by AJ Wright
She marvelled at the indomitability of his spirit as he moved past her classroom. She had felt so sorry for him this morning. It had seemed that everything was conspiring against him, but she felt sure he would come through this trial. His strength had certainly helped her these last weeks. She turned to Standard 1 and clapped her hands loudly. They all immediately stood to attention.
Half an hour later, she thought she heard a yell of anguish from along the corridor. That couldn’t have been Mr Weston’s voice, surely? It had sounded wild and unrestrained. Every child in Standard 1 looked up from their copybooks and their struggle to write the alphabet neatly, and a few of them began to whimper.
‘Carry on with your work!’ Emily Mason snapped, but she was as disturbed and worried as they were. Still, ten years separated her from the pupils sitting in front of her, and, despite her histrionics of the previous day, she was learning to keep her emotions under some sort of control.
Then, after a few minutes of tense silence, she heard footsteps along the corridor. Through the glass partition in her door she saw the headmaster walk briskly past, his face ashen. Alongside him, Reverend Pearl and the large police constable who had been here with Detective Sergeant Brennan. All three of them had grim expressions on their faces.
‘Miss?’ one of the children asked.
‘Yes, Vera, what is it?’
‘’As Mr Weston bin ’rested?’
‘Bin what? I mean, been what?’
‘’Rested, miss. By that fat bobby.’
Emily shook her head. ‘Don’t talk nonsense, Vera. Now get on with your letters. You haven’t got to haitch yet.’
Brennan had been at the bedside of Nathaniel Edgar for hours now, waiting for him to recover from the surgery he’d undergone earlier that morning. He knew, according to the surgeon, that the knife had penetrated his spinal cord in the lumbar region, and that it was highly likely that he would suffer paralysis and impairment of sensation below the injury.
‘In plain words, Sergeant, the poor chap might well never walk again. Still, from another point of view, he was lucky that your constable found him. If he’d been left there, he wouldn’t be here.’
Brennan hadn’t challenged his definition of lucky, even though he could think of nothing worse for a single man like Nathaniel Edgar than to be housebound and totally dependent on others. For a while, he gave thanks for his own health, and more so for that of Ellen and Barry.
He’d asked Captain Bell to send a telegram to the Seaforth police, requesting their assistance by despatching an officer to the Waifs and Strays’ Home at Elm Lodge on Seaforth Road to check on the boy’s welfare until Brennan could make the journey to Merseyside. He’d also sent Jaggery down to the school to let the headmaster know of what had happened. He realised the man couldn’t be expected to drop everything and come up to the infirmary. He had a school to run, and now, with Edgar totally incapacitated, Weston had a huge problem on his hands.
He heard a groaning from the bed. Nathaniel Edgar opened his eyes slowly, then closed them again as the light from the ward disturbed him.
‘Mr Edgar?’ Brennan said quietly. ‘Mr Edgar?’
Edgar licked his lips. They looked cracked and dry. ‘Water,’ he said in a weak voice.
The contrast between the man now and the last time they spoke was marked. As he stood up and walked to the small cabinet by the bed where a jug of water had been placed, Brennan wondered how Nathaniel Edgar would find the strength to cope with the devastating news he would soon be given. He filled a small glass with water and held it to the man’s lips. He tried to raise his head but found the effort too much, so Brennan held the glass there, pouring the soothing water into his mouth little by little until he shook his head.
‘Do you feel like answering a few questions?’ Brennan asked as he sat back down.
Edgar gave a feeble smile. ‘Not going anywhere.’
‘Do you remember what happened?’
A pause while he screwed up his face in an effort to recollect the dark events of the previous night.
‘Wanted to piss.’
Brennan nodded. That, at least, gave him the answer to one question. He’d make a point of haranguing Constable Higginson back at the station for the lurid image he’d painted of the man getting his just deserts for flashing his old man at all and sundry.
‘Did you see who did this?’
Another pause. Another contortion of the face. ‘Too dark.’
