Act of Murder

by Alan J. Wright

  Again, Jenkins stroked his beard, but there seemed to be a definite discomfort now as he shifted his position in the armchair. ‘That and other things, you know.’

  ‘What other things?’

  ‘I got the impression that he was . . . deeply unhappy.’

  ‘Unhappy? In what way?’

  Jenkins shrugged. ‘I don’t think it decent to speculate.’

  ‘But surely if you sensed that he was unhappy, then you must also have gained some awareness of its cause?’

  ‘He said something to me – now you must understand, sergeant, that at the time he was rather the worse for wear, and whatever he was saying must therefore be treated with a certain amount of caution.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He asked me a curious question. He asked me if I was happily married.’

  ‘Why is that curious?’

  ‘Because of what he said next. “Do you love your own wife?”’

  Slevin frowned. ‘Surely the two questions are the same?’

  Jenkins shook his head. ‘No. You see, he put undue emphasis on the words “your own”. “Do you love your own wife?”’

  Slevin still didn’t follow.

  ‘Are you suggesting that he and his wife were estranged in some way?’

  ‘Well, yes and no. I got the distinct impression there was more to it than that. I felt he was hinting, in that leery drunken way, that not only did he not love his own wife – he had feelings for someone else’s.’

  This was a departure, Slevin thought. Throstle had been seeing young Violet Cowburn, but she was to all intents and purposes a common prostitute, and therefore he would have felt nothing for her. But if what Jenkins was saying was true, then it was possible that the man had been conducting an illicit affair with another woman, one who was married. Married women meant husbands. Was Throstle killed by a vengeful husband seeking redress in the most gruesome of ways?

  ‘Is there anything he might have said that could shed some light on the identity of this . . . other woman? If indeed such a person exists.’

  Jenkins again pondered the question. ‘Nothing of substance. But he did say that he couldn’t wait to get back to Leeds. I got the impression that whoever he was talking about might actually live there.’

  Slevin took out his notebook and pencilled in a few words.

  ‘Will that be all, sergeant? Only I will be late for the theatre and I still have to change. The four-thirty from Manchester Piccadilly was not the most comfortable of journeys.’

  ‘What time did he leave you?’

  ‘We went to our respective rooms – I am on the third floor – at the same time. That would be around twelve-thirty, something like that. Mr Golding – you have met him, I presume? He is an Inspector of Mines. He had joined us for a few drinks and the three of us left together. To think that a few hours later a murderer was abroad . . . ’

  ‘Quite. Well, sir, you have been most helpful. Thank you.’

  They both stood and shook hands.

  Jenkins turned at the door and said, ‘This will be quite a story for my wife, you know. She thinks mine is the dullest profession in the world!’

  *

  Within minutes, Slevin was standing by the window in Georgina Throstle’s hotel room. The widow herself was also standing, her visitor having refused the invitation to sit down.

  ‘When men refuse to sit, it is because they have something unpleasant to relate and wish to be away as soon as the news is imparted,’ she said finally when he had fallen silent after the usual civilities.

  ‘You’re quite right, ma’am. Unpleasant to relate.’ He sighed. ‘We have received some disturbing information regarding your husband’s . . . predilections.’

  ‘Predilections?’

  ‘It has been brought to our attention that he has been in the habit of taking photographs of a rather . . . salacious nature.’

  ‘Salacious now? And who provided this intelligence?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘So some anonymous personage makes accusations of the vilest nature against a man who has been brutally murdered, and you decide to investigate allegations against the victim rather than pursue the perpetrator of the crime?’

  This wasn’t proceeding in the way he had planned. ‘I apologise if this seems insensitive, ma’am. However, I need to know if you can shed any light on the allegation.’

  ‘Well, it depends what you mean by light, detective sergeant. If by light you mean truth, why then I think I can. The allegation is nothing more than slander of the vilest kind. A post-mortem attack on a man’s good name, a man who cannot now defend himself. But I assure you that I can. There is absolutely no truth in this preposterous suggestion. I should know. We have worked very closely together over the years since I devoted my life to his passion.’

