by A J Wright
‘I’ve not finished with things yet. Not… finished.’
‘No. I won’t come back. Not for a long time.’
The elderly patient raised his head from the pillow, and when he spoke next, globs of spittle slithered from the corners of his mouth.
‘I’m never going. Hear? Tell Him that. And…’
Oscar bent low, one eye on the sleeping form at the end of the room. ‘And what?’
‘Tell Him to fuck off.’
Once more he patted the cool, clammy hand. It seemed to give the old man some reassurance, for he let his head rest on the pillow and within seconds, had closed his eyes in all the semblance of a sleep that was closer to death.
Five minutes later, Oscar had traversed the extensive park that surrounded Haydock Lodge, having broken the flimsy lock of the greenhouse where he knew the gardener kept several items of clothing for the patients, including boots of various sizes, for when they made themselves useful in helping with the plants and shrubs. Dressed now as a common labourer, he flitted across the grass, watching the moon slide its way behind a bank of thick clouds, before entering the nearby wood. From there, it would be a short stretch to the railway station at Newton-le-Willows, where, if his luck held, he would be able to catch a train on the LNWR line.
To Wigan.
*
‘There’s a bloody stink round ’ere, sergeant!’
Constable Freddie Jaggery took out a rather grubby-looking handkerchief and held it against his nose, much to the amusement of the desk sergeant.
‘It’s out the back, constable. Came in last night.’
‘What did?’
The sergeant, who had by now become accustomed to the foul stench drifting in from the parade yard at the back of the police station in Rodney Street, consulted his notes before replying.
‘A cartload of filth. Namely two boxes of dabs, two boxes of gurnets and a box of conger eels. Sanitary Inspector’s been earlier. Said the bloody fish were turnin’ green. Dabs curled up double when he held ’em.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Jaggery. ‘Zach bloody Ellison.’
‘The very same.’
Jaggery shook his head and blew his nose. He had arrested the fish seller on more than one occasion, and to Jaggery’s certain knowledge, he had twenty-eight convictions to his name.
‘Go and have a look. Inspect the evidence.’
‘No thank you, Sergeant. I’ve seen me breakfast once this mornin’. Buggered if I want to see it again.’
‘You’d have thought last night’s rain would have deadened the smell.’ The desk sergeant shook his head. ‘Just shows, eh?’
‘Aye,’ returned Jaggery, unsure what it showed.
‘You seen the roster board, Constable?’
Jaggery frowned. The fact that the desk sergeant had made a point of asking if he had seen it meant that whatever was on the board would mean extra work for the constables. Or the bloody infantry, as he and his fellows often remarked under their breaths. ‘No, Sergeant.’
‘Well let me just say it’s gonna be a bloody long day,’ came the reply, coated with a bitterness that suggested the new orders didn’t just apply to the infantry.
Before Jaggery could mutter a response, he felt the slap of a hand on his shoulder, followed by a breezy, ‘Good morning, Constable.’
He turned and felt his heart lurch. Whenever Detective Sergeant Brennan spoke in such a hearty manner, it was the prelude to something singularly unpleasant. He wasn’t wrong.
‘We have a walk ahead of us,’ said Brennan. ‘And the sun is shining. I can tell you all about the notice placed on the board by the chief constable himself on our way.’
‘Where to, Sergeant?’ Jaggery gave the desk sergeant a lugubrious stare.
Brennan smiled. ‘Where better on such a cold, fresh morning as this, away from this foul stink?’
Jaggery shrugged. ‘Mesnes Park?’
‘No, Constable. Even better. The Dog.’
Jaggery tried hard to suppress the smile that was breaking out.
The Old Dog Inn, known also as a music hall, held a prominent position on the corner of Old Market Place and Cooper’s Row. The proprietor, Horace Seddon, had sent a pot boy down to the station to ask particularly for Detective Sergeant Brennan as he had summat to tell. On occasion, Seddon had been very useful in providing information that later turned out to be of interest, and so, with little to occupy him until the evening when the order from the chief constable took effect, Brennan made the short walk with at least the prospect of a frothing glass of ale in front of him, a thought gleefully shared by his constable.
