Elementary Murder

by AJ Wright

  ‘No, Sergeant.’

  ‘So how can you explain the drowning of the school inspector, Mr Tollet?’

  Jaggery took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly to demonstrate how inexplicable the man’s death was.

  ‘Perhaps, Constable, we should call it murder, eh? The poor man was prevented from climbing out of the canal by someone stamping like hell on his hands. But what we have to work out is the link between what happened to Miss Gadsworth and Henry Tollet. We need motives.’

  Jaggery put his hand to his head, an outward indicator that he was thinking hard. Then he said, ‘You know this woman you say was murdered?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well I reckon you must’ve got that bit wrong.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You said that door was locked when she was found Monday morning.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘So if it were locked, then she’d locked herself in, hadn’t she? So she wouldn’t be disturbed.’

  There was a lull in the conversation, filled by the raucous laughter of a group of clerks standing by the bar.

  Brennan smiled. ‘I said it was locked, not that she’d locked herself in.’

  ‘But the caretaker Prendergast said the vicar found the key behind the door after he’d smashed his way in. It must’ve dropped out the keyhole.’

  ‘Why? If we accept this was murder, then whoever locked her in the room needed only to keep hold of it and then drop the key behind the door when they all rushed into the classroom following Richard Weston yesterday morning, making it look like it had been locked from the inside.’

  Normally, Constable Jaggery was slow on the uptake, but his eyes lit up with inspiration at that point.

  ‘You saying that whoever killed Miss Gadsworth works at the school?’

  ‘It’s a possibility, Freddie. A distinct possibility.’

  Constable Jaggery smiled at the use of his Christian name. He always knew when the ale was starting to have an effect on Micky Brennan.

  The following morning, Brennan was preparing to leave the station and make his way to St Catharine’s Church in Lorne Street, when there was a hesitant knock on the door of his small office. A fresh-faced young constable opened the door and said, ‘You’re wanted, Sergeant. At the front desk.’

  ‘Who wants me, Constable?’

  ‘There’s two of ’em, Sergeant. Man an’ a woman. They told Sergeant Prescott they wanted to see the man in charge of their daughter’s murder.’

  It was a part of the job he hated.

  He’d known more than a few policemen who’d been able to harden themselves against feeling any kind of sympathy for the families of victims, whatever had happened to them. When he was still finding his feet in the force, one grizzled old constable had warned him against that sort of thing when they’d turned up at a lodging house in Douglas Road to inform the occupants of one of the rooms – a young couple whose three-year-old child had wandered off while they had a minute to themselves – that their little girl had been found cold and lifeless, having fallen down a nearby quarry. He didn’t know what was worse – the wailing grief of the young mother who blamed her husband for his bloody stinkin’ appetite or the silence, the dreadful pallid muteness of the young father. Their grief was intensified by the sense of guilt, an emotion Brennan, a Catholic, was well familiar with, and he spent many sleepless nights wondering how they were coping with the loss and the blame until, six months later, he heard they’d found the poor mother hanging from a tree overlooking the quarry.

  He had told Ellen about it, about the depth of sorrow he’d felt then and since. And she’d whispered to him in bed, late at night, as they’d listened to their baby son breathing contentedly in the cot beside them.

  If you ever stop feelin’, Michael Brennan, then you know where the door is.

  It had helped him, he knew. But now, in the cramped space of his tiny office, he still felt the emptiness in the pit of his stomach, an emptiness made more painful by the fact that there was nothing he could do to ease the suffering of these two parents seated before him.

  Edwin Gadsworth was in his late forties. He was almost completely bald, and there was a sad dignity about his bearing, enhanced by the dark mourning clothes he wore. His posture as he sat facing Brennan was erect and authoritative, his chin jutting forward as if to ward off the worst of the blows he was suffering. Brennan noted how gently, though, the man held his wife’s black-gloved hand. Mrs Gadsworth was of medium build and had once no doubt been quite beautiful. But there were lines around her eyes as she raised the black veil, and her cheeks were pale not just with the grief she must be suffering but with something deeper – an illness, Brennan thought.

