by A J Wright
He gave a sad smile. No, he thought, Room Eight wouldn’t be shunned. Mr Eastoe might even charge a premium to stay there.
He’d grunted his refusal when Batsford had knocked on his door for breakfast. He simply couldn’t face food or making small talk with the journalist or his brother or anyone else who might find themselves in the breakfast room that morning. He wished to be left alone. Tonight, the inquest would be harrowing; a tremendous ordeal that he would have to get through, whatever he personally felt.
When he stood to wash himself in the basin, he did feel a certain guilt when he realised that Batsford would also be feeling quite devastated. After all, he’d lost his wife too, hadn’t he? The cold water made him gasp as he realised that tonight’s inquest was only the beginning. They all had another to get through, hadn’t they?
*
Brennan walked down King Street in a good mood. He’d just managed to catch Father Clooney before he began the eight o’clock mass, and as usual, he felt almost a spiritual uplift once he’d left St Joseph’s Church. The snow was now quite thick, although the bitter cold of the morning gave it a hard, crusted feel. He breathed in the air, its keen freshness sharpening his innards.
When he reached the station, the duty sergeant greeted him with a cheery wave.
‘You look as if you’ve just found a sovereign, Mick!’ he said, noting the smile on his colleague’s face.
‘Better than that!’ Brennan replied.
‘Well, I’ve got a couple of messages here, Mick. They might make you feel better or they might make you feel worse. I dunno.’ He reached below the high desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘Two phone messages in two days. What will the wife think?’
Brennan grunted and took the message from him. For a moment, his good humour seemed to desert him.
‘Not bad news?’ said the duty sergeant.
‘No,’ said Brennan with a slow shake of the head. ‘Not for me, anyway.’
With that cryptic remark, he made his way to his office and closed the door behind him. Then he reread the two messages. The first one, from the Bolton Police, merely confirmed that Thomas Evelyne did indeed live at the address he’d given. Not only his father, who lived with him, but also his neighbours had been spoken to.
It was the second one that caused him some anxiety. This one also concerned an address. But the information on the sheet of paper was quite different from the information he’d already been given.
*
In the hours before the inquest that evening, Brennan was busy. He paid another visit to the library and read the July 1st copy of The Graphic once more. The information in Maria Woodruff’s article confirmed what he’d suspected, and he closed the magazine with a satisfied sigh.
Next, he spent some time going through his notes with the chief constable, who agreed it should be Detective Sergeant Brennan and not himself who should lead the police questions at the inquest. The coroner had the authority to consent to this.
Brennan knew there were two reasons why the chief constable had so readily agreed to him taking the lead at the inquest: one, his sergeant seemed fully in command of the facts and the motives – it would take him too long to acquaint himself with all that was required. The second reason was even more persuasive: Sergeant Brennan had promised that, by the end of the proceedings, the guilty one would be named in court and the necessary warrant would be immediately issued.
Neither Brennan nor Captain Bell could have foreseen the drama that was to come.
25.
Despite the densely falling snow and the bitter chill of the evening, quite a sizeable crowd had gathered outside the Wigan Borough Police Court. Rumours had spread around the town that the hangman’s wife had met a macabre fate, and the most oft-repeated scenarios ranged from the poor woman hanging from the ceiling with her neck broken, to her lying mutilated on the bed while her head (which had been completely separated from its body) had rolled beneath the bed and was only discovered after a frantic search.
The court itself was rather on the small side, and although the public was admitted, space on the benches was severely limited owing to the number of reporters – some of them national – and, of course, the area allocated to the men of the jury.
Once the formalities of the court had been observed – the proclamation, the calling over of the names of the jurymen, the election of a foreman, their swearing-in – the coroner declared that the jury and himself had already viewed the body of Violet Crosby in the mortuary, each juror having observed the relevant markings on the neck that indicated how she met her end. In an attempt to put the twelve men of the jury at their ease, he told them how, in former times, the body would be on full view throughout the inquest, ‘A stipulation that has mercifully been rescinded in these more enlightened times,’ he added with a melancholy smile. Then he addressed the jury in sombre tones, describing the circumstances of the body’s discovery. ‘It is difficult to imagine a worse sight for a husband to be presented with,’ he said before proceeding to read out the police report of their enquiries.
High above the heads of the jurymen, a large window showed the snow falling heavily against the row of chimneys of the buildings behind the court. To Sergeant Brennan, who was sitting patiently in the area reserved for witnesses and police, it seemed almost unreal, the cold filtering through and causing more than one person in the courtroom to shiver. He glanced to where the witnesses were seated and noted, with some satisfaction, that the one responsible for the recent murders appeared to be trembling, though not from the chill of the room. He saw Constable Jaggery standing near the door, and once the proceedings had begun, he gestured to him to move to where the witnesses were seated. It was always reassuring to have the big man make his formidable presence known.
The house surgeon at Wigan Infirmary, Dr Donald Monroe, reported the findings of the post-mortem he had carried out on the victim. The woman had been strangled, he said, with considerable force, and the presence of other wounds and bruises showed a degree of struggling as the victim had fought for her life.