‘Did you hear anything? Something that might give us some inkling as to who did it?’
Slowly, with great effort, Edgar turned his head to face Brennan. His eyes were open now, and there was a tearful intensity in them.
‘Nothing … But I may know …’
Brennan caught his breath. ‘What?’
The man’s eyes closed tightly, as if a wave of pain was sweeping through him. Then, after a few moments, he said drowsily, ‘I may know someone … who’d want me to disappear.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Richard Weston returned to Standard 6 and listened to some of them mangle Bret Harte’s haunting poem. None of them could pronounce the final word ‘anchorage’, being unable to grasp the concept of ch transforming itself into a hard consonant sound, and no matter how many times he corrected them, once they returned to the beginning of the poem, ‘They ran through the streets of the seaport town’, they had forgotten the pronunciation or the divine symbolism of the word at the end: ‘Drawing the soul to its anchorage.’
After the sixth mangling of the word he tore into them, ordering each and every disobedient devil to stand while he marched along the aisles swinging his cane and showing them the error of their ways. When the only sounds in the classroom were snivelling and sobbing and groans of pain, he sat down and commanded that they read the poem in silence until the end of morning school, and to reflect on the fate of the children on the hulk who were blissfully unaware of the rotting ship slipping its moorings and floating into a fog-filled oblivion.
‘That will be your fate in life!’ he barked.
While they strove to make sense of the poem and its import, Weston sat at the front, staring out of the window and reflecting on what Reverend Pearl and Constable Jaggery had told him. They had met coincidentally as they arrived at the school. The vicar brought good news: he had been in touch with Jane Rodley and she had agreed to step in and continue with Standard 6. She would be there within the hour. But that information paled into insignificance with the news that Nathaniel Edgar had been attacked in the park the previous night and was even now in a poor condition at Wigan Infirmary.
But the man had survived!
A knife in the back and he had survived!
He could muse all he liked about the indomitability of the spirit in the face of overwhelming odds. He could even think back with fondness on the happier times the two of them had shared together when they were both starting out at George Street and enjoying a post-classroom drink at Nathaniel’s Bowling Club. But neither of those thoughts lasted long in his head. No, the only thing in his thoughts, like a worm eating away, bit by bit, at his peace of mind, was what the man would say to the police when he – or indeed if he – regained consciousness.
It would be the end of everything.
Brennan felt a huge wave of frustration sweep over him. Edgar had drifted back to sleep, saying nothing more. He had been about to give Brennan a name, though he’d admitted he saw nothing to indicate who his assailant was.
Still, sitting by an unconscious man’s bedside gave him the opportunity to review what he knew about this strange case and its sequence of events, events which, he was convinced, began not at George Street Elementary School but up in the Lake District, in Hawkshead, the parish church of St Michael and All Angels, and the tragedy of a little girl’s drowning in Esthwaite Water.
It was beyond doubt that Dorothea Gadsworth recognised someone that day at George Street Elementary. Her words before she fainted, which Nathaniel Edgar thought sounded
like ‘Let’s wait’, must have been referring to Esthwaite, and the telegram she sent to her parents confirmed it. What had she written?
Seen one responsible for Tilly’s death. Past inescapable.
The phrase ‘one responsible’ could refer to either Julia Reece or the youth David. If it were Julia Reece that Miss Gadsworth had seen, then that meant she had changed her name, for the only women she met that day were teachers at the school, none of whom was called Julia. Emily Mason, at fifteen, was too young anyway – she wouldn’t have been born when Tilly Pollard drowned. Jane Rodley was around the same age as Julia Reece – and, he suddenly realised, she had the same initials: J. R.
He decided to follow that thought for a while. If Jane Rodley were Julia Reece, then is it possible that Reverend Charles Pearl, her fiancé who was also present when the unfortunate Miss Gadsworth fainted, was the youth David who had desecrated the church with such tragic consequences all those years ago? The Gadsworths said that David was around seventeen at the time, which would make him thirty-two. The vicar was around that age himself. Were Jane Rodley and Charles Pearl really Julia Reece and the youth David?
