Act of Murder

by Alan J. Wright

  ‘So if the equipment is all right . . . ?’

  He coughed again, looking even more uncomfortable. ‘They wrote something, Mrs Throstle. On the walls.’

  ‘Wrote something? What did they write?’

  ‘It was vile filth.’

  ‘Specifically?’

  He looked around at the other diners, who seemed to be oblivious of his presence. ‘There was a reference to your presentation. It said it was the work of the Devil.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Isn’t that enough? We have a show tonight, and it will be the devil of a . . . please forgive me. But it will be very difficult to erase all the writing – the villain used some of the fluorescent paint your husband employed for the background scenes on the canvases.’

  ‘You are the manager, are you not?’

  ‘I am, ma’am.’

  ‘Then you will manage to have the walls cleaned by tonight.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘My brother arrives later. He is a man of the cloth. It wouldn’t do for him to see such abominations. Do you understand?’

  He nodded, gave her a gracious bow, and left.

  All this bowing! Georgina looked at the congealed mess in her bowl and pushed it away from her. This was a curious thing. Why would anyone want to break in and daub such things on the walls? Were people so childishly superstitious? Did they really believe the projections of hobgoblins and suchlike were a manifestation of evil? With a sad shake of the head she left her table, her fast unbroken.

  *

  Samuel Slevin was told about the intrusion at the Public Hall as soon as he arrived at the station and decided to take a look for himself at the damage. Constable Bowery, who had just settled down to his morning mug of tea, uttered a whispered curse when Slevin ordered him to accompany him.

  It was a matter of minutes to the hall, and when they arrived they were met by Mr Worswick, the manager, who showed them the walls inside the large hall where the letters had been drawn.

  ‘Thought you said they were glowin’,’ Bowery said, disappointed at the dull white of the lettering.

  ‘When it’s dark, constable,’ Worswick explained.

  ‘Well? What do you reckon?’ Slevin asked as they both gazed up at what was written along the walls:

  AMEND YOUR WAYS AND YOUR DOINGS

  EVIL COMMUNICATIONS CORRUPT GOOD MANNERS

  THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH

  ‘Looks like a threat to me, sergeant.’

  ‘Perhaps whoever did it was annoyed they couldn’t open the safe.’ Worswick nodded to his office, where the safe was stored. ‘So they thought they’d cause some other damage.’

  Slevin nodded.

  With a slight smile, the manager walked quickly over to his cleaners, who were scrubbing away at the paint with very limited success.

  ‘I reckon whoever did this killed Throstle,’ said Bowery, slowly and sagely shaking his head.

  ‘So they kill him, then issue a warning,’ said Slevin. ‘Is that it?’

  Bowery thought for a moment. ‘Well then. They wanted us to know why he was killed.’

  ‘They kill Richard Throstle, then let us know why they did it. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Looks like it, sergeant.’

  ‘If our murderer did this, then he was taking a chance, wasn’t he? I mean, if you think you’ve got away with the crime, why take another chance to get caught?’

  Bowery looked perplexed. ‘So who did this then?’

  ‘Perhaps it isn’t a warning to Throstle.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘Well, his grieving widow intends to continue the presentation tonight, does she not?’

  ‘You mean this could be a warning to her?’

  ‘It could be, constable.’

  ‘So she’s in danger, then?’

  ‘She may well be.’ He glanced at the manager, who was still talking to one of the cleaners. ‘Mr Worswick?’

  ‘Yes, sergeant?’

  ‘May we use your office? For a few moments’ deliberation?’

  ‘Of course.’ Worswick waved a hand in the direction of the small office by the stage area, and the two policemen headed for its open door.

  Once inside, and having made sure the door was shut and they could not be overheard, Slevin sat at the desk and graciously allowed his constable to perch on a stool that stood by the far wall, a stool far too small for Jimmy Bowery’s considerable weight.

  ‘Tell me what you think,’ Slevin said, steepling his fingers.

