Act of Murder

by Alan J. Wright

  ‘Do you feel guilty, my darling?’ Susan Coupe asked as he removed the telegram from his pocket, wrapped it tightly around the heavy weight he had brought for the purpose, and hurled it into the canal. They both watched it sink slowly into the dark waters.

  ‘Of course not,’ James Shorton replied.

  ‘And when we get back, do you think our lives will change?’

  ‘In some ways.’

  ‘If she leaves you alone.’

  ‘She will have no choice.’

  ‘And then truly we’ll be free?’

  ‘Truly.’

  She turned her gaze to her left, and saw the dark waters of the canal lap against the high stone bank. Mrs James Shorton. And there was the tantalising prospect of joining Henry Irving at the Royal Lyceum, where he had promised her the finest opportunities, perhaps Desdemona, or Ophelia, if Miss Ellen Terry were ever indisposed. And to sail the Atlantic with Irving’s company, perhaps with James at her side and similarly favoured by the great man! She breathed a deep sigh of contentment, and placed her head on James’s shoulder once more.

  James felt the light pressure, and then he too took a deep breath, but it wasn’t one of contentment. He was adept at concealing what was really on his mind, and he did so now, even though it was quite a simple matter to fool someone so filled with optimism. In a way, he was desperate to leave this place and return to London, but they had further engagements to be fulfilled before that. There were things he couldn’t really talk to Susan about. Whenever he broached the painful subject she reverted to the clam-like creature she had once been before they met and fell in love. But there would come a time when they would have to discuss the matter with a frankness that hitherto they had avoided.

  That he wanted her, he had no doubt. He loved her so much it burned him deep inside, a feeling so very different from what he had felt with Elizabeth.

  Yes, there were things that had to be faced, and only when they confronted the obstacles to their union would they be truly free.

  Susan, misconstruing his deep exhalation of breath, snuggled so close to him he could smell the sweet fragrance of her hair.

  *

  ‘Nah then!’ the man snarled, thrusting the point of the knife against Slevin’s throat. ‘I’m just about bloody sick o’ comin’ ’ome an’ seein’ toerags in my house.’

  Two men, one of whom had dealt Constable Bowery a powerful blow to the head, were standing with their backs to the front door, arms folded and faces stern. One of them had a long scar down his right cheek. These men would batter a man senseless and worse, Slevin reflected. The knife began to cut into his flesh and he winced in pain.

  It was Violet Cowburn who literally saved his neck.

  During the violent intrusion, she had sat there almost mesmerised by the rapid turn of events. But now she was suddenly alert, her voice filled with fear and loathing.

  ‘I don’t want to see any father o’ mine swingin’ on the end of a rope! He’s a copper, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Aye,’ said Billy Cowburn. ‘I gathered that from yon mon’s uniform.’ He gave a sarcastic nod to the still recumbent and apparently unconscious Bowery.

  ‘I told him it was an accident.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘Me fallin’ downstairs.’

  ‘Oh aye. Accident!’ He spat the word in Slevin’s face. Slevin could smell the stale stench of beer on his breath. ‘That why ye’re here?’

  Slevin blinked and swallowed hard as the knife-point was withdrawn a half-inch. ‘Partly.’

  ‘What the bloody hell does that mean? Partly?’

  One of the men standing by the door walked over. ‘No soldier boys now to protect yer arse, have ye?’

  The mention of the military brought the knife back against Slevin’s neck.

  ‘We’ve come to ask just a few questions. But not about the . . . accident yesterday.’

  ‘Well I reckon we should gut the swine an’ throw him in the Duggy.’

  The River Douglas, flowing down from Rivington Moor a few miles away, ran through the town until it joined the River Ribble at Preston. It could carry a corpse for miles at a forceful pace before it was detected, and even then it could for ever be swallowed up by the stronger currents of the Ribble.

  ‘Dad. We don’t want blood on that armchair, do we?’

  ‘Why not? It was that bitch’s any road. Doesn’t matter to me.’

