‘Afterwards?’ Cowburn frowned. ‘You mean when I ran off? Give them soft buggers the slip?’
Again, a movement from behind the prisoner.
‘No, Billy. I mean first of all the time between Violet’s . . . accident, and the time you eluded capture.’
Cowburn looked perplexed. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘The man you chased?’
‘Oh, that smarmy bastard. Aye, I chased him right enough. I think he shit himself he ran that fast. Any road, I lost him. But I’ll know the bastard again. An’ he’ll know me an’ all. Our Vi’s nowt but a lass.’
‘So when you escaped the feeble efforts of my constables to arrest you, where did you go then?’
‘‘I wasn’t hangin’ round. So I went to George’s. Lives in Scholes.’
‘George?’
‘Him with the scar.’
‘Then what?’
‘What d’ye mean, “then what”? Me an’ him went out. Had a few drinks. Well, more than a few. I talked him into takin’ a holy day so we could have another session. Met up wi’ Rodge.’
‘Oh. The third musketeer.’
‘Third what?’
‘Never mind. Where did you go last night? For a drink?’
Cowburn laughed. ‘Where didn’t we go? You don’t go thirsty up Scholes.’
‘I need to know where you were last night. Especially late on.’
Now Cowburn’s eyes narrowed and he licked his lips nervously. ‘What the bloody hell for?’
‘That man you chased was found murdered last night.’
‘What?’
‘In a very brutal manner. Do you see now how important it is that you co-operate fully? You were heard by half of Mort Street threatening to gut him like a kipper.’
Suddenly Cowburn went even paler than normal, and the surly resentment that had burned in his eyes throughout the interview was now snuffed out, to be replaced by the cold chill of fear. His hand moved involuntarily towards his throat, as if he could already feel the rough fibres of a rope tightening around his neck.
*
‘How’s me dad?’
‘Co-operating,’ Slevin said as he sat down beside Violet. He spoke to her gently, seeing a very frightened and troubled girl, not much more than a child.
‘He . . . he couldn’t kill anybody, you know.’
He nodded, knowing full well that Billy Cowburn did indeed have it in him to commit murder.
‘I really want to talk to you about Richard Throstle, Violet.’
She looked down at her hands that still grasped the mug, even though she had long since drained it of its contents.
‘The man who was murdered. I need to know anything you can tell me about him.’
‘Such as?’
‘How long have you known him?’
She shifted in her seat. ‘A few months.’
‘Where did you meet him? Apparently he came from Leeds.’
‘In Bolton.’
‘Bolton? What on earth were you doing in Bolton?’
Again she moved in the chair and raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘I just went there . . . caught the train and went there.’
‘Why?’
When she spoke he saw tears begin to form in her eyes. ‘Since she left – my mother, that is – it’s not been easy at our house.’
‘Why did she leave?’
‘Ran off wi’ a soldier. One o’ them sent here durin’ the lockout.’
‘I see.’ Ye t another reason for Billy Cowburn’s fury.
‘We were starvin’. An’ me dad was getting’ more an’ more – well, you’ve seen what he’s like. He’d sit in that chair for hours, just starin’ at the flames. Then I had this idea.’
‘What was that?’ he asked, although he reckoned he already knew the answer.
‘Nobody knows me in Bolton, do they?’ she said, accepting the look in his eyes that showed understanding. And, she was surprised to see, some compassion.
‘And that’s how you met Mr Throstle?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it simply a . . . a financial arrangement?’
She swallowed and looked out of the small window that overlooked King Street in the distance.
‘Violet? Did you do it just for the money?’
‘Oh, the money. I suppose. And it felt nice, you know? Havin’ someone cuddle me an’ make me feel wanted.’ She looked at him with a new intensity, as though willing him to see inside her soul. ‘Any road, he was the only one. Said he’d give me enough money as long as I kept meself for him. Just for him. Though there were some things I drew the line at.’ She stopped suddenly and averted her gaze.
Slevin had the feeling she was keeping something back.
‘Such as, Violet?’