‘There were punctuated ecchymoses on the conjunctiva,’ he announced, ‘and also on the upper part of the chest. There were also apoplectic extravasations on the surface of the lungs.’
Brennan watched several of the jurymen nodding in apparent agreement, though he guessed they hadn’t any idea what the man had just said.
There was a slight murmur that spread throughout the public seating when one juryman asked the witness if the cause of death were said to be similar to that produced by hanging.
‘There are some superficial similarities,’ said Dr Monroe. ‘But you must remember that with hanging, the body is suspended, and the subsequent marks on the neck are quite different. With hanging, the marks are of a certain angle and higher up than strangulation, where the marks are more of a circular nature and lower down.’ He demonstrated the difference with his hands, and the juryman nodded, satisfied, not only with the answer but also the fact that he’d drawn a link between the woman’s death and her husband’s former profession.
Before the first of the witnesses was called, Mr Milligan, the coroner, explained to the court in general and the witnesses in particular, that the law insisted on the evidence of each witness to be set down in writing by an officer of the court and later signed by himself and the relevant witness.
‘This is because you shall give your evidence on oath, and these depositions shall be forwarded under Section Five to the proper officer of the court when and where a criminal trial is to take place.’
Again, Brennan cast his eyes to the row of witnesses, one of whom was swallowing hard and folding and unfolding his hands. One person, Oscar Pardew, was absent from the proceedings for two reasons, closely linked. Because he was a lunatic, he was deemed incompetent to give evidence. And it was owing to that deranged mental state that Brennan had come to the conclusion that the murders of Violet Crosby and Maria Woodruff were simply beyond the man’s capabilities. Certainly, the C
rosby murder required a degree of cunning and a cool head. Pardew might have some of the former, but of the latter, he was sorely deficient.
The courtroom fell silent when the first of the witnesses, Mr Simeon Crosby, was called. As he stood to give the oath, those on the public bench craned their necks to gain a good view of the man who had, for many years, been one of the country’s foremost and respected executioners. Brennan wondered if any of those on the public bench or serving on the jury had been in attendance on the night of the talk given by Crosby, the night Violet was killed. He didn’t doubt that the hangman would present himself in a far different way this evening. When he spoke the words of the oath, his voice faltered, and he had to stop for a few seconds to take a deep breath.
Brennan heard one woman on the public bench whisper to her companion, ‘Poor bugger, eh? Look at how red his eyes are.’
The coroner, addressing the witness with due respect for the man’s predicament, asked a series of questions that related to the night the body of his wife was discovered. Crosby stated, in subdued tones, how his wife was quite well when he left her, despite the headache she was suffering, but upon his return, he was horrified to find her lying face upwards, her eyes discoloured and the whole appearance telling him that she was dead.
‘I have seen more than my fair share of dead bodies,’ he added, to the accompaniment of murmurings, mostly sympathetic, from the public benches.
Sergeant Brennan, having been accorded by the coroner the authority to ask questions on behalf of the Crown, asked Crosby to explain in greater detail the circumstances of earlier that fateful evening, when he left his wife in their hotel room.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Crosby.
‘Was your wife in her nightclothes?’
A flurry of whispers from the public bench this time.
‘Of course she was. She was in bed.’
‘I’m sorry if this is painful, Mr Crosby, but I wanted to clear something up. When you found your wife in bed later, she was fully clothed, was she not?’
Crosby blinked several times. ‘Yes. She was.’
‘Yet you say she was in her nightclothes and in bed suffering from a headache?’
‘Yes.’
There was a cough from the coroner. ‘Does it follow then, Mr Crosby, that at some point she must have dressed?’
‘I think that’s obvious.’
The coroner looked puzzled. ‘Why would she do that?’
In spite of the situation, Crosby stifled a smile. ‘I really have no idea. Perhaps she felt better and decided to go for a walk.’
‘Or perhaps,’ said Brennan, ‘she was getting ready to receive a visitor.’
Now, the ripple that ran along the public bench was louder, suggestive of both shock and intrigue.
The coroner looked about to impose order in the room when Brennan went on. ‘You see, as we shall hear, it appears she was getting ready to meet someone: a female reporter.’
The jury foreman raised his hand and, under the direction of the coroner, turned to Brennan. ‘Is that the same female reporter who was found murdered the same night?’
Brennan gave an equivocal nod. ‘It’s the same woman who was found dead on Tuesday night, yes.’
The coroner gave him a grateful smile. It wouldn’t be murder until he and his court said so.
‘I had no idea,’ said Crosby when the court regained silence. ‘But it explains her headache.’
‘And you were the last person to see her.’
‘Apart from the blackguard who killed her.’
There being no further questions, Crosby was excused and Ralph Batsford called.
*
When he was asked by the coroner as to the last time he saw Mrs Crosby alive, Batsford replied, ‘During our evening meal. The three of us ate together.’
‘Did Mrs Crosby give any suggestion that she was planning to feign a headache or some such, in order to meet with the female reporter?’
