Act of Murder

by Alan J. Wright

  ‘Who was he?’

  Mr Jameson suddenly, and with a renewed enthusiasm, reached into his side pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a small book of very few pages. He handed it to Slevin, who looked at the cover with keen interest. It was a programme for The Silver King, the melodrama that was playing at the Royal Court Theatre.

  ‘If you look at the second page, sergeant, you’ll find a list of characters in the play and the names of the actors playing them. I was invited to the opening night in recognition of my position.’ He seemed to throw out his chest a little as he imparted the information. ‘And the man I saw in Mrs Throstle’s room was playing that part on Tuesday night.’

  He reached down and pointed to the line:

  HENRY CORKETT – Ware’s Clerk.........Mr Herbert Koller

  *

  Edward Malvern stood with both hands clasped firmly behind his back and glowered down at his sister. The expression on his face was a familiar one to those who regularly sat in his church and waited with a timorous sense of foreboding for the sermon to begin.

  Georgina Throstle merely sat there, both hands folded neatly on her lap in a demure attitude of compliance. She had known before she opened the door that Edward’s arrival in Wigan had little to do with the bringing of fraternal or even priestly comfort but more with the delivery of censure.

  It had been ever thus. When they were children, he had forced her to sit before him as he stood on a stool giving her the lesson of the day that he himself had received at school, testing her on salient and abstruse points and punishing her roundly for any lapse in concentration.

  ‘An abomination!’ he had screamed on more than one occasion. It was a word he had heard in Bible class and had particularly liked.

  At eighteen she had taken a position as governess, and the relief she felt as she left the house for the last time was matched only by the sheer sense of exhilaration at the dizzying prospect of freedom that the future held. A future that contained Richard. And how she had sinned since then!

  ‘I have thought long about what my first words should be to you, Georgina.’

  His voice was low, whispered.

  ‘You know, of course, that your marriage to that charlatan was a source of great torment both to myself and our father.’

  Who art in heaven, reflected Georgina, but wisely kept the thought to herself.

  ‘And it has been a constant agony for me to stand by and see you become more and more embroiled in his manic schemes.’

  ‘I seem to recall you were more than willing to provide some funds for Richard to develop his business?’

  ‘For a higher purpose than hitherto has been the case,’ he said coldly. ‘Richard knew the focus of his shows would have to change dramatically if I were to support him. But we both know he would have rejected the idea. Now, lamentably, the Lord has seen fit to remove this man from the world and cast him into the pit of hell. It is a chastening fate, sister.’

  She glanced up at him for the first time. ‘These are your practised words of consolation and fraternal love, are they?’

  He bridled, clasping his hands even tighter behind his back.

  ‘I see your marriage has taught you incivility.’

  And many other things, dear brother!

  ‘I came because it was my duty to do so. I will not leave until I have discharged that duty.’

  ‘And what is your duty?’

  ‘Well, it most certainly is not to offer you absolution for your sins. I am no Roman cleric. Your sins are deeply imprinted upon your soul. Like brands on a cow. No, sister. I am here to offer you comfort. And to take you back to Leeds. To live with me.’

  ‘With you?’ She moved her head back a little in an involuntary gesture of shock.

  ‘It is my duty to take care of you. Here – proof positive.’ He handed her a small package, wrapped in brown paper.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Your medicine, which you asked me in your telegraph message to bring.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She took it and placed it on the table beside her. ‘What about Ellen?’

  ‘My wife has naturally concurred with my suggestion. She agrees it will be a boon to her household.’

  Georgina smiled thinly. ‘I see. You wish me to live with you, as it were, in service.’

  ‘Nonsense! You will merely undertake those duties that are seemly for a bereaved widow. You will be in mourning for two years, and in that time there will be ample opportunity to grieve and reflect.’

  Georgina was about to reply when there was a knock at the door. Without waiting for her permission, he turned and swung it open. A man stood there with an apologetic smile on his face.

  ‘Who are you?’ Edward asked curtly.

