Elementary Murder

by AJ Wright

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  As soon as he alighted from the cab, Brennan went over to the policeman who had passed the child he was carrying to one of the masters. He introduced himself before asking with some abruptness, ‘What’s gone on, Constable?’

  ‘I was told to keep an eye on the place. So I’ve been callin’ in every so often, like. This mornin’ I hears screamin’. Somebody shouted there was a fire near the front door an’ when I get there the bloody place is full o’ thick black smoke. The superintendent, Mr Laidlaw – that’s the bloke over yonder talkin’ to the fireman – orders everyone outside an’ across the road. I got told there’s a young child on the top floor so I ran up there an’ there he is, shiverin’ his socks off!’ He pointed to the child in the nightgown with some pride.

  Black hair.

  ‘Where’s the boy Kelly?’

  The policeman – whose name was Clarke – shifted his stance and looked back towards the building. ‘There was a lot o’ panic, Sergeant Brennan.’

  ‘So I gather. But I’ll ask again. Where’s Billy Kelly?’

  At last, the constable shrugged his ignorance. ‘I was told to watch the place, nothin’ else.’

  Brennan left him and walked quickly over to the man identified as the superintendent of the home, Mr Laidlaw, interrupting his conversation with the fireman. He told him who he was and asked the same question.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant,’ said Laidlaw, ‘but we have no boy of that name at Elm House.’

  For a moment, Brennan was taken aback, then realised that Jane Rodley might well have had him admitted under another name.

  ‘Ginger-haired lad,’ he explained.

  The superintendent took a quick look round the group of boys, many of whom were coughing from the smoke they’d inhaled then pointed at one boy standing on the edge of the group. ‘He’s the only one with ginger hair.’

  Brennan looked over at the boy, a thick-set youth of about thirteen.

  It wasn’t Billy Kelly.

  ‘The boy was brought in yesterday,’ Brennan said, a note of urgency and growing panic now in his voice.

  Mr Laidlaw shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. No boy was brought in yesterday.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m the superintendent. My signature must be on the admissions form.’

  ‘But he was brought here by Miss Jane Rodley. From Wigan.’

  Mr Laidlaw held his hands out in a gesture of ignorance. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Before Brennan could say anything else, another fireman approached them and addressed his colleague.

  ‘There was a sort of makeshift incendiary device, sir – looks like some clumps of straw and old matting.’

  The superintendent said, ‘There’s straw and matting stored in the boys’ playing shed. We keep toys and things for the lads there.’

  The second fireman wiped his eyes. ‘Looks like somebody slept in that shed last night. Old sacking on the floor, straw piled up like a makeshift pillow. Must’ve gathered the stuff and stuffed it through the letter box this morning, lit it and then ran off. There’s street rats round here who’d do such a thing.’

  The superintendent nodded. ‘They poke fun at the lads that live here. It’s very upsetting. So there’s no fire?’

  ‘A smouldering pile dragged outside by my men. It’s quite harmless now, as long as you don’t go near and breathe the fumes in.’

  Brennan turned once more to Laidlaw and clutched at one last straw. ‘Is it possible that somehow a boy could have been brought here without your knowledge?’

  ‘No, Sergeant. It isn’t.’

  Brennan sighed heavily and thanked the superintendent. As he moved away, he caught sight of the nurse stooping low to attend to the small boy the constable had carried out. He went over, introduced himself and asked her the same questions he’d just put to Mr Laidlaw.

  She glanced up, took in the concerned expression on his face and said, ‘I can assure you, Sergeant Brennan, that we have had no such boy admitted.’

  ‘But he was ill. Perhaps …’

  ‘Then he would have been attended to by me in the first instance. And I can assure you I attended to no sickly child yesterday.’

  Jane Rodley had lied to him.

  He thought about her, the cool way she had given him the information, the utterly believable tale of salvation, even down to the address and purpose of an establishment designed to provide practical help to boys such as Billy Kelly.

  Why had she lied?

  Had he been completely and hopelessly wrong about Emily Mason?

  Was she indeed at the bottom of the canal back in Wigan, or some similarly dark, deadly place?

  Was Billy Kelly down there with her?

  The nurse’s words broke into his line of thought. ‘And I hope now that that is the end of the matter.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ He took a step back, surprised at the strength of feeling in her response.

  ‘I told the one who came last night and I’m telling you the same thing.’

  ‘You told who last night?’

  ‘The one who marched up to the front door and demanded to see this fictitious child.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘She told me she was his sister and that it was her right – her absolute right – to see her brother. I told her that she had no rights whatsoever at Elm House whether her brother was in residence or a mere phantom. She accused me of lying, became most agitated and so I had her marched from the premises. If you’re looking for someone who caused that smoke then you’ve no need to look any further.’

  Brennan suppressed a violent curse. ‘Can you describe this sister?’

  ‘I certainly can.’

  And she did.

  To Billy Kelly, the world was filled with new sensations: he had never seen the sea, and he was almost struck dumb by the sheer size of it, how it stretched away into the distance as far as he could see. What amazed him, too, was the way the sea, at its furthest point, was a straight line, unmoving and perfect, far straighter than anything he’d ever managed with a ruler in his copybook. And yet, despite how still it looked out yonder, the closer the sea got the more it was in motion.