  ‘All he wants is to have a quick chat wi’ me. Not you. That so, mister?’

  Slevin nodded. He could lie if she could.

  ‘Let me an’ Rodge take him out back,’ said the one with the scar. ‘That’ll keep thi armchair clean, eh? Be like guttin’ a rabbit.’

  But before Cowburn could consider the proposition, there was an almighty roar and Slevin barely caught sight of Bowery’s huge frame launching itself at the fellow left by the door. There was a sickening grunt and the loud splintering of both wood and bone as Bowery’s fist slammed hard into the man’s face, knocking him backwards with such force that he smashed through the closed door and landed with a shriek on the pavement outside. Within seconds Slevin hoisted his foot deep into his assailant’s groin and Cowburn slumped to the floor, gripping his genitals and dropping the knife at the detective’s feet. The scarred thug was slow to react, but when he saw Cowburn collapse in agony he too dropped to his knees and reached for the heavy iron poker that rested on the grate. He then swung around wildly, lashing out and catching Slevin hard on the back. Galvanised into a raging fury now, Slevin lowered his head and hurled himself at the man’s midriff, landing just below his waist and causing him to stagger backwards, his large frame smashing against the mantelpiece and scattering the various ornaments and daguerrotypes. As the man straddled the coal fire now, Slevin dived between his outspread legs and scooped out the ash pan, filled with glowing lumps of coal, from beneath the grate. Gripping the hair at the back of the man’s head, he raised the pan and slowly tipped its contents towards the man’s face.

  ‘One more move and I’ll burn your eyes to kingdom come!’

  The man froze, the scream in his throat withheld in terror.

  ‘Now get me some bedsheets,’ he snapped at Violet, who didn’t stop to question the command. Mutely she left the room, casting a glance at the supine body on the pavement outside, where several women were already gathering.

  Constable Bowery now grabbed Cowburn by the throat and raised him to his feet. The miner was still clinging to his genitals and groaning in agony.

  ‘Best count ’em, pal,’ said Bowery. ‘At least you’ve still got yours though, eh?’

  Cowburn was too dazed to comprehend anything that was said to him, and he just stood there, swaying.

  Violet came downstairs clutching several sheets, which Slevin ordered her to tear into strips. Once she had completed the task, he gave Bowery the ash pan with instructions to ‘ram the contents down his gullet’ if the man so much as thought about moving. But Scarface too had lost the will to fight, and both he and Cowburn submitted meekly to the process of being tied around the arms and linked together with their groggy ally outside in a makeshift chain gang.

  ‘Now then, Violet. If you want us to go easy on your beloved father here, you’ll tell me what I want to know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The name of the man who was here with you yesterday afternoon.’

  She looked at her father, bent double and muttering vile curses not unconnected with his genitalia. He was evidently in too much pain to take notice of anything his daughter had to say.

  ‘It was him you said. Richard Throstle.’

  ‘We’ll need to talk at greater length, Violet. I’ll come back later. You’re in no condition to come to the station.’

  ‘No!’ she almost shouted the word. ‘I’ll come there. We’ve given the neighbours enough to gawk an’ gossip at. I’ll come with you.’

  Before he could forestall her, she moved with agonising slowness to the small cupboard beneath the stairs wh
ere she obviously kept her outdoor coat.

  ‘I’ll be able to keep an eye on him,’ she said, nodding at her father. ‘Make sure you don’t give him another good hidin’ to pass the time on the way back to town.’

  They stepped outside and walked in a straggled line to the end of Mort Street, where Slevin had ordered the carriage to wait. They were watched by a curious audience. There were muttered curses of ‘Bloody Cowburns again, eh?’ but she brushed them away with disdain, her head held high despite the spectacle she and her father were once again affording them all.

  *

  Dark shapes floated around in his head. He could see them, and every so often, when the shapes were brilliantly illuminated by the blast of an explosion, he wanted to warn the others, tell them that the blast was on its way and that a roaring fireball was rapidly searing its way down the long dark tunnels like a raging monster. If only he could warn the others working the seams farther down, past the fire doors and the thick wooden sprags holding the millions of tons of earth steady above them.