  His colleague tried to sit erect and show some gravity of demeanour, which wasn’t an easy matter when the two circumferences of base and backside didn’t match. ‘Well, first off, I think that Mrs Throstle isn’t as upset as she should be.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Like you say, sergeant, she seemed more concerned with her own baubles than her husband’s.’

  Slevin suppressed a smile. ‘So how did she do it? We know the mechanics of the mutilation. And the suffocation. A pillow pressed hard on the face would suffice. Although there is the question of the asbestos dust. There is nothing in that room that possesses such dust. I checked last night. But what I mean is, how could she do it? Do that to the man she was married to and presumably in love with? Surely a knife in the gullet would have served the same purpose?’

  ‘Might be mad, eh?’

  ‘No, constable. There’s a meaning to the crime, surely.’

  Bowery gave that some deep thought. ‘His charley was sliced off for a reason?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That means he’s been up to no good with it.’

  ‘It may well mean that, constable.’

  ‘And if Mrs Throstle found out . . .’ He stopped, and it was as if a great illumination had spread across his mind. ‘And we know he was doin’ what he shouldn’t a been doin’ wi’ young Violet Cowburn, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then there’s Billy Cowburn. He could’ve broke in, I suppose.’

  ‘He could. Only the door was intact. Whoever got in the room did not break the door down.’

  ‘So if Cowburn’s alibi holds up, an’ he was gettin’ rat-arsed in Scholes, then he couldn’t be the one any road.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘There, then!’

  ‘Where, then?’

  ‘Mrs Throstle finds out he’s been seein’ other women, an’ while he’s sleepin’ yonder all peaceful, picks up a knife an’ whips off the offending member. Bob’s your uncle!’

  ‘I see. And then she proceeds to open every drawer in the place to make it look like the motive was burglary, eh?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Then there’s just one more thing and we can proceed to the Royal and clap her in irons.’

  ‘What’s that, sergeant?’

  ‘Presumably if she picked up a knife, she then put it down. If she did, then where is it? Where is the murder weapon, Constable Bowery?’

  ‘Hid it?’

  ‘Where? We searched all over that room. Not only was there no knife, there was no sign of blood anywhere else apart from the vicinity of the body. Surely if she’d hidden it in the room there would be some traces of blood, even if by some miracle of prestidigitation she managed to remove it later.’

  ‘Hmm. That’s a bit of a bugger.’

  ‘It is.’

  *

  By the time Benjamin got downstairs, Herbert had already left.

  ‘I had a few words with Mr Koller,’ said Mrs O’Halloran. ‘Sure he woke half the neighbourhood with his shoutin’!’

  ‘On behalf of the company, Mrs O’Halloran, I must apologise.’

  ‘An’ why must ye, Mr Morgan-Drew? Ye’ve done nothin’ wrong. An’ the one that did the wrong apologised this mornin’. So we’ll say no more on the subject. He’s only a boy, after all’s said.’

  ‘That’s very magnanimous of you.’

  ‘I had a cousin like him,’ she said, sitting down beside Benjamin at the breakfast t
able and spending the next ten minutes regaling him with all manner of anecdotes pertaining to the recklessness and relative innocence of the sowing of wild oats.

  ‘An’ ye can bet there’ll be a pair of sparklin’ blue eyes somewhere along the way,’ she said finally with a nudge.

  ‘Oh, Mr Koller doesn’t have time for any of that. He’s much too busy with the performances. It takes over, you know.’

  ‘Well, he said something about meeting someone this mornin’, so I just presumed . . .’

  ‘Meeting someone?’

  She shrugged and gave a flirtatious smile. ‘He was very mysterious!’

  ‘Was it someone from the company?’

