Hanging Murder

by A J Wright

  Brennan quickly read the contents and gave a low whistle. He placed it face down on his desk and leaned forward once more. ‘Well then? You were telling me about the bloke you bumped into. The one who was on his way down from the second floor.’

  George nodded. ‘I were. I’d forgot, see? About the smell.’

  ‘What smell?’ Brennan had a nightmare vision of Rat-Yed rushing around the hotel like a trapped rat.

  ‘Cigar smoke,’ said George. ‘I’d forgot that’s what I smelt when I bumped into ’im. It come to me ’bout ’alf an hour ago an’ I told Mr Eastoe.’

  ‘Who was it?’ Brennan asked, casting a glance at the paper on his desk.

  ‘It were that Mr Dodds. Room One.’

  A slow sigh escaped Brennan’s lips. He showed no surprise. It merely confirmed what was stated on the sheet of paper before him. Or rather, what was not stated.

  ‘Thing is,’ the boy went on, ‘I saw Mr Dodds just now, an’ ’e were lookin’ like ’e were in a hurry.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well ’e just brushed past me an’ went past the reception desk an’ through the main door. Before Mr Gray could say owt, ’e’d gone down the steps an’ legged it. Had a little case with ’im an’ all. I don’t think he’ll be comin’ back, Sergeant.’

  Brennan was filled now with a sense of urgency. He stood up and thanked the boy. ‘Tell Mr Eastoe I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  Once George had gone, Brennan picked up the sheet, a reply to the telephone enquiry he’d made earlier, informing him that the address he’d asked the Blackburn Police to check for him turned out to be a false one:

  Message from Det. Sgt. Moore. Blackburn Borough Police.

  No Mr Dodds living at 16 Feilden Street. Occupant never heard of him.

  Muttering a curse, he grabbed his coat and flung the door open.

  23.

  ‘But I can assure you, Sergeant Brennan, I’ve only just met the fellow.’

  ‘You both checked into the hotel on the same day, didn’t you?’

  ‘We’re commercial travellers. Tend to use one town as a base. It turns out we both had the same idea. Wigan’s central to several towns and cities. Liverpool and St Helens in the west of the county, Manchester and Bolton in the east…’

  David Morgan’s voice trailed off when he saw Brennan’s brow somehow darken, become more severe.

  They were sitting in Mr Eastoe’s office. Brennan had sent Jaggery upstairs to Room Five to bring him down, surmising rightly that the fearsome sight of the largest constable in the Wigan Borough Police Force would quickly ensure not only his attendance but also his compliance. The confectionery salesman had, therefore, entered the manager’s office looking suitably cowed. He’d denied any knowledge of Edgar Dodds’ disappearance from the hotel.

  ‘According to Mr Eastoe, you dine together. You spend time in each other’s company. When I delivered your summonses for the inquest, Mr Dodds was in your room, smoking a cigar. Do acquaintances develop quicker among commercial travellers?’

  Morgan gave a nervous cough. ‘As a matter of fact, they do. We live the same nomadic type of life, you see. We’ve common ground, as it were.’

  Brennan gave Jaggery, who was standing by the door looking his usual menacing self, a meaningful glance. But as usual, its meaning was lost on the constable.

  ‘His room is empty. Mr Eastoe says he hasn’t paid his bill, but he was seen leaving with a case.’

  ‘He’s a salesman. Perhaps he was carrying his samples. My suitcase is filled with—’

  ‘—Yes, we know. But Mr Dodds told me he had brought no samples with him. Do you have any idea why he should suddenly just leave like that?’

  ‘Absolutely none, Sergeant.’

  ‘The address he gave me is a false one. During your meetings with Mr Dodds, did he mention where he came from?’

  ‘He told me Blackburn.’

  Brennan sighed. The fact that he’d given a real address – Feilden Street – suggested he was at least familiar with the town. It was highly likely that he did, in fact, live there somewhere.

  ‘As I say, Dodds had no samples with him. Is it usual for a commercial traveller to make his calls on premises without samples of his wares?’