  ‘We have just been to the mortuary, Sergeant. To identify our daughter’s body.’ He took a deep breath as a wave of realisation washed over him. Then he began again, this time more calmly. ‘My wife hasn’t been in the best of health, Sergeant Brennan. And what with the shock of – needless to say, we are devastated, sir. Devastated.’

  ‘You have my deepest condolences, Mr Gadsworth.’

  ‘I should like something more than that, Sergeant Brennan.’

  Brennan blinked.

  ‘My daughter was a God-fearing person, with deeply held views. The remotest suggestion that she took her own life – as we have heard from several quarters – would be a foul slander. She was murdered. I should like your assurances that whoever committed this foul crime will be brought to justice and the noose.’

  ‘I can assure you of my unyielding efforts, Mr Gadsworth.’

  He saw that Gadsworth was about to give some retort, so he said quickly, ‘And to make sure everything possible will be done, may I ask you a few questions?’

  Gadsworth took a deep breath, stroked his wife’s hand very slowly, and said, ‘Of course.’

  ‘Your daughter lived with you in Bolton?’

  ‘Yes. I own a pharmacy there. Off Churchgate. We’ve lived there since we moved from Leeds.’

  ‘I see. She had ambitions to become a teacher?’

  ‘Obviously, since she applied for a teaching post in this place.’

  Brennan registered the sharpness in the man’s tone.

  Suddenly, Mrs Gadsworth spoke up. ‘It was her lifelong ambition, Sergeant Brennan. Ever since she was a small child running through the streets of Headingley …’ Her voice trailed off, as if she could see that selfsame child skipping innocently along all those years ago.

  Brennan spoke quickly, to remove the pain of silence. ‘I might as well clear one thing up before we go any further. It seems that a note was found beside your daughter.’

  The implications registered on both their faces.

  Brennan reached into his desk drawer and pulled out the soiled slip of paper. He slid it across the desk and they both looked down, neither of them touching it.

  ‘Is this her handwriting?’

  They both looked at each other. Then Mr Gadsworth said, ‘A single word? In capital letters?’

  ‘It isn’t Dorothea’s hand.’ His wife’s voice trembled, but there was a conviction there, too.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘We’re both sure,’ said Gadsworth. ‘So the fiend who poisoned my daughter wrote this?’

  ‘It would appear so.’

  Again they both stared at it, their eyes wide with horror.

  Brennan quickly removed it and put it back in his drawer.

  ‘You may not be aware that last Friday, at George Street School, Dorothea had a fainting spell.’

  Edwin Gadsworth leant forward. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It may be that she felt ill – I believe that the lesson she taught was with a group of children that might be described as rather challenging.’

  ‘When she was learning, our daughter taught in Salford, Sergeant Brennan. A hellhole, she described it. Filthy children. Filthier parents. She coped admirably then. I see no reason why she should fail to cope here.’

  ‘I said it may be that she
felt ill. There might well be other reasons for the faint.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I don’t know, to be honest. All I do know is that your daughter was very well looked after when she did faint. The headmaster, Mr Richard Weston, was most solicitous, as indeed were the school inspector Mr Henry Tollet, and the school manager, the Reverend Pearl.’

  He watched them both carefully for any sign they recognised any of those names. But their faces remained expressionless.

  Brennan sighed. ‘When she’d recovered from the fainting spell, she left the school for some thirty minutes or so for some fresh air. Later in the afternoon she was interviewed. What I find most puzzling is this: why should your daughter leave the school after her interview, knowing that she had been unsuccessful, only to return later that same evening? Why not simply catch the train to Bolton and return home?’

  Gadsworth held his gaze for a few seconds, then said, ‘It’s our belief she recognised someone.’

  For a moment, Brennan was silent, a shiver of hope along his spine as they voiced his own suspicions. Before he could respond, Gadsworth reached into his inside pocket and removed a slip of paper.

