by A J Wright
Gray shook his head. ‘Indeed not. When the boy came back and said there was no answer, that was that.’
‘The woman left?’
Gray gave a sharp cough. ‘Only after demanding to go up to the room and try for herself. I refused, of course. She took umbrage at that, called me officious, would you believe? Told me she had an appointment with Mrs Crosby, and perhaps she’d simply fallen asleep. I insisted she leave at that point. And she did. With most unfeminine grace, I might add.’
‘The boy heard nothing from the room? Any sounds at all?’
‘He would have mentioned something like that, wouldn’t he?’
Brennan agreed, making a mental note to speak with the boy later. And, of course, he needed to find this Miss Woodruff. He wondered what business she had with Mrs Crosby, especially when no one expected the poor woman to be in her room in the first place. Until tonight, she had been fully expected to travel to the Public Hall with her husband to listen to his speech. Mr Crosby had told him his wife had a headache. Yet this Woodruff woman told Gray she had an appointment to see her. Was the woman lying? Or did she really have an appointment? In which case the headache could well have been a fabrication. And that would mean that Violet Crosby had deliberately misled her husband and lied about her headache.
A lot of supposing there, Mickey lad.
He thanked the receptionist and asked him to send the bellboy in.
The boy, whose name was George, came in sheepishly and stood by the door, giving Brennan the impression that if he were to raise his voice just a fraction, the boy would be off like a frightened hare. His eyes were watery, not so much indicating the imminence of tears but more a sign of his youth. He seemed to be barely old enough to have left school, despite the fact that the leaving age had recently been raised to twelve. His dark blue uniform, trimmed with yellow piping, looked at least one size too big for him.
‘How old are you, George?’
‘Thirteen and a bit, sir,’ came the high-pitched response.
‘How long have you worked here at the Royal?’
‘When I turned thirteen, sir.’
‘So you’ve been here a bit then?’
Brennan had meant it as a joke to settle the boy’s nerves, but from the expression on his face, he realised it had sounded more like an insult.
‘It were me dad got me the position.’ He pronounced the word with a hint of pride. ‘Said as I weren’t to go anywhere near the pit.’
Brennan nodded, understanding the father’s concerns. It seemed the entire population of Wigan was split down the middle: parents – fathers mainly – who insisted their sons would follow literally in their footsteps and gain employment down the mines, and others who were adamantly opposed to the idea, insisting that no son of theirs would ever set foot down yonder. Both Brennan and his wife were firmly in the latter camp where their son Barry was concerned.
He went on quickly. ‘Tell me about when you went up to Mrs Crosby’s room. After the woman asked to speak with her.’
The boy shrugged. ‘I did as I were told.’
‘You knocked on the door?’
‘I did.’
‘And did Mrs Crosby answer?’
‘No, sir. I heard nowt. I mean, nothing.’
‘Did you try opening the door?’
George looked shocked. ‘I’d get sacked if I did that. They don’t answer, you walk away. Them’s the rules.’
‘Was there anyone up there on the second floor?’
George frowned in concentration then said, ‘Didn’t see nobody, sir.’
‘You came straight back down?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you saw no one on the way down?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Yes? You saw someone?’
‘Well, didn’t ’zackly see him.’
‘What then?’
‘More like bumped into him. On the stairs.’
‘A man? Who was he?’
Again the concentrated frown. ‘Like I said, I didn’t ’zackly see him. Just ran into him. Kept me head down an’ mumbled how sorry I were then kept on runnin’ downstairs. I were in a bit of a hurry, like.’
‘You say you bumped into this man on the stairs. Was he going up or on his way down?’
‘Goin’ down, I think.’
‘Did you see him on your way up the stairs to Mrs Crosby’s room?’
The boy thought for a minute then said, ‘No, sir.’
‘Mrs Crosby was in Room Eight,’ said Brennan. ‘Is there anywhere someone could hide? I mean between the top of the stairs on the second floor and Room Eight?’
