Hanging Murder

by A J Wright

  Evelyne, sensing that, for some reason, he shared a bond of common purpose with the new arrival, stood up and grabbed him by the arm, at the same time kicking the offending door shut.

  ‘Is this mon wi’ thee, pal?’ the miner/anarchist growled.

  ‘No,’ Evelyne replied. ‘I think the fellow’s got something in his eye.’

  ‘Aye,’ came the reply. ‘My fist if he opens that bloody door again.’

  Satisfied with the requisite guffaw from his cronies, the man returned to the bar and nodded back in Evelyne’s direction, muttering something that ended with the phrase, ‘Not from round ’ere, anyroad.’

  Oscar Pardew allowed himself to be led to the table by the window and sat down. The blinking became less pronounced, and finally, he focused his eyes on his saviour, offering an outstretched hand in gratitude. ‘I’m Oscar,’ he said.

  Evelyne took his hand and was surprised by the strength of the handshake.

  ‘Thomas Evelyne.’

  Then Evelyne looked down at his hand – it felt wet, gritty. His eyes opened wide when he saw the blood.

  ‘What the hellfire…?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Oscar said. ‘I cut myself on Dead Father. In the fighting.’

  Evelyne stared at him for a while then took out a handkerchief and wiped his hand. It was already clear that the man was unhinged.

  For an uncomfortably long time, Oscar stared back at him. Finally, he blinked a few times and said, ‘I saw you earlier.’

  Evelyne nodded. ‘And I saw you. You caused quite a stir outside the Public Hall.’

  Oscar frowned. ‘The policeman tried to hit me.’ Then he shook his head and said, ‘But no. Not then. I didn’t see you then. Not when the policeman tried to hit me. I saw you earlier.’

  ‘Ah, you mean the meeting then? In the Market Square?’

  Oscar swallowed hard and nodded. ‘Yes. I was talking to a woman. She was asking me all kinds of questions. I tried to show her my father but she didn’t want to see him. And my sister, of course.’

  Evelyne shifted in his seat. Perhaps I should have let the man thump him, he thought.

  ‘You don’t like Mr Crosby, do you?’

  ‘No,’ said Evelyne. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘But he hangs people, doesn’t he?’ Oscar began to snigger, as if suddenly he’d thought of something quite amusing.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘I was thinking of what the Thuggees did.’

  ‘Who?’

  Oscar placed a hand on Evelyne’s shoulder and leaned towards him, whispering in his ear, ‘They used to annoy the hangman, you see? In India. They’d stand on the scaffold and launch themselves into the noose and jump off the scaffold, and there was nothing the hangman could do to stop them. He wanted it to be slow and dignified with all sorts of things read out. But those Thuggees… they insulted the law by doing what they did. I can’t see Mr Crosby letting them do that! He’d make them wait. Suffer. My sister told me that’s what Mr Crosby did with…’

  Evelyne pulled away as his voice grew louder. The man’s breath was hot on his ear and foul-smelling. He could see others in the bar watching the two of them.

  ‘Interesting,’ Evelyne said with a forced smile. ‘Look, can I get you a drink?’

  Oscar looked down at the empty glass on the table. ‘Why?’

  Evelyne shrugged. ‘I’d like you to have a pint on me. Is that so strange? After what we’ve both been through tonight. A shared adventure and a positive outcome. You just wait here, Oscar.’

  He went over to the bar, studiously avoiding the men at the far end who were giving him curious and not altogether friendly glances. He’d give the man his drink then plead tiredness and leave him to it. Once he’d been served, he carried the frothing pint back to the window table and sat down. He was surprised when his new-found companion picked up the pint and held it up to the light.

  Immediately, one of the men at the bar yelled out, ‘Heyup, Billy. What d’you reckon?’

  The man behind the bar, evidently the one being addressed, looked across to glare at Oscar, who was still holding the glass to the light.

  ‘Summat up wi’ that pint, pal?’ the man shouted.

