, the way he spoke? Was he from Wigan or somewhere else?’ The boy’s blank expression forced him to elaborate. ‘Was he from another town?’
‘Dunno.’
Brennan bit his lip in frustration. �
�You must have got some look at his face. You must have seen that, at least.’ He could feel his heart racing. If Terence Dowling could recognise the one who paid him to hurl the brick – obviously a distraction so whoever it was could gain access to Violet Crosby’s room unseen by the receptionist, Gray – then it wouldn’t take Brennan long to extract a confession.
But the boy shook his head. ‘I told yer, it were dark. An’ even when he stepped out o’ t’shadows after he’d paid me it were no good.’
‘Why not?’
‘’Cos I already told you, it were cold. He had ’is face wrapped in a muffler. Couldn’t see nowt but ’is eyes an’ I didn’t see them proper like.’
Inwardly, Brennan cursed. The man, whoever he was, had gone to great lengths to hide his features from a young boy he would probably never see again.
Now, why would he do that?
*
Once the boy had left, under the stern gaze of Mr Anders, Brennan made his way to Room One, but there was no answer when he knocked. Brennan’s brow creased. There had been no one in the breakfast room or the hotel lounge – he’d checked when he first arrived to deliver the summonses – and if Dodds had left the hotel without informing anyone, then he wouldn’t be pleased. There was nothing to stop anyone leaving the hotel, of course. He could hardly keep them prisoner in the place, but it did give him some anxiety not to have people where he wanted them. As he climbed the stairs to the second floor to deliver the summons to David Morgan, he would ask if the younger salesman had any idea where Dodds had gone.
But he found, when the door was opened by Morgan, that he had no need to make such an enquiry.
Edgar Dodds was there, sitting by the window and smoking a cigar.
‘This is a stroke of luck!’ Brennan declared as Morgan ushered him in.
‘Sergeant Brennan. What can I do for you?’ asked Morgan, his tone slightly nervous. He glanced across at Dodds, who inhaled slowly and deeply on his cigar.
‘I wanted both of you, actually.’ He reached into his pocket and drew out the two remaining summonses, handing one to each of them.
The younger man read through the document quickly. The colour drained from his face. ‘A summons?’ When he spoke, his voice was faint.
‘It’s nothing to worry about, Mr Morgan. A formality, really. Once you’ve given your evidence you’ll be free to leave.’
‘Evidence?’ The word seemed to hold untold terrors for David Morgan.
Then Dodds, casually perusing his own summons, came to his rescue. ‘My dear Morgan, it’s a matter of form, that’s all. The evidence will simply be your statement of what you saw on Tuesday night. And as you didn’t see anything at all, I should think your time in court will be quite a short one.’
The words appeared to have a soothing effect. Morgan nodded and placed the summons on the table by the window. He caught Dodds’ eye and the older man said, ‘You’ll be able to have your Manchester Day on Saturday instead.’
Morgan nodded and turned to Brennan. ‘Will that be all, Sergeant?’
‘I think so, Mr Morgan. And I appreciate your co-operation. It’s an imposition, I know, but best to turn up and get the inquest over with, eh? You wouldn’t want the court to issue a warrant for your arrest, would you?’
He’d spoken gently, with some humour, but his words had the opposite effect.
‘Warrant?’ said Morgan, swallowing hard.
‘Oh, it’s just what we say to reluctant witnesses. Won’t be necessary in your case.’
‘Isn’t a warrant for arrest overdoing things a bit, Sergeant?’ It was Dodds who spoke.
‘It’s all in the coroner’s hands, Mr Dodds. We’re just his servants. Anyone – what’s the phrase? Ah yes. Anyone wilfully and absolutely refusing to give evidence will be put in gaol until such a time as he or she agrees to do so. It’s a tedious business, tracking such people down. But I don’t think we’ll have any trouble with two such respectable persons as your good selves. And now I’ve got many things to get through, as you can appreciate.’
Brennan took his leave of the two travelling salesmen and headed back to the station.
*
On his return, the desk sergeant hailed him.
‘Summat’s come for you, Mick.’ He reached down and lifted up a telegram, which Brennan accepted eagerly. In the solitude of his office, he opened the telegram and read its contents.
It was from the editor of The Graphic.
Devastated to hear of M. Woodruff’s death. Gifted writer. Wrote article July last year re Crosby’s Victims. Suggest read edition 1 July. No idea of her proposed new article.
Editor, The Graphic.
Brennan looked up and smiled. He knew exactly where he could get his hands on a copy of the magazine. Why, if he walked back down the corridor, stood on the steps of the Wigan Borough Police Station and looked across Rodney Street, he would see the very place.
