by Marie Rowan
“Clothes. Type, colour, working-man’s, business-man’s, clergyman’s?” Pollock knew that would be too much to hope for.
“I hardly noticed. I was looking at his face and that was only a quick glance, just a fraction of a second. Tierney’s sent a note. He’s at his mother-in-law’s in Lyon Street and wants fruit as compensation. The wife says he can sue us.” Bang went the turnips and parsnips, thought Pollock.
“But you think he answered to the name of Finlay?”
“Right, and he wore that lassie’s badge, a suffragette one, I mean. Must be married and hen-pecked.” Jake laughed and then resumed his solemn expression. Regan’s look said he hadn’t a clue what was so hilarious about one great fire and two murders.
“Anything else, Mr Regan. You see, sad as it makes me to say this, but in a murder enquiry, we don’t move on from an interview till we are satisfied we’ve been given all the information the person in front of us has regardless of how many Paris buns get hard and the tea turns cold. Think again, Mr Regan.”
“Sorry, that’s it. Aw God, here she comes.” But the coast was clear, and Colm Regan was dutifully spooning tea leaves into a large, china teapot as his wife entered the CID-free room. “Excuse me stepping out for a moment, my dear. Dust from the potatoes has gone right up my nose and I’m about to sneeze.” Regan was swiftly fired out the back door, and slipping through the nearby alley, he quickly joined the waiting detectives.
“Hello again, Mr Regan,” said Pollock smiling.
“One thing, Inspector Pollock, I think I made an honest mistake about that badge.”
“Any information is very much appreciated. What mistake have you made?” Regan leaned in close and whispered.
“The badge. It was the suffragette colours – sort of. Green background with a purple centre. But it was, in fact, an enamelled violet, a brooch.” With that, he dashed back to The Fruit Bowl.
Chapter 9
Pollock and Jacobstein crossed The Gallowgate in silence. The traffic poured about them, noise and dust and horse manure all filling the air with their various sounds and smells.
“Where the hell does that get us, Jake?” asked Pollock as they reached the other side unscathed and then headed along Springfield Road.
“An enamelled, violet pin badge or brooch, roughly the same colours as a lot of suffragette sales articles. Quite a reasonable amount of suffrage action around here, so I suppose that in the anxiety of the moment, it was an obvious and simple mistake to make, Ben.”
“Always assuming it was a mistake. That man’s a dozey git. When this is all wrapped up, I’ve half a mind to run Regan in for obstructing the police. We’re getting information from him in dribs and drabs. Still, I suppose we’ve got to go with the violet brooch as the other scenario’s a washout so far.”
“As you say, Ben, a brooch, not a badge. I hope I didn’t blunder when I left the incident with the suffragette with the local men.”
“There was nothing to say she didn’t actually trip. It was a hot day and she could easily have pulled off her hat and tugged some hair out with it. Inspector McLachlan told me he doesn’t see how they can actually tell what happened. The girl will probably tell all when she comes to. Her friend will get her money’s worth from Ned Bell or he might simply bow out of it. I wouldn’t like to be him if he does.” Jacobstein laughed at that thought.
“He’ll probably send Miss Malone to break the news and my money is on Euphemia, having seen her sort out her ex-boss William M Roberts, King of the Coalyards.” Jacobstein laughed quietly again and Pollock gave him a wondering glance.
“Right, let’s go back to Camlachie and have another word with Chris Kelly. This time I’ll make sure he talks. I’ll find an excuse to shut The Clew Bay Bar down and all his little nest eggs he thinks he’ll be building for any future he might have, will go right down the drain.”
“You know, Ben, Kelly couldn’t have seen that brooch. Assume he has at some point seen the watcher over by the tyre warehouse, dressed all in dark clothing, nothing to identify him by, just really a stationary outline. But this was an outline he was familiar with, recognised and yet never challenged him as to why he was there and behaving in that suspicious manner. What did that mean?” asked Jacobstein.