  All of a sudden the room fell silent as all eyes turned on the newcomer.

  Oscar turned his gaze upon the barman and said, ‘Mr Evelyne here asked me to have a pint on him.’

  The barman shrugged. ‘Well sup it then an’ stop bein’ a smart-arse.’

  Whereupon Oscar leaned forward, held out his hand and poured the entire contents of the pint glass over Evelyne’s head.

  Evelyne gasped for air and was frantically wiping the beer from his eyes, unable to witness the barman rush from the bar and raise Oscar by the neck while one of his customers kindly held the door open as Oscar was hurled back into the cold night.

  *

  Brennan always felt that the chief constable’s face would be put to better use as a portrait hanging in the window of a funeral undertaker, so cadaverous were his features. Now more than ever, as they stood face to face in the room where Mrs Violet Crosby had recently met her painful end, Captain Bell had the appearance more of a funeral mute than the chief constable of Wigan. His eyes were dark with hooded eyelids, and his cheekbones protruded as if the skeleton beneath the skin were trying to force its way through. But it was the way he held his lips tightly closed, with the pressure removing all colour from them, that made Brennan wonder what the man’s wife must think every morning when she wakes beside him: is he asleep – or dead?

  Brennan’s explanation of the circumstances of finding the woman’s body was met with a stern silence that only now seemed about to be broken as his superior took a deep breath.

  ‘You had the full complement of the constabulary at your disposal, Sergeant.’

  ‘I did indeed, sir.’

  ‘You knew that Mr Crosby was persona non grata in the eyes of some in this town?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And yet the poor chap returns to his beloved wife to find her strangled in her own hotel room.’

  ‘That is about the size of it, sir, yes.’

  The chief constable swallowed hard, unsure if Brennan were being obedient or insubordinate. ‘It never entered into your head that the man’s wife needed protecting?’

  For a moment, Brennan felt like asking the same question back, but instead, he decided to limit his responses to the plain truth. ‘I didn’t know she was staying behind, sir.’

  ‘No one saw fit to tell you?’

  ‘The men had instructions to bring Mr Crosby and his wife to the Public Hall by the route you chose, sir. And when Mr Crosby told them his wife was feeling unwell, they carried on with their instructions. Mr Batsford, the journalist, made his way to King Street on foot, again as you instructed.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Of course not, sir. One of the men went with him.’

  ‘I see. And you have spoken with the hotel staff?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Some of them can have tendencies, you realise.’

  ‘Tendencies?’

  ‘Light-fingered, some of them. If I were conducting the investigation, I should take a particular interest in that aspect of the case. A light-fingered bellboy, for instance, creeping into a darkened room which he thinks is unoccupied…’

  He let the scenario drift away, as if in some way it would find a home in his sergeant’s brain.

  But Brennan was thinking along other lines.

  Let me do the police work.

  His superior’s background was military. He doubted if the man had ever taken part in any sort of criminal investigation, certainly nothing as serious as a murder inquiry.

  Captain Bell went silent for a while then said, ‘Well I’m sure you know what you’re doing. But this is a very bad business, Sergeant. The country’s foremost executioner comes to deliver a talk on his experiences, and his wife is brutally murdered. Doesn’t look good now, does it?’

  ‘No, sir
.’

  To Brennan, it was clear that the man saw tonight as a slur on his reputation. He’d already failed to gain one appointment beyond the north of England. He might well be envisioning another set of interviews in another southern county and facing the inevitable observation that he was the man in charge when Mrs Simeon Crosby came to such a dreadful end.

  And you expect this board to consider you a fit person to fulfil the onerous duties of our chief constable? Really!

  ‘I will expect regular reports on the matter, Sergeant. Is that clear? Regular and detailed reports that will unambiguously record the progress you are making. Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course, sir. Regular and detailed. As ever.’

  He couldn’t help throwing that last phrase in.

  Captain Bell gave a sharp cough, nodded and left the room.

