Elementary Murder

by AJ Wright

  ‘Exactly, Sergeant.’

  ‘Well, we’ll soon find out.’

  Now the children had vanished completely, Brennan led the way inside. As they walked along the corridor towards the headmaster’s study, they caught a glimpse of Nathaniel Edgar, the teacher responsible for Standard 5, who was in the process of leaving the classroom. He looked surprised to see them.

  ‘Sergeant Brennan? Are you here to see the headmaster, by any chance?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid you’re out of luck. He had to leave early this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh? And why is that, may I ask?’

  ‘We had a visit this morning from the headmaster at St Matthew’s in Pemberton. Apparently Mr Tollet was due to pay them an inspectorial visit first thing this morning and he failed to turn up. As Mr Cumberland – that’s the headmaster at St Matthew’s – knew Mr Tollet was here last week he felt it his duty to seek the fellow out. Find out why he hadn’t arrived. Mr Weston said he would look into it as a matter of courtesy. Mr Tollet is staying at the Royal Hotel, so I’m told, and the headmaster took himself off there. I do hope the fellow hasn’t taken ill?’

  Jaggery was about to say something but Brennan gave him a scowl.

  ‘In that case I’d like to see Mr Prendergast. Your caretaker.’

  If Edgar was surprised he didn’t show it. He merely said, ‘I’d be delighted to escort you. Please. Follow me.’

  Once he’d taken them to the cellar beneath the main body of the school, he pointed out the caretaker at the far side, shovelling spadefuls of coal into a tidy heap. Then he left.

  Before Brennan could take a step towards him, however, Constable Jaggery tugged at his sleeve.

  ‘What is it, Constable?’

  ‘Did you smell it, Sergeant?’

  Brennan nodded. ‘Yes, Constable. I smelt it.’

  He must have dropped off to sleep. The screams from the street above woke him and he saw dim shadows flicker across the cellar ceiling. During the day the darkness wasn’t total, and he could see different shapes shuffle past the tiny grid in the ceiling. But the screams were of those his age. It was too muffled to make out individual words or phrases, but he could tell they were running along the street, probably chasing someone – or being chased.

  Never mind, he told himself.

  I’m safe down here. As long as I stay here and don’t let anyone know, I’ll be safe. That’s what I was told.

  There were too many folk after him, ready to kill him. His dad, for one. His mam, for another. And worst of all the police. If they knew what he’d done, he’d be hanged.

  But he had a saviour who’d promised to look after him. Which was a bloody big surprise all right, he told himself. There was something comforting in that, and the way the darkness wrapped itself around him like a blanket, keeping him safe and invisible where no bugger could get him.

  The yells were already fading. From far off, he heard the rattle and hiss of a tram as it chugged its way along. Then the sounds settled.

  If only he could have something warm to eat.

  But his food wouldn’t be long, he told himself.

  ‘I could eat a flock bed,’ he said aloud, echoing something he’d heard his dad say. Though he hadn’t a clue what it meant.

  ‘Didn’t see a cup o’ tea, no,’ said the caretaker firmly. ‘Didn’t see anythin’ other than what I told you. Bottle o’ Scotch.’

  The three of them were standing in the doorway that led to the cellar.

  Brennan looked thoughtful. ‘Was there anywhere in the school she might have drunk some tea – a canteen perhaps? The staffroom? The headmaster’s study?’

  Prendergast shrugged. ‘Possible. But I can tell you this. There were no cup o’ tea left hangin’ around. I keep the place clean.’

  ‘What about arsenic? Do you have any rat poison, for instance?’

  The caretaker looked uneasy. He gave Constable Jaggery, who was standing by the door, a nervous glance before stepping back from Brennan and sweeping an arm around the cellar. ‘All schools have rats. Not far from water round ’ere, are we? Stands to reason we get the little sods.’

  ‘So you keep rat poison?’ Brennan asked with dogged insistence.

  ‘Aye. It’s kept well away from pryin’ eyes an’ ’ands, though.’

  ‘Where?’