  But he knew the answer to that. Herbert wasn’t the sort to become close with anyone – apart from himself, that is – involved in the company. Certainly he had never seen him really engage with anyone. But what if he had? What if he were even now meeting someone they both knew and they were laughing at him, an ageing roué, as they strolled through the park? Or what if Jonathan Keele had been right all along, and Herbert was meeting the man he had seen him with only the other day? Herbert had said he was the owner of the Magic Lantern Company, and of course the man had later been found brutally murdered in his hotel bed, but was Herbert telling the truth? If he was, then he might well be called upon to answer some questions from the police. If Herbert had been lying, if the man Throstle was simply the first person he thought of – a name seen on a poster, perhaps – then was there another man altogether, whom Herbert was even now in conference with? Furthermore, was this person linked with what Herbert had been up to last night, when he was supposed to be in his room, sulking?

  *

  All morning, Susan Coupe had had the strangest feeling that she was being watched. It was ridiculous, she knew, and once she had posted her letters at the main post office in the centre of Wigan, she would stroll into Mesnes Park to meet James, as they had agreed before they parted last night. So, having spent a considerable time composing her letters – including a particularly long and excitable missive to her sweet cousin Mary, with whom she shared some (though of course not all) of her deepest secrets – she wrapped herself up well and walked into town.

  The first sensation of being followed that she had was a laughable one. It manifested itself as a prickling along her spine. Turning quickly around as she came to a small curve in the sloping road, she thought she saw someone dart into a shop doorway. But surely that was a mere customer, anxious to get out of this bitter chill? When she heard the sounds of a group of women laughing nearby, she scolded herself and moved on. On the corner with Lower Standishgate, she paused as a tram, filled with passengers on their way into town, shunted its way to a stop. Several of the passengers disembarked and pulled their shawls or their coat collars tightly around them to ward off the cold.

  She moved quickly, occasionally turning her head to see if anyone was indeed following her. But she caught sight of no one, and walked up the slope towards Market Place, tightly clutching her small bag containing the letters.

  But as she stopped to place the letters in the post box, she heard someone behind her say her name. When she turned around, she breathed a sigh of relief and said, ‘Oh, it’s you!’

  *

  The Reverend Edward Malvern stood before the steps of the Public Hall and perused the poster, a sneer slowly spreading across his face. He was dressed in a sombre-hued frock coat with black armbands, and wore a top hat covered in smooth black silk. In his right hand he carried a small suitcase.

  He crossed the street in the direction of the Royal Hotel. Entering the foyer, he gave a curt nod to a young man who was sauntering through the reception area with what could only be described as a smirk upon his face, and who responded with a most impertinent ‘God bless!’

  He introduced himself to the young man on the reception desk and was immediately greeted by the manager, Mr Jameson, who told him he had been awaiting his arrival, and that his sister – ‘Dear Mrs Throstle, such a noble and devoted wife’ – had asked for him to be escorted to her room as soon as he appeared.

  ‘I think not,’ said the new guest.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It is customary, is it not, for guests to be shown their room upon arrival?’

  ‘Well, yes, your reverence, but . . .’

  ‘If you inform my sister that I have indeed arrived, then perhaps you can also let her know that I will visit her as soon as I have settled myself and prayed. That will be in an hour. What is her room number?’

  ‘It’s number four, your reverence.’

  ‘Excellent. Now, my room, if you please.’

  Jameson took his case and led the way himself. He would have been rather put out by the reverend gentleman’s manner, if he didn’t have something else preying on his mind at that moment.

  *

  Herbert was nowhere to be found. Wigan town centre wasn’t exactly extensive, and there were only so many tea rooms and public bars he could have visited. But wherever he looked, Benjamin drew a blank. Surely he hadn’t gone farther afield? The town boasted three railway stations, but it was highly unlikely that Herbert would have suddenly, and without warning, decided to take a train to any of the neighbouring towns. But if he had stayed within the confines of the town centre, then where on earth could he be?

  With an increasing sense of unease, he walked into Market Place and along the slow decline that led to Standishgate. To his right, as he faced the northern end of town, he saw the Royal Hotel. He had made his mind up to cross the road and walk through the portals of the hotel, giving the reception area a cursory glance before venturing into the adjoining hostelry. But as he waited for a frustrating parade of horse-drawn carts filled with agricultural produce to wend their way past him, he saw a familiar figure touch his forehead and address a clergyman before emerging from the building and setting off down Standishgate at a brisk pace.