  Morgan shrugged.

  ‘You realise this sudden absence – not to mention absconding without settling his hotel bill – suggests he has something to hide?’

  Morgan held his gaze for a few seconds then looked away. ‘What are you suggesting, Sergeant?’ His voice now seemed tremulous. He looked down at his hands, which were clasped together.

  Brennan remained silent, waiting for Morgan to speak again.

  ‘I trust you’ve found that my address is as I’ve stated, Sergeant.’

  ‘The Chester police haven’t yet replied to my enquiry. Until they do, I should expect you to stay within the hotel. Mr Eastoe would be very annoyed if another guest were to leave without paying what he owes.’

  ‘Does that mean I can go back to my room?’

  ‘It does, Mr Morgan. We’ll speak again soon.’

  Once Morgan had left, Brennan looked over at Jaggery. ‘Well, Constable? What do you think of Mr Morgan?’

  ‘Shit scared, Sergeant.’

  Brennan smiled. Sometimes, Freddie Jaggery hit the nail on the head.

  *

  Although he telephoned the Blackburn Borough Police with Dodds’ description, Brennan held no high expectations of an early arrest. He might well have travelled elsewhere, and even if he did come from Blackburn and returned there, the description could fit many men of similar age.

  The question, of course, was why the man had left so suddenly. Brennan was convinced the imminence of the inquest the following evening played a large part in his motive: by giving a false address, he had run the risk of exposure in the coroner’s court. Giving a false statement there would have serious consequences, and the man must have known the information he’d given them would be recorded and checked.

  But had he given a false address because he was guilty of two murders?

  People lie about such things for a number of reasons, and Dodds’ reason might be unconnected with the double murder he was investigating. He suspected that David Morgan knew more than he was letting on. But on his return to the station, he’d been informed that Morgan’s address was a valid one, the man’s mother and sister (with whom he apparently lived) confirming that he did indeed live there.

  Several trails of thought presented themselves to Brennan. If Dodds were mixed up in the murders of Violet Crosby and Maria Woodruff, then what was his motive? He’d been discovered in one lie – his false address – so was he the man who was living a lie, according to Maria Woodruff? She surely hadn’t been referring simply to his address. For one thing, how would she know?

  There was also the problem of David Morgan. If he knew Dodds more intimately than he was admitting to, was he, therefore, an accomplice to the murders? Or was he guilty of one and Dodds guilty of the other? What, though, was their motive? He shook his head to clear it.

  Jaggery was right, though: Morgan was shit scared.

  And in one particular instance, the young salesman had lied to him.

  The door to his office opened and Captain Bell walked in. ‘Sergeant Brennan,’ he began. ‘In the matter of Mr Pardew.’

  Brennan inwardly cursed. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Since our discussion on the matter, I gather from the duty sergeant that he became ill, was being transferred to the infirmary, somehow escaped, accosted Mr Simeon Crosby in his room, was recaptured and even now is languishing down in the cells once more. Is that an accurate picture that I paint?’

  ‘Faultless, sir.’

  ‘How did he escape? Your fellow sergeant was most vague on that point.’

  ‘I think the horse ambulance was involved in an accident,’ came the reply.

  ‘Who was with him?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir. I’d have to check the roster.’
<
br />   ‘Do so.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Will that be all?’

  The chief constable gave a spectral smile. Always a bad sign.

  ‘It seems painfully obvious now, does it not, that the man Pardew is of unsound mind? Might it not be a kindness to have the fellow taken back to the asylum?’

  There was a part of Brennan that wanted to tell the man to leave the police work to him, that Oscar Pardew had been somehow involved, if only accidentally, in the events of Tuesday night. He’d been seen talking to Maria Woodruff in the Market Square; caused the trouble in King Street by rushing towards Simeon Crosby; gone missing after the trouble, claiming his mind was in a fog; poured beer over Evelyne’s head; burst into Crosby’s room – and all for what? To shake the hangman’s hand?

  Was he truly insane? Or was he someone else who was living a lie?