  ‘The magic lantern shows?’

  ‘Precisely. I was very happily working as a governess when he began. In those days he had a small photography shop not a hundred yards from the Upper Head Row. Then he decided to expand his business. Rather than have people come to his premises for portraits, why not go to the people? Use the marvellous projectors to show not only individuals but scenes? And not only scenes. Why not develop whole legends to accompany them? A far cry from the early days of lantern slides, when they were simply hand-painted and illuminated by oil lamp. This current show, his Phantasmagoria, is in many ways outdated. There aren’t many these days. But Richard feels the time is right for a revival, and if he can display subjects more topical, more immediate to his audience, then he will create an entirely new form of entertainment. It was his dream.’

  She had inadvertently lapsed into the present and future tenses, and he recognised the beginnings of despair in the way her voice was steadily rising, not in hope but in hopelessness.

  ‘You say he photographed individuals and used them in his shows?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Females? Children?’

  He watched as she flushed a deep scarlet. Guilt? Or disgust at what his words implied?

  ‘Always chaperoned. Richard was most anxious to observe all the proprieties.’

  He thought he detected a note, not of defiance, but of anxiety, in her voice now. ‘You see, ma’am, a suggestion has been made that he has taken photographs of an intimate nature. Of young women and . . . children.’

  She raised a hand to her mouth.

  ‘And if that is the case, well, as you can appreciate, it gives us a motive for what happened to your husband.’

  He watched her move slowly to the chair by the dressing-table and sit down. When she next spoke, she addressed his reflected image through the looking-glass, in which he could see her hands clasp and unclasp.

  ‘There aren’t the words to express what I feel about your insinuations, sergeant. I can only state what is the truth and hope that will be the end of the matter. My husband was the kindest and most solicitous of men. That we have not been blessed with children has always been a source of regret for both of us. Now it is a source of deep and irretrievable loss to me. But I can assure you, sergeant, that he would never harm or abuse in any way any of God’s children. Now, if you will excuse me?’

  He bade her farewell and left the room. He stood in the darkened corridor for a few minutes, exploring every nuance of what had been said beyond the door. Could she really have known nothing about her husband’s undoubted philandering? He didn’t think so. In which case the closing reference to his sainthood was merely the gabble of a self-deceiving widow. Or the words of a devoted wife who nevertheless knew of her late husband’s faults. Or, far worse, the testimony of a willing accomplice.

  He smiled, remembering her face as she spoke to him through the looking-glass. Aren’t images reversed in those things? Perhaps they have the same effect on words, too. What is the opposite of a saint? he asked himself as he finally strolled down the corridor. It was time to go home.

  *

  Although the performance didn’t hit the emotional height
s of the opening night, it went off passably well, gradually growing in stature and earning a standing ovation at the end. Once the theatre had emptied and only the company and a few of the stage-hands remained, Benjamin gathered them on the stage and spoke briefly to them all, once again thanking them for their efforts especially ‘in the teeth of such inclement conditions.’ He couldn’t help but notice the way some of them were trying valiantly not to shiver.

  ‘And now, let us repair to the Silver Grid and an excellent supper.’

  Benjamin noticed Herbert walking alongside Susan Coupe and James Shorton, talking earnestly to both of them. An irrational feeling of jealousy overcame him, and he moved quickly through the departing company to bring himself alongside the trio. ‘I am told they are absolutely delightful,’ he heard Herbert say just as he got near them.

  Susan Coupe gave Benjamin a scowl. Was she annoyed at his sudden appearance? Or annoyed with the young man she so obviously disapproved of? Certainly there was a half-flush on her cheeks.

  ‘Ah, Benjamin!’ said Herbert, turning and throwing a manly arm around his shoulder. ‘I was just singing the praises of American audiences. What do you think of American audiences?’

  ‘Most enthusiastic,’ he said with a disarming smile.