  And the waves! He went dizzy watching wave after wave, each one topped with white foam that splashed and melted into itself the closer it got to the sandy beach.

  Then there were the smells! How fresh, how salty was the breeze cooling his face and turning his late fever into a fading memory. The salty air was flavoured with something familiar and for a few moments he tried to work out what the smell was. He didn’t want to ask the one who brought him here, not until he’d worked it out for himself …

  Of course!

  ‘Vinegar!’ he shouted out, and the people who were strolling past the two of them seated on the wooden bench facing the Irish Sea stared at him, some of them giggling. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care.

  ‘And what about vinegar?’ she asked.

  ‘I can smell it!’ Billy replied, looking round for the source of the aroma.

  ‘Look,’ she said, turning round and pointing to a wheeled stall on the promenade behind them. ‘Cockles. Mussels.’

  ‘I’ve never ’ad ’em.’

  ‘Well we’ll get you a big bag full of cockles later. First we’ll go up there.’

  He turned to follow where she was pointing. He’d already told her that he was scared and didn’t really want to go so high.

  ‘But you’ll see the whole world from up there,’ she said, smiling to reassure him.

  A tram rattled past the promenade, filled with sightseers. Across the wide road, he saw the sign that read ‘Aviary and Aquarium’.

  ‘What does that say?’

  She told him.

  ‘What’s it mean?’

  ‘An aviary is where they keep birds and an aquarium is where they keep fish.’

  ‘Can’t we just go in yonder instead?’

  ‘Billy. You know this will be the last time you’ll ever come
here, don’t you? I explained that to you, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘So we’re going to the top of Blackpool Tower and you’ll experience something you’ll remember for the rest of your life.’

  ‘What if it falls down? While we’re up there? It’s windy, ain’t it?’

  She gave him a reassuring smile. ‘You mean “Isn’t it”?’

  He gave an obedient nod and smiled weakly.

  She stood up and held out her hand. ‘Come along. You’ll be perfectly safe, Billy. You’re with me, remember?’

  He was filled with a desperate sense of urgency now. The nurse’s description of the so-called sister of Billy Kelly only served to confirm what Brennan already knew – that the one responsible for the murders of Dorothea Gadsworth and Henry Tollet – and the attempted murder of Nathaniel Edgar – was Emily Mason. She had tried to pass herself off as Billy Kelly’s sister, and when that didn’t work she must have slept in the shed and started the smoke this morning that brought about the wholesale evacuation of Elm Lodge. He explained as quickly as he could to Constable Clarke what the situation was.

  ‘She started that smoke earlier, which means she might still be in the area. We need to find her, Constable.’

  The constable turned and went to every staff member in turn, describing Emily and asking each of them if they had seen her. They all shook their heads. Brennan looked up and down Seaforth Road. She could only have been gone a matter of thirty minutes or so, for that was when the smoke was detected and the fire brigade sent for. The building, the shed and the gardens had already been searched by the members of staff for any child lurking there, and found no one.

  Where would she go?

  Constable Clarke had by this time crossed the road and was speaking to the passers-by whom Brennan had noticed as he arrived. Brennan crossed over and got there just in time to hear one woman say, ‘Only a matter of time before something like this happened.’

  ‘Like what?’ the constable asked.

  ‘Bringing that sort of child here. They’d have burnt the place down sooner or later. Now it’s sooner, isn’t it? The place has only been in use a year and look what happens. It’s fate, that’s what it is.’

  Brennan coughed. The woman looked him up and down and sniffed.

  Before she could add further to her tirade, another of the group, a tall, bespectacled man clutching a book under one arm, said, ‘A young girl, you say?’

  The constable nodded.

  ‘It just so happens I did see someone like that. I thought it was strange that she was in some sort of distress. She was crying, you see, and I offered to help her. I thought it was something like a lost dog.’

  ‘Should have had him on a lead,’ the woman said with another sniff.

  ‘Where was she?’ Brennan asked.

  ‘Let me see,’ said the man, gazing down Seaforth Road. ‘Ah yes. I was walking along Church Road. I’d just been to the book shop on Rawson Road, you see?’ He held up the book he was holding as evidence of his veracity. ‘Well, I turned left into Church Road and was making my way along when I saw her.’

  ‘Heading which way?’ asked the constable.

  ‘Why, in the opposite direction, Constable. Towards the Shore Road and the estuary.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Brennan was glad to see the constable was now infused with the same sense of urgency. ‘We’d best get a move on, Sergeant Brennan. If she’s headed towards the river …’

  The sentence remained unfinished. There was no need to complete it.

  They left the group of passers-by looking open-mouthed at the uniformed constable and the plain-clothes detective running down Seaforth Road and turning right into Church Road.

  ‘You don’t think she’d do herself in, Sergeant?’ Clarke yelled as they rushed along, bringing curious glances from the ones they passed.

  ‘I’ve no idea!’ Brennan shouted back.

  ‘Bloody lunatic!’