  ‘She left school after she had fainted to send us this. This is the reason we’ve come here today, Sergeant Brennan. Here. Read it.’

  He handed it across. Brennan unfurled it. A telegram, bearing the short message:

  Seen one responsible for Tilly’s death. Past inescapable.

  ‘Who’s Tilly?’ Brennan asked.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Tilly Pollard.’

  It was Mrs Gadsworth who took up the story. Her tone was sombre, but now and again, as the tale unravelled and the fondness of memories returned, there came a rare sparkle in her eye, like a flash of blue sky in a downpour.

  ‘She was Dorothea’s cousin, and her closest friend. My sister lived in Hawkshead, a small village in the Lake District. Tilly and Dorothea were very close, you see, had known each other since they were learning how to walk. It was a small community, a friendly one. Children were valued, Sergeant. Do you know what I mean? They were cherished, nurtured. And they gave such joy in return. Our families had watched the two of them grow, learn to talk, squabble, argue over dolls … They were both seven when it happened.

  ‘We lived in Leeds at that time. My husband was working in his first pharmacy. Dorothea had begged us to allow her to spend the summer of ’79 in the Lake District with Tilly.’

  Mr Gadsworth interjected. ‘I was quite busy with establishing myself – I began as a lowly dispensing assistant who didn’t know the difference between typhus and typhoid, you see.’

  He offered a self-deprecating glance which presupposed Brennan was fully aware of the difference.

  ‘So,’ Mrs Gadsworth went on, ‘the chance to send Dorothea to her aunt’s for the summer, giving Edwin time to complete his training and build up his reputation at one and the same time, proved opportune. And Dorothea loved the place. My sister and her husband, God rest their souls, adored her.’

  Edwin continued. ‘There was a girl in the village – she lived alone with her widowed mother, her father having died when she was very young – Julia Reece, her name was.’

  He almost hissed the name, and Brennan noticed him hold his wife’s hand tightly at this point.

  ‘She was around seventeen, a flighty one, by all accounts, and no mistake. Still, according to Susan, my wife’s sister, she seemed pleasant enough. Her mother Margaret had told everyone how her daughter had ambitions to become a governess or a teacher, because, as she put it, she was a wonder with children. If anyone ever needed her help in any way, if they thought a little education beyond what the children learnt in school would be required, why, Julia Reece would be more than willing to oblige. They all believed the woman. And apparently Julia was very good with the children – not just Dorothea and Tilly, but a few others, too. They all spoke of how enjoyable their time with the girl had been – the nature walks through Grizedale Forest or down to Esthwaite Water, and the casual learning they acquired. When we visited one time Dorothea and Tilly had a game where they’d try to outdo each other by reciting the silliest names of the things they’d been taught and had seen for themselves: bladderwort and sneezewort and knapweed and fleabane. And they’d double up in fits of laughter …

  ‘Oh she taught them well enough. But then, so the story goes, she took up with a boy – around her age. He used to do odd jobs around the place and, although he lived over in Windermere and would catch the ferry across the lake, he became quite a popular figure. Likeable young chap, Susan said. Always willing to help. David, his name was. Never did get his surname. Anyway, he and Julia became fond of each other. She seemed to lose all sense of propriety.’

  Edwin Gadsworth thought for a second, then added, ‘They were like a poisonous compound. Individually, separately, harmless. Together, they were toxic.’

  His wife said, ‘She began to take the boy with her while she was in charge of the children. Susan caught Dorothea and Tilly giggling fit to burst one evening and when she asked them what was the matter they said they’d seen Julia and David swapping spit. They were seven, remember. And innocent.’

  There was a pause, and Brennan felt the tension in the room now. It was clear the next part of the story was going to bring back painful memories.

  Mrs Gadsworth sighed and gave her husband a wan smile before continuing. ‘One day, a terribly hot day in summer it was, Julia gathered her little group together – Dorothea, Tilly and two others from the village – and told them that they were going to play a game of hide and seek near the church. That’s the parish church in Hawkshead. St Michael and All Angels. Such a lovely place, too. Dates back to the fifteenth century. They say Wordsworth himself loved to sit and gaze at its beauty. Not a place for childish games, Sergeant.’

