Elementary Murder

by AJ Wright

  ‘Not turned up yet then?’ Gilbert asked as they stood at the bar, frothing pints of bitter in hand.

  Tommy shook his head.

  ‘You know what young ’uns are like, Tommy. He’ll be back when his belly’s empty.’

  ‘Aye. That’s what I told ’er.’ He took a long gulp of his pint, and then licked off the froth from his thick moustache.

  ‘Happen it’s just as well ’e weren’t in school today anyroad.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You not ’eard?’ Gilbert took a long, slow draught in the confidence of a one-sided knowledge.

  ‘Don’t bugger me about,’ Tommy snarled in a low whisper.

  His mate swallowed quickly and spent the next five minutes explaining in vivid detail the gruesome discovery only that morning of a woman’s mangled corpse at George Street Elementary School.

  ‘Took ’em all mornin’ to find enough of the poor wench to put in a box,’ he added by way of colouring in the drab truth of the incident.

  Tommy looked long and hard at his drinking companion. ‘They sure it were a wench?’

  ‘’Course they’re sure, Tommy owd lad,’ said Gilbert with a reassuring tap on the big man’s shoulder. ‘’Course they’re sure. Even the bloody bobbies can’t get that wrong.’

  Tommy gulped down the rest of his drink and slammed it down on the brass counter, occasioning a furtive but silent glance from the landlord. ‘That bloody school!’ he snapped, before storming out into the half-light of early evening.

  Gilbert Barlow breathed a sigh of relief and beckoned to the landlord, lifting his empty glass. ‘Might as well,’ he said to no one in particular.

  Brennan had left the school caretaker till last. He would normally be the last to leave the premises anyway, and the poor man had been the one to suffer the greatest shock that morning when he’d discovered the lifeless body of Miss Gadsworth.

  His interviews with the rest of the George Street staff had elicited nothing new: Miss Hardman and Miss Ryan, who took charge of Standards 2 and 4 respectively, hadn’t even met Dorothea Gadsworth, seeing her only in passing during the day. Both were on playground duty along with Miss Walsh and could tell the detective sergeant nothing more revealing than ‘she seemed a very nice young woman’.

  He’d been struck, however, by Miss Ryan, who apparently was Mr Weston’s deputy. She gave the distinct impression that his leadership qualities were lacking somewhat.

  ‘There is one member of this staff who gets away with murder,’ she told him, qualifying her observation only when she realised what she had said. ‘I shall name no names, Sergeant, but the headmaster is a frequent turner of the blind eye.’

  She refused to elaborate further, and, reluctant to engage in staffroom politics, he dismissed her.

  Mr Prendergast, on the other hand, seemed quite eager to impart everything he could about the morning’s sombre discovery, along with his own background.

  ‘This,’ he said, pointing to his scar as soon as he sat down opposite Brennan, ‘in case you’re wonderin’, is summat I copped in Egypt. I were in the Yorks and Lancs Regiment at Tel-el-Kebir. Cut me face an’ me leg.’ He tapped his right leg. ‘Invalided home. Invalided out. Two scars an’ a medal. That’s what I’ve got to show for servin’ Queen an’ country.’

  Brennan let him talk. Perhaps it was the shock of what he’d found that made him so garrulous, or perhaps this was the natural way of things. Eventually, Brennan’s silence registered with the caretaker.

  ‘Take me through the events of this morning again, Mr Prendergast. From the moment you opened up.’

  ‘I always open the school up at seven-thirty. Never late. Army, see? I always go down to the cellar, bring coal up for the stoves, then fire ’em up. Which I did. Then I usually go round all the classrooms, open the windows wi’ me long pole, an’ unlock the front doors.’

  ‘The front doors were definitely locked?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘How do you get in?’

  ‘Back way.’

  ‘And that was locked too?’

  ‘It were. I always lock up on a Friday night. It’s what they pay me for. Why they call me a caretaker. Cos I take care.’

  ‘And the classrooms. Do you normally lock them before you leave?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘You told me you keep the keys in the storeroom.’