  ‘My name is Detective Sergeant Slevin, sir. And who might you be?’

  Edward turned and glared at his still-seated sister. ‘Her brother.’

  ‘Ah. A most distressing time for both of you, sir, I have no doubt.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A few words, if I may?’ Without waiting to be invited, Slevin strode past the open-mouthed brother and stood before Mrs Throstle. He thought he detected the trace of a smile on her features. ‘My apologies, ma’am, for this intrusion.’

  ‘My sister is in no condition to speak with anyone, let alone the police.’

  ‘Under normal circumstances I would be in full agreement, Mr . . .?’

  ‘Reverend Malvern.’

  ‘But of course these are not normal circumstances. You are doubtless aware of how your brother-in-law met his demise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it’s my duty to discover the one responsible and bring him to justice.’

  ‘By harassing his widow?’

  ‘I am not harassed, sergeant,’ Georgina Throstle said quietly. ‘I assure you.’

  Edward shot her a glance before muttering ‘Excuse me!’ and leaving with a slamming of the door.

  ‘I apologise for my brother, Sergeant Slevin. As you can see, he is –’

  Slevin held up a hand. ‘No need, ma’am. He is concerned and protective, I’m sure.’

  The look in her eyes gave the lie to his words.

  ‘But I am here to ask you a rather delicate question, and perhaps it is best that your brother has left us.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I am reliably informed that you have recently entertained a visitor . . . Can you tell me who your visitor was and why he was here?’

  ‘This is more than a little intrusive, sergeant.’

  ‘It is necessary.’

  ‘He is someone who knew my husband. Came to offer his condolences.’

  ‘And his name?’ If she gave him a name different from the one he knew, then she would be hiding something, and that in itself would require further investigation.

  ‘His name is Mr Herbert Koller. An actor with the touring company at the Royal Court.’

  ‘I see. And what was the nature of his acquaintance with your husband?’

  She shrugged. ‘I have no idea. They knew each other, and he came to offer his condolences and his support. It was most kind of him.’

  ‘I see. There was no . . . shall we say, unpleasantness?’

  She blinked at him, then glanced away for a second before returning his gaze. ‘Whatever has given you that idea?’

  He shrugged. ‘Someone heard raised voices.’

  ‘Not from this room.’

  ‘Then they must have been mistaken.’ He gave a short bow. ‘Well, Mrs Throstle, I apologise for the intrusion. I hope you gain comfort from your brother’s presence in town. Is he staying here at the Royal?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘I can’t say. I am hoping he will make all the arrangements for my husband’s return to Leeds.’

  ‘I’m sure he will. Good day, Mrs Throstle.’

  ‘Good day, Sergeant Slevin.’

  *

  Jonathan Keele sat in Mesnes Park and watched th
e swans glide by. On either side of the tall, proud parent swam six or seven tiny cygnets, their movements more rapid and frenetic. Yet they all followed the parental lead as he led them to a small clump of rushes on the far bank.

  Suddenly, he heard a great hissing as something disturbed the swans, a water rat perhaps, and the whole family swung effortlessly around and took a different route through the water. The last he saw of them was the smallest of the cygnets struggling to keep up as they disappeared beneath the dark archway of a railed footbridge. Gradually the ripples died away until the water was smooth and undisturbed once more.

  Just as it had been when little Catherine had sunk beneath the surface.

  He shook his head, but the maudlin thoughts only veered in another direction.

  Would he leave such a small and indistinguishable trace? When he shuffled off this mortal coil, would the only thing left be yellowing playbills and curled programmes? Perhaps a faded eulogy in The Era, a thespian curiosity, of interest only to the bored historian of tomorrow anxious to find any reference, however slight, to Irving, or Miss Terry, or Miss Bernhardt?

  He touched the swell of his gut and sighed.

  ‘Jonathan?’

  The voice startled him, and he sat upright on the wooden bench.

  He turned to find Susan Coupe and James Shorton standing now between him and the stream.

  ‘You seem to be in another place,’ Susan said.