  It’s been a strange night, Brennan thought. First of all, Mrs Crosby declines to accompany her husband to the Public Hall because she has a headache. When Simeon Crosby left her in their hotel room she was in bed, presumably her nightdress, and settling down with a novel. Yet when her body was found, the woman was fully clothed.

  Had she left the room? Gone down to reception, ordered something to eat or drink?

  No one had mentioned such a thing, but he would be sure to ask.

  And then the circuitous route Crosby had been driven to the Public Hall – a route devised by his lordship himself – had failed to avoid a violent confrontation with the protesters, who had appeared to be orderly, if a little loud, until some fool had charged down the middle of the crowd and shrieked out Crosby’s name. That had been the spark to inflame the marchers and all hell had broken out.

  Afterwards, once a few of them had been dragged down to the station, Crosby had given his talk and Brennan had returned with him to the Royal.

  Where earlier, a woman had arrived at the hotel claiming she had an appointment to see Mrs Crosby. But there was no answer when the boy went to her room.

  Who was this woman? And what was the nature of her appointment?

  And then, of course, someone had hurled a brick through the hotel bar window.

  Who? A local rough? Someone still smouldering from the foiled attempt to silence the hangman?

  Ralph Batsford had expressed concern about the man who led the protesters tonight – Evelyne. According to the journalist, Evelyne had been scathing in his denunciation of Simeon Crosby. Had Evelyne taken his dislike of Crosby and everything he stood for several steps further? But holding views against capital punishment was hardly the spur to murder – going so far as to kill the man’s wife would be hypocritical, to say the least.

  And where had Gilbert Crosby been last night and most of the day? Was he enjoying the dubious delights of one of Wigan’s ladies all that time, as he claimed? Or had he been somewhere else?

  Brennan shook his head to disperse the thoughts buzzing in his head. He went over to the window, unlocked it and opened it wide to let the cold air swirl into the room. He wondered what Ellen and Barry were doing at this moment. Barry would be asleep, of course. He looked at his watch and saw that it was almost eleven o’clock. But Ellen. Was she lying awake, waiting for the front door to swing open? He smiled. She was used to him coming home late. She’d be asleep, too. Bless her. Bless them both.

  He was about to close the window when he glanced down to the street below. He could hear the noise from the downstairs bar as the barman was in the process of urging them all to sup up. But across the street, he caught sight of a figure, half hidden in the shadows of a shop doorway. There was something about its actions – furtive, almost – that aroused his curiosity. He gently closed the window and stepped out into the corridor, reaching the stairs and taking them two at a time.

  14.

  Maria Woodruff stood in the doorway of the shop facing the Royal Hotel and watched the man walk quickly down the steps of the hotel and cross the road. He seemed to be heading to her right, back towards the centre of the town when suddenly, he veered to his right and made rapid progress to where she was standing.

  ‘Can you tell me what you are doing, miss?’ he asked, pulling his coat collar close against the bitter cold.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  She gave him a stare of defiance. It was highly probable that this man was a police detective, she told herself. He had left the hotel where a murder had been committed, and his manner suggested someone who was used to asking questions and expecting answers. Besides, who else would ask such a thing on a foul night like this? It wasn’t the usual conversational gambit spoken by a roué.

  She smiled. ‘I’m trying to keep warm.’ Nervously she toyed with the small bag she was holding.

  ‘And your name is?’

  She appeared to give the question some thought before replying. ‘I’m Maria Woodruff. I’m a journalist.’

  ‘My name’s Brennan. I’m a policeman.’ He cast a quick glance back towards the hotel, where he spotted Constable Jaggery lumbering up the steps and looking none too pleased with life. ‘Perhaps you’d like to continue our conversation over there? It’s drier and warmer.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware we were having a conversation. Is it a crime to take shelter from the cold in Wigan?’

  ‘I’d be more than happy to get my colleague over there to help escort you across. He’s not much in the way of courtesy, mind.’

