Act of Murder

by Alan J. Wright

  The proprietress of the lodging-house was a large-framed woman with a hearty sense of humour and a fearsome reputation as a strict upholder of moral conduct. Mary O’Halloran had come from Charlestown, County Mayo over forty years before, a young girl of ten who had seen many of her family die in the great potato famine and whose da had vowed to put some food in their bellies if it was the last thing he did. After some years working in the mines he had eventually died from the black spit, his lungs rotten with disease, and her ma had had to throw open their doors and take in lodgers to make ends meet. Later, when her ma passed away, Mary had become so steeped in the colourful world she heard so much about at every mealtime that it had been an easy decision to continue with the business.

  She had a particular fondness for Mr Morgan-Drew. He had stayed on previous tours, but this was the first time he had brought his own touring company. She had seen him on stage in earlier productions and had marvelled at his ability to become another person, apparently with ease, but when she spoke to him in the intimate confines of her own home, she saw something else there – a deep sense of loneliness in his eyes.

  She had romantic ideas of his meeting some middle-aged actress, perhaps widowed and eminently respectable, who would cause the sadness to fade from his eyes.

  Certainly, since he had been back in the town, she had seen a lifting of his spirits and a sparkle in his eye, though she wasn’t quite sure of the origin and would most certainly not offend the man by making enquiries.

  This morning it had been difficult to waken Mr Morgan-Drew. Although she was quite a flexible woman, and accepted that actors lived by rules others would consider bohemian, she had always made it clear that there were to be no late-night shenanigans of either an immoral or an alcoholic nature. Furthermore, although she often gave her more favoured guests a late-night key on the understanding that anyone arriving home after hours would comport himself with a silent dignity, last night when he returned, Mr Morgan-Drew had been neither silent nor dignified.

  She had heard him and the young man who occupied the room next to his – Mr Koller – speaking in an urgent and often vulgar manner below her window on the street and later in the front parlour. Here their tones became even more strident, compelling her to hammer on the bedroom floor with her da’s walking stick. Thankfully, silence had ensued, and she heard them both whispering on the landing before retiring to their respective rooms. But she was determined to broach the subject this morning, unpalatable though it might be, which was why she was now waiting outside Mr Morgan-Drew’s room, having knocked on the door for the umpteenth time.

  Finally she heard a grunt from beyond the bedroom door.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mr Morgan-Drew?’

  ‘Who else would it be, you silly woman? Henry Irving?’

  ‘Well I think not. From what I hear he is a sober and respectable kind.’

  ‘What is it you require?’

  ‘I require a word or two with you and Mr Koller.’

  There was a pause from beyond the door that lasted so long that Mrs O’Halloran knocked once more.

  ‘I am indisposed at the moment, Mrs O’Halloran. Allow me the courtesy of a few moments’ ablutions.’

  She gave a snort and declared that she would be awaiting his pleasure in the parlour, and if he would be so kind as to arouse Mr Koller next door and ensure his attendance also.

  ‘I promise to arouse him, Mrs O’Halloran!’

  ‘Good.’ Her mission partly accomplished, she returned downstairs, where she would prepare for her two guests the heartiest of breakfasts.

  *

  When Detective Sergeant Samuel Slevin arrived at the Royal Hotel, there was already a sizeable gathering in the small foyer. He was immediately met by Mr Jameson, the hotel manager, who explained that these people were travelling businessmen who were anxious to be on their way and were more than a little unhappy at being unable to check out of the hotel.

  ‘This unpleasantness is not very good for business,’ said a perspiring Mr Jameson. ‘Word spreads, you know.’

  Slevin couldn’t tell whether he was referring to their enforced delay or the fact that there was a dead body upstairs. ‘Well, the sooner I see the remains of the victim, the quicker they can be on their way.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  The manager stood back to allow the detective access to the stairs to the left of the doorway. ‘It’s number twelve.’

  ‘How long have the Throstles been resident?’