  He noticed that her eyes were red, as if she had been crying.

  ‘In a manner of speaking, I was.’

  ‘Jonathan, is there anything wrong?’ Susan Coupe’s voice was full of concern.

  ‘Wrong?’ He dragged his gaze from the darkness of the water that flowed beneath the bridge. ‘Why, of course not.’

  ‘You seem somewhat preoccupied.’

  Jonathan Keele laughed, a chesty, hearty sound. ‘You could say that, my dear!’

  Shorton placed his hand on Susan’s as if to give her some reassurance. Jonathan wondered what it was that had upset the girl.

  ‘Will you walk back to the theatre with us, Jonathan?’ Susan asked.

  ‘And you can tell us just what you intend to do with the great fortune you will be given tomorrow,’ Shorton added.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ he asked, standing up with a great effort.

  Susan smiled fondly. ‘Your benefit performance! Surely you haven’t forgotten that?’

  He shook his head and allowed her to link his arm with hers. He had, indeed, forgotten. With everything that was on his mind at the moment, his benefit was the last thing to occupy it.

  *

  As Benjamin entered the theatre by the stage door, he was surprised to find someone standing by the small cubicle that was normally occupied by old Norman, the stage-door custodian.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Benjamin asked.

  Detective Sergeant Slevin gave his warmest smile and introduced himself. ‘I wish to speak to a member of your company.’

  ‘And who might that be?’

  ‘Mr Herbert Koller.’

  Slevin saw the man swallow hard.

  ‘Herbert? But what could you possibly want with him?’

  ‘I’d rather discuss that with him, sir. A confidential matter, you understand. I thought I might find him here.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. But as I am his manager, so to speak, I think I have a right to know why he is of interest to the police.’

  ‘Just a few questions, sir. Then I will be on my way.’

  Benjamin looked around nervously. ‘He isn’t here.’

  ‘So I gather. Can you tell me where he might be found at this time? His hotel?’

  ‘We do not stay in hotels, sergeant. The expense of a lengthy tour such as ours would be . . . well, suffice it to say that we use rather more modest accommodation. Lodging-houses.’

  ‘I see. And where might Mr Koller’s lodgings be found?’

  The spark of defiance seemed to die in Benjamin’s eyes. ‘I’ll take you there if you like. I share the same lodgings.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, sir. Just the address will suffice. I think I can find it.’

  ‘Find what?’

  Both men turned around and saw three people standing in the doorway that Benjamin had left open. There, standing between a young man and one very much older, was the most beautiful girl Samuel Slevin had ever seen. The dark hair beneath her bonnet had a few wisps out of place, and they caressed her smooth ivory cheeks that were slightly reddened from the cold.

  Benjamin quickly made the introductions.

  ‘But who are you here to see, sergeant?’ said Susan Coupe, approaching him with a cool look of curiosity in her eyes. ‘Is it to track down the lunatic who accosted myself and James here yesterday?’

  ‘Lunatic, miss?’

  ‘A madman who kept clapping his hands before our faces and who stared so wickedly into James’s eyes.’

  ‘Ah, Clapper!’ He gave an apologetic smile. ‘A local character. No real harm in him. Alas, no, I’m here on quite different business.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I have all the information I need, Miss Coupe. Just the address, sir?’ He turned to the actor-manager, who gave an elaborate sigh and muttered the address in Darlington Street. ‘Thank you. If you will excuse me, miss?’ He gave a small bow and immediately felt foolish, a feeling increased when she smiled and held out her hand for him to kiss. He took it, felt its softness, the slender, almost bird-like bones that lay beneath the pale flesh, and touched it lightly with his lips, all the time knowing full well that in some strange way he was being mocked by this confident, statuesque vision. As he closed the stage door behind him, he heard Morgan-Drew say, ‘Really, Susan!’ and the vision replying, ‘He fascinates me.’

  *

  With her enigmatic words still ringing in his ears, Slevin walked jauntily along Darlington Street, pulling his coat collar close around his neck to ward off the bitterly cold wind. Flecks of snow flew wildly around his head.