But when Brennan explained exactly what the chief constable’s notice said, it darkened Jaggery’s mood considerably.
*
That morning, Ralph Batsford ate a solitary breakfast. The dining room of the Royal Hotel was a compact place, with space only for ten tables. Simeon and Violet had ordered breakfast in their room, and Gilbert had simply failed to respond when Batsford had knocked on his door. He had done this more out of politeness than any real desire to dine with the fellow: he found him at times lofty, disdainful, even envious of the closeness that had developed between the journalist and his hangman brother. Still, it had been a relief when there came not even the grunt of a dismissal from the man’s room and so he sat at the table furthest from the door and enjoyed what he had to admit was a rather delicious breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausage and kidneys. There was only one other table occupied – two men, one of them older than the other, deep in conversation and unaware of his presence – and he appreciated the companionable silence, a contrast to the rattle of carriages, the hiss of a tram and the clanging of clogged feet from the street beyond the window.
Last night, he had come to a firm decision on what he should do. All he needed now was the opportunity.
*
When they reached the narrow entrance to Cooper’s Row, Constable Jaggery had had time to absorb what he had just been told. He stopped and turned to his sergeant.
‘You mean, every single one of us?’
‘That’s what the notice said.’
‘But the wife’ll have me tea ready.’
‘So will mine.’
‘How can his bloody lordship expect us to work all day and straight on till God knows when? Who does he think we are?’
Brennan shrugged. He had to admit, the unusual notice, ordering all uniformed men and detective officers to remain on duty until otherwise commanded, was out of the ordinary. He knew the chief constable was anxious to see the talk by Simeon Crosby pass off without any interruption, but it was scheduled to end sometime around nine o’clock. Twenty minutes to see the last of the straggling audience off the premises and into the numerous pubs in town and that should effectively be an end to their duties. Yet Captain Bell had told him of the threatening letters sent to the Wigan Observer and, more importantly, reminded him of the protest that would begin in the Market Square and continue towards the Public Hall in King Street.
Captain Bell’s real worry was that if Simeon Crosby were to be attacked in some way, the adverse publicity that would inevitably follow would reflect very badly on him. The chief constable was most protective where his personal reputation was concerned. Brennan knew, for instance, that the man had only been in office for two years when, in 1892, he applied for the post of Chief Constable of Warwickshire. When he failed to be appointed, he had let it be known that the main reason was the wave upon wave of violence, of drunkenness, of criminality in general that raged throughout the borough of Wigan and that he had fought for two years to hold back like some latter-day Canute.
A gross exaggeration, Brennan felt at the time, motivated not simply through a sense of loyalty to his hometown but through a straightforward view of the facts: Wigan was no better or no worse than any of the towns in the county. Captain Bell hadn’t been appointed to the Warwickshire post for the simple reason that a better applicant was chosen.
No need to blame the town fo
r that.
Still, he’d have an eye on any future prospect, and an assault on the most famous executioner in the country, albeit retired, wouldn’t reflect well on his control of the borough’s more volatile elements.
And so, Brennan reflected with a consoling smile in Jaggery’s direction, every man must do his duty.
The door to the Old Dog was open. A young woman on her hands and knees, with a piece of matting to cushion her knees, was scrubbing furiously at the steps. She slid herself to one side as the two of them entered the pub but kept her concentration on the partially scrubbed steps, as if her previous good work might be sullied if she took her gaze away for an instant.
Once inside, Brennan was greeted by the dubious odour of stale beer and the clinging remnants of cigarette and cigar smoke. The proprietor, Horace Seddon, was busy wiping down the long, curved bar counter that swept from the public house side of the building to where the music hall took over. Brennan had brought Ellen here once, to see a Mr Arthur Anderson, who was billed as a female impersonator. Ellen had spent his entire performance criticising the outfits and the make-up that he wore, and talking over his several monologues which Brennan might well have found funny if he’d been given the chance to hear them.
