Hanging Murder

by A J Wright

  Jaggery glowered. ‘Which room is he in then?’

  ‘Oh, he’s not staying here.’

  ‘It’s past eleven, Sergeant.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I’ve been on me feet since half bloody seven this mornin’, Sergeant.’ It seemed ages since he’d smelled that rancid fish in the station yard. ‘There’s some smart constables outside, Sergeant.’

  ‘I don’t want a smart constable, Constable. I want you.’

  Rebellion seemed to be about to break out on his lips, but he bit them. ‘Who is he, this Evelyne bloke?’

  Brennan told him.

  ‘So where’s he stayin’ like? Or do you expect me to charge round every doss-hole in Wigan askin’ for some bloke called Evelyne? Sergeant?’

  Brennan gave his constable his basilisk glare. ‘If I order you to swim the canal and dredge the bottom for dead bodies you’ll do just that. Is that clear? Constable?’

  Jaggery let out a deep breath. At least he’d got his mutinous feelings off his chest.

  ‘You’ll go to the Queen’s Hotel. Ask him to accompany you to the station. I’ll be there in half an hour. And if for some reason he isn’t there, leave word that he must under no circumstances leave town until he has spoken with me. Can you remember all that, Constable?’

  Jaggery tapped his head with his forefinger. ‘It’s already stored.’

  Brennan sighed and added, ‘And when you’re done, you get yourself off home. You must be exhausted, poor chap.’

  Always does it, the bugger! Jaggery reflected. I always end up feeling grateful when he throws me a bone.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ he mumbled and left the room.

  *

  It was almost midnight when Brennan arrived back at the station. He was completely drained of energy now, and the prospect of a further interview, this time with the rabble-rousing Mr Evelyne, made him groan with distaste. Still, if the man had told Maria Woodruff he was planning to leave early tomorrow, then it was essential he be spoken to beforehand. He’d organised the march earlier, and the ensuing commotion and stirred-up feelings might well have contributed to the night’s tragedy. It had meant that most of the borough’s constables were tied up with the disorder in King Street. Was the disturbance used as a distraction for someone to make their way to the Royal?

  Brennan gave a heavy sigh and approached the front desk, where the duty sergeant was seated, reading what appeared to be a Penny Dreadful. He could just make out the title: The Boy Detective, or The Crimes of London.

  ‘We could do with a couple of boy detectives round here, Sam,’ said Brennan, startling his semi-recumbent colleague.

  ‘Bloody ’ell, Mick. Nearly shit meself!’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t be short of paper, eh?’ He indicated the volume in his hands. ‘Where’s my guest?’

  ‘Who would that be then?’ The duty sergeant carefully folded the corner of a page and placed the book on his now vacant chair.

  ‘Thomas Evelyne.’

  ‘Oh aye. Constable Jaggery called in on his way home. Said I was to give you a message.’

  Brennan’s heart sank.

  ‘Said he’d been down to the Queen’s like you asked, but the owner told him Evelyne had gone out.’

  ‘Out? Where, at this time?’

  His colleague shrugged. ‘Jaggery just said he asked the bloke to go up to his room and make sure, and the bloke refused so Jaggery grabbed him an’ threatened him with all sorts – gamblin’ on unlicensed premises, after-time boozin’, you know the routine.’

  Despite his growing sense of frustration, Brennan smiled. He could easily imagine the scene, with an already unhappy constable rendered even more dejected by the information the landlord gave him.

  ‘Anyroad, he took Jaggery up to the chap’s room an’ it was empty. When he got back here, he wasn’t in the best of moods. Said he’d done all he could and he was – now, how did he put it? Ah yes, said as how he was only made of flesh and bloody blood. Then said he was off to his bed.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Brennan, a note of resignation in his voice. ‘Well, I suppose I’ll be off an’ all. Goodnight. I’ll let you get back to London.’ He nodded at the book on the chair.

  ‘Sod off, Mick,’ came the good-humoured reply.

