Hanging Murder

by A J Wright

  In a perverse sort of protectiveness, he needed to punish Jaggery before the chief constable could.

  ‘Tell the big oaf I need to see him as soon as he sets foot in this station,’ was Brennan’s comment to the duty sergeant, who nodded his understanding before giving Brennan the keys to the cells below ground.

  When he entered the narrow corridor that led to the cells, he could hear a low, sad keening from the cell next to Crosby’s. He glanced through the tiny iron grille in the door and saw Oscar Pardew seated on the bench beneath the tiny gap of daylight above his head, rocking to and fro, his hands freshly bandaged and his eyes closed.

  Brennan shook his head and moved along to the door to Gilbert Crosby’s cell. He was immediately struck by the difference in his prisoner.

  The man now seemed fidgety, perspiring heavily and he was pacing the narrow confines of his cell with his hands clasped together. The scar, too, seemed a deep red. It must be throbbing, Brennan thought. And painful.

  It’s the close confinement, he realised. The awful sensation that the walls of the cell are slowly closing in. He’d seen this reaction before, in those who’d served time in Her Majesty’s prisons and couldn’t get the experience out of their system. A prolonged stay in a Wigan police cell wasn’t something to be desired. And he remembered what Ellen had told him, about Gilbert Crosby’s discomfort in the train carriage. It must have been the confined space that disturbed him.

  The perfect time to strike, thought Brennan.

  ‘And how are you feeling, Mr Crosby? Room service to your satisfaction?’

  ‘This is outrageous!’ came the heated reply. ‘To be held here with absolutely nothing to suggest I was involved in any way in my sister-in-law’s death. I will speak to my lawyer!’

  Brennan sighed and turned round, one hand on the cell door.

  ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’ Crosby’s eyes were almost bulging from their sockets.

  Brennan made a great show of looking at his fob watch. ‘In an hour or so, I’ll be off home. My wife’s got a potato pie for tea. Should be just slapping the pastry on. Now, if you need anything, just ring up and one of the servants is bound to hear you. Goodbye. We’ll speak again tomorrow.’

  Before he could open the door wide enough to leave, Crosby said, ‘All right. Damn you! All right.’

  All defiance had gone. He slumped onto the wooden bench beneath the aperture, high in the wall and put his head in his hands. ‘I’ll tell you what you need to know.’

  Brennan closed the door once more and stood before the prisoner.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Just simple answers to simple questions, Mr Crosby. Then you can go back to your brother. Where were you on Monday night and all day Tuesday?’

  Crosby leaned his head back and placed it against the bare brick of the wall. ‘Monday night, I stayed with friends. And on Tuesday, they took me to a meeting.’

  ‘Who are these friends? What was the meeting about?’ Brennan wondered what sort of friends the man had made in so short a time. And why be so secretive about it?

  Gilbert Crosby cleared his throat and explained.

  22.

  ‘A gambling den?’

  Captain Bell’s face was flushed with anger and embarrassment.

  Over the last few months, he had faced considerable pressure from the members of the Watch Committee for the proliferation of illegal gambling that seemed to have spread throughout the borough like smallpox. It took several forms: the street-based three card trick, pitch-and-toss, the more out of the way cockfighting and dog racing, to the card games of various kinds which were played out in the intimate confines of public houses, of which there were many, often for large sums of money. This illicit vice, in the opinion of the Watch Committee, led inevitably to vices of other kinds, for losing one’s wages and being burdened with indebtedness rendered the victims more liable to violence. Inevitably, it was the family back home that bore the brunt of it all.

  And that, in turn, increased not only the work of the constabulary but also the figures in the annual list of indictable offences.

  ‘I thought we’d taken steps to get rid of that abominable practice.’

  ‘We have indeed, sir. Four raids after hours in the last week alone.’

  ‘Well then. How can Gilbert Crosby have been to a gambling den when he knows no one in the town? Do they advertise in the Wigan Observer?’

  ‘He tells me he went to a billiards match on Monday night. At the Ship.’

  ‘Go on.’ Captain Bell’s tone became ominous at the mention of the Ship, a public house he would gladly have scuttled.

