‘Miraculously, the pair of chimneys at either side of the grand building remained erect, like two proud soldiers, don’t you think?’
Charley turned to see the rugged face of Nevermore’s owner, Mr Greenwood. The demolition company director sported a thick woollen hat.
‘Joe,’ he said shaking her hand.
‘Detective Inspector Charley Mann, Huddersfield CID.’
Joe Greenwood took her to one side conspiratorially. ‘Look, this building is no doubt going to implode soon. With the west wing gone, the damaged walls won’t be able to take the strain much longer. From a health-and-safety point of view, it’s causing me a great deal of concern. Which is why we need to get it dropped as soon as possible,’ he said. There was a certain amount of frustration in his voice, as well as desperation, and for the first time Charley felt certain that not all was as it should be.
Charley shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I do have a great deal of sympathy for you, but there are procedures that I have to adhere to. Like it or not, it’s my job to determine whether it’s arson and that means first I must speak to the leader of the fire crew, to get their take on the situation before I do anything else.’
Joe Greenwood scowled. ‘For goodness sake, does it matter how the fire started when the place is in such disrepair? You and I know it was probably local kids that have nowt better to do than cause mischief. Come on, give me a break; the lads are on site and I can have what’s left of this eyesore dropped…’ He took a look at his watch, ‘… in precisely two hours.’
Charley raised her eyes at Mr Greenwood. ‘I seem to remember that I saw the property up for sale at Raglan’s Estate Agents in the High Street not that long ago and they didn’t call it an “eyesore”. According to them it was quite a desirable family residence!’
Out of the corner of her eye, Charley could see a firefighter walking towards them, and as he did so, he removed his gloves and helmet. ‘Definitely a smell of accelerant,’ he said, wiping his dirty face with a piece of rag.
Charley saw Joe’s shoulders drop, and a heavy sigh emerged from his lips. It was evident that the firefighter saw it too.
‘It could be from the machinery you’re using.’
‘Still, it could be suspicious?’ asked Charley.
‘I’m saying there are a couple of seats of fire which suggests to me that it’s no accident, but let’s face it, which person of any significance would bother setting fire to a house that is about to be demolished?’
‘Who indeed,’ said Charley. ‘However, just as important to me, is why? But, Mr Greenwood is right, it’s insecure and needs making safe. There’s no likelihood of securing any evidence from that water-soaked debris.’ Charley turned to face Mr Greenwood. ‘Do what you need to do.’
Chapter 2
Crownest was the title on the deeds, and the name that had been hand-carved into the naturally weathered grand Yorkshire stone pillars, which, despite having had a knock or two over the years, had remained standing as monuments of the past at the gateway to the house.
Owing to her interest in the property, mostly fuelled by her grandmother’s tales, Charley was aware that the house had been home to a number of generations of the locally renowned Alderman family, so the results of Annie’s enquiries with the estate agent surprised her somewhat.
‘The occupants of Crownest had apparently been renting the property from the owners, prior to the completion of the sale.’
As she stood at her filing cabinet, Charley acknowledged the hot drink the young detective constable had put on her desk with a ‘thank you’. The SIO paused, reminiscent of another time. ‘I recall Danny Ray, my ex, once wrote an article for The Chronicle about Crownest.’
‘You mean the ex that is looking at a minimum of twenty five years in jail, for murder?.’
Charley breathed in deeply, and with a file in her hand swiftly slammed the drawer shut. ‘Yes, that’s the one! And, the reason why I’m single and more than happy to stay that way,’ she said with a cynical smile. She walked past Annie to her desk, and sat.
Four years her junior, with significantly less service and life experience, that Annie put down to being schooled by nuns, Detective Constable Glover slid into the visitors chair opposite. Thoughtfully, she ran her tongue over her tongue stud. ‘Me too. Life’s complicated enough without men!’
Charley looked at her quizzically, ‘The thing with the new, young, fit, Chief Inspector didn’t last long.’