‘You don’t expect me to describe them in detail, do you?’
But Slevin wouldn’t allow her to hide behind feminine modesty.
‘No, I don’t want chapter and verse, Violet. But I am a policeman and a man of the world, so there’s nothing you can say that can shock me, I assure you. Why don’t you just tell me what sort of thing Mr Throstle demanded that you had the good sense to refuse to do?’
She shook her head violently. ‘I can’t.’
‘We may have to charge your father with attempted murder, you know.’
‘What?’
‘Well, he did hold a knife to the throat of a police officer in the course of his duties.’
Violet shivered and started to sob.
‘He would probably serve his time in Strangeways,’ Slevin went on relentlessly. ‘Now that is a cold place, and no mistake. They say there’s more die in there of pneumonia than of starvation, but it’s a close-run thing.’
When she raised her face to him it was streaked with tears, and he felt a pang of guilt, once more seeing the child she still wanted to be.
‘An’ if I tell you, you’ll let him go?’
‘If he’s innocent of Throstle’s murder, Violet. If he can prove where he was and what he was up to last night.’
She sat upright, placing both her hands on the desk top, and held her head high. Perhaps she was trying to disguise her shame at what she was about to relate by an appearance of strength. Slowly, she began to speak, and as her tale unfolded the temperature in the small office became very cold indeed. Slevin listened, first with calm patience, then with a growing sense of outrage.
Man of the world or not, when she had finished telling him, he was shocked to his very marrow.
*
Herbert patted Benjamin on the back as they crossed the street, the grim edifice of the Wigan Borough Police Station looming behind them, and said, ‘That’s the ticket!’
‘I realise I cannot keep you caged, like a pet bird.’
‘Of course not.’
‘And that there are times when you need to be alone. I accept that.’
‘Eminently kind and sensible.’
The snow was falling heavily by now, and people rushed past them with their faces buried deep in upturned collars or flimsily wrapped shawls, anxious to reach home. The pair walked quickly down the narrow passageway that led to the stage door.
Once inside, when they reached the auditorium they found most of the company already there, standing around on stage in small groups, their voices low and subdued. The euphoria of the previous night was now a mere memory.
‘What’s this?’ Benjamin opened his arms and spread them wide.
Jonathan Keele, who as the oldest member of the company appeared to have been elected as its spokesman, stepped forward. ‘Some of our group are a trifle worried, Benjamin.’
‘Worried? About what?’
‘You have heard about the murder, no doubt?’
‘Murder?’ This, apparently, was news to Benjamin. He looked quickly at Herbert, who merely shrugged his ignorance.
‘In the Royal Hotel.’
‘I see.’
‘And according to my landlady, whose son works at the Royal, it was
a murder of particular brutality.’
Benjamin frowned. ‘Who was the victim?’
‘Apparently he is the one who has been showing the magic lantern Phantasmagoria in the Public Hall.’ Jonathan looked directly at Herbert. ‘You knew him, didn’t you, Herbert?’
‘I read the posters, Jonathan. Don’t we all?’ Herbert smiled thinly at Benjamin, who had been watching him closely.
Some of the group shifted their weight uneasily.
Belle Greave spoke up. ‘The point is, Benjamin, that it is a murder. And many of us are in, shall we say, less than secure lodgings.’
‘But apart from Jonathan, who has always made separate arrangements, no one is alone,’ said Benjamin. ‘Every one of us shares an address. I would never leave one of my company out on a limb.’
The attempt at reassurance was hardly a success, judging from the worried expressions, especially on the faces of the female members of the company.
It was Herbert who spoke next. ‘Wigan is hardly Whitechapel.’
Belle Greave added, ‘It’s hardly Belgravia, either.’
Several of the female members of the group murmured in agreement.
Susan Coupe then spoke, her face flushed with worry. ‘I happened to meet James this afternoon. I had taken a stroll along the canal bank . . . Isn’t that right, James?’
The others all turned to the leading actress and gave her curious glances, each of them wondering what on earth the girl was on about.