  ‘That’s right, but there’s never a need to use ’em. What’s the point if I’m lockin’ the school up anyroad?’

  ‘Did Miss Gadsworth happen to visit the storeroom last Friday on her tour of the school?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Hardly the sort of place you’d take visitors.’

  Brennan rubbed his thick moustache before resuming. ‘Tell me about finding the body.’

  ‘I told you this mornin’.’

  ‘Tell me again.’

  For a few seconds Prendergast reached forward and stroked his right leg. Then he spoke. ‘Like I said, the room were locked so I broke in when I looked through the glass an’ saw the woman lied there. I remember it stank. Foul smell. Then I saw the sick. Dried up but still stinkin’ to high heaven. I bent down but I could tell straight off she were dead. That’s when I saw the bottle.’

  Brennan leant forward. ‘What bottle?’ He looked across at Constable Jaggery who gave an elaborate and baffled shrug. ‘You didn’t mention a bottle this morning.’

  ‘Must’ve forgot. It was a bottle of Scotch. Brown’s Special Scotch, if I’m not mistook. It had been supped almost dry, anyroad. ’Bout half-inch left. Just lyin’ on the floor under the teacher’s desk. That must’ve been why I thought at first she were drunk.’

  ‘And what happened to this bottle?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  Brennan scribbled something down in haste. Constable Jaggery, standing by the door, read the signs right enough.

  ‘So. You found the body – and the Scotch. What then?’

  Prendergast sighed. ‘I’ve seen dead bodies aplenty, Sergeant Brennan. Some wi’ bits cut off. You name it. But I never seed a dead woman before today. Somehow it’s worse. She’d frothed at the mouth, an’ it had dried. I don’t think she died well, if you ask my opinion.’ He sat silently for a few moments before continuing. ‘Anyroad, I went to fetch Mr Weston and Reverend Pearl from the staffroom where they were meetin’ the rest of the staff an’ told ’em what I’d found. We all went straight back an’ Mr Weston went mad cos they all walked in to take a peek. He asked the vicar to take ’em all back. That’s when I pointed at the bottle an’ the piece of paper all covered in sick an’ said, “Looks like she needed a bit o’ courage an’ all”. He said I were bein’ disrespectful to the dead an’ told me to wait outside while ’e checked the room.’

  ‘Check it? For what?’

  ‘No idea. Then he comes out an’ just tells me to make the room secure.’

  ‘Did he have the Scotch with him?’

  ‘No.’

  Brennan wrote more down in his notebook then asked if there was anything else the caretaker could remember.

  ‘Only the cellar,’ he said.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, when I got in it to get the coal, summat weren’t right.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I always leave things as they should be, Sergeant. No mess. Army trainin’, see? But when I went down that cellar this mornin’ I seed stuff I’d not left there Friday night.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘Bits o’ wood scattered about. Near the bottom of the coal mound. An’ scraps o’ paper stuffed in between ’em. If I were a bettin’ man – which I ain’t – I’d say somebody were tryin’ to light a fire down yonder. But Mr Weston said I were lettin’ me imagination run riot.’

  There were any number of places his son could have gone to, Tommy Kelly reflected ruefully. In the past, the first place he would surely have sought out would have been his grandma’s in Clayton Street. But since she died during the miners’ strike last year, the house had remained
empty. Still, it was worth a look – the little devil might have hidden himself away there for some reason known only to himself – so he increased his pace with a greater conviction. It was quite a walk, but as he thundered along Frog Lane the darkening expression on his face meant that those who would normally greet him with a nod and a word kept their distance.

  The big fella was best left alone when he had that sort of mood on him.

  Brennan looked through the window and saw the sky darkening. He glanced at his watch: 6:10 p.m.

  ‘Get his bloody lordship in, Constable. Tell him there’s a few supplementaries.’

  Constable Jaggery looked puzzled. ‘A few what, Sergeant?’

  Brennan scowled. There were times … ‘Just get him in. Now!’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  A minute later, Mr Weston was seated opposite Brennan, his hands clasped and a friendly smile on his face.