Annie pulled a face, ‘He might be young, fit and extremely good looking, but would you go out with a man who farts in front of your friends and then rates it by sound and smell?’
Charley giggled. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, it’s not funny.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Annie said sulkily.
Charley picked up her mug of coffee.
‘Whilst doing the research for the article Danny said that solicitors had been searching for a relative of Adam Alderman’s, to claim his estate, for donkey’s years – hence I guess why Crownest had been empty for so long. Adam, Felix’s bastard son died at a ripe old age in the 1950s. It’s news to me that anyone had been found, but maybe it happened when I was seconded to the Met for those years. According to local gossip, Catherine Alderman, the sister of Felix and Seth, was banished to Australia by Seth, who was reported to be insanely jealous of her relationship with his wife. Catherine was never heard of again. Some say Seth killed her in one of his drunken rages and she never actually left the country.’ Charley paused, her eyebrows creasing together in a frown. ‘Don’t you think it odd for the buyers Mister and Missus Bradley Dixon to be renting first? Why not wait until the sale goes through to live there?’
Annie shrugged her shoulders, and stuffed a chocolate bar in her mouth.
Charley took off her suit jacket and reached behind her to hang it on the end of the radiator. She paused. ‘Maybe something was holding up the sale, and the sellers, presumably the benefactors of Adam Alderman’s estate, didn’t want to lose their buyers?’
Annie chewed the chocolate-covered toffee bar, her eyes rolling back into her head, her expression indicating she was chewing as fast as she possibly could so she could carry on the conversation.
Charley leaned forward, put her elbows on her desk and her chin in her hands and looked at Annie, expectantly, ‘In your own time.’
Annie swallowed hard. ‘Apparently, according to Miss Finch at the estate agents, the buyers claimed to be chasing references, and it was taking forever! When the estate agent pushed the buyers for a completion date, at the seller’s insistence, it was suggested by the buyers that they rent the property in the meantime to show their commitment.’
Annie slid the estate agent’s brochure for Crownest across the desk. Charley picked it up. It was obvious to her that the cover photograph had purposely been taken from an angle that would not capture the masses of colourful graffiti on the boarded-up windows, or the crumbling ruins which had proved to be such an irresistible attraction to the unidentified youths, whom it was believed had caused the fires and the subsequent damage.
Charley’s whistle was long and low. ‘It’s no wonder the sellers were willing to do whatever it took to avoid the sale falling through if the buyers offered them anything near that asking price!’
‘My thoughts exactly! Sadly, it also appears that the sellers were extremely eager to raise as much money as possible from the sale, as a deal with a local property mogul had collapsed due to a planning application being refused, which would have seen the demolition of the building to build several houses on the plot. It was against the advice of the estate agent to allow the Dixons to move in, they say. I guess the sellers thought the deal with the Dixons would go through, eventually.’ Annie paused for a moment and took a sip of her coffee. ‘Of course, they’d have the added bonus of the rent money.’
‘But you’d have thought that alarm bells would have rung for all concerned when no references were forthcoming from the Dixons, wouldn’t you? The sellers must be very trus
ting.’
Annie nodded. ‘Or stupid! Especially as the agent told me that when she met with the Dixons at the property, when she returned to the office she discovered that her purse and mobile phone had mysteriously disappeared from her jacket pocket.’
Charley cocked her head. ‘Really? Did she report it?’
Annie shook her head. ‘She claims she didn’t put two and two together until it became obvious that the Dixons had fled.’
Charley ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Good Lord…’ she drawled. ‘What do we know about the Dixons?’
‘Intel tells us that Brittany and baby-faced Brad, as he is known, are actively being sought by the police for a string of undetected armed robberies across the country, where firearms have been discharged. They are a would-be modern-day Bonnie and Clyde.’
‘They sound delightful! Do we know this for sure?’