  ‘A few days. They have hired the Public Hall for their magic lantern show. Highly respectable people, you understand, sergeant.’

  ‘Of course.’ He stopped halfway up the stairs. ‘Your reception area. Is there someone on duty throughout the night?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But your main entrance is open for residents arriving late?’

  ‘As at most hotels, sergeant.’

  ‘I see.’

  Once Slevin had reached the door of number twelve he gave a silent nod to the young boy standing there and looking on the verge of collapse at any moment. Why on earth had Jameson placed a lad barely in his teens outside the scene of a murder? He turned around, held up his hand to forestall any further assistance from the manager, and took a deep breath before pushing the door open.

  Death was never a pleasant sight. As he slowly opened the door he saw the lifeless shape on the bed, the eyes blank and glassy, and the lips pulled back over the teeth in a parody of a smile. But it wasn’t the expression of horror on the pale features that caused him to gasp.

  The sheets were thrown back to expose the lower half of the torso, and the area surrounding the thighs and groin was a soaking mass of blood that glistened even as it congealed. He turned away and surveyed the state of the room. Every drawer of the dresser had been ripped out, its contents strewn haphazardly across the floor. What was obviously the Throstles’ valise lay open, revealing clothes and personal effects. As Slevin fought back the bile rising in his throat, he took a step closer to the bed and his foot accidentally caught the rim of the chamberpot. Now he noticed something else about the unfortunate victim: he had not only been stabbed but vilely mutilated, disfigured beyond belief, unmanned in the most grisly, inhuman way. Horror piled upon horror, for as he turned away, he caught sight of the chamberpot, and what it contained.

  *

  Ethel Grundy sat across from Violet Cowburn and felt a wave of sympathy for the lass. She didn’t usually have much time for the girl, the way she swanked down the street with her head held a little too high for Ethel’s liking. It was as if the girl couldn’t wait to leave the place she was born and had grown up in. Her mother had run off, cocking a snook at the world and his missus. Perhaps that sort of thing ran in the blood?

  Yet such thoughts were far from Ethel’s mind now. Violet had come home that morning. Ethel heard movement next door, somebody rattling a saucepan and raking the grate. She gave a tentative knock on the front door and was shocked to see the pale, pain-wracked face of young Violet, who was standing there and swaying most unsteadily.

  ‘Ee, lass, what the heck are ye doin’?’ she had said, and caught the girl just before she swooned.

  Half an hour later, after Ethel had made the fire and the coals were already beginning to glow, they were sitting at the table with hot cups of tea in their hands, and Violet had explained why she had made her way home from the hospital.

  ‘Me father’d starve if it were left to ’im. He’s got nobody to do for him, has he?’

  ‘No more than he deserves, after what he did.’

  Violet shook her head. ‘He’d every right, Ethel.’

  ‘No man has a right to throw his only daughter downstairs.’

  Violet took a long sip that seemed to burn her lips. ‘You saw, didn’t you?’

  ‘Saw what, lass?’

  ‘The man. The one who ran away.’

  ‘Oh him.’ Ethel looked into the flames of the coal fire.

  ‘I thought . .
. I mean, the way he hid, like a frightened rabbit. And then he just pushed me into me dad, and flew downstairs and out of the door before you could spit.’

  ‘There’s plenty like that, lass.’

  ‘Aye. I know, Ethel. But . . . I can’t blame me dad. That’d just be addin’ one sin onto another. It were my fault, all this. But I’ve no one I can talk to, see?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About what I’ve done.’

  ‘And what have you done?’ Ethel asked, though she thought she knew.

  Violet looked away. ‘I . . . I’m sorry, Ethel. I’d best keep some things to meself, eh?’

  ‘If you have to. But I’m only next door, love. You ever need anythin’ . . .’

  Violet reached out and grasped her neighbour’s hand. ‘I know. Thanks.’ Now it was Violet’s turn to gaze at the burning coals. ‘You don’t happen to know where me dad is, do you, Ethel?’