‘Quite right,’ Shorton agreed. He looked at Miss Coupe for permission to continue the story, and when she gave an assenting nod, he did so. ‘I decided to escort Miss Coupe back to her lodgings, and I must say it was rather fortuitous that I did so.’
‘Why?’ asked Benjamin, articulating the question on all their lips.
‘Because we were attacked.’
‘Attacked?’ The word spread through the company with consternation.
‘Yes. Attacked,’ said Susan. ‘Some lunatic grabbed me and made to attack me.’
‘What happened?’
‘Why, James stood up to him, and after a few seconds the brigand ran off, clapping his hands together like a madman.’
‘Did you inform the police?’
Shorton and Susan exchanged glances.
‘No, we did not,’ said Shorton.
‘Why not?’
‘Because there was nothing taken and it was obvious the man was simply deranged.’
Benjamin cleared his throat. ‘I rather think we must inform the police if a . . .’
‘There is no point, Benjamin.’ It was Susan who interrupted him. ‘What is the point is that we are staying in a dangerous place and we need assurances that we will be safe when we leave the theatre tonight.’
Benjamin gave his most paternally reassuring smile. ‘I can assure each and every one of you that there is nothing to be afraid of. The Wigan police force is among the finest in the land. Why, only last night I met the chief constable himself, Captain Bell, who was at the opening night.’
‘Perhaps he was applauding at the actual moment of the murder, eh?’ said Jonathan Keele, with a wry glance at the others.
‘He inspires confidence,’ Benjamin declaimed grandly.
‘And the murder took place much later!’ Herbert added.
Jonathan looked at him coolly. ‘How do you know that, Herbert?’
The young man gave a dismissive smile. He had been uncharacteristically subdued for a few minutes, but now he seemed to have recovered his equilibrium. ‘Oh, one hears things by the by. Come, surely we can trust Benjamin to look after us? I doubt if a ghoul is prowling the streets looking for travelling thespians. As for the chappie who accosted our leading players, surely he recognised you and was seeking an autograph? I am told Edmund Kean’s hand fetches three guineas.’
‘We need to be very vigilant,’ said Jonathan, giving Herbert a venomous look. ‘And Benjamin, you need to ensure no member of the company leaves alone.’
‘That is precisely my feeling, Jonathan.’ He surveyed the group. ‘Is that agreed, my friends? We must never be alone.’
Susan Coupe gave James Shorton a small nod.
‘There is one other thing,’ said Jonathan, who felt the meeting hadn’t exactly gone to plan.
‘What now?’
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, the theatre, from the tiny and totally inadequate privy at the rear to the grand sweep of the upper circle, is freezing.’
‘In a few short hours this theatre will once more be full,’ said the actor-manager with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘Audiences bring their own heat.’
‘But we can see our breath as we speak!’ said someone standing at the rear of the group.
There was a muttering of agreement, and Benjamin could sense the moment had come for firm action. The last thing he needed was a rebellious and miserable ensemble. ‘I propose a grand feast at the Silver Grid Dining Rooms after tonight’s show – with drinks included.’
It was a magnanimous and totally unexpected gesture and struck them like a bolt from heaven itself. They would normally have retired to the small salon in the theatre for a few desultory drinks before going back to their respective lodgings, the communal get-together being usually reserved for the last night, when they could finally relax and perhaps over-indulge before catching the train to their next engagement the following morning. It also had the added attraction of providing safety in numbers.
‘That is a very generous gesture, Benjamin,’ Jonathan Keele said, and turned to the others, who appeared to agree with their spokesman.
‘Good. That’s settled, then. Now we must get backstage and prepare to transform ourselves once more.’
Their protest drowned at birth, the company began to move off to the wings. Benjamin stayed for a while to savour the moment. Of course the dinner would make quite a dent in his pocket, but it would be worth it. Quite by chance, their little demonstration had played wonderfully into his hands. He couldn’t have managed it better if he had scripted it himself.
6
Slevin watched Violet walk slowly and painfully down the station steps and into the swirling snow. He was about to return to the cells to resume his questioning of Cowburn when a small boy rushed from nowhere and touched his flat cap.