  As Brennan stepped away from the station, he pulled his greatcoat close to his neck. The roofs of the buildings on King Street were now coated in ice, and the tram rails glistened in the freezing cold. A cold wind blew along the street, where only hours earlier a mass brawl had taken place. At the top, he turned left into Wallgate, and there, he met the full blast of wind, sharp and piercing. He caught his breath.

  To his left, a small curved entrance led to the rear premises of Wm. Livesey, Saddler and Harness Maker. He barely gave it a glance, imagining only that the entry offered some meagre respite from this damnable cold, before making his way down past the station and underneath Wallgate Bridge.

  If he had chanced to break his journey and take shelter in Livesey’s Yard, it would have taken him a lot longer to get home.

  But the body would lie undiscovered for another seven hours.

  15.

  William Livesey arrived at his shop on Wallgate earlier than usual. His young assistant, Andrew, had been given strict instructions to be there for seven o’clock, for today was a most significant day in the shop’s history. The usual displays of saddles and harnesses had to be put outside the shop, of course, as they did every day, but what rendered the day special would be arriving by wagon at eight o’clock, and everything had to be made ready for then.

  The central area of the shop, for instance. That had to cleared of all manner of clutter – saddles, stirrups, bridles, hackamores, headcollars, reins – all had to be rearranged and placed in their proper areas so that there was nothing to interfere with the new arrival’s pride of place.

  The New Horse Action Saddle.

  With glowing testimonials from HRH The Princess of Wales herself, this wonder of the equine age, this cure for dyspepsia, this stimulator of the liver, was about to make its debut appearance in the north of England and in William Livesey’s shop in particular. This remarkable machine, that simulates the moving action of a horse without actually having the expense of owning and grooming one, would bring him customers from far and wide and establish his reputation as the foremost saddler in the north.

  Young Andrew slouched through the door at a minute past seven, his cheeks flushed and his nose a deep scarlet from the chill of the morning. Such a pity the boy didn’t share his enthusiasm for the imminent arrival, Livesey reflected as he watched the boy remove his cap, coat and muffler and place them behind the counter.

  ‘You’re late,’ Livesey snapped.

  ‘Parish church clock says I’m on time,’ came the surly reply, accompanied with a demonstrative yawn to the accompaniment of the dying notes of the church bell.

  ‘We’ll have none of your cheek today, my lad. We’ve an hour to get ready.’

  ‘For what?’

  Livesey sighed. Why was it the little devil couldn’t share his excitement? Or had he simply not been listening yesterday when he shared the great news with him?

  ‘Never mind for what. Take those old saddles out back. We need to make room.’

  Young Andrew sniffed and shivered, muttering, Bloody freezin’ out yonder! under his breath. Still, he did as he was told, lifted one of the saddles from the stand by the counter and shuffled his way through the back room where he unlocked the door that led to the small yard. Then he made his way outside, the saddle held high in front of his face.

  A few seconds later, William Livesey heard an unholy crash, followed quickly by the sound of his young assistant uttering a foul curse.

  The young fool’s dropped the saddle! If he’s damaged it in any way I’ll damage his head.

  But before he could move to the back of the shop to discover what damage had in fact been done, he was met with his young helper, who had suddenly transformed i
nto a trembling child.

  ‘Tha’d best come!’ he said, breathless and scared. ‘I tripped over it. Tha’d best come now!’

  *

  At that moment, not fifty yards from William Livesey’s establishment, the LNWR Wigan Station was experiencing its own excitement. David Gilchrist took his role as lad porter seriously. Although only seventeen, he had high hopes of becoming Head Porter once Mr Douglas moved on, then rising to the giddying heights of Stationmaster one day, so he too could parade around the station, with his gold braid glistening to proclaim his status, and accept the servitude of others with a stern magnanimity, just like Mr Powell, who even now was overseeing the clerks in the booking office. But at present, part of Gilchrist’s duties was to make sure the oil lamps in the lamp room were filled, the wicks trimmed and the paraffin holders checked.