  ‘And there he wagered some money.’

  ‘At a billiards match?’ The prospect was outrageous.

  ‘Apparently, he lost his money.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘Benny Liptrot.’

  ‘I might have known.’

  ‘When he later paid the Empire Music Hall a visit, he was seething with the feeling he’d been cheated by Liptrot.’

  ‘What else did he expect?’

  Brennan ignored the question. ‘Later, he paid someone for information. He’d heard a whisper that Liptrot was holding a late-night gambling session at a local pub.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The Gibraltar Inn, sir. At the top of Scholes.’

  ‘Scholes! If I had my way…’

  Brennan knew full well what the chief constable would do to the area. But he himself had been born in Scholes, still had many friends – as well as a few enemies – in the area and decided to interrupt the outburst before he found himself defending it.

  ‘The choice of the Gibraltar is quite a clever one, being far from the centre of town. Crosby says he went there to try to win his money back.’

  ‘Surely he didn’t stay the night in that godforsaken pit?’

  ‘He says he did, sir, having little sleep and much to drink. Apparently, after some initial distrust, he and Liptrot got on well.’

  ‘Kindred spirits, I suppose?’

  ‘Indeed, sir. And on Tuesday, his luck having held firm during the card games, he was invited by Liptrot to accompany him and some friends to the races at Liverpool. Crosby told them of certain practices he’d heard of that might cheat the course bookmakers out of their money.’

  ‘Disgraceful! And his brother a respected national figure! He spent all day Tuesday at the races?’

  ‘It’s what he says, sir. Of course, I’ll need to verify that. But if Liptrot supports his statement, then he might be off the hook as far as being a suspect in his sister-in-law’s murder is concerned. According to Gilbert Crosby, his train got back from Liverpool after nine. By which time Violet Crosby was dead.’ He paused and added, ‘Although Gilbert Crosby, along with all of the others, has no alibi for Maria Woodruff’s murder.’

  Captain Bell glared at him, still simmering at the fact that another gambling den had eluded his notice. Brennan knew that the Gibraltar Inn’s days (or nights) of intimate card games were numbered.

  ‘I trust you’ll treat the matter with the utmost urgency, Sergeant?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Then don’t let me keep you from your duties.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  *

  Jaggery knew he had to face the music sometime. The one relieving factor was the good news that the lunatic, Pardew, had been brought back into custody. The bad news, of course, was that the one responsible for the man’s return was Detective Sergeant Brennan.

  He’d made his required patrols of the town, lingering to speak with people he didn’t normally speak with, entering premises he didn’t normally enter – anything, in fact, to keep his return to the station as far away as possible. But time has a way of moving faster when you don’t want it to and so he had walked back to Rodney Street and was now sitting in the canteen at the table furthest from the door, nursing a grievance and a mug of hot tea. The other constables had left him alone once he’d made it clear he had no use for th
eir company, and carried on with their game of snooker or their huddled conversations. Then the door opened, and immediately the canteen fell silent. Those playing snooker, those idly chatting at nearby tables, all suddenly realised they should be out on the streets and making sure the good people of the town were safe and well. With barely a glance at the morose figure by the window, they acknowledged the new arrival respectfully.

  Once they’d all left, Sergeant Brennan approached the forlorn figure hunched over his mug of tea.

  ‘You at a loose end, Constable?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I’ve just got back, Sergeant. Been on patrol.’

  ‘Very conscientious. If only all our constables took their duties as seriously, eh?’

  Jaggery said nothing. Even he recognised the quiet sarcasm.

  ‘If you feel able to carry out just one more duty before you leave for the day…?’

  Jaggery looked at him for the first time. ‘Sergeant?’

  ‘We’re going to take a walk. Speak to someone. Do you think you can manage that?’ His voice was so low Jaggery could hardly hear what he said.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ said Jaggery, more despondent than ever.

  ‘Very well.’ Brennan started to move towards the door. ‘I presume you’ve done with that tea?’

  ‘Aye, Sergeant,’ said the big man, standing up.