  *

  Voices were raised angrily in the residents’ bar of the Royal Hotel. The front doors had been firmly closed to all but the most necessary callers – a local doctor had come and gone, and he was followed by a succession of constables who escorted the hotel residents into the bar area, where they placated them as best they could. Then came the grand entrance of Horatio Bentham, M.B. and C.M. (Edin.), who had been house surgeon at the Royal Albert Edward Infirmary for over twenty-five years and who would be carrying out the post-mortem examination. Finally the angry protestations grew muted, the interviews suspended for the moment, while the bearers from the infirmary morgue brought down their melancholy burden beneath a swathe of calico sheets.

  Slevin spoke a few words with Dr Bentham before returning to the manager’s office that lay beyond the small reception desk. Here the victim’s wife had been installed, sedated and in a state of shock.

  Georgina Throstle was lying on a chaise-longue with a damp cloth over her eyes and one hand resting on her head. One of the hotel maids was seated beside her, patting her hands and looking most uncomfortable in the process. She gave Slevin a look of relief as he silently indicated that she should leave the two of them alone.

  She was indubitably a handsome woman, he thought, as he took his place beside her and introduced himself. Her jet-black hair was swept back in a tight bun, and her face was well-formed, with prominent cheekbones and a sharpness to the tight curve of her mouth. With great care, she lifted the cloth from her forehead and turned to look at the policeman. Her eyes were heavy, and it seemed to be a desperate effort to keep them from closing.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. But if I could ask you a few questions?’

  She let her hand curl in the air by way of reply but remained silent.

  ‘Tell me about last night. What time did you both retire?’

  A deep sigh. ‘Eleven-thirty or thereabouts. Richard went back down to the bar. I was asleep when he returned, but he woke me fumbling for his key. I vaguely recall staggering to the door to let him in.’

  ‘Was he intoxicated?’

  ‘I have no idea. I was asleep again almost immediately.’

  ‘The hotel manager tells me you have been quite busy this last week. You have a show.’

  ‘Yes. A magic lantern show.’

  ‘Can you tell me what happened when you awoke this morning?’

  ‘I heard nothing! Nothing at all!’ Suddenly her eyes were wide open, blazing at him with a fearsome intensity, and she sat up, gripping his arm tightly. ‘How is that possible, when he was . . .’ She slumped back, exhausted. ‘The medicine.’

  ‘Medicine?’

  She slowly shook her head from side to side and gave a sharp laugh. ‘It was meant to nullify my pain. My goodness! It did that all right. Nullified every one of my senses, too, by the looks of it.’

  Gradually, with infinite patience, Slevin discovered that she had taken an analgesic – Chlorodyne – to help her to sleep, and the compound had been brought by her husband the evening before.

  ‘It would have rendered you quite impervious to any disturbance, ma’am.’

  ‘So while I was sleeping, some . . . some demon . . . entered our room and . . . and . . .’ The scenario was too much for her, and she broke down into a flood of tears that only subsided when, once again, a heavy tiredness seemed to overwhelm her.

  He took a deep breath and reached to hold her hand. She looked up at him through eyes that were raw with weeping.

  ‘This will be most difficult, ma’am, but if we are to find the foul fiend who did this to your husband, I need to know more.’

  She sniffed and nodded.

  ‘When you awoke, did you see anyone in the room?’

  ‘No one. I just felt . . . I was cold, and damp. And when I reached down I could feel a wetness . . . oh Richard! Dear Richard!’

  ‘Do you know of anyone who could do such a thing to your husband, ma’am?’

  ‘No one! He was the most solicitous of husbands. Of men.’

  ‘Your room was in disarray. Someone was evidently looking for something. I just wondered if anything had been taken. Robbery could well be the motive. Perhaps your husband awoke and discovered the villain.’