‘Yes, absolutely, thanks to Forensics who have provided indisputable evidence to prove that these two are indeed the culprits of these crimes.’
‘Is there anything else our intelligence can enlighten us with?’
Annie thumbed through her paperwork ready to discuss the pair’s modus operandi. ‘Brittany is the elder of the two by seven years,’ she read. ‘Her criminal record is relatively unremarkable compared to her husband’s.’ Annie held up a piece of paper between her forefinger and thumb and passed it to Charley. ‘According to this précis, we know they have carried out a string of robberies together, whilst both being in possession of firearms and discharging them during the raids, apparently to scare people.’ Annie lifted her head up from the next document she was reading. ‘Whilst they haven’t actually shot anyone, one shop owner in our area is known to have died of a heart attack six weeks after being confronted by the pair.’
‘Can we attribute the shop owner’s death to the robbery?’
Annie’s lips formed a straight line, and she shook her head. ‘Sadly, no. Not according to the report anyway.’
Briefly Charley closed her eyes. ‘Go on.’
‘They’ve both served a prison sentence since, but it doesn’t look like that has changed their outlook, or broken the strong bond between them either.’
‘How d’ya know?’
Annie took a sip of her coffee and coughed out a laugh. ‘Well, last time they appeared in court, the prosecution is said to have described them as ‘takers’ who preyed on others, simply to finance their own lifestyle.’
‘Disputed by the pair, I imagine?’
‘No, quite the contrary!’
‘Then why would they slum it renting at Crownest? It hardly looks like a comfortable residence without some serious renovation work.’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps because it’s out of the way?’
‘Maybe. What troubles me is that they have discharged their firearms. If they had no intention of using them, then why not brandish an imitation gun? Just as effective in scaring people, I would imagine.’
‘Dunno. Maybe they wanted to make sure that people knew they were serious?’
‘Well I’m sure they achieved that.’
* * *
Charley sat for a moment in silence, alone with her thoughts. It felt warm and cosy in her office, and as day turned to night, the snow started to fall steadily again. Researching Crownest on the net had stirred a passion to discover more about the house which had intrigued her since she was a child. It was all-consuming, and extremely interesting. According to the writer and local historian, an elderly lady by the name of Josie Cartwright, the house, she read, had never managed to become the loving family home it was originally intended to be by its creator, the wealthy mill owner and landowner, Jeremiah Alderman.
At six foot, Jeremiah was said to be a giant of a man in comparison to those around him, who were less able to afford the luxury of a comfortable home, and food aplenty. Charley discovered that Jeremiah had been born in 1819 in Halifax, on Beacon Hill. He was the eldest of five children, of which only he survived childhood. His mother died in childbirth. His father was a struggling tailor. Jeremiah, it was said, had a fascination for fabrics, and an attraction to wealth. The local farmer’s wife, a God-fearing woman, taught him to read and write, and he laboured on the farm to pay his way. On his father’s death, Jeremiah was determined to escape poverty. The farmer agreed to take him under his wing, and Jeremiah worked long hours, turning his hand to carding, the process of preparing wool fibre for spinning by separating all the fibres and removing impurities. Alderman made various modifications to the carding machine, thereby improving its ability to disentangle, clean and intermix fibres.
With the help of the farmer, his invention was patented. When the farmer’s wife died, the farmer decided to put Jeremiah in charge of the yarn side of the business. At work he became desperate to make a name for himself, and such was his ambition that he became increasingly competitive, which upset several businessmen, including neighbouring mill owner Sir George Pickles, who accused Alderman of stealing and implementing Pickles’s ideas.
Weekly, a pair of shire horses pulled the farmer’s cart to The Piece Hall in Halifax, where Alderman quickly became well-known for selling to the international buyers owing to his amiability. However, Jeremiah was fortunate that the animals knew their own way home without the need of their master’s ministration, as it was understood that Jeremiah couldn’t resist a jug of ale or two with his fellow yarn makers after the dealing had been done, which is when it was said further ideas were discussed for him to steal and pass off as his own.