  The sergeant’s quiet tones were far worse than any raising of the voice. As Jaggery followed like a sulky schoolboy, he wished the bugger had bawled him out. He could have just about coped with that.

  *

  Bailey’s Court was a small area in Hallgate, not far from the Crofter’s Arms, Brennan’s favourite watering hole. Benny Liptrot’s Pawnbroker Shop was situated in the middle of a row of shops, which also included a butcher’s, a grocer’s and a wine and spirit merchant. It had always struck Brennan as repugnant that Liptrot should own such a place – many of his customers would be forced to seek his support on a weekly basis just because of his other interests. It was common knowledge that he had a finger in several gambling operations throughout the borough and indeed beyond it. The problem was catching the little sod. Brennan knew that some of the constables frequented the Gibraltar Inn, the Ship and other places Liptrot was involved in. He knew also that they indulged in the card games and the dice games and other attractions and ended up out of pocket. Which meant one or two of the more inveterate gamblers among them owed Liptrot, who sometimes accepted not cash from them, but information.

  When they reached Bailey’s Court, they saw a small queue outside Liptrot’s shop – it was nearing the end of the week, and money was running out. He noticed some of the women queuing were clutching bundles of clothing, while others held pairs of shoes, boots and even clogs.

  Brennan glanced at the dingy window, and read the day’s forfeited list: Gent’s serviceable umbrella: 3s 11d; Gent’s solid gold signet ring, real stone: 4s 10d; First-class breech-loading double-barrelled gun, fine twisted barrels: £4 11s; Capital pair of field glasses, long range, with case and strap complete: 10s 6d; Sweet-toned violin, bow and case, suit learner: 16s 6d…

  Each item told its own sad story, he reflected, and silently expressed the hope that he would never be in such a dire position as to rely on money from this particular leech.

  Ignoring the sour glances from those in the queue, Brennan and Jaggery entered the shop and saw Benny Liptrot leaning on the shop counter, engaged in some financial squabble involving a silver-plated clock.

  A woman, whose threadbare coat hung loosely on her shoulders, held the clock to what little light there was in the shop. Beneath her headscarf, Brennan could see dry, greying hair, her cheeks pale and pinched.

  ‘But it plays a tune every hour,’ she was saying.

  ‘What tune?’ Liptrot asked, winking at Brennan whom he saw standing by the door.

  ‘How the ’ell should I know? A tune’s a tune.’

  ‘As long as it plays Come into the Garden, Maude, you can have twelve bob.’

  ‘It doesn’t bloody well play that!’

  ‘Well then. Ten bob it is. Take it or leave it, Mrs Findley.’

  The woman gave an angry nod of defeat and held out her hand. Once she had gone, Brennan stationed Jaggery with his back to the door so no one else could enter. Then he took his place at the counter.

  ‘Sergeant Michael Brennan, as I live and breathe!’ Liptrot had a smile on his lips, but there was no warmth there.

  Brennan asked him about Monday night and Crosby’s insistence that he spent it gambling in the Gibraltar Inn.

  ‘Whoever this chap was gambling with, it weren’t me,’ he said with a shrug of the shoulders.

  Brennan expected nothing more. He didn’t pursue the matter – it really held no concern for him what Gilbert Crosby was doing on Monday night. It was Tuesday night – the night of Violet Crosby’s murder – that he was interested in. ‘He must have been mistaken.’

  ‘Must have.’

  ‘He did say, though, that he was in your company on Tuesday. He travelled to Liverpool with you and your acquaintances. To the races at Aintree.’

  Brennan could almost hear the man’s brain whirring round to assess whether admitting it might harm him.

  Finally, Liptrot said, ‘If you mean a bloke wi’ a bloody big scar running down ’is face then aye, he were with us. Tagged along, you might say.’

  ‘And what time was he with you till?’

  Again, Liptrot gave it some thought. ‘Till we got back to Wigan.’

  ‘And what time was that?’