  From the expression on Herbert’s face, whatever his business had been inside the hotel, its conclusion had been entirely to his satisfaction.

  *

  ‘Sergeant?’

  Slevin looked up from the scraps of paper he had been writing on in an attempt to put some order into his thoughts. From the circled name, Throstle, stretched several strands, apparently unconnected, and yet . . . Violet Cowburn was most definitely linked – she had enjoyed carnal relations with the deceased only hours before his death, and her father, Billy Cowburn, had a circle around his name linking him with both Violet and Throstle. Georgina Throstle, the bereaved widow, was of course connected, yet the double line linking her with the victim indicated the added detail of her complete absence of alibi. She was lying next to him, for pity’s sake, when it happened! Yet Violet had an incontestable alibi – she was enjoying the dubious hospitality of the Royal Albert Edward Infirmary at the time. Her father, too, might well have an alibi if he could give them names of witnesses who saw him out drinking when the crime took place. At the moment he was languishing down in the cells, trying desperately to unfog his memory of that drink-sodden night.

  Who else was there? Slevin felt sure that the story young Violet had told him of Throstle’s immoral and disgusting activities had some basis in truth: Mrs Throstle had vehemently defended his reputation last night, but then she would, wouldn’t she? So if Violet’s tale were true, someone else – an enraged father or lover, perhaps? – could be guilty of the crime, a crime which, by its very nature, strongly suggested vengeance of a particularly personal kind.

  He drew another circle, with a line leading back to the victim’s name in the middle of the page. But he could as yet think of no name that would fill the empty space.

  ‘Sergeant?’

  The voice, more insistent this time, and accompanied by a sharp rap on his office door, forced him to look up.

  ‘Yes, Paintbrush? What is it?’

  ‘There’s a bloke to see you at the sergeant’s desk,’ answered Constable Turner.

  ‘What blok
e?’

  ‘Says he’s the manager of the Royal.’

  ‘Well, bring him here then!’

  The young constable muttered something Slevin couldn’t quite catch, and disappeared from view.

  Mr Jameson was brought in a minute later. He looked distinctly unhappy, and nervously fingered the bowler he held in his hands.

  ‘Mr Jameson?’

  Once Constable Turner had closed the door, the man seemed to relax slightly. ‘Detective Sergeant Slevin,’ he began. ‘This is most awkward. But I would be remiss in the prosecution of my duties if I didn’t do all that I could to assist the police.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It concerns a rather . . . delicate matter.’

  ‘You can rely on my complete discretion, Mr Jameson.’

  ‘It concerns Mrs Throstle, the recently –’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘An hour ago, I happened to be walking around the hotel. It is my usual custom. My rounds, as I call them. And it goes without saying that I have been paying Mrs Throstle’s room particular attention, in case any small service is required. As I say, an hour ago I was on my rounds when I happened to pass her room. Mrs Throstle’s. I . . . overheard something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Raised voices.’

  ‘Who was her visitor?’

  ‘That was, initially, the problem, you see. I hadn’t been aware she had any visitors. Certainly none had announced themselves. We were expecting her brother, of course, the Reverend Edward Malvern. But it disturbed me, you understand? To hear anyone raise his voice at such a time as this . . .’

  ‘His voice? Her visitor was a man?’

  ‘Alas, yes.’

  ‘What were they talking about?’

  Jameson shrugged. ‘I couldn’t hear specific words, only their general tenor. And volume.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I knocked as gently as I could on her door.’

  ‘Did she respond?’

  ‘Not at first. I could hear some . . . well, it sounded like whispering.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘She came to the door and asked me what I wanted. I told her I was at her service if she required anything. I caught sight of her visitor in the looking-glass. It faces the door, you know, although I am sure he didn’t see me observe him.’