It was reported that, when the farmer died childless, he left the farm to his young protégé. Jeremiah Alderman’s fortunes continued to rise. And when the sixteenth-century farm croft later burnt down, reputedly by an unfortunate strike of lightning, Jeremiah gave instructions for Crownest to be built.
It had long been the boast of the elder businessman, Sir George Pickles, that no one could see into his private grounds, owing to its high walls and impenetrable gated access. However, so ambitious and competitive did Jeremiah Alderman become that he decided to combat this, ensuring that in the building of Crownest above on the hillside, he could see all the toing and froing of his rival’s workers in the valley, no matter what time of day or night.
Charley sat back in her chair, rubbed her eyes, and blessed the fact that the feud between the two men had become legendary, resulting in a plethora of information being to hand. By now, her piqued curiosity was so keen that she read on.
Charley learnt that in middle age Jeremiah suffered terribly with gout, triggered it was thought by obesity and heavy drinking. Jeremiah’s long-suffering wife, Roselyn, gave him three children, but in his drunken rages, he was reported to have become increasingly violent.
In quick succession Alderman patented more machine adaptations. His greed was such that his workers laboured thirteen hours a day, as young as some were, from six in the morning to seven at night. With the workforce becoming unsettled and fearing for their jobs, Jeremiah became more suspicious of others – even his own family. Alderman’s physician was reported to have said at the time that his lifestyle was affecting his mental state. It was only money, and the local power he wielded it seemed, that had kept him out of an institution.
As time passed, Jeremiah’s health deteriorated, and he began to upset more people, leading to a series of court cases challenging Alderman’s patents as copies of others’ work, namely that of his rival, Pickles. Other yarn manufacturers jumped on the bandwagon and more lawsuits were pursued by others, who claimed that Alderman had stolen their ideas.
Eventually, despite his considerable wealth, Jeremiah Alderman could not prevent himself being sent to the gallows in 1868, for the murder of his wife Roselyn, by decapitation. It was said by the judge presiding over the murder case that Crownest had become a macabre place of torment.
Charley let out a long sigh. She was so tired. She kneaded her cheeks with her fingers. Her neck and shoulders pained her, but she felt compelled to continue tracing
the family history.
After the relatively early deaths of both their parents, the Alderman children continued to live at Crownest, the eldest son Felix who was four years the senior of sister Catherine, and nine years to Seth, proclaimed himself master of the house and owner of the prosperous mill. Like his father before him, he ruled the roost with an iron will, and he too, took to drinking heavily. Similarly, he was sentenced to death in 1872, this time by the way of the gibbet.
The office’s central heating had begun pumping out, and Charley’s eyes felt dry and increasingly heavy, but still she felt compelled to continue. She read that a well-known poacher by the name of John Ackroyd was initially arrested for the murder of Felix Alderman’s maid, Mary Shire, after giving himself up to a member of the local militia, Matthew Cragg. The intense brutal questioning and incarceration did nothing, Cragg said, to gain a confession from Ackroyd, who reportedly told him only that that he had ‘sin her off’. However, Cragg was not to be fooled into believing that Ackroyd had killed her. Ackroyd had more money in his pocket when arrested than Cragg earned in a year. Instead of charging the prisoner, Cragg decided to enlist Ackroyd as the main prosecution witness, and after he’d been given that role, Ackroyd talked. Ackroyd finally confessed that whilst checking his traps in the woods, he had seen Felix with Mary, and told of the vicious assault Felix had inflicted upon her. When Ackroyd had tried to flee the scene, ‘Master’ had given him money to ‘keep his mouth shut’.
With the militia befriending him, Ackroyd became very important, and took Cragg to the alleged site of the attack, where a hammer and an axe were found. Both had the initials F.A. embossed on them.
Condemned Page 2