  Liptrot shook his head. ‘We’d been boozin’ all day, Sergeant. By the time we got back local, I didn’t know me arse from me elbow. Might’ve been seven, eight, nine o’clock for all I know. Now is that it? Only I’ve a queue of regulars out yonder an’ it’s hardly th’ height o’ summer is it, poor souls.’

  With the man’s concern for his fellow creatures ringing in his ears, Brennan took his leave.

  ‘Where does that leave us, Sergeant?’ Jaggery asked as they left Bailey’s Court.

  ‘That little bastard knows full well what time they got back to Wigan,’ said Brennan bitterly.

  ‘Then why not tell us?’

  ‘Because he’s peeved at Gilbert Crosby for telling us about the gambling at the Gibraltar. It’s the little weasel’s way of getting back at him. And it leaves us as we were before. Gilbert Crosby has no alibi for his sister-in-law’s murder.’

  *

  George, the bellboy at the Royal, stood to attention, as he always did when Mr Eastoe personally asked for him. Normally, that would have been a good feeling, a mark of his importance in the general run of things in the hotel. This afternoon, though, as he stood before the reception desk and waited for the hotel manager to give him his orders, he couldn’t help glancing occasionally at the other boy standing there. He, too, wore a uniform, dark blue with grey trousers and a cap with a scarlet band – nothing as smart as George’s, of course, but he did have a metal badge stuck on his lapel. What George didn’t like about the boy was the smirk on his face when he surveyed George’s own uniform, especially the trousers which, he well knew, were too long for him. The Telegraph messenger boy was holding a sealed yellow envelope with the heading Post Office Telegram and a name that George couldn’t see.

  ‘You are to show this boy the way to Mr Batsford’s room. Room Six.’

  There was more than a touch of annoyance in the manager’s voice, and George knew it was directed at the other boy rather than himself. Perhaps he’d refused to hand over the telegram?

  ‘This way, boy,’ said George, establishing his authority as soon as they left Mr Eastoe’s presence.

  The telegram boy made a sort of snorting laugh. George refused to rise to the bait, though, and he kept his eyes straight ahead. As they turned the corner to the stairs leading to the first and second floors, George heard the telegram boy say, ‘Mind tha doesn’t trip up. Are them thi dad’s pants?’

  It was more than George could be
ar. He turned round and was about to tell the arrogant sod to bugger off when he suddenly found himself being pushed to one side.

  It was one of the guests. And he was in a hurry.

  The messenger gave a hearty mocking laugh, but George took no notice. As he watched the guest move quickly down the corridor and past the reception desk, he realised that the man was the same one he’d bumped into on the night of the murder, the one who’d called him George.

  He must tell Sergeant Brennan, he thought. Although he hadn’t seen the guest’s face that night, he’d just remembered something.

  It was the smell that he’d forgotten about.

  *

  There seemed no point in keeping Gilbert Crosby in the cell any longer. His alibi was dependent on one of the most devious rogues in the town, and Brennan knew he’d get nothing more from Benny Liptrot. He’d sent Gilbert on his way with a dire warning to stay close to the hotel, reminding him that the inquest was due to take place the following evening.

  ‘I shall do my duty,’ the hangman’s brother had declared as they parted company on the steps of the police station.

  He’d been in his office only a few minutes when there was a knock on the door, and a constable appeared.

  ‘Young lad at the front desk, Sergeant. Says it’s important.’

  When Brennan saw that young George the bellboy was standing there nervously looking round, he invited him back to his office and sat him down.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Playing truant?’

  ‘No, Sergeant.’ The boy’s eyes had widened, not realising Brennan was joking. ‘I told Mr Eastoe an’ he said I were to come down ’ere an’ tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘I remembered. ’Bout that bloke I bumped into on the stairs. Y’know, Tuesday night.’

  Brennan sat forward. ‘Go on.’

  Before the boy could say anything further, there was another knock at the door. Brennan could hardly contain his annoyance when the same constable poked his head around the door.

  ‘What?’ Brennan snapped.

  ‘Duty Sergeant told me I were to give you this, case it were urgent, like.’ He ventured gingerly into the room clutching a single sheet of paper in his hand. He gave it to Brennan and quickly withdrew.