  They came to a wide road – Brennan read a sign that said Crosby Road – and Constable Clarke pointed to a road opposite.

  ‘Shore Road!’ he yelled above the clang and rattle of a tram shuttling its way past them.

  As they rushed along Shore Road, Brennan kept his eyes open for any sign that Emily might have scurried through an alleyway or small entry, but he soon came to realise that this wasn’t Wigan, where alleyways were as frequent and as twisted as veins on an old crone’s hand. The road was well-kept, with few buildings set back from the pavement and a sign that pointed to Seafield Convent to his right.

  When they reached the end of the road, Brennan saw that they were close to a wall that overlooked a sloped stretch of sand leading all the way to the coastline and the water beyond. He leant over the wall, glanced to his left and right where the grassy stretch could be seen for quite a distance. Then he scanned the horizon and pointed to the land across the water.

  ‘Where’s that?’ he asked.

  Constable Clarke said, ‘New Brighton.’

  The wall ran alongside a narrow walkway. ‘You go right,’ said Brennan. ‘I’ll go left.’

  ‘What if she’s not here?’

  Brennan, who had already started off, stopped and said simply, ‘Then we look somewhere else.’

  They both went their separate ways, Constable Clarke taking out his whistle and blowing hard to attract the attention of other policemen. Brennan rushed down the path, his heart pounding now and cursing out loud. He prayed to God he wasn’t too late, but the sight of the water stretching to his right filled him with a deep sense of foreboding. Although he searched the road and the coastline that lay in front of him with all the watchfulness and concentration of a bird of prey, he could see no sign of Emily Mason. Further ahead, he could see people strolling along the sand, enjoying the early afternoon sun, chatting inconsequentially and occasionally letting out a hoot of laughter.

  In the far distance he saw the steel pillars of the overhead railway that seemed to follow the path of the coast all the way back to the city of Liverpool itself, a train approaching the broad curve that ran to his left and inwards. For a fleeting moment he harboured a wild image of Emily standing on a platform ready to leap in front of the train.

  Then, suddenly, he heard a shrill whistling from behind, followed by a yell that was drowned out by the rattle of the oncoming train. He whirled round, moved to the wall and peered to the right. He could see nothing at first, as the coastline curved slightly and blocked his view, so he ran back in the direction he had come.

  And suddenly, he saw Constable Clarke rushing along the sand, his progress hampered by the dampness underfoot.

  Brennan followed the direction the policeman was heading: far out, almost at the point where the sand met the water, he saw her.

  Emily Mason was walking slowly, her arms almost stretched forward to greet the oncoming waves. The hem of her skirt lifted as the water swept towards her, welcoming her.

  Constable Clarke was still a good hundred yards away.

  Brennan climbed over the wall and ran as fast as he could towards the girl, but he knew that he could only watch as Clarke made his way towards her.

  He only prayed that the man would reach her in time.

  Then he saw Emily lunge forward, tumbling into the water with a splash and almost forcing her head below the surface of the waves which now greedily swept around her. As he got closer, he saw the froth gushing around her head like the drool of a madman.

  Constable Clarke had now reached the water. He held his arms up high to avoid the waves that swirled all round him, fighting against the flow of the Mersey to reach a figure that was now floundering a matter of yards away, the small head seeming to give up the ghost and sink below the waves with a final bow of resignation.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  After paying for a fortifying lunch in gratitude for what Constable Clarke had done, Brennan sent a telegram to Captain Bell requesting the release of Richard Weston. He then made his way to S
eaforth Bridewell, where it had been decided by Clarke’s superiors that Emily Mason would be released into Brennan’s custody after enjoying the dubious comforts of a few hours drying off in the cells below street level, where she was able to ponder the folly of trying to commit suicide – a crime for which she would have been charged if it hadn’t been for Brennan’s persuasive argument that she faced far more serious charges back in Wigan.

  After signing the formal papers of release, he declined the offer of handcuffs.

  ‘What if she decides to make a dash for it again?’ said the Bridewell sergeant with a scowl in the prisoner’s direction.

  ‘Somehow I don’t think that’s going to happen,’ Brennan replied. He looked at her, head bowed low and simpering, clothed in a plain calico dress and scuffed shoes that clearly weren’t her own.

  When Constable Clarke had rushed into the water to save her, he had fought with commendable courage and tenacity against a rising current, diving and surfacing, diving and surfacing, several times before finally finding the girl and heaving her to the surface and dragging her, arms flailing in violent protest, back to the shore where Brennan was standing, hands on hips and trying to regain his breath.

  ‘Come along, Emily,’ he now said gently. ‘We’ll take you back to Wigan, eh? It’s a bit of a journey so we can talk on the way. Wouldn’t that be best?’

  Two other people were heading for a railway station at that moment. Not the same one, of course. Jane Rodley and Billy Kelly had spent the night at the home of a friend of Jane’s who lived in Poulton-le-Fylde, a few miles from Blackpool.

  Billy had slept better the previous night than he had done for many months. He had experienced the thrill of his young life as he and Miss Rodley had stood at the very top of Blackpool Tower. How small the people looked! And the trams!