  So he clapped. Once. Twice. Again. And again. And again. Clapped as loud as he could because that was the only sound he could make. Something had happened to his voice down there. A scorching, thick, cloying, bitter taste of dust was blocking his throat. So he clapped. That was how the Mines Rescue Team found him alive after three full days of darkness, total and utter blackness during which he cradled his brother’s head and sang lullaby after lullaby, only placing it gently on the ground to clap, and clap, and clap. It was the sound of the clapping that drew them.

  Now, Enoch Platt shuffled down the row of terraced houses, mumbling to himself and clapping his hands together whenever he passed a group of people. He wasn’t mad. He knew that, even though they often looked at him with pity, or disgust, or even fear. No. Granted, he had seen things that would drive anyone mad. These were the dark shapes that he still saw. They were inside his head. If he passed a row of shops, with women standing outside clutching shopping baskets and sharing stories, he only had to turn his head to look at them, perhaps to begin to say ‘Good morning’ or ‘How’s your Tommy doin’?’ and then the black clouds of dust would begin to swirl in front of him and make their faces grainy and unrecognisable, and he would be back down there with the blast about to return, holding Joseph’s severed head in his arms.

  A sharp clap, to tell them it was on its way.

  They would turn away from him and he would shuffle on past them, but not before he moved as close to their faces as he could, to get a good glimpse of their eyes through all this blackening, blinding dust. It was the eyes, he knew, that told him. How many eyes had he seen after the blast? With his lamp held high, and the black dust settling like dry rain all around, he had peered down at all their eyes, and some were open and some were closed, and he could tell straight away if some that were open would never close, and some that were closed would never open. And always, always, he saw his brother Joseph. The eyes, and the dust that settled on them. Tiny black spots on white.

  Now, as Enoch came to the corner of Darlington Street and Warrington Lane he stopped beneath the railway bridge and leaned back against the dank walls. He liked it here. When he clapped, the sound echoed so loudly everyone in Wigan must hear it. But he didn’t like it when the trains came and he was standing under the bridge. Then he was forced to cover his ears.

  As he stood there, he could hear the sounds of a man and a woman, talking and laughing. He couldn’t see them, not yet, and at first he thought they were the sounds in his head, from the time when the blast changed everything. But then he told himself, ‘Don’t be so daft, Enoch. No bloody women down t’pit. Not any more. Pit brow, now. Just t’pit brow. It was dad as worked wi’ women. It was dad as told him an’ their Joe ’bout the tricks the sluts got up to.’

  Just as the thought came to him, two figures appeared from the dust-stained brickwork to his left.

  A man and a woman. No. A man and a young lass. Nice young lass, too. Not a slut, any road.

  They didn’t see him at first, and he watched them with interest as they strolled past, heading towards Warrington Lane. But then, as they got closer, he could see the black dustclouds swirling around them, and he had to warn them, even the young lass who shouldn’t really be down here in the pit. So he jumped in front of them and clapped as loudly as he could.

  The lass screamed. It echoed off the walls of the bridge and Enoch rushed towards them both to check their eyes, to see if they had been caught by the blast and were to live, or if they were caught by the blast and were to die. The lass cowered behind the young man and continued to scream, while her defender stood erect and raised his hands to ward off the attack from Enoch Platt. But Enoch was strong, and he grabbed both hands, forcing them downwards while at the same time thrusting his face so close to the man that he could smell the soap on his skin. Then, as the man struggled in vain to free his hands, and as the young lass whimpered behind him, Enoch stared long and hard into his eyes. Then, slowly, he let go of the hands and stepped back, clapping his hands together once more as the coal dust began slowly to disperse.

  Thank God the man wasn’t dead, thought Enoch. You could tell by the eyes.