  ‘I presume you’ve completed your … investigation, Sergeant?’

  ‘Almost.’ Brennan sat back, his arms behind his head. ‘Only one thing needs clearing up.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It concerns you, Headmaster. And the deliberate suppression of evidence.’

  The hands unclasped, the smile vanished. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘A bottle of whisky was found by Miss Gadsworth’s body.’

  The headmaster flushed and coughed to clear his throat. ‘Indeed it was.’

  ‘You saw fit not to mention it earlier.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was relevant.’

  To Constable Jaggery standing by the door, it looked as though Micky Brennan was about to explode. Instead, with what he thought was admirable control, the detective sergeant leant forward and spoke softly.

  ‘A bottle of Scotch beside the body? You don’t consider that relevant?’

  Richard Weston sat upright, his chin jutted forward defiantly. ‘I considered its implications.’

  ‘Which were?’

  ‘The good name of the school.’

  The look Jaggery gave his sergeant spoke volumes on what he thought of the school’s reputation locally.

  ‘With respect, Headmaster, that wasn’t a decision for you to make.’ He held up a hand as Weston was about to respond. ‘I presume it’s in that classroom somewhere. Just tell me where you put it.’

  His shoulders sagged. ‘In the cupboard where the slates are kept. At the back.’

  Brennan nodded to Jaggery who was, for once, quick on the uptake. When he’d closed the door behind him, Brennan spoke once more.

  ‘And you failed to mention the signs of disturbance in the cellar.’

  For a moment, Weston appeared confused. Then he understood.

  ‘Ah. Mr Prendergast has told you about the bits of wood and so on.’

  ‘Indeed he has.’

  ‘You must appreciate, Sergeant Brennan, that I have had a great deal on my mind today. It isn’t every day a headmaster has a dead body turn up in his school. So please forgive me if I forgot to mention the scraps of wood. Besides, Prendergast isn’t as efficient or as prone to tidiness as he makes out. He could easily have left the mess himself on Friday evening. I simply forgot to tell you. My apologies.’

  Brennan stood up. ‘I think that will be all for now, then, Mr Weston.’

  He could hear Jaggery making his bovine way along the corridor. The door swung open and Jaggery held out the bottle. A small amount of amber liquid swirled around the bottom.

  ‘Got it, Sergeant!’ he said triumphantly.

  ‘A masterful piece of detection, Constable,’ said Brennan. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant!’ Jaggery replied with a smile of satisfaction at the headmaster, who had understood the ironic tone, even if Jaggery hadn’t.

  Even when his mother-in-law was alive, Tommy Kelly had never liked visiting her house in Clayton Street. It stood only a few doors away from the slaughterhouse, and the stench that emanated from the place was bad enough in winter, but in the hot and steamy days of summer it was overpowering. Now, in the early days of autumn, the smell was still foul and stomach-churning as he walked quickly past its slumped wooden roof and ramshackle gates. Somehow, the light seemed to fade faster here, as if the fetid odours swirling along the street had somehow managed to infect the very air itself. He always reckoned that’s what sent her to the idiot ward at the infirmary.

  ‘The stink affected the old bitch’s brain,’ he told his mates when his wife was well out of earshot.

  When he came to the house, he peered through the front window, but it was smeared so thickly with grime that it was impossible to see anything inside. There was no light, though, and the house itself looked dark and forlorn. He tried the door handle but it refused to give. He saw three or four women standing in their doorways, leaning idly against the jamb and watching him with a bland curiosity. It was worth a shot.

  ‘Any of you lot seen a young lad hangin’ about?’

  The woman nearest said, ‘Aye. There’s lots of ’em on t’canal bank. Tha can take thi pick yonder.’

  The other women laughed, unafraid of his size or the menacing scowl he gave them.

  He stepped back onto the pavement. ‘Piss off inside an’ cook thi husband’s teas!’ was his parting shot as he swung to his left, heading for the ginnel that would take him to the alleyway at the back of the row of houses. He’d get inside that bloody house if it killed him.