‘You Slevin?’ he asked, hardly able to catch his breath.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Slevin, yes.’
The boy reached into his pocket and took out a small envelope. He shoved it towards Slevin, who reached down and took it.
‘It’s from Dr Bentham,’ he said to himself. ‘Good lad.’
‘Aye,’ the boy panted. ‘He said you’d be grateful.’
‘How grateful did the good doctor say I’d be?’
‘A bob?’
A response born more of wishful thinking than truth, Slevin reflected. ‘Here’s a tanner.’
With a dramatic sigh the young Hermes reached up, snatched the proffered coin and scooted back down the steps with a hasty ‘Thanks!’
Back in his office, he slit open the envelope and read its contents. Bentham’s style was curt and to the point. He wasn’t a man who expended much energy on any of the social graces, his employment of a street urchin as a courier being a prime example.
Slevin,
Mixture standard Chlorodyne, though possibly a tad too much chloroform mixed with the morphine.
P.M. on Mr R. Throstle. Suffocation prior to death. Asbestos dust in nasal passage and around throat. Cause of death: multiple stab wounds generating huge loss of blood. Removal of genitalia main cause of blood loss. Official Report to follow.
So, nothing unusual about the mixture Richard Throstle had obtained for his wife. The slightly excessive chloroform might explain why Georgina Throstle lay undisturbed while her husband was being butchered. Perhaps it was a blessing that she had lain senseless during that time.
But what was he to make of the asbestos dust found in the nose and around the throat? Had the murderer held somethin
g covered in asbestos to his face, ensuring the suffocation before mutilation? The suffocation hadn’t apparently been sufficient to kill the victim, just render him unconscious so that the villain could go about the ghastly operation freely.
He felt sure there hadn’t been anything remotely composed of asbestos in the room – but he would have the room checked once more.
He left the office and walked down the short flight of steps that led to the canteen. There he found Constable Bowery seated at a table drinking a mug of tea, holding court – as he usually did – with the younger and more impressionable constables.
‘Constable Bowery!’
Bowery spilled some of the tea on the wooden table. ‘You made me jump, sergeant.’
‘Good. Perhaps we can conclude the interviews with our main musketeer.’
Within minutes, they once again faced Billy Cowburn, who was by now looking cold and miserable.
‘Look,’ he said, putting his blackened hands together as if in prayer, ‘I chased the swine, an’ if I’d have caught him I’d’ve wrung his bloody neck. No question, mood I was in. But what would you’ve done, sergeant, eh? You come home an’ you find a bloody toff in your daughter’s bedroom an’ her half-naked! What did you think I’d do? Go down an’ make him a bacon butty?’
Slevin, hiding his amusement at the unlikely scenario, gave a grave shake of the head.
‘So I chased the bugger, halfway to Wigan. Then he jumps on a passin’ tram an’ all that swine does is give me a wave. Imagine that, eh? A bloody wave! I’d’ve shoved his arm up his arse sideways if I could’ve reached him. But I couldn’t.’
‘What about last night?’
‘I . . . give them bobbies the slip. Then I went up to Scholes like I said. We went on a bender, me an’ George an’ Rodge. I told ’em about the bastard I’d caught with our Vi.’
‘Where did you go?’
He let out an exasperated breath. ‘Started off in t’Windmill, then t’Roebuck, then th’Harp, then t’Crown an’ Sceptre, then t’Shamrock, then th’Angel . . . .then I lost track after that. Might’ve tried one in t’Clock Face farther down, but I’m not all that sure. I was a bit oiled by then.’
With over seventy public houses in Scholes, the three of them had no shortage of opportunities not only to get very drunk indeed, but also to devise some sort of brutal and bloodthirsty revenge on the defiler of Violet Cowburn. What was also significant was the drinking route these men took – they had started at the farther end of Scholes, but with each subsequent port of call they were moving closer to the town centre. And the Royal Hotel.
Act of Murder Page 12