  When he reached the address he had been given, although he knocked quite loudly, and several times, there was no answer. Yet he could have sworn he heard voices beyond the door. He moved to the curtained window and peered through, but the curtains were thickly woven and afforded no glimpse of what lay beyond. When he returned to knock again, he was more than a little alarmed when the door immediately flew open and a large woman stood there with a look of concern on her face.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Slevin.

  He was about to introduce himself when she said, ‘If you’re the doctor you’re bloody quick an’ no mistake. Only sent for you five minutes ago.’

  ‘Doctor? No, ma’am. I’m Detective Sergeant Slevin of the Wigan Borough Police.’

  ‘Police? Hell’s teeth! What do you want wi’ me?’

  ‘Not you. A guest of yours. Mr Herbert Koller.’

  She narrowed her gaze and nodded, stepping aside and indicating that he should enter. ‘Well then, an’ isn’t that a coincidence?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Well, here’s you lookin’ for Mr Koller, an’ here’s me lookin’ after him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s Mr Koller I’ve sent to the doctor for.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he collapsed in my front room not ten minutes ago. An’ I’ve the divil to rouse the poor soul!’

  When Slevin entered the front room, he saw the one he was seeking lying prostrate on the floor before a roaring fire. There was no sign of movement from Mr Herbert Koller.

  8

  Mrs O’Halloran watched from the doorway as Slevin and the doctor, who had arrived some ten minutes after the policeman, laid her lodger on the bed.

  ‘How are you feeling now?’ the doctor asked Herbert.

  ‘Rather weak,’ said Herbert, giving a sickly smile to show courage in adversity.

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder. But I think you will be fine in a day or so.’

  Mrs O’Halloran uttered a groan. ‘An
’ him due to perform tonight. What will poor Mr Morgan-Drew say?’

  Herbert gave a small cough. ‘We have a more than adequate understudy who can step into the breach, Mrs O’Halloran.’

  As the doctor left, Mrs O’Halloran gave Slevin only a few minutes with the invalid.

  ‘It’s all I require,’ he said, and waited for her to close the door.

  ‘Well?’ came the frail voice from the bed. ‘How can I be of help, sergeant?’

  ‘You paid Mrs Georgina Throstle a visit earlier.’

  For a few moments, Herbert closed his eyes, licking his lips and breathing in shallow gasps. ‘Mrs Throstle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I . . . went to pay my respects. Her husband . . .’

  ‘She says you knew him.’

  Slowly he opened his eyes once more. ‘I have met him.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here. In Wigan.’

  ‘What were the circumstances of your meeting?’

  ‘It was a . . . a chance meeting. In a public house. The Shakespeare. You know it?’

  The public house in question was a matter of yards away from both the Royal Court and the Public Hall, and was a popular venue for theatre-goers and actors alike.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. We . . . swapped stories. You know the sort of thing. Audiences. Scenery. Equipment costs. We were almost in the same business. But not quite.’

  ‘How often did you meet him?’

  ‘Only once.’

  ‘But you felt you needed to offer his wife condolences following such a brief encounter?’

  Herbert once more closed his eyes but continued to speak. ‘The world of make-believe, sergeant . . . it lives by rather more bohemian rules. One doesn’t need a formal introduction or a lengthy acquaintance to –’ He broke off and began a short coughing fit.

  ‘I’ve been informed that you and Mrs Throstle had sharp words.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘Reliably informed.’

  Herbert screwed his eyes shut to suggest a searing pain. ‘I may have been voluble in my condolence,’ he said after a few seconds. ‘I am used to declaiming rather loudly from the stage, you see. Sometimes one gets carried away.’

  Slevin looked down at him and stood up. It was obvious that he would extract no more useful information from the man, and so he bade him farewell. As he stepped onto the landing, Mrs O’Halloran was standing at the top of the stairs. She beckoned him silently to follow her downstairs. When they reached the hallway, she said to him in a low voice, ‘Doctor says he wants a word. He’s outside.’