*
The Wigan Free Library was built in 1878, and a few years ago, an extension to the building – generously paid for by Lord Crawford himself – had been warmly welcomed by the town. Detective Sergeant Brennan was a member, although his visits were infrequent. And as far as he knew, the only time Constable Jaggery had set foot in the place was in response to a complaint, by the chief librarian, of several books being damaged by a few unsavoury youths. Jaggery had lain in wait, despite patience not being one of his virtues, and eventually caught two ruffians who were tearing pages from books and coughing to conceal the act. Jaggery’s subsequent manifestation and apprehension of the culprits – a loud and messy business involving the collapse of at least one fully-loaded shelf – had given the chief librarian cause to regret reporting the matter in the first place.
Now, as he entered the library, accompanied by his scowling constable (takes me all me time to read the bloody roster ’is lordship makes us read had been his response to the invitation), Brennan passed the new Boys’ Reading Room on his left and approached the large oak table that served as the administration desk.
The assistant librarian – a pleasant-faced young man, smartly dressed in suit, collar and tie – listened to the sergeant’s request and directed him to the reference room.
‘You’ll notice the large table in the reference room, Sergeant, with a sign that reads Ladies Table. You might as well ignore it, as it’s underused to the point of redundancy. Our ladies prefer the company of the general public. They’re missing so much, you know. If you’ve time, you’ll find the latest pamphlets on current political and social topics. Sir Francis Sharp Powell is a most generous donor to the reference library. And,’ he almost whispered it in confidence, ignoring the impatient sigh from the lumbering constable, ‘I can let you have a glimpse at our most recent acquisition. A rare copy of Martin Luther’s tract Contra Henricum Regem Angliae. Mr Folkard tells me not even the Bodleian possesses a copy!’
‘Thank you. It’s something Constable Jaggery here is most keen to inspect.’
‘Really?’ was the young man’s surprised reaction.
A phlegmy cough was Jaggery’s.
A few minutes later, with Jaggery standing a few feet away, staring incomprehensibly at the ranks of periodicals, magazines and pamphlets on the shelves, Brennan sat at the aforementioned Ladies Table and opened the first July copy of The Graphic.
The front cover depicted an exciting, dangerous scene – a lifeboat was being lowered into violent seas, and the caption read A Man Overboard. As he went through the pages, he was struck by the superb quality of the illustrations: one page showed HRH the Prince of Wales unveiling a memorial panel, the next a remarkably detailed portrait of a Gladstonian Member for Swansea, while another was an actual self-portrait of an illustrator – Seymour Lucas A.R.A. – in the process of drawing scenes from a new story by H Rider Haggard.
‘Them’s bloody good drawin’s!’ came a voice from close to his right ear. Constable Jaggery had somehow – miraculously – stolen up behind him and was staring at the pages in wonder.
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br /> ‘Yes, they are.’ Brennan felt a slight irritation but continued to turn the leaves until he came to page fourteen.
‘Bloody ’ell!’ Jaggery exclaimed, causing Brennan to flinch.
‘Why don’t you nip out and get a megaphone? Didn’t quite catch that, Constable.’
As a rule, irony was wasted on Jaggery, but even he understood the sergeant’s annoyance.
‘But, that’s meladdo, ain’t it?’ he said, this time almost whispering.
‘It is, indeed,’ said Brennan.
The article, headed THE MURDERER’S UNSPOKEN VICTIMS, was emblazoned across the top of the page, while underneath, in much smaller print, lay the name, M. Woodruff. Halfway down the page, covering two columns of print, was an uncannily accurate drawing of the hangman himself, Simeon Crosby, the wisps and strands of his hair and beard, distinct and separate.
Brennan began to read the article. Its focus wasn’t on the condemned men and women who paid the ultimate price for their crimes. Nor was it on their relatives, the ones they left behind and about whom Miss Woodruff had told him she’d written. This particular article concerned the families of those murdered by the condemned.
Maria Woodruff had a hauntingly simple style of writing, he thought. She reproduced the thoughts and feelings of those whose loved ones had been taken from them, while steering away from the more lurid aspects of the murders themselves. It focused more on how they were now coping with life, the impact of losing a wife, a husband, a daughter, a sister, a brother, a parent and how they were facing the future, especially those with young children to look after.
There was very little dwelling on the feelings of hatred, of revenge, of satisfaction that the one who did this to their lives had now paid the ultimate price. It seemed to be an unspoken thread running through the article, reinforced by the almost overwhelming sense of loss.
One elderly woman, Alice, spoke of how she had never told her young son about what happened to his father, how she moved away from the neighbourhood where she had lived since a child herself so that no one would speak to him about it, nor would anyone know of what she called the blemish on her name. As if she herself had had something to do with her husband’s murder. The one who had committed the murder had sworn his innocence, supported by his family, especially his son who even tried, unsuccessfully it transpired, to provide his father with an alibi. They blamed her for the verdict, even railing against the hangman for carrying out the orders of the state.