  ‘No church is, Mrs Gadsworth.’

  ‘At any rate, Julia took the children to the church grounds and told them that she would give them a good half hour to find the best hiding place they could, but that under no circumstances must they enter the church itself. It was strictly forbidden, she said. She had some jobs to do and would meet them in thirty minutes. Later it was discovered that the minister had asked David to clean out the belfry while he attended the funeral of a fellow minister over in Ambleside. The children, naturally, heeded her instructions, although that went only as far as the injunction to keep out of the church. After half an hour had elapsed, they became bored, and Julia hadn’t appeared. And so, because it was a hot day, and the children thought they needed to cool down, Tilly suggested they go where Julia had taken them before – to Esthwaite Water. They say it’s Windermere’s little brother. But it’s still a lake.’

  Brennan waited as she composed herself once more. He could guess what was coming.

  ‘They ran fully clothed into the water, for it’s quite a distance from the church and the poor souls were even hotter when they got there. Apparently Julia had told them a tale about a water fairy who lived in the lake and Tilly said she wanted to find her. She waded out the furthest.’

  She looked down, her lips quivering, but she said no more. Her husband finished the dreadful tale.

  ‘Tilly disappeared into the water. Dorothea and the others thought at first she was pretending to be captured by the fairy, but then they saw a tremendous thrashing further out, and Tilly’s arms rising and falling. Her head was thrust to the surface briefly. Dorothea said her face was turned to heaven, and her mouth gasping for breath. Then she vanished, and the water became still once more, and Tilly didn’t emerge. They ran off for help, crying and in shock. The villagers, including Robert Pollard, Tilly’s father, rushed down to the lake but there was no sign at first. Robert thrashed about wildly in the water until he stumbled over something. He bent low, and was heard to struggle for a while before rearing up from the water with little Tilly – dead – in his arms.

  ‘As he carried her back, the children told the other villagers about Julia, and h
ow they must keep out of the church. It wasn’t a wild leap of the imagination to work out where the girl was and what she was doing. Still, some of them ran up to the church and found the two of them – Julia and David – up in the belfry. It wasn’t the fact that what they had done was immoral. Not even that it was sacrilegious. No, by their evil actions, by Julia’s dereliction and David’s lustfulness, they had brought about the death of an innocent child. Hawkshead was a place filled with righteous fury. Julia and her poor mother Margaret were compelled to leave in an undignified haste. The boy David returned to Windermere and never caught the ferry again. Such a dreadfully sad time.’

  There was a moment of heavy silence before Edwin Gadsworth broke it.

  ‘That telegram suggests Dorothea saw Julia Reece after all these years. I’m convinced of it.’

  Brennan frowned. ‘But we’ve been informed that your daughter fainted when three men entered the room – Mr Weston, Mr Tollet and Reverend Pearl.’

  Tactfully he failed to add that the only person she hadn’t met from the three until that point was the vicar. No point yet in jumping to conclusions.

  ‘And you have put two and two together to find it adds up to five, Sergeant? Isn’t it at all possible that she had met someone earlier and the recognition registered only later?’

  Brennan leant forward, handed the telegram back to Mr Gadsworth and nodded. ‘As she fainted, she was heard to say something. She said, “Of course … Let’s wait”.’

  The Gadsworths looked at each other in puzzlement.

  ‘I’d presumed she’d fainted because she’d recognised someone who came into the room. But the words have puzzled me, I admit.’

  Then something struck him.

  ‘The name of the lake where the girl was drowned. What was it?’

  ‘Esthwaite Water.’

  Brennan gave a grim smile. ‘Esthwaite. Sounds like “Let’s wait”. She must have said, “Of course, Esthwaite”.’ He thought for a moment. ‘It’s the “Of course” that’s more significant though.’