  *

  Georgina Throstle had had a busy afternoon. First, she had gone across Standishgate and down King Street to the Public Hall, where she made certain checks on the cameras and the slides that Richard had kept locked away in the sturdy safe the proprietor had thoughtfully provided. As she suspected, one of the boxes containing a series of slides was labelled ‘Rose Blossoms’. Even holding the boxed set in her hands made her feel afraid. Not only afraid, though – it filled her with guilt, as she recalled her own part in creating the slides.

  Hastily she replaced the slides, locked the safe with a sigh and left the small office.

  A brief meeting with Mr Worswick had also been necessary to discuss the arrangements for the rest of the week. She had assured him that, with the help of her husband’s several assistants, she would be more than capable of mounting the same spectacular show they had hitherto witnessed.

  ‘The conventions of mourning must of force yield to one’s commitments,’ she had told him. ‘After our programme has ended, I will enter full mourning, and pay my dear husband the respect he deserves.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, and without wishing to offend, but one of the reasons for your show’s tremendous success during the past week has been the . . . commentary . . . provided by your dear husband.’

  Georgina had bestowed upon him her most beatific smile, necessarily tinged with sadness. ‘Oh, that’s not an insurmountable obstacle, I can assure you.’

  ‘But I don’t think . . .’

  ‘I repeat, it is not an obstacle. My husband will be very proud of his replacement.’

  ‘But a woman’s . . . voice, shall we say, will perhaps fail to . . .’

  ‘Oh, you misunderstand! It will not be I who takes on the role. It will be someone who will be with us by tomorrow.’

  ‘And who will that be, ma’am?’

  ‘A man who will, of course, be fully conversant with the scripted commentary written by my husband, and more than capable of instilling the requisite fear in an audience.’

  Next, she had retraced her steps along King Street to Ranicar’s, a few yards away from the parish church gates. There she stood for a few minutes, gathering her thoughts and her emotions for the ordeal she would face once she set foot in this particular emporium. On the dark framed windows ran the legend:

  RANICAR & SON

  Family Mourning in Great Variety

  She composed herself and walked up the few steps, where she was pleased to see one of the shop assistants waiting with the door open and a respectfully sombre expression on his face. She wondered if they had parramatta silk? She so hated bombazine.

  *

  A few flakes of snow were beginning to fall as the carriage disgorged its passengers on the steps of the Wigan Borough Police Station. Slevin had travelled
on top alongside Violet, with Bowery keeping a watchful eye on the three men trussed tightly on the seats inside.

  Within minutes Violet had been helped into Slevin’s tiny office and given a steaming hot mug of tea. The journey had been excruciatingly painful for her, and she had winced with agony on more than one occasion as the carriage heaved from side to side.

  Two of the ruffians were locked in the cells below ground level, while Billy Cowburn was escorted to a small room used by Sergeant Slevin for interview purposes.

  There was a small wooden desk, blackened with age, and two wooden chairs. Set high in the wall facing the door was a small barred window, showing only the rooftops of the buildings opposite, and the darkening sky, now heavy with snow.

  When his prisoner had been seated, with a glowering Constable Bowery standing behind him and longing for the man to prove intractable, Slevin sat opposite him and leaned forward.

  ‘Now then, Billy. What’s this all about, eh?’

  ‘Tha’s squashed me balls. They’re black an’ bloody blue.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. But why the rough treatment, Billy? Why react like that?’

  ‘When I heard voices I thought that posh bugger had come back.’

  ‘You mean, the man who was with your daughter yesterday?’

  ‘Aye. Besides, when I caught sight o’ that fat sod’s uniform I just saw red.’

  Slevin saw Constable Bowery shift his weight from one foot to another, as if he were taking aim.

  ‘Some of your lads give me an’ my mates a good hammerin’ at Golborne.’

  Slevin recalled the incident from the recent strike, where a large-scale riot had broken out a few miles out of town, at Golborne Colliery. Every policeman from miles around had been despatched to quell the disturbance in any way they could. He himself had been there and cracked a few skulls himself. It wasn’t his proudest moment.

  ‘Let’s talk about yesterday, then.’

  ‘Our Vi says she fell downstairs.’

  ‘I don’t mean what happened at home. I mean what happened afterwards.’