  With a melancholy shake of the head, he moved over to a cupboard opposite the door they’d entered by. He stretched out a hand and tugged at one of the two handles. The left-hand door swung open with a creak, displaying a row of boxes and bottles.

  ‘You don’t keep it locked?’

  He nodded back towards the cellar door. ‘That door’s always locked. No bugger gets in but me.’

  Brennan stepped forward and peered inside the cupboard. He saw at once a dark brown bottle with the label clearly marked: Barker’s Rat Poison; Danger – Arsenic. Carefully he lifted it from the cupboard and examined it. ‘Perhaps someone did get in, Mr Prendergast.’

  But the caretaker shook his head. ‘Who’s to say whoever did for the girl didn’t bring the poison with ’em?’

  Brennan replaced the bottle and shook his head. ‘You’re absolutely right, of course.’ He watched as the caretaker closed the cupboard door. ‘You said last time we spoke that you suspected someone had been trying to build a fire in here. You found pieces of wood.’

  ‘Aye. I did. But as I told you the headmaster said I was imaginin’ things. Told me to keep the place tidier in future. But I saw what I saw.’

  ‘I’m sure you did. Do you think it could have been any of the children who got in?’

  Constable Jaggery, who for once saw the trap his sergeant had sprung, gave a triumphant snort. For the first time the caretaker hesitated. If he were to pursue that particular line, he’d be directly contradicting what he’d just assured Brennan – that the place was always kept locked.

  ‘See up yonder?’ He pointed to a small trapdoor that was level with the playground outside. ‘If anyone got in, it was through that door. There’s a lock on it but it wouldn’t keep out a mouse. Or a rat,’ he added in an attempt at humour.

  ‘Then why not fix the bugger?’ asked Constable Jaggery.

  ‘Because Mr Weston and the good Reverend won’t give me the money to buy the right sort of lock for it. They cost money, them sort o’ locks do.’

  ‘But there was no actual fire?’

  Prendergast laughed. ‘If there ’ad been, this place would’ve gone up like a bonfire. All this coal. These wooden beams. But no, it’d take a heck of a lot of flames to set this lot off. Coal doesn’t burn straight off now, does it?’

  Once they left the building, Brennan and Jaggery walked in silence for a while. It was Jaggery who spoke first.

  ‘I reckon meladdo likes a tot.’

  It took Brennan a few seconds to realise that his constable was referring not to the caretaker whom they’d just left, but the teacher they’d met when they arrived at the school: Nathaniel Edgar.

  ‘I mean, his breath reeked of it, Sergeant. Ain’t that against the law or somethin’? Buggered if we can drink on duty so why can teachers, eh?’

  ‘It seems Mr Nathaniel Edgar might require some sustenance to get him through the day.’

  Jaggery was about to protest at the basic unfairness of that, especially as far as policemen were concerned, when Brennan spoke again.

  ‘Interesting, though, that the headmaster thought fit to hide the bottle of Scotch from view before we saw the body. And here we are, smelling stale whisky on Mr Edgar’s breath. I wonder if there’s a connection?’

  Before Jaggery could add a comment, Brennan had increased his pace, and the big man had to move as swiftly as he could to keep up with him, a strain on his lungs under normal circumstances, but when his sergeant uttered the word ‘Crofter’s’ the air seemed to taste sweeter, more promising.

  It was over a year since Nathaniel Edgar’s wife had left him, gradually worn down not only by his drinking –
which had grown progressively worse – but by the ever-growing distance between them, often expressed through his condescension.

  ‘I’m not one of your pupils!’ she would say whenever they had words and she failed to come round to his way of thinking. He’d tried his best, though, but somehow, it seemed that as their rows grew more frequent, the more he sought out the comfort of the local bowling club, where members could sit and converse and be hearty without the glowering presence of women. He was by nature a sociable creature, and the other members liked him. Free from the oppression of home, he felt liberated and able to share the earthier humour of his fellow bowlers who never seemed to do much bowling. But each night, he felt that familiar sinking sensation in his gut as soon as he turned the corner of his street, knowing full well she would be lying in bed pretending to be asleep. Pretence, that’s what they had been reduced to. So he would sit in the armchair before the dying embers and sip at his Scotch, and very often wake in the early hours feeling cold and wretched.