  This morning, however, he found that the door to the lamp room had been forced open. At first, he wondered if there had been a break-in during the night and some of the lighting equipment stolen, but when he saw the curled up shape on the floor of the room, heard its rather loud snoring and saw the dishevelled state of its clothing, he realised that the culprit was nothing more threatening than a vagrant. Confident of his ability to deal with such an intruder and aware that his firm response to such an eventuality would stand him in good professional stead, he quietly approached the slumbering figure and gave him a resounding kick in the ribs.

  Oscar Pardew was immediately awake. His first thought was he was in the process of being trampled to death by a Brahmani bull – he’d seen some huge and angry examples of those beasts during his time in India, whose malevolent glances were rendered more menacing by their peculiarly hard-boned shoulders – and he curled himself into a ball, crying out, ‘Jao! Jao!’

  Gilchrist saw the wild-eyed terror of the man and thought about locking him in the lamp room until he could go and get some help, but then he turned and saw the lock hanging askew from the door.

  ‘This is the property of the London and North Western Railway,’ he said grandly. ‘You shouldn’t be in here.’

  The information had no visible impact on Oscar, who merely blinked, saw that the Brahmani bull had slipped back into his mind-shadows and that this creature seemed a few sizes too small for the livery he wore. He stood up, holding out a hand coated in what looked like rust.

  ‘Don’t you leave this room!’ Gilchrist ordered, in what he hoped was a voice of command. He thrust the intruder’s hand to one side.

  ‘You just said I didn’t belong here,’ said Oscar with a quiet reasonableness. ‘So why have I to stay? It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘You’re trespassing. I have to report you. You can’t just break into railway property like this.’

  ‘I’m waiting for a train.’

  The response threw the young porter. ‘We’ve a bloody waiting room for that.’

  ‘It was all locked up as well. And it was cold. Very cold.’

  Why am I talking to him like this? Gilchrist thought. Mr Douglas needs to be told.

  ‘Just you wait here,’ he said. Before Oscar could respond, the boy turned round and left the lamp room.

  Oscar shouted after him, ‘It’s a single to Newton-le-Willows. I’ve got the money here!’

  *

  Brennan had been on his way to the police station that morning when he noticed what appeared to be a large commotion halfway up Wallgate, with several constables standing in front of Livesey’s Saddlery, keeping an excited and curious crowd at bay. They’d seemed very relieved when he got near, and once he’d been informed of what had been found in the covered yard behind the shop, he immediately took charge.

  It was only when he looked at the body for the first time, at the congealed mess of blood beside the head, that he felt a wave of nausea almost overcome him, despite his melancholy experiences in the past.

  Now, half an hour later, he waited for the police surgeon to conclude his examination of the body.

  ‘There’s no doubt it’s murder,’ the surgeon, Dr Harrison, told him. ‘Post-mortem will tell you more.’

  ‘How was she murdered?’

  Dr Harrison placed his hands against Brennan’s throat and pushed him none too gently backwards. ‘There’s bleeding at the back of the head and marks around her neck. First indications would suggest she was grabbed by the neck and forced back against that wall.’ He indicated the wall flanking the shop, where Brennan could see traces of blood glistening in the brickwork. ‘My guess is that whoever did this used great force to slam her head back against the brickwork. It’s sharp and uneven, see?’

  He reached up and pointed at the jagged surface of the wall.

  ‘Her last minutes would not have been very pleasant, Sergeant.’

  He noticed the pallor that had spread across Brennan’s face. ‘You knew the poor creature?’

  Brennan nodded. ‘Only met her last night. Hard to believe that such a…’ He gave a small cough and shook the thoughts away.

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Maria Woodruff. She was a journalist.’

  *

  Captain Bell had marched into Brennan’s small office, swinging the door open with some violence, and now stood facing his detective sergeant who had quickly got to his feet. It was a visit he had been expecting ever since he had returned to the station. And it was a speech he had been expecting since he stared down at the lifeless form of Maria Woodruff.

  ‘I am fully aware, Sergeant Brennan, that murder – any murder – is the fault of the perpetrator and not the detective whose task is to bring such a fiend to justice. But it becomes the duty of said detective to do what his role suggests and that is to detect. Last night, you had one woman dead at your feet, and not twelve hours later, you have another. It might well be that if you had been more energetic in your enquiries, your latest acquisition might still be alive! Well?’