‘Ah, the great detective hisself.’
Seddon leaned over the counter and shook Brennan’s hand, giving Jaggery a cursory and not very friendly nod, recalling, no doubt, an occasion only last year when the overly large constable had entered his premises while a ventriloquist was performing and brought with him Seddon’s wife. Jaggery had met her weaving from side to side in Market Place, one bloodied hand clapped to her mouth, while in the other hand she held up what looked like a jagged tooth, which she claimed had been forcibly dislodged by her swinin’ pig of an ’usband.
The ventriloquist, unable to compete with the way Mrs Seddon threw her voice at all and sundry, had stormed offstage, dragging his dummy along the floor behind him to a chorus of boos and shouts of watch the poor sod’s head! Eventually, the victim had calmed down sufficiently, aided by a large glass of gin and a promise of new shoes and a new tooth, and she withdrew her claim of assault, leaving Jaggery with nothing but a pint of frothing beer to show for carrying out his duty.
‘Now, Horace,’ said Brennan. ‘What’s this all about then?’
The proprietor gave the bar counter a final flourish with his cloth and nodded to a small table beneath the alley window. ‘Get yourselves settled,’ he said, ‘an’ I’ll bring you a livener.’
Jaggery held his breath. The tantalising prospect of a morning pint depended on what sort of mood Sergeant Brennan was in – easy-going or temperance – so he tried to maintain a blank expression until he heard the answer.
‘Might as well,’ said Brennan as the two of them sat down. ‘It’s going to be a long day for Constable Jaggery and myself.’
Once the tankards were brought over and Seddon had joined them at the table, Brennan took a long sip of the establishment’s justifiably celebrated ale and waited for his host to explain why he had sent for him.
‘You know it’s not like me to complain, Sergeant,’ Seddon began. ‘Live an’ let bloody live’s what I say. But there’re some things you can’t turn a blind eye to.’
‘Such as?’
‘Now I’ve got all the time in the world for Royal Murray. What he’s done to the Alex is nowt short o’ stupendous. Though why he couldn’t keep the name ’stead o’ changin’ it is beyond me.’
Brennan suppressed a smile. It was common knowledge that there was no love lost between Seddon and Royal Murray, the owner of the Empire Palace, formerly known as the Alexandra. Both establishments competed for business, a fact made more urgent by their close proximity to each other: the Empire and the Dog shared the narrow alley, known rather grandly as Cooper’s Row, and those queuing to enter both places were often amused by the ribald and derogatory comments each owner hurled at the other, a form of free entertainment that often surpassed what went on inside.
‘Anyroad, last night, after chuckin’ out time – allus before twelve, you know me, Sergeant Brennan – after chuckin’ out time, I were just lockin’ up when I heard a noise from out yonder.’
He nodded behind the two policemen, in the direction of the alleyway.
‘What sort of noise?’
Seddon leaned forward in an attitude of confidentiality. ‘I heard their side door open. Still a helluva lot of noise comin’ from that place, even at that time. That’s against the law, that is.’
Brennan sighed. ‘You’ve brought me here to report a breach of Royal Murray’s licence?’
He knew full well that the town had more than its share of music halls. It had long been a bone of contention with Captain Bell, who objected to any new applications to the Borough Licensing Sessions, his view being that with twenty-six establishments already being licensed for music there was, as he put it at the latest hearing, absolutely no need to place this extra straw on the poor camel’s back. As a consequence of such a proliferation, the rivalry that existed between the respective licence-holders was excitable, to say the least.
But Seddon shook his head and laughed. ‘God no! No landlord would do that to another. It’s unchristian is that.’ He paused to allow his religious rectitude to sink in. ‘No, it’s what I heard after the door slammed shut again.’
‘Go on.’
‘Two of ’em. Talkin’.’
‘Who?’
Seddon shrugged. ‘Two blokes. One of ’em says, What’s in it for me? T’other says, Ten pounds.’
Now, as Jaggery gave an appreciative whistle, Brennan’s curiosity was aroused. ‘What exactly were they talking about?’