  There were times when his life was illuminated, and not by drink either, but those occasions were becoming more infrequent now, especially since he’d refused to acquiesce fully to what was being demanded of him.

  You lack courage! he’d been told.

  Maybe so. But at least he could still hold his head high. And he thanked God that the truth had never come out. That would have destroyed everything.

  Richard Weston had saved him.

  One morning, a few days after his wife had left for good, Richard caught him slumped across his desk with Standard 5 in riotous mood. He silenced them, waking Edgar in the process. Later, in the confines of his study, Weston listened with genuine concern as he unburdened himself for the first time.

  ‘If Reverend Pearl or any member of the school board hear of this, Nat, you realise you will be instantly dismissed?’

  ‘And I’d deserve to be.’

  ‘The good reverend has decided views on drink, decided views on any human weakness.’

  ‘He’s a God-fearing man, right enough. I know full well his views on Sin. He shares them every Sunday.’

  ‘But you’re an excellent teacher, Nat. That would be the sin – losing you. We’ve worked together for too long to throw everything away without a fight. If you can make me a solemn promise to repair the damage you’ve done today. To repair the damage to yourself …’

  ‘Then you won’t report this?’

  The headmaster shook his head. ‘I shall tell Standard 5 you are suffering from an illness.’

  Edgar gave a bitter laugh. ‘Well at least they’d recognise the symptoms. It’s an illness shared with most of their fathers.’

  Despite appearances to the contrary, Richard Weston was at heart a good man. If he had acted according to the rules, Nathaniel Edgar would have been out on his ear. More than likely he’d have been staggering around the streets of Wigan begging – or worse, leaping into the all-embracing chill of the canal.

  The memory of that time, of that conversation, came back to him now.

  That damn bottle!

  It was foolish, bringing it to school in the first place. A gross error of judgement. And he had fully expected the headmaster to throw his hands in the air and surrender to the inevitable course of action he should follow. But no. When he returned from the school in Pemberton Richard Weston once again spoke to him with an almost fatherly concern, although they were both around the same age.

  ‘I see no reason to let the police know why it was on the premises at all,’ he’d said. ‘As far as they are aware, it was brought into the building by that poor girl as a means of despatching herself along with the poison she took. But this really does have to be the last time, Nat. It really does. That fine line between respectability and ruin is growing thinner all the time.’

  He nodded gratefully and made another solemn promise.

  What Richard Weston’s response would have been if he knew about the other thing – and what she had encouraged him to do – he shuddered to think. That was better left in the past where it belonged. He was just grateful that the man was in ignorance of one weakness, at least.

  The Crofter’s Arms, on Market Street, was a popular drinking place, its town centre location rendering it satisfyingly convenient for a number of people. Office workers, shop assistants and market stall holders rubbed shoulders with pitmen and foundry workers; not literally, though – the latter two would be found in the vault with its sawdust-covered floor rather than the optimistically named and carpeted ‘Lounge’, where the more suitably attired would repair for an early evening livener.

  It was in the lounge that Brennan had found a table by the window, allowing Constable Jaggery, now divested of his uniform and in his civilian clothes, to make his considerable presence felt at the bar and return promptly with two frothing pints of Walker’s Bitter.

  ‘Just what I needed, Sergeant,’ said Jaggery, wiping the froth from his mouth.

  Brennan, having quaffed a sizeable amount, sat back and breathed out. ‘What do you think, Constable? We’ve got a young woman failing to get a teaching post, found poisoned by arsenic two days later in the very room where she taught a class of Wigan’s finest.’

  Jaggery snorted, unaware of his sergeant’s ironic tone.

  ‘There’s an almost empty bottle of whisky placed beside her but there was no whisky found in her stomach. What was found in her stomach – apart from the large quantity of arsenic, of course – was tea, but there was no cup beside the body. That’s a bit of a mystery, eh?’