But there was something wrong with that supposition: Miss Gadsworth had written in her telegram that she had seen one responsible for Tilly Pollard’s death – wouldn’t she have written the ones or both?
Still, that didn’t preclude the possibility that one of them had been in that belfry all those years ago. And the one who would stand to lose the most if the truth of such sacrilegious and lewd behaviour came out would be a man who now called himself reverend and preached hellfire sermons every Sunday.
It was true that the two of them had taken the boy Kelly away from his parents and away from Brennan himself. Were they indeed acting out of the best of motives? Or had they fooled him into thinking that way? He only had Jane Rodley’s word that she took him to Seaforth.
The sooner he got to Seaforth to check for himself the better.
He thought, too, of something else that the Gadsworths told him: that young Julia had been outspoken in her defence of a local woman accused of witchcraft by her more superstitious neighbours.
Alice Walsh was an outspoken supporter of women’s suffrage. Had the girl’s childish defence of an old woman’s right to live in peace translated itself into the defence of all women’s rights, including the right to vote?
A coincidence? He didn’t like coincidences.
He thought of another coincidence, one that had been bothering him for some time ever since those early interviews.
Something that one of them had said came back to him now with a clarity that both alarmed and excited him. Had it been a coincidence? Or was that person having a gruesome joke at his expense?
Surely not?
He frowned and looked down at the sleeping form in the bed. Wake up, man.
Jane Rodley had arrived in school later that morning and immediately took over her own class, Standard 6. She was somewhat surprised to hear them raise a cheer when she walked into the room and had to maintain a professionally stern expression on her face when Richard Weston silenced them with a dire threat to render their earlier punishment the merest of tickles in comparison with what he would mete out if the caterwauling continued. Still, it was good to stand there once more, having thought that she would never do so again. That might still be the case, she reflected, if Detective Sergeant Brennan took it into his head to arrest her for what she did with young Billy Kelly.
At dinner time, with the pupils out of the building and walking home for their lunches, Misses Hardman, Walsh and Ryan – Standards 2, 3 and 4 respectively – were seated in a huddle in the staffroom and discussing the lamentable course of events that were slowly but surely sinking the ship. Jane sat in the furthest corner of the room and was engaging in conversation with Emily Mason, telling her about young Billy and the place of safety she had taken him the previous day.
‘The poor boy,’ said the pupil-teacher. ‘He must be very weak.’
‘He was being seen to by a doctor as I left.’
Emily shook her head slowly at such misfortune.
At that point the door opened and Richard Weston entered, closely followed by Reverend Pearl. Both men had stern expressions.
It was the headmaster who spoke.
‘There is no easy way to tell you all this. You are all aware that Nathaniel Edgar didn’t arrive this morning. I assumed it was part of a pattern that I was in the process of dealing with. I was wrong.’ He paused then said, ‘Nathaniel was viciously attacked last night in Mesnes Park, the victim of an assault with a knife.’
Alice Walsh whispered, ‘Oh dear Lord no!’
Miss Ryan asked, ‘Did Mr Edgar survive the attack?’
Reverend Pearl spoke up. ‘He survived, yes. But it is feared the poor man may never walk again.’
Suddenly, Alice stood up and walked from the room, head held high.
Emily Mason said, ‘Why is all this happening?’ and let forth a series of sobs. She was immediately comforted by Jane Rodley, who looked at both men and her eyes rebuked them for bringing such devastating news while a pupil-teacher was present.
‘Do the police know who did this?’ Miss Hardman asked.
Weston shook his head. ‘I shall, of course, go to the infirmary once school has closed for the day,’ he said in a sombre voice. ‘And I’m sure you’ll wish me to take your very best wishes for his recovery.’