When he spoke next, George’s voice had dropped lower. ‘Room Eight’s round the corner on its own. Then there’s Rooms Five, Six and Seven. And there’s a store cupboard next to Room Five, near the top of the stairs!’ His voice was now raised excitedly. ‘I reckon he were a guest.’
Brennan said, ‘A guest here in the hotel?’
George nodded. ‘I reckon so.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘How would he know me name if he weren’t stayin’ here, eh?’ There was a small look of triumph on his face, as if he’d given a demonstration of his deductive powers. ‘He said, Now, now, what’s the panic, George?’
‘But you don’t know who he was?’
‘They all know my name, sir,’ he said with a touch of pride. ‘But as to his name…’
Could be important, thought Brennan, but then again it might be nothing at all. Hotels have guests and guests use the stairs. According to Eastoe, there were only two other guests staying at the hotel. Wouldn’t be too difficult to discover the man’s name.
‘You don’t know the woman who made the request? Miss Woodruff?’
‘Never seed her before, sir.’
‘What did she say when you got back?’
‘Seemed annoyed, as though it were my fault! Told me to go back an’ knock ’arder. Mr Gray told me that wouldn’t be necessary an’ I were to run along an’ get on wi’ me duties like.’
Brennan thanked the boy, who left the room with far greater confidence than he’d shown on entering. He’d given the detective some information, his attitude said. He could imagine the boy getting home and proclaiming to his proud parents how he’d actually been helping the police with their enquiries.
*
The Queen’s Hotel in Lower Wallgate had none of the select features of the Royal. It boasted neither manager nor bellboy, for in truth it was little more than a public house with rooms to let. Its situation, past the railway station on the road leading out of Wigan town centre and heading out towards Pemberton, had proved an ideal spot for Thomas Evelyne to stay. He could, of course, afford a much grander place than the Queen’s, but once he discovered where Simeon Crosby was staying for his temporary sojourn in Wigan, Evelyne had decided the further away from that man the better. He sat now, in the vault of the Queen’s, nursing a pint and contemplating the events of the night.
The march hadn’t stopped Crosby’s speech, but then that wasn’t really the object of it anyway. No. He’d been careful to explain to Miss Woodruff only that afternoon that his purpose was to expose the man and the vile things he had done, and although the march had come to a violent end, as far as Evelyne was concerned, his purpose had been achieved.
At some cost, though. He reached up and touched the throbbing and growing lump on the top of his head. Bloody police!
Still, he took a long sip of his ale and wondered, for the umpteenth time, how it was that he himself had escaped with mere bruises when some of the others had been beaten senseless by the police. He could still feel the rush of wind when the largest of the constables had taken a swing at his head with his truncheon. And later, the kindly priest who’d ministered to him and his throbbing head!
But the one who’d stormed to the front of the march, yelling out the hangman’s name! The same dishevelled character he’d seen talking with such animation with Miss Woodruff as they left the M
arket Square.
Evelyne shook his head at the naivety, or to be more blunt, the sheer unadulterated stupidity of the man, thinking he could get close to Crosby. Strange, though, how the man simply disappeared after the charge. Once he’d reached the steps of the Public Hall, all hell had broken loose and punches were being traded as if Armageddon were close at hand.
But the man had served a purpose all right. Now the papers would be filled, not with reports of Crosby’s speech but with all that occurred as a consequence of his presence in the town. And that could only be a good thing for his cause.
At that point, as he drained his glass and stood to head for the bar, he happened to glance outside. Across the street, passing a row of shops, he spotted the very man he’d just been thinking of. He was hurrying along, staring down at his hands, shaking his head and casting furtive glances behind him, looking for all the world like a man worried that he might have someone chasing him. He was the actual instigator of the melee that had followed, and one would have expected him to be spending the night nursing both grievances and bruises, yet here he was at liberty.