  ‘It’s bloody impossible, Sergeant, if you ask me. You say Doctor Monroe told you she’d’ve gone through agonies before she died?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why didn’t she unlock the door and call for help? I know she was tryin’ to top herself but bugger me. You tellin’ me she had the time or the strength to unlock the door, remove the cup from the room, stroll back and lock herself in again? Beyond belief.’

  Brennan shook his head. ‘Not beyond belief. Only beyond suicide.’

  Jaggery took another gulp of bitter and digested both the beer and the implications of what Brennan had just said.

  ‘Let’s assume for a moment it wasn’t suicide at all. Obviously whoever gave her the arsenic-flavoured tea removed the incriminating cup soon after the poor girl drank from it. What I find puzzling is this bottle of Scotch. What was it doing beside the body if the girl never drank from it?’

  ‘Happen that Edgar bloke left it there by mistake.’

  ‘What? At the end of the school day?’

  ‘Could’ve done.’

  ‘If he’s a secret guzzler during the day he’s hardly likely to leave a bottle out in full view now, is he?’

  ‘Not unless ’e’d been lushin’ it that day.’

  ‘We saw him earlier. Stank of stale whisky but perfectly in control. No, I think he’s a steady drinker, not a drunkard. There’s a difference.’

  Jaggery took another gulp of bitter. ‘So why did meladdo hide it then?’

  ‘If you mean Mr Weston the headmaster, say so.’ Brennan raised a hand to forestall Jaggery from following his instruction. ‘Do we believe his claim that he hid it in the slate cupboard to protect the good name of the school?’

  ‘George Street has a name but it ain’t a good ’un.’

  ‘Or did he hide it to protect his colleague?’

  Jaggery looked surprised. ‘You mean the ’eadmaster knows about Edgar’s drinkin’? An’ actually protects the bugger?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘It’s bloody outrageous, that’s what it is, Sergeant. Teachers suppin’ while they’re teachin’? World’s gone mad.’

  Brennan smiled and continued. ‘I’m also interested to know why Mr Weston didn’t tell me that Tollet was staying at the Royal. I asked him for the man’s address and he balked at giving it to me. Why not simply tell me where he was staying?’

  ‘I don’t reckon much to our Mr Weston,’ Jaggery observed.

 
‘Hmm. We’re also told that Miss Gadsworth fainted when the headmaster, the inspector and the vicar entered the room.’

  ‘They reckoned she were bad with ’er nerves.’

  ‘Or she recognised someone.’

  This possibility hadn’t occurred to Jaggery. He blinked a couple of times to assimilate the implications, but the effort was too great.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Ignoring the question, Brennan went on. ‘And Edgar heard what she said as she fainted. “Let’s wait”, or something like that anyway.’

  Jaggery grunted. ‘When I’ve been in the ring an’ clobbered some muttonhead I’ve ’eard ’em say all sorts, Sergeant. They don’t think straight when they’re on their way out, y’see?’

  Brennan did see. He’d watched Jaggery fight in the ring on several occasions representing the Borough Police, and that thunderous left fist had scrambled quite a few brains.

  ‘Still, if she did recognise someone and that caused the fainting spell, who was it?’

  ‘You said three of ’em came into the room. Meladdo, th’inspector an’ t’vicar. Must’ve been one of them buggers.’

  ‘Logic would suggest that. But she’d already met the headmaster that morning. And apparently he and Mr Tollet observed her teaching a class. But Weston said that the vicar had only just arrived, which might suggest Miss Gadsworth hadn’t yet met him.’

  ‘You think it were the vicar she recognised?’

  ‘If she recognised someone – and it’s by no means certain – then it could well have been Reverend Pearl. Which means what, Constable?’

  Jaggery gave the question some thought before responding. ‘It means she’d seen ’im before.’

  Brennan sighed. ‘That’s normally the case when you recognise someone. The answer I was looking for needed a bit more thought. But I’ll tell you anyway. It means I’ll have to go to church tomorrow. Ask a few more questions. That’s what it means.’

  After Brennan had been to the bar and replenished their pint pots, he took a long, slow drink, wiped the froth from his mouth then leant forward and spoke more softly. ‘We don’t believe in coincidences, do we, Constable?’