‘I’m not sure an’ that’s the truth. But I did hear that first chap say, Best spend thi money on summat else. I like breathin’, me.’
Brennan thought for a while. Constable Jaggery took another drink, frowning at what he’d just heard.
‘Did you see them?’
Seddon pursed his lips. ‘It were dark. An’ there’s sod all lightin’ once I puts my light out. I were tryin’ though. I peeped through that door yonder.’ He indicated the frosted glass of the side entrance door and the trim of clear glass that ran around it. ‘But like I say, it were dark.’
Brennan rested his chin on one hand. What could possibly be worth ten pounds?
‘They stood there sayin’ nowt for a while then they started whisperin’ low-like so I couldn’t hear what they were sayin’. Then they seemed to agree on summat ’cos some money exchanged hands an’ the two of ’em shook hands an’ both left.’ He paused before adding, ‘There were one thing I did catch sight of though. I only caught a glimpse, mind, so I wouldn’t swear to it.’
‘Well?’
‘One of ’em – the one offerin’ the money – turned for a second so I could see him side on, like. I reckon the moonlight caught him or summat. Anyroad, it looked to me he had summat wrong with his face.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, like he had a scar runnin’ down it.’
7.
Once they had left the Old Dog, Brennan paused at the end of Cooper’s Row and placed a hand on Jaggery’s arm. ‘Now you can speak,’ he said.
He had noticed the way his constable’s head lifted mid-slurp at the mention of the scar, followed by a slow wiping of the mouth and, as was common whenever he wished to convey something of a secretive nature, a heavy cough.
‘I reckon I know who that bloke is. The one with the scar.’
‘Well?’
‘That hangman I escorted from the station. He had a brother.’
‘A lot of people do.’
‘Aye, but how many have a brother wi’ a scar, eh?’ Jaggery’s voice contained a triumphant note, as if he’d just laid down three aces.
Brennan, who hadn’t really taken notice of the hangman’s brother at the station, frowned. What would Simeon Crosby’s brother be doing outside the Empire Palace after midnight with someone and offering
him ten pounds? What did the fellow have to do to earn such a handsome sum?
They turned right as Cooper’s Row met Market Place.
‘The Crosbys are staying at the Royal, is that so, Constable?’
Jaggery nodded. The Royal Hotel was a matter of yards away, at the top of Standishgate. He smiled to himself. Perhaps they might be offered a butty. He’d heard they do a bloody good ham butty at the Royal. Bound to have a plate of mustard to hand, an’ all.
*
To anyone who bothered to give him a second glance, Oscar Pardew gave every appearance of someone down on his luck. The collarless shirt had seen better days, its faded white stained by smears of varying shades of green. The jacket he wore was snagged at the sleeves – a result of numerous encounters with thorns and bushes of varying prickliness – and where the buttons had once been, now thin strands of cotton hung limply down. His trousers seemed at least a size too big, and the waistband was secured with what looked like twine. Yet he passed from the station unnoticed, for his outward condition, at any rate, was nothing remarkable – there were others similarly attired scattered throughout the town, unfortunates, who for some reason or other had been unable or unwilling to secure any sort of meaningful employment and who were tolerated rather than accepted by those who passed them by.
Oscar had never been to the town before. He hadn’t walked a hundred yards before a cold clamminess began to make him shiver. It wasn’t the unfamiliar accent, the strange words, or even the hard features of many of those he walked past. It was rather the noise of it all – trams rattling past, horses clopping and neighing, pulling wagons whose wheels creaked and groaned as they crossed the tramlines and the cobbled surface of the street. Sometimes people stared, and he imagined them sneering at him.
That fellow’s a certified lunatic. No cause or no right to be here.
For a while, he sought refuge in the doorway of a shop and closed his eyes, fearing that the noise would soon overwhelm him and cause his skull to crack.
‘Hey!’
Oscar opened his eyes to see a man wearing a dark suit and straw hat standing before him, arms resting on his hips and scrutinising him with more than a passing interest.