  ‘I was telling Susan that you were there on Irving’s last tour.’

  Benjamin felt quite proud, not of his tour with Irving but of the fact that Herbert should be talking about him in these terms.

  ‘I would love to go to America!’ Herbert said to him with a sly smile.

  ‘You shall. Perhaps we all shall. Wouldn’t that be splendid? The Morgan-Drew Broadway production of Othello.’ He held his arms aloft as if he could already see the huge advertising posters before him.

  ‘If you leave us for Mr Irving, Susan,’ said Herbert with a smile, ‘we may well get there before you.’

  ‘Susan will become the most critically acclaimed actress of her generation,’ Shorton affirmed with conviction in his voice.

  ‘Well,’ said the would-be grande dame with lowered eyes, ‘I shall try.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ said Herbert. He gave Benjamin a strange look that lasted just half a second, but Benjamin caught it. However, he couldn’t quite grasp what it signified.

  *

  An hour after the Morgan-Drew Theatre Company had enjoyed their supper in the specially reserved room on the first floor of the Silver Grid, and after Benjamin had personally organised a fleet of hackney carriages to convey every one of them home to their lodgings, a solitary figure proceeded along the mainly deserted streets of the town.

  By the side of the Public Hall, a narrow passageway led onto the back yards of a long row of terraced houses. The figure looked quickly around, saw that no one was watching, and darted into the dark alley. Ten yards down, on the left, the rear exit door to the hall was firmly closed. There was a dull sound of wood splintering, damp, mouldy wood that had long since yielded to the ravages of time, rendering the break-in a simple task.

  An oil lamp swayed as it was carried forth out into the great hall itself. There, halfway along the rows of seats, stood the range of cameras mounted on tall tables, their lenses all pointing towards the makeshift white screen at the rear. A row of cylinders lay against a wall, the words ‘Oxygen’ and ‘Hydrogen’ stamped in black lettering along their sides. The intruder gave a sigh, and moved towards the apparatus, walking steadily and with a purpose that could have been seen quite clearly in the grim set of the mouth – if anyone had been there to see it.

  *

  A sudden sound woke Benjamin Morgan-Drew. His eyes felt heavy, leaden, and he realised that perhaps he should not have indulged himself quite so much at the Silver Grid.

  There it was again. A curse. Most definitely. He turned over and tried to peer at his watch. But it was too dark in the lodging-house room, and there seemed to be little or no moonlight to afford even a glimmer of light. He lay back and closed his eyes once more. Then, with the insidious inevitability of an incoming tide, he recalled the argument earlier.

  The reason why he was sleeping alone.

  The one thing we can be grateful for, he told himself, is that sleep is the perfect analgesic, allowing us respite from even the most unpleasant of thoughts. He had not meant to allow the night to turn sour after the meal, but the extra glass or two had transformed honey into vitriol and he had become maudlin, fancying a slight every time Herbert engaged another in conversation . . .

  Another curse! Surely that wasn’t Herbert’s voice! Herbert had consented to share the hackney back to Mrs O’Halloran’s, although he had stormed upstairs like a recalcitrant child and insisted on going to his own bed.

  Yet the cursing came from the stairs, and it was getting closer. Herbert’s voice. Most definitely. He was just about to leave his bed, see what on earth was happening, when he heard a door open, and the tired drawl of their landlady’s voice asking what the bejasus he thought he was doing at this time of the night? Surely Herbert hadn’t sneaked out again? Perhaps he had simply wandered downstairs for something to eat?

  There was a drunken mumble, a few harsh words, then the slamming of a door. Benjamin lay back once more, and prayed for the lovely oblivion that sleep would bring, if only for a few hours.

  7

  Georgina Throstle eschewed convention and decided to eat in the small hotel dining room the following morning. The room was half empty, and she had no difficulty finding a table for herself. Although she felt a trifle uncomfortable, and was sure that the eyes of everyone were focused on the black fabric of her dress, she herself did some surreptitious surveillance to see if her concerned fellow guest of the previous evening, Mr Jenkins, was in the room having his breakfast. But she saw no sign of him.