“It meant he, Kelly, was either totally afraid of the person or the person was normally so insignificant Kelly thought he posed no threat at all to either another person or property. It also means that he knew that man had an association with a girl called Violet without the brooch to prompt him.” They both thought hard as they walked along the crowded street.
“And we know,” said Jacobstein suddenly, “that the outbuilding the man was watching was used by hard men, gamblers who had already threatened Andrew Dorman. Could this be a bit of gang rivalry?”
“Frankly, Jake, I don’t know. What keeps returning to my thoughts is that reprobate Kelly and his pronouncements on anniversaries. Trash like him pontificating on the rights of man. Give me five minutes alone with him and he won’t know his rights from his lefts.”
“It would be a pity to have to have a whip-round to provide a P&O ticket for Shameena to take her back to her parents in India.”
“Don’t worry, I can be very discreet when it suits me, Jake. Now, name me some anniversaries. One that half-wit might know. Keep it very simple and local.”
“The obvious ones that are celebrated or even just remembered are births, marriages and deaths.” Pollock stopped suddenly and then apologised to the people who had collided with him. “What is it, Ben?”
“Jake, Morton, Corrie and The Apostles were all in the printing trade. That’s it, Jake, printers, newspapers and newspapers print births, marriages and deaths. Kelly has discovered he has a brain, underused but there nevertheless. He’s connected the watcher with one of these – death, probably. Our watcher was among those men in The Clew Bay after the fire and that’s why Kelly hared along the street to buy violets. He’d got the wind up, maybe the watcher gave him a sign that he knew he’d been recognised by Kelly as he stood by the warehouse wall, and he would dish out the same to him if he tried to call in the police. That vase of violets was to tell the killer he was in sympathy with him and that he’d say nothing. Kelly hates the police and if he could settle it this way, so much the better. The two had now come to a non-verbal agreement.”
“So, Kelly knows exactly who Violet is and that she’s the reason the watcher’s committed the murders?” Pollock nodded.
“Inspector Pollock!” The yell was loud and urgent, and Inspector McLachlan hurried across the street to join them.
“Just heard about Kelly’s attempt to kill your wife. He’s an absolute swine and he’ll be better put away for a long time. You have my sympathy. Hope your wife isn’t too upset?”
“I haven’t actually spoken to her yet. Too taken up with the Tara’s Halls disaster but I know she’s in the very best hands.” McLachlan nodded.
“I heard that Ned Bell was involved. None better.”
“That’s right. Shameena, my wife, will understand.”
“An ex-army wife? If I know that type, she’ll simply shrug it off.”
“Thank God I married her while I was still on active service. But, Martin, Jake and I need your help, your intimate knowledge of the East End”
“You’ve got it. Feel like I’ve been here man and boy. I’d like a nice wee cushy number in the West End for a change. A few burglaries, some pickpockets and no doubt I’d be dying of boredom and wanting back here to be among real people with real problems. How can I help?”
“We’ve reached the conclusion that births, marriages and deaths play a huge part in the Tara’s Halls affair. Actually, it’s possibly only the death factor but we’re going into all three. We have a cut-off date going back. That is to say, we’re looking at any disaster the equivalent to the fire and killings that happened last night. Doesn’t have to be a fire but something equally spectacular that involved a reasonable number of people plus one or more deaths. If we take last
night as being the death one, we can, at a pinch, assume they are all death anniversaries or, yet again, by using a bit of imagination, could just as easily be births or marriages but all three disasters counting Tara’s Halls were celebrated by a man insane with death.”
“And the cut-off date?” asked McLachlan frowning, “the beginning of it all, so to speak?”
“Well, as this is April 1892, how about April 1891 and beginning in April 1890. Ring any bells? My association with the East End is very recent and Jake’s been working with another division. Think hard, Martin, for despite the fact that this could be an annual event, the one for 1892 is now over and done with, but there’s no guarantee of that.”
“A fire that could easily have killed hundreds and two truly horrendous killings. God help us if the killer starts doing it for fun. You think he’s perhaps commemorating something here?”
“I do, most definitely,” answered Pollock, surprising himself with his vehemence.