Evelyne thought about stepping outside and calling out to the poor fellow, to buy him a drink for rendering the evening such a success, but then he saw him slip into a narrow alleyway that ran between the shops.
‘Like a rat,’ he thought. ‘Like a cornered rat.’
He had better things to do than go after him, so he caught the landlord’s attention and ordered another pint. It was an occasion to celebrate, after all.
*
The man Thomas Evelyne had just been watching – Oscar Pardew – was in no mood for celebrating. Not at all. He couldn’t take his eyes from his hands, which were streaked with blood. He stifled a sob and wiped his hands against his trousers. Then he felt inside his pocket and pulled out a bloodstained photograph, the small glass frame now gone. There was a smear of red on his father’s chest, and if he hadn’t been so angry with what had happened, he would find that almost funny. The stain was where Dead Father had been stabbed.
‘I’m sorry, Father,’ he said softly. ‘But I’ll clean you up.’
He’d tried so hard to get to the hangman and carry out his promise to Dead Father, but those people, especially those policemen, had prevented him. Even threatened to put him in a police cell, and he’d had enough of being locked up, thank you very much, even though the family told him Haydock Lodge was more of a hospital than anything else, and where better to heal the wounds that couldn’t be seen?
He was puzzled, however. He’d thought (or had he been told? He wasn’t quite sure about that now, not when the clouds started to swirl around inside his head and make the events of the day vague, unclear), but he’d thought if he were to run through the crowd and shout out Mr Crosby’s name, then the people would make a gap, like the parting of the Red Sea, so he could reach the hangman, and even the police would stand to one side once they saw how eager he was. It had been so clear, that vision. And it was so annoying when visions didn’t come true.
The big policeman had called him some terrible names and – what had the brute shouted?
I’ll swing for you, you little bastard! Come here!
That was it, Oscar recalled with pride: that’s exactly what the lumbering slow-footed moron had yelled at him. And it had been funny at the time, what with him within touching distance of the country’s most famous hangman:
I’ll swing for you!
He’d struck Oscar on the chest. That’s when he’d heard and felt the glass smash. He had screamed loudly, pulled free of the fat policeman’s clutches and run back the way he’d come, turning once to see the policeman chasing him with all the elegance of an overfed elephant.
And then…
He reached out and pressed his hands against the cold, rough surface of a wall. Tiny pieces of grit stuck to his bloodstained palms.
Where was he?
It was dark and cold, and all around him were high walls and an enclosed path that led to a road where he could just make out the lights from a public house.
He shook his head. Perhaps the clouds would break up, give him a clearer glimpse of where he’d been and what he’d done.
*
Brennan made his way up to the room occupied by Ralph Batsford. He nodded at the young constable now standing on duty outside Batsford’s room, and he pointed to the door along the corridor, to Crosby’s room. The body had been removed and was even now on its way to the mortuary, where it would await the tender solicitations of the House Surgeon at Wigan Infirmary, Dr Monroe, who would be examining the poor woman’s remains.
‘Make sure no one goes in, Constable,’ he ordered before opening the door to Batsford’s room.
There he found Simeon Crosby slumped in a chair by the window. He was leaning forward, his hands clasped together and his head bowed, but his was no prayerful attitude: he stared at the threadbare carpet, his eyes red and raw from the tears that still brimmed on the surface. Batsford was standing beside him, his hand placed gently on the hangman’s shoulder. It was a silent tableau of grief, Brennan felt, but he had things to do, and the mood of mournful stillness would, of necessity, be broken.
Batsford cleared his throat. ‘Mr Eastoe has arranged for another room to be made ready. Simeon can hardly spend the night—’
Brennan held up a hand to show he understood. ‘Mr Crosby,’ he began in his most respectful tone, ‘I’m afraid there are some questions…’
That was as far as he got. From the corridor beyond the closed door came the sound of raised voices, angry voices and what sounded like someone being slammed hard against the corridor wall.
12.