  After she ordered a single round of toasted bread and a small bowl of porridge, she asked the waiter if Mr Jenkins had already breakfasted.

  ‘Never see him, ma’am.’ The waiter spoke in hushed tones, cowed a little by the black of her mourning dress.

  ‘Well, thank you. And I’d like my toast very lightly done, please.’

  The waiter gave a respectful bow and left. She noticed him say a few words to the hotel manager, who had happened to enter the room at that moment, and he came over to her with a sombre, solicitous expression on his face.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do, Mrs Throstle . . .’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘I gather you were asking after Mr Jenkins? It’s just that Mr Jenkins hasn’t taken breakfast at all this week. He uses the Royal merely as a base. He travels quite extensively, so he informs us.’

  ‘Really?’ She uttered the word with a touch of ennui.

  ‘If there is anything I can do . . .’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, there is.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘My brother is due to arrive this afternoon.’

  ‘Your brother?’

  ‘The Reverend Edward Malvern. You should have received a telegram confirming his booking.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I seem to recall a Reverend Malvern due to arrive later. I hadn’t realised he was your brother.’

  ‘Please see that he is accorded every attention.’

  ‘That goes without saying.’ He paused, then added, ‘He will be a comfort to you, I’m sure.’

  ‘And if you could show him to my room as soon as he arrives, I would be most grateful.’ She gave him a cold smile.

  ‘I’ll see to that personally,’ he said, and offered what appeared to be a relieved bow before he moved to the other side of the room.

  Georgina accepted the porridge, when it arrived, with a cold grace. She knew that she would have to come to some sort of decision – the Throstle Magic Lantern Company was in a parlous state now that Richard, for all his faults, had gone. He could present the Phantasmagoria as no one else could, and even the temporary measure she had in mind couldn’t obviate the necessity for a more permanent strategy. She felt her spirits sink even lower when she considered the pro
spect of her sainted brother Edward at the helm. As Richard had expressed on more than one occasion, it would become merely an evangelical road-show, touring the country and espousing prayer and the benefits of mortifying the flesh, an ironic change of direction if ever there was one.

  Perhaps the person she had arranged to meet later might offer some glimmer of hope – he was certainly keen enough, and under no illusions as to the nature of Richard’s more ‘exclusive’ ventures. She would have to be very careful though.

  A part of her insisted that she could have nothing now to do with that seedier world, those nether regions into which she herself had once plunged. It was a thing she didn’t like to reflect upon, and so, with that spiritual self-preservation that had always been one of her strengths, she firmly locked those dreadful memories deep at the back of her mind, rather like the incriminating box of slides even now secreted in a safe across town.

  ‘Ahem!’

  She looked up from her thoughts and her porridge and saw Mr Worswick, the manager of the Public Hall, standing beside her. He had a most anxious expression on his face.

  ‘Yes, Mr Worswick?’

  ‘Mrs Throstle, I . . . am so very sorry to disturb you at such a time.’

  Whether he was referring to her recent bereavement or the cold porridge before her she couldn’t tell. Yet she couldn’t help feeling irritated by the man. ‘Then why do you?’

  ‘It’s a . . . matter of some urgency.’

  ‘Then tell me urgently what it is.’

  ‘It’s the Public Hall, ma’am. We had an intruder last night.’

  Her heart leaped. ‘What happened?’

  ‘We . . . we don’t know. Someone broke into the hall and . . . disturbed a few things.’

  ‘Was anything stolen?’

  ‘Stolen?’

  ‘From the safe?’

  ‘Nothing. The safe had been tampered with, but it was unopened.’

  She breathed a sigh of relief and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. ‘Were the machines damaged? The projectors? The gas cylinders?’

  ‘No. They were still intact, as far as we could tell when we checked everything this morning. It was the cleaners who sent for me, you see.’