“Now 1892 we already know, 1891, let me think.” The racket going on about McLachlan was totally blotted out.
“Anything that might even vaguely be listed as one. Look, this place is far too noisy and crowded to think straight,” said Pollock, desperate to give his opposite number the best possible chance of filtering something out of his crowded mind. They were standing within a huge rectangle of factories and tenements housing thousands of the men and women who lived and worked in them. Life was hard, money scarce and it did not take much to set off fights and squabbles and frequently something much more serious. There was an old-fashioned tea-room a dozen yards away and the three of them entered and set about trying to bring to light any relevant information.
McLachlan lost no time in getting started.
“I’ve recalled to my mind several scenarios that just might fit the bill in both 1891 and 1890. I’ve selected two from April of those years and I’ll tell you why later if you think we can run with them. My own notes on them are in my desk – your desk at present – in Camlachie police station.” Jacobstein and Pollock glanced at each other, both wondering if the solution to the whole, vile business had been filed just beneath the very spot where Pollock had been leaning that very morning.
“Fingers crossed, Martin.” The inspector nodded and smiled.
“Hope I can be of help to both of you. Here goes. The first one is a birth in 1890 but to be more exact, it was a christening celebration. In fact, I was at it myself for a short period of time but had left some thirty minutes before the balloon went up, so to speak. It was a party in the gardens after the christening of Henry Dalmuir’s son in his family’s mansion in Tollcross. It’s a huge, rambling house with acres of parkland attached to it. As a very influential man in these parts, an invitation from him and his wife is not so much a request as an order to be there. I was present as I was accompanying my superintendent who, as you know, likes to turn up at this sort of thing looking like the head of a delegation. What happened after I had done homage and gone is still a bit confused. The great and the good from the shipping world and local factories were all cavorting there, and with it being a very warm day, the fountain that was situated some way off from the mansion, was very popular, especially with the ladies.” McLachlan stopped there and Jacobstein refilled his large cup. McLachlan drank deeply then resumed his narrative. Pollock egged him on a little.
“This was where it all happened?” he asked.
“Yes.” McLachlan sighed. “The fountain, full and sparkling and filled with death. But that came later. Everyone, it seems, was making the most of the lavish hospitality. This son was Henry Dalmuir’s first-born child, a son and heir, and Dalmuir was beside himself with joy. A late marriage, neither husband nor wife on the right side of forty. Miracles do happen, for a son was granted to them by the angels if you believe in them. It appears that the guests were suddenly distracted from their frolics by smoke billowing from the upstairs windows of the mansion. Of course, everyone deserted the fountain and tables of food and drink and all rushed towards the house. It was soon discovered that it was indeed just smoke, no fire. It was also discovered that the baby’s nurse, who’d stayed by the fountain with the child, was lying in it dead, her throat cut, along with the baby boy who had been held under until life was extinct. No-one was ever charged with the two murders, in fact, no suspects were ever named.” A heavy silence, replete with horror followed this revelation until Pollock broke it.
“This whole business is too horrific to contemplate, Martin.”
“I know. If it’s the same person acting out some weird sort of revenge every April, then we’re all in a whole lot of trouble.” Jake Jacobstein shivered and then spoke.
“We’ve an idea, Inspector McLachlan, that flowers are involved in this somehow. Violets, maybe. Were any connected with the case?” he asked hopefully.
“None as far as I know, but I do recollect a posy of violets at the graveside. I noticed them because they looked like a very tender thought amongst the vast amount of adult tributes. Thought perhaps a child had chosen them.”
“An unsolved murder of a baby,” said Pollock quietly. “So, now we have a birth and a death with death present in both cases. That leaves us with a marriage to discover.”