When Brennan stepped into the corridor, he saw the young constable pinned against the wall by a powerful-looking individual whom he recognised at once by the scar on his right cheek.
Gilbert Crosby, who had been missing all day.
‘Let him go!’ Brennan ordered.
‘Is it a crime to knock on a brother’s door?’ Gilbert’s voice was hard, unyielding.
‘No,’ Brennan replied reasonably. ‘But it is a crime to assault a policeman. And if you don’t let him go this second, I’ll break your arm.’
There was something in the sergeant’s tone – controlled anger, resolve and more than a hint of relish at the prospect, that caused Gilbert to loosen his grip on the constable’s throat.
The young policeman straightened his uniform and looked at his sergeant with an expression that was a blend of apology and shame. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant, only he took no notice when I told him…’
‘That’s all right, lad,’ said Brennan reassuringly. ‘You did well.’
‘What’s all this? Where’s my brother? Where’s Violet?’
Brennan pushed open the door to Batsford’s room. ‘You’d best go in. Your brother’s had some bad news.’
A few minutes later, after he’d found out what happened to his sister-in-law, Gilbert Crosby stood beside his brother and patted his shoulder gingerly in what seemed to Brennan to be a less than effusive show of shared grief. Were these two brothers incapable of showing emotion to each other?
‘I was about to ask your brother some questions, Mr Crosby, but seeing that you’ve suddenly reappeared and seeing that you didn’t occupy your room here last night, I’d like to know where you’ve been.’
Gilbert Crosby cast a quick glance in Batsford’s direction, but the journalist had removed himself to stand by the window and was gazing out at the gas-lit scene below.
‘Out and about, Sergeant.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘Here and there.’
Brennan frowned then nodded. ‘Very well. Once I’ve finished speaking with your brother, we can continue this fruitful little chat in more suitable surroundings. The station’s only a short walk away.’
Gilbert’s face flushed. ‘It’s rather private,’ he said with a nod in Batsford’s direction. He evidently wished to keep his wanderings away from journalistic interes
t.
‘Very well. We’ll speak in a few minutes. For now, I’d like you to remain where you are and say nothing. Is that clear?’
Gilbert gave a sharp nod. He appeared to dislike being given orders.
Brennan approached Simeon Crosby, who raised his head in acknowledgement of the imminent questioning. ‘Mr Crosby, this is a very difficult question, but can you think of anyone who might have wished harm to your wife?’
Crosby shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was low, flat, much of his self-confidence now absent. ‘Violet was a good woman, Sergeant. A good woman.’
‘But did anyone hold a grudge against her?’
‘No one. Why should they? She had the sweetest nature…’ He gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘All she did was support me. And read.’ He sobbed. ‘If it hadn’t been for that damned novel she was reading, she’d have suffered no headache, would have been with me…’ His voice broke, the futility of hindsight seeming to stifle his words.
Brennan recalled the novel he had seen on her bedside table.
Crosby took a deep breath and regained his composure. He slowly shook his head. ‘You know, I think she met far more people in her novels than ever she did in the real world. Novels were her real world.’ He cast a quick glance at Batsford, who remained steadfastly looking through the window, his dim reflection on the glass showing a fixed stare, his eyes seemingly unfocused and unmoving.
‘You say she had complained of a headache tonight. That she felt too unwell to accompany you.’
‘Yes.’ Crosby’s tone was curious, cautious now.
‘Was that unusual?’
Crosby looked up at him. ‘What do you mean? The headache or the fact she didn’t come with me?’
Brennan shrugged. ‘Both.’
In a sudden movement that surprised the detective, Crosby stood up and faced him squarely.
‘My wife frequently had headaches, Sergeant. As I told you, she read voraciously. It tends to bring on eye strain and headaches. Tonight was to be the first time she accompanied me to the talk. Batsford here will agree with me that she often suffered from such headaches.’ He turned towards the journalist, whose sudden stiffening of pose indicated an awareness of what had just been said.