  Once he was through the narrow passageway and into the long winding alley at the back, he turned to his left and passed a row of common privies. The smell from there was almost a welcome relief from the slaughterhouse. He pushed his way through the back gate of the house and into the tiny yard, picking his way through an assortment of mouldy boxes, an upturned dolly tub with its peg hanging loosely to one side, and a rust-coated bucket, until he came to the back door. It was hanging at an angle, the lock evidently forced and dented. He pushed against the door and it easily yielded to his weight. The light was fading now, and it was difficult to see anything other than vague shapes in the small kitchen. He stepped past the table resting against the wall opposite the door and banged his elbow on the slopstone beneath the curtainless window.

  ‘Bastard!’ he mumbled as the pain shot up his arm.

  Once he got to the front room and looked round, he saw only scraps of what had once been the old bat’s furniture: a couple of slats from her wooden chairs, a long white pipe she used to smoke sitting by the fire, a cracked earthenware bowl she’d use to soak her feet in. The smell of damp filled the place, plaster peeling along the walls and ceiling.

  ‘Billy!’ he shouted.

  His voice bounced around the entire house, but there was no response.

  ‘Billy, if you’re upstairs bloody well get down ’ere this minute!’

  Silence.

  ‘Bloody ’ell! ’ he rasped and made for the stairs, careful not to step on any that had rotted away with the damp.

  When he reached the top he moved into the front bedroom where the old bitch used to sleep. The number of times she’d poked her head through that front window and screeched down at her Edith standing on the doorstep with Tommy wrapped round her body …

  Happy bloody days.

  There was nothing in the room save the dilapidated bed frame, and a framed legend that read ‘Nearer God to Thee’ hanging skew-wiff above the bed.

  He moved quickly into the next room – Edith’s old room where, before they rented their own house in Diggle Street, the two of them had started their Billy. Be bloody funny if the little sod were hiding in here, he thought to himself as flashes of their lovemaking came back. He’d almost suffocated Edith with his huge fist when she began to scream out in pleasure.

  The light was even poorer here at the back of the house, and the floor seemed empty. He knew the bed had gone because he’d taken it himself, enlisting the support of Gilbert Barlow to drag it all the way back to Diggle Street at the insistence of his wife who’d told him it still had plenty bounce left in
it, a comment which Gilbert later shared with the entire vault of the Pagefield.

  ‘Billy!’ he said, this time lowering his voice almost out of respect for the room where the lad was conceived.

  Silence once more. Only the slamming of a privy door from the alley beyond the window, the gruff rattle of a cough and the more distant clanging of clogs from the street at the front.

  Then, just as he was about to turn away and leave the room, he spotted something. In the corner of the room, below the window. A dark, motionless shape, like a body curled in on itself. His heart began to beat faster now as relief, expectation and dread swirled around inside him. He moved closer, leant slowly towards the shape, and saw a head resting on the bare boards.

  ‘Billy?’ he said softly, but the body remained still. He reached out and carefully raised a forefinger before touching the back of the head.

  It felt cold, damp, lifeless.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In a fit of generosity, Brennan had acceded to his constable’s request to finish for the day.

  ‘It’s past me knocking-off time, Sergeant,’ Jaggery had argued, ‘an’ I don’t reckon I’d be any use sittin’ in a vicar’s house suppin’ tea wi’ me little finger stuck in the air, like.’

  ‘Bright and early tomorrow then, Constable. You hear?’

  ‘As ever, Sergeant. Ta.’

  And so it was that Detective Sergeant Brennan found himself standing alone at the back of St Catharine’s Church in Lorne Street, Scholes, waiting for the vicar, the Reverend Charles Pearl, to conclude his work with the small gathering of boys in the chancel by the altar who he presumed formed the church choir. Candles flickered along a small stand nearby, and as he caught the last snatches of the hymn ‘There Is a Land of Pure Delight’, he realised with some surprise that the boys’ voices seemed smooth and almost angelic, an effect, he told himself, of the half-light and the sanctified atmosphere of the church.