  She looked about to give a response when suddenly she stopped, as if she had remembered something. ‘I thought he was lying.’ she said finally.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  Now she was alert, her tiredness in abeyance as something struck her. ‘Yesterday afternoon. I had taken to my bed, for my face was most painful, and Richard went out. He told me he’d fallen in with some card sharps who tried to cheat him. He returned here breathless and . . . and said they’d pursued him. I simply thought it was a lie.’

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  Again she hesitated. It would be indiscreet for her to say anything further in explanation. ‘An intuition, sergeant.’

  ‘Did he say where he had met these card sharps?’

  ‘He did not.’

  ‘But he seemed . . . perturbed by them?’

  ‘Yes. He told me they had manhandled him in an alleyway.’

  ‘I see. Did you have valuables in your possession?’

  ‘No. Apart from a few jewels, my necklace, a brooch . . . but they were not taken.’

  ‘Were they well hidden?’

  ‘I keep them in a small case beneath the bed. Richard has often mocked me for using such a hiding-place. “It’s the first place a thief will look,” he used to say. But I was surprised to find they were still there.’

  Slevin took out a notepad and wrote something down. He would get Constable Bowery to follow this particular line of enquiry. It wouldn’t be difficult to confirm, if, as her husband had said, he had been chased through the streets of Wigan by a group of ne’er-do-wells. It wasn’t something people would have missed, fog or no fog.

  ‘Can you think of anyone else, now or in the past, who would wish to inflict such harm on your husband?’

  ‘None, sergeant. Richard was a very popular figure. Ask his audiences.’ She placed a hand against her right cheek. ‘It has begun,’ she said in a whisper.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It has begun. I knew it would be only a matter of time. Will you pass me my reticule, sergeant?’ She indicated a small tortoiseshell purse on a nearby table, its gold pique-work sparkling as a rare shaft of sunlight penetrated the lace curtains.

  Slevin dutifully brought it to her and watched as she withdrew a small brown bottle. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is that the compound your husband had prepared for you?’

  ‘It is,’ she said as she pulled off the stopper. ‘It brings blessed relief.’

  ‘Then I think you must refrain – at least for a while.’

  She looked at him as if he’d said something improper. ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘You have already been given quite a strong sedative by the doctor sent for by the manager.’

  ‘So? That was a sedative. This,’ she held it up and he could see it was still over half full, ‘is an analgesic.’r />
  ‘And as such rather dangerous to take so soon after your previous medication.’

  ‘What nonsense!’

  But before she could react he had swiftly removed the bottle from her grasp and placed it out of her reach.

  ‘Really, sergeant! That is brutal and insensitive.’

  ‘And necessary.’

  ‘But what about my face? What do I do about my face?’

  The phrase ‘grin and bear it’ stuck in his throat. ‘I’m afraid you must allow the sedative to do its job,’ he said finally. Then he stood up as she closed her eyes in a mute display of indignation. The latter part of the interview, he reflected as he left the room, had witnessed a subtle shift from horror at her husband’s brutal death to concern about herself. He wondered if that was a reflection of the way their relationship had been. He certainly had the impression that Mrs Richard Throstle had been rather niggardly with the truth. Still, he would speak with her again, he had no doubt.

  *

  Constable Bowery was standing in the porticoed entrance of the Royal Hotel, keeping the idle and the curious away. When he saw Sergeant Slevin in the foyer speaking to the manager, he snapped his fingers at one of the younger constables just inside the door and told him to take his place.

  ‘Excuse me, sergeant,’ Bowery said when the sergeant was about to go into the residents’ bar.

  Slevin turned and gave him an impatient glance.

  ‘Only, is it right what they say?’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Poor bugger had had his old chap sliced off? Balls an’ all?’

  ‘That was one of his wounds, yes.’

  ‘An’ they’d been dropped in a pisspot?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bloody ’ell! Just think of it, eh?’

  ‘I’d rather not. Now I have to speak to several very irate travellers, constable, so . . .’

  ‘I saw ’im.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The victim. I took the missus to see ’im t’other night.’