  There was another part of Brennan, though, that had to admit some truth in what the chief constable was saying: Oscar Pardew had all the indications of madness, and sometimes what you see is what you get. If the man was lying, then he was the best liar – nay, the best actor – Brennan had ever met. Besides, sending him back to the asylum would be one way of keeping him locked up. He felt sure the authorities at Haydock Lodge would be keeping a very sharp eye on their escapee in the future.

  ‘You may well be right, sir,’ said Brennan finally.

  ‘Excellent!’ came the response. ‘I’m glad you agree, and I felt sure you would. Which is why I took the liberty of telephoning the Medical Superintendent at Haydock Lodge a few hours ago, to arrange for two of his finest attendants to come here forthwith and ensure his safe transfer by train. They are waiting by the front desk even now. I’m sure they’ll take greater care of the poor fellow than the blithering oaf who allowed him to escape earlier. Good afternoon, Sergeant!’

  As he left the office, Brennan cursed once more, but not inwardly this time.

  *

  There were a few flakes of snow falling as he made his way home that night. Brennan ignored them, for several things were playing on his mind.

  He needed to go back to the night of the murder. When was the last time Violet Crosby was seen alive? Around six thirty, when Simeon Crosby was leaving their hotel room, when he spoke to her about reading and her headache. This was verified by Ralph Batsford, who was present at the time.

  Later, when Crosby was leaving the hotel for the Public Hall, Batsford had told Constable Palin that he needed to go back upstairs to his room to retrieve his notebook. Did he knock on the door of Violet Crosby’s room, to see how she was?

  Something else struck Brennan then. Something that had been there, just out of reach. Something that didn’t quite fit. Something very trivial.

  A man living a lie. And a knock on a door.

  When he got home, Barry was tucked up in bed.

  ‘He’s warm as toast,’ Ellen said, kissing Brennan on the cheek and helping him take off his overcoat. ‘I put a brick in earlier.’

  He smiled. A brick, warmed by the fire for a couple of hours then wrapped in cloth and placed in their son’s cold bed, would help take the chill off the sheets before he went to bed. On a night like this, with the snow coming thicker now, Brennan knew his son would relish the warmth and the snugness of the bed. Later, of course, he would patter across the landing and get into bed with them, and the three would snuggle together to keep the chill at bay.

  Once they’d finished their lamb chops and potatoes, Ellen sat at his feet before the fire, her head on his knee. She looked at him curiously.

  ‘You’ve had that little smile on your face ever since you came in,’ she said, running her fingers along his knee in front of the blazing coals. ‘What’s put it there?’

  He leaned forward and kissed her. ‘Oh, nothing,’ he whispered.

  She shook her head. ‘Work,’ she said resignedly before resting her head on his knee once again.

  24.

  The following morning, Ralph Batsford looked in low spirits. When Gilbert Crosby entered the breakfast room, he saw the expression on the journalist’s face and decided to sit as far away from him as possible. He didn’t take much to the fellow – he’d been hanging around Simeon for a while now, making notes and holding what seemed like secretive meetings to which he wasn’t invited.

  Working on the book, was all that his brother would say as if he were Charles Dickens. No, Gilbert reflected with a wry smile. Anthony Trollope, more like! The only book of Trollope’s he’d read – or tried to, he’d abandoned it halfway through – was He Knew He Was Right, about a jealous husband and an innocent wife who, from what he could recall, was quite stubborn. Things didn’t end well there, either.

  Well, damn them both!

  The waiter took his order, and he sat gazing through the window which overlooked the main thoroughfare. It had been snowing quite heavily, he noticed, and he was quite amused as he watched the townsfolk taking cautious steps to avoid falling.

  He’d done that all his life!

  He looked around the room and saw only one other diner, the young man whose regular eating companion, the older man, was nowhere to be seen. He gave the fellow a nod of acknowledgement and felt slightly miffed when it wasn’t returned. Is misery catching? he wondered.

  Once he’d finished his breakfast, he sat back in his chair and took out a cigar, lighting it with care. It surprised him when the young man glared at him and slapped his napkin down on the table. He then left the room with such abruptness that even Batsford, gloomily contemplating his cold kidneys, looked up and gave Gilbert an inquisitive look.