‘I’m sure he’d much rather you took him his favourite bottle of Scotch,’ said Miss Ryan with some asperity, prompting everyone in the room to stare at her in disbelief. ‘We are all aware of Mr Edgar’s little peccadilloes. Perhaps it would be better if in future we all spread our little secrets on the table, like a pack of cards,’ she added before standing up and leaving the room.
Reverend Pearl gave Miss Rodley a questioning look, but she subtly shook her head and indicated the sobbing girl beside her. She needs my attention now, the expression said.
Weston said, ‘I shall expect the school to be solemn and silent this afternoon. A respectful atmosphere. So the children will work in total silence throughout.’ He was staring directly at Emily Mason with that last sentence. The significance wasn’t missed by anyone.
With that, he turned on his heels and left the room, Reverend Pearl following behind him.
Nathaniel Edgar awoke later that afternoon, much to the delight and relief of Detective Sergeant Brennan. The doctor had been round to see him earlier, and had told Brennan that he seemed to be sleeping more soundly now, and his pulse was growing stronger. When he finally opened his eyes, he stared at Brennan for a few seconds, as if he was wondering what on earth the policeman was doing by his bedside. Then the memory must have returned, for he gave a wan smile and said, ‘Now where were we, Sergeant?’
‘You were telling me someone might wish you to disappear.’
Edgar sighed. ‘Richard Weston is about to fire me.’
‘Why?’
‘You found the evidence yourself.’
‘The bottle of Scotch?’
Edgar gave a slow nod. ‘It is a friend and a traitor, all wrapped up in one.’ He remained silent and closed his eyes. Brennan thought he was drifting back to sleep, but then, still with his eyes closed, he said in a low voice, ‘It’s the reason – or shall we say, one of the reasons – my wife left me. Or, would it be more truthful to say that it became my bosom companion when she deserted me? Whichever it is, the bottle became shall we say, essential?’
‘And Mr Weston warned you about it?’
A nod.
‘Was it affecting your work?’
Another nod.
‘And you think that is sufficient grounds for him to attack you with a knife?’
Edgar smiled. ‘Oh, probably not. It’s simply not in his nature. But he was angry with me. I’d failed to show up for my class and that made things very awkward for him. So we argued and I threatened him.’
‘You threatened him?’
Ed
gar swallowed and licked his dry lips. Brennan stood up and poured him some water, which he sipped slowly, savouring its coolness. ‘If only water could make you forget, eh, Sergeant? Who would have any need for whisky?’
‘Indeed.’
He handed the glass back to Brennan, then lay his head back on the pillow and spoke to the ceiling. ‘If I were to lose my teaching position I would be very much in dire straits. I wouldn’t get another, that’s for sure, not when they asked about my reasons for leaving. Weston and the good reverend would make sure that any reference would include a comment on my relationship with the bottle. It’s as well they know nothing of …’ He broke off there and paused before adding, ‘We all know Charles Pearl’s views on anyone deviating from Christian virtues.’
Brennan wondered what he would say if he knew that the vicar had colluded in a child abduction and was released from police custody only last night.
‘So I decided to fight back. And you only fight with weapons that you can trust. I told Richard if he dispensed with my services then I would send a letter to the school board informing them of what I knew.’
‘And what do you know, Mr Edgar?’
He turned his head and looked Brennan straight in the eye. ‘I told you once that I knew the man behind the mask.’
‘I thought it a curious thing to say.’
‘He would have exposed my relationship with the bottle. So I fought fire with fire.’
‘How?’
‘I threatened to expose his relationship with Emily Mason.’
Brennan’s jaw dropped.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘Oh, I see!’ said Nathaniel Edgar, and even managed to force out a laugh of sorts. ‘No, Sergeant Brennan. That’s not what I meant at all. Good God, man! The very idea of Richard Weston … No. That’s not what I meant by relationship.’
‘Then what did you mean by it?’ Brennan wasn’t accustomed to being laughed at. His darkening brow told the prostrate teacher what he thought of that.