“I think I can help you there, too, Ben. A marriage and a tragedy all rolled into one in April, 1891. It was the theatre, the music hall, I should say, wedding of the year. Mr Hervey Crouchland to Miss Isabel Pennell. Crouchland was the owner of the Lantern Music Hall in Darcey Street here in Glasgow and Miss Pennell, the toast of London and New York, had just returned from a very successful tour of Australia’s largest cities. Naturally, in true show-business style, the wedding reception was being held on the stage of Crouchland’s newly-built theatre here in Glasgow. Crouchland was the owner of a string of music halls in Britain, four in England and two in Scotland. Great excitement, no expense spared. The actual marriage had taken place some hours before the whole thing fell apart. To cut a long story short, within half an hour of the toasts on stage, where a great many tables were situated and were heaving with food and drink, food-poisoning laid low just about everybody and eleven people died including the newly-weds. So, there you have it, Ben. No arrests, no charges and no-one to say it was deliberate, although the caterers kicked up hell at the suggestion they might have been responsible and threatened to sue everyone in sight. The theatre was quietly sold off for as much as the heirs could get before the usual bad luck building stories started to circulate. It’s now a warehouse. Again, if I may be allowed to anticipate your question, yes, there was a posy of violets among all the showbusiness arrangements.”
“So, April 1890, 1891 and 1892 and the violets theme runs right through it,” said Pollock. “But who is the link? Who is this senseless killer and is he finished for the year or has it now become a habit, just killing for killing’s sake?” Pollock’s frustration was beginning to show, and he knew it. “I need a name, Martin.” But McLachlan was shaking his head.
“Sorry, Ben, I can’t help you there. But I think you’re wanted outside. If you want me for anything at all, I’ll be at the police office.” Hands were shaken and they all left to continue the hunt.
Mr Etherington of the Shetteston Emeralds was waiting for Pollock and Jacobstein a few yards along the street from the tea-room entrance. Suddenly McLachlan retraced his footsteps before Pollock reached Etherington.
“This might be of no use whatsoever to you, Ben, but if I were to think back to the year before your cut-off date, that is 1889, there we have the worst fatalities of them all, the Templeton Factory tragedy when twenty-nine young women and girls died in the weaving shed. A high wind blew down a wall of a new, unfinished building beside it and death swept through the place. There were too many funerals and I wasn’t at all of them, so I don’t know about the flowers. And it was in November, not April.” Inspector McLachlan hurried away.
“My God, Jake, could that have been the catalyst, someone losing a wife or a daughter or a sweetheart ev
en?” Deep in thought, they moved on to where Mr Etherington was standing.
“You want to speak to me, Mr Etherington?”
“Yes, inspector, I was wondering how your investigation was coming along? My brake club members are getting very nervous about it in case we can expect any more of the same. They all have families, you know, and other responsibilities.”
“We’re just waiting for one or two facts, sir, and we’re hopeful of getting them.” Jacobstein kept a look of incredulity from his face at Pollock’s display of confidence, but only just. “But there’s one thing you might help me with, sir, and it’s this. Do you, by any chance, happen to know anyone who was affected by the Templeton disaster in 1889? We’re hoping to obtain some additional information from these unfortunate people.”
“The word unfortunate simply doesn’t cover it, Inspector Pollock. Take Alasdair Ballantyne, for instance.”
“Your social secretary?” Etherington nodded.
“That’s right. He not only lost a daughter that day, and she was his only child and very close to him, but his wife didn’t recover from the blow and two months later, she deliberately walked right in front of a dray-cart and under the hooves of two Clydesdale horses. Dead as mutton.”
“Mr Ballantyne?” repeated Pollock. But that signified nothing. Twenty-nine women were killed that day and the very quiet man was just one of many bereaved parents, no doubt.
“Aye, fifteen, she was. Poor little Violetta! The family were originally from Lithuania but changed their name because nobody hereabouts could either say it, nor spell it. So Alasdair told me. His mother was a Miss Finlay from Inverness.” Pollock’s senses were reeling and Jacobstein was stunned altogether. The name!
“A complete tragedy, Mr Etherington,” was all Pollock was capable of saying at that moment.
“That’s why Alasdair usually wears an enamel pin depicting a violet, a reminder of little Violetta.”
“Mr Etherington, sir,” said Pollock, his brain now once more under complete control, “if you don’t mind, I would prefer that you didn’t mention this conversation to anyone and especially not to Mr Ballantyne if you should meet him.”