  ‘He mustn’t like the smell of a good cigar!’ Gilbert shouted across the room.

  But the journalist had already turned his attention back to the congealing contents of his plate.

  *

  David Morgan stood on the top step of the Royal Hotel and breathed in the cold air of the morning. Somehow, all these people, making their ungainly way to whichever place of work that employed them, seemed to him nothing more substantial than wraiths; shapes that had crept from his nightmare of the previous hours and taken on human form. He could hear their shouts, their self-abashed laughter at some stumble or slip in the snow, could see their breaths billowing forth like minuscule chimneys belching smoke, yet the reality of them, their humanness, eluded him.

  He watched two young boys throw snowballs at each other, while another group further down the street hurled snowballs at the tram windows, eliciting curses and threats from the conductor who leaned forward, one hand on the platform pole, and raised a gloved fist. The boys shouted some obscenity and scurried off down an alleyway when the conductor abandoned his post and began foolishly to chase them.

  To think, not ten years ago I was just like those urchins, before…

  But he didn’t want to think of before.

  He pressed his lips together as if he were afraid of the words spilling from his mouth. Then he turned round and went back inside the hotel, just as Sergeant Brennan had instructed him to.

  *

  For Ralph Batsford, the cold, fragmented kidneys were a symbol. Where once upon a time, in their warmth and their succulence, they had tempted his palate, he now left them untouched (or rather, partly touched and half-heartedly tasted). Nothing but cold, dead offal.

  He slowly dragged his fork through the thickening mix of gravy and grease, watching narrow, curving patterns form then gradually blend back into one morass as the liquids slid back together.

  He’d made an unholy mess of things, hadn’t he?

  Violet Crosby hadn’t taken any notice of him, almost laughing in his face that day in the Pavilion Café in the park. He’d tried to warn her, but her mind had been made up.

  What else could he have done?

  And Maria…

  Once, they’d had such plans! But those plans, that had seemed so straight and clear, became blurred, congealed, and they had gone their separate ways. There, too, if only she had listened to him…

  His thoughts turned
to the inquest later. He would get through that, of course, spend some time supporting Simeon and trying to keep that obnoxious brother of his from making his usual insensitive remarks. If only Sergeant Brennan could find some reason to throw the blackguard back into prison.

  He shook his head. No. The next inquest, into Maria’s death, would be worse. Far, far worse.

  *

  Thomas Evelyne was also eating breakfast in the rather less salubrious surroundings of the Queen’s Hotel. His mind was on the inquest, to which he’d been called as a witness that evening. There really wasn’t much he would be adding to the evidence the coroner would be seeking. As for Simeon Crosby, he wondered what that man would be feeling right now. He hated Crosby with a venom, and he felt little guilt in that as he thought of the ones who had been killed and the hangman’s role in it.

  But now, there would be no more protests, no more marches. He would go back home to his wife.

  *

  For Simeon Crosby, those first few moments of awakening had been glorious. He’d been filled with such a joy that he’d turned to Violet to share with her this strange euphoria. But that had lasted merely seconds once the cold reality of where he was, and who he was, struck him. He contemplated the empty space beside him, the smooth, undented pillow. Ridiculous, of course, because this was a different room, and she had never lain beside him in this particular bed. That room, with that bed, was still locked and inaccessible. Idly, he wondered if the hotel manager, Mr Eastoe, would ever be able to make the room available once word got out that a horrible murder had taken place inside. But then he told himself that people sometimes enjoy the thrill of murder. Hadn’t he himself seen evidence of that, with people wanting to shake his hand and be close to the one who dispensed the crown’s ultimate justice? Even that lunatic Pardew?

  Strange. For some reason, the Goodfellow case came to mind. If things had gone more smoothly and the villain had dropped to his doom, why, the two brothers, Goodfellow’s brothers-in-law, would have been the first to shake his hand as he stepped through the prison gates, thanking him for dispensing justice for their sister…