  Brennan allowed time for his own anger to subside. If he said what he felt at that particular moment, he would be summarily dismissed. He felt bad enough to have been in the presence of a second victim; he felt even worse when he recalled the animated sparkle in that young woman’s eyes, the flash of anger, the flush on her cheeks…

  Not twelve hours ago.

  Finally, he spoke. ‘I’ll be doing all I can to find out who did this, sir. You can rest assured.’

  ‘Rest? How the blazes can I rest when the wife of the country’s executioner and a young female journalist lie side by side in the blasted mortuary? How can I be assured that you’ll not only find the blackguard who committed these heinous crimes but that you’ll do it before you add another one to your morbid collection of cadavers?’

  ‘I shall do my very best, sir.’

  The chief constable looked on the verge of providing another gloss on his sergeant’s words, but instead, he glared for a few seconds then wheeled round and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

  Under less fraught circumstances, Brennan would have shared with his superior some of the things that were gnawing at his brain concerning the murder of the young reporter. When he spoke to her, she had been carrying a small bag, from which she had taken out a leather-bound notebook, holding it before him as if it contained all the wisdom of Solomon. Yet neither her bag nor the notebook was found near the body. It could mean nothing, of course. She could have returned to her hotel and simply left them there. He had ordered Constable Corns to the Victoria Hotel, where she’d told him she was staying, to make sure the poor woman’s room remained locked until he could examine it, which he intended to do forthwith.

  Brennan wrote down a few notes and was preparing to leave for the Victoria when there was a knock on his door.

  ‘Come in!’ he shouted and took a deep breath.

  The door opened and Constable Jaggery peered in.

  ‘His Lordship looks as though he’s seen his own arse, Sergeant.’ Jaggery nodded behind him at the figure of the chief constable retreating down the corridor.

 
‘What is it, Constable?’

  Jaggery came in and closed the door behind him. ‘First of all, Sergeant, I’ve come to apologise, like.’

  ‘Apologise? What for?’

  Jaggery cleared his throat. ‘Last night. I were out of order. Bit snappy, like. When you told me to go an’ find that Evelyne chap.’

  ‘Forget it. He wasn’t in his room, was he?’

  ‘No, Sergeant. Landlord said as ’ow Evelyne had been in a bit of a row wi’ some bloke.’

  ‘What bloke?’

  Jaggery shrugged. ‘Didn’t say. Only that the bloke seemed a bit off, like.’

  ‘Off?’

  ‘In his head. Said as how he poured a full pint over Evelyne’s head an’ all.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Dunno. They must’ve ’ad words. Bloody criminal though. Wastin’ good ale. Landlord said he went up to ’is room cursin’ like a pitman then come back down in dry clothes an’ went out. Reckoned ’e was after blood.’

  ‘Did he now?’

  Jaggery coughed as he realised what he’d just said. Or suggested, at any rate.

  Brennan thought for a while. It might mean something or nothing. He’d already sent a constable down to the Queen’s to bring Evelyne to the station.

  ‘Oh, I nearly forgot!’ said Jaggery, as if that were a most unusual occurrence.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve got a visitor, Sergeant. At the front desk.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  Jaggery smiled. ‘Says he’s left his rats at home, in case you’re wonderin’.’

  Brennan shook his head, felt his heart sink. He knew exactly whom Jaggery meant.

  *

  Breakfast at the Royal Hotel was a melancholy affair. By now, of course, everyone was aware of what had taken place the previous night. Servants, waiters, cleaners, chef, each with his or her own version of events.

  For the two men who sat in the dining room this morning, there was none of the animation they’d shown yesterday. They dined in silence, concentrating on their bacon and eggs and kidneys and mushrooms as if each item of food held a particular fascination. They glanced up only occasionally, their eyes on the door as if expecting someone to enter at any moment. A quick glance back at their plates avoided the need for any sort of conversation.