Batsford hesitated before replying, ‘She gave no suggestion. The fact is, I knew what she was going to do. I knew she had arranged a meeting with Miss Woodruff.’
Another reaction from the public.
‘How did you know?’
‘Because Mrs Crosby had told me. Out of respect.’
The coroner frowned. ‘Respect for what?’
‘She knew that Maria Woodruff was my wife. My estranged wife.’
Brennan heard one man behind him say, ‘Bloody ’ell! They’ll all be related in a bit!’
The coroner ignored the latest interruption. ‘What was your view of that?’
Batsford shrugged. ‘I didn’t like it, to be honest.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because if she had published an interview with the wife of a hangman, it might bode ill for the project we were working on, Mr Crosby and I. His memoirs.’
‘Steal your thunder, you mean?’ asked the coroner with some asperity.
‘I suppose so. At any rate, I tried to talk Mrs Crosby out of talking with Miss Woodruff. I even took her for a stroll to the park here in town, so that we could speak privately, without her husband overhearing us.’
‘And she refused to give up the interview?’
‘Yes. Violet said that the article would be about her, not her husband. Anything that would be in Simeon’s memoirs would be swamped – that was the way she put it – by other things. It was the thought that, for once, she would be almost like a heroine in a novel.’
‘Sergeant Brennan?’ the coroner said. ‘Any questions?’
Brennan nodded and stood up. ‘You say the last time you saw Mrs Crosby was the meal you ate together?’
‘Yes.’
‘When you were about to leave for the meeting at the Public Hall, escorted by one of our constables, you suddenly remembered something you’d left in your room.’
‘Yes. My notebook.’
‘You went back upstairs to retrieve it. Did you knock on Mrs Crosby’s door?’
‘No,’ Batsford said with emphasis. ‘Why would I?’
‘Another attempt to persuade her? Or to see how she was feeling?’
‘I did no such thing. I merely got my notebook and went downstairs.’
‘Earlier, when you went to call for Mr Crosby in their room, you saw him emerge from the room.’
‘Yes.’
‘You say he spoke to his wife.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you hear her answer him?’
Batsford frowned and considered the question before saying, ‘I heard nothing.’
Brennan turned to the public bench, saw their faces all rapt with interest. Then he turned once more to the witness.
‘Later that night, after you and Mr Crosby found the body, you met with Miss Woodruff, did you not?’
For a moment, Batsford looked frightened.
‘Might I remind you, you’re on oath, Mr Batsford?’ said the coroner.
Batsford’s shoulders sagged. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘You argued,’ said Brennan. He presented it as a statement, not a question.
The journalist looked at him, blinking. Brennan could see realisation dawn on his face. If you know we were arguing, you must have a witness.
‘So, Mr Batsford, what did you argue about with your estranged wife in Wigan Market Place only an hour or so after Mrs Crosby was killed?’
Batsford straightened his shoulders, looked directly at Brennan and said, ‘I told her she was responsible for the woman’s death. In effect, Maria Woodruff killed Violet Crosby.’
They weren’t murmurs or whispers anymore. Now, the sounds from the public bench became a steady throb of excited and speculative chatter. The coroner had to raise his voice to make himself heard, and it took several minutes for order to be restored.
Finally, when some semblance of normality had returned, the coroner issued a warning against further disturbance and then asked Mr Batsford to explain his latest remark.
‘Are you saying that Miss Woodruf
f, who herself was found dead a short time later, had anything to do with Mrs Crosby’s death?’
Batsford cleared his throat. ‘I’m saying she was responsible for Violet Crosby’s death. Not that she actually did it.’
‘Then for the benefit of the record, you need to be very accurate in what you say next.’
‘I’m saying that if Miss Woodruff hadn’t arranged to meet with Violet Crosby in her hotel room, then Violet would have been safe at her husband’s side. I should think that’s a very precise assumption to make.’
The next witnesses to be called were members of the hotel staff, who repeated, more or less word for word, what they had told Brennan on the night of the murder. Mr Gray, the desk attendant, told the court about the disturbance at just after eight o’clock that night, when someone threw a brick through the bar window. Mr Eastoe related how a young boy had come to the hotel and confessed to the incident. George, the bellboy, further testified that he had met the woman reporter who came to see Mrs Crosby. He had gone up to her room but had received no response. He accidentally bumped into a man who was making his way down the stairs. He thought it was one of the other guests in the hotel because the man had addressed him by name.
‘Do you remember anything about this man?’ Brennan asked.
‘Aye. I mean, yes, sir. He smelt of cigar smoke.’
‘Thank you,’ said Brennan, and the witness was excused.
When David Morgan gave his oath, he seemed to everyone in the room in a most agitated state. He made no eye contact when the coroner began his questions but simply looked down at the floor or examined his hands or even, at one stage, stared up at the thick snowflakes through the window high above the court.
The first question the coroner asked was for David Morgan to confirm his address in Chester. He stated it quietly.
‘You were resident at the hotel on Tuesday night?’ The coroner glanced down at the statement he had been given by Sergeant Brennan.
‘I was. I was actually in my room from around eight o’clock.’