  Realising how embarrassing such a course of action would be, she gave a shrug and walked past him, crossing the road unescorted, as it were. Within a few minutes, she was sitting facing him in a small office.

  ‘Now, Miss Woodruff. I gather you were here earlier tonight.’

  It was a statement, she realised, not a question.

  ‘Mr Gray at the reception desk told me a Miss Woodruff had been here asking to see Mrs Crosby.’

  She raised her chin and her eyes sparkled.

  She’s a pretty young thing, reflected Brennan. And spirited.

  ‘Yes, that’s true. I had an appointment to see her.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Before I answer that particular question, may I ask if the rumour is true? That Mrs Crosby has been found murdered?’

  ‘Yes. It’s true.’

  The news, confirmed, seemed to disturb her. Her lower lip began to tremble, and she looked to be fighting back tears.

  ‘I had arranged an appointment to see her tonight.’

  ‘But she was supposed to be attending a talk given by her husband until she pleaded a headache. Which means she lied to her husband.’ Brennan thought for a while then said, ‘What did you wish to see Mrs Crosby about?’

  ‘I’m writing a series of articles for a London magazine on the subject of capital punishment. Oh,’ she said quickly, seeing the cynical glaze that flitted across his eyes, ‘not the usual stuff, abolitionist arguments or the trenchant views of its supporters, no. These articles are about the human aspect, if you like. I’ve already had several articles published. One where I interviewed the wife of an executed murderer, her feelings before, during and after the trial, the morning of the execution, her struggle today to bring up three fatherless children. Many of the people I’ve spoken to are relatives of the victims of murder though. Earlier, in fact, I spoke with a man who seemed to me most disturbed.’

  ‘Oh? Who was he?’

  ‘Scruffy-looking chap. I don’t know his name. But he told me his father had been murdered and that his killer was executed by Mr Crosby. I was interested and wanted to know more but then he showed me…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A photograph he said he carried with him always. Of his sister with his dead father.’

  ‘What was so strange about that?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘When I say his dead father I mean just that. Have you ever heard of photographing the dead, Sergeant?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ve heard of it. Never seen it in practice though.’

  ‘The photograph showed his sister holding hands with his father, who was staring d
irectly into the camera. But the photographer had actually prised open the dead man’s eyes and then taken the picture. People do the same when a child dies. They sit the corpse in a chair, dressed in all his or her finery. Sometimes the photographer opens their eyes. For the grieving family, it’s supposed to create a final lasting memory of a lost loved one. In my view, it’s disgusting. Until that moment, I thought the man might prove an interesting source – the mourning son whose father’s killer was hanged by Crosby. But after five minutes in his company, I was disturbed, to say the least. In my view, the man was deranged.’

  Deranged.

  The word resonated with Brennan. He would like to speak with this man who carries a macabre photograph around. But why would he want to kill the wife of the man who hanged his father’s killer?

  Maria gave him a look of defiance. ‘But you have no wish to hear about my work, do you?’

  ‘Tell me more about Mrs Crosby.’

  ‘It’s never been done, you see? The reflections, the sentiments of a woman whose husband is one of the select few men in England allowed to take a life. I’ve spoken to relatives of the murderers, relatives of the victims, but no one has ever recorded the views and feelings of the executioner’s wife.’

  ‘She was willing to share those feelings?’

  Maria Woodruff nodded. ‘She is quite a spirited woman, Sergeant.’ She dropped her gaze and fumbled with her hands as she realised what she had just said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It was actually Mrs Crosby who contacted me. She wrote how she had read my articles and admired them. She said I have a novelist’s eye for the telling detail.’

  Brennan remembered the novel beside the woman’s bed.

  ‘We exchanged letters. She asked me to write to her at her sister’s address in Morecambe. It was to be kept from her husband. I think she enjoyed the thrill of it all. The intrigue. Like something from the novels she told me she loved reading.’