Striking Murder

by AJ Wright

  It was heart-warmingly ironic, he reflected, to take coal from the man who had shown such contempt for them all. ‘His legacy is to turn us into thieves!’ Latchford had yelled to them as he stood silhouetted against the lightening sky. ‘Let’s not insult his memory by spurning his benefaction!’

  And they had responded eagerly, driven on by the bitter cold and a growing despair.

  He had been home five minutes when there was a sharp knock at the door. Neighbours didn’t knock like that – in fact, on Birkett Street where he lived neighbours didn’t knock at all, they just breezed straight in, so he knew immediately this was no friendly visitor. When he opened the door and saw Detective Sergeant Brennan and that broad-chested lackey of a constable, he gave a most unwelcoming frown.

  ‘A few words, Frank?’ Brennan had spoken with a friendly reasonableness that put Latchford on his guard at once.

  He stepped aside and waved an arm at them. ‘You’d best come in then.’

  James and Agnes Cox were the first to pay a call of condolence the day after the funeral.

  Andrew had sat there dutifully throughout the morning, listening to his father’s friend deliver eulogies to a man whose wisdom, companionship, bonhomie and steadfastness had known no equal since the beginning of recorded time. His Uncle Ambrose sat there and made suitably grateful noises, all the while maintaining a sombre and respectful expression, and his mother, her features partly hidden behind her black veil, had accepted the assurances from Mrs Cox with a silent equanimity.

  Nevertheless, the longer he listened to such drivel, the further away his father seemed to go. It was like watching an artist work in reverse – the more animated their visitors became with the picture they painted, the more colourful their praises of his innumerable qualities, the fainter the portrait grew until all that was left was a blank and futile canvas.

  This was not the man he had known all his life.

  He could bear no more. Pleading a terrible headache brought about by the compressed grief of the last few days, he made his excuses, ran the gauntlet of handshakes and trite utterances of sympathy, and left the parlour where his father had lain only two nights ago. When he closed the bedroom door he breathed a huge sigh of relief. For the next few hours he tried vainly to allow sleep to take away some of the agonies he felt.

  Now, as he stood with the curtains parted half an inch and looked idly at the rear gardens with their patches of frozen snow reflecting the dying light above them, then at the row upon row of terraced houses in the far distance shadowed by the pit, he thought of Molly. Immediately, he felt a wave of guilt wash over him. To think of her on the day after his father’s funeral when he should be attending to other matters …

  And yet, in the window’s reflection, he saw not his own image, but the contorted face that stared up at him last Saturday night …

  There was a gentle knock on his door.

  ‘Yes?’

  Grace, his mother’s personal maid, entered and gave an elaborate curtsy. ‘Begging pardon, sir, only it’s madam. She’d like to see you in the drawing room.’

  ‘I’ll be there at once,’ he said.

  Grace gave another curtsy and seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

  He closed the small gap in the curtains, and braced himself. Then, suitably composed, he walked quickly from the room.

  The small front room was surprisingly well ordered. A polished dresser, with two windows latticed in lead, contained an array of silver-framed photographs. In one, a small, wiry individual was standing proud and erect against a studio background of a glistening waterfall, and in another, a middle-aged woman was seated on what appeared to be a bed of roses, a half-formed smile on her face. Beneath these lay a small collection of books, some of which were novels by authors Brennan – who considered himself quite well-read – had never heard of: The Prophet’s Mantle by Fabian Bland, and Workers in the Dawn by George Gissing.

  Latchford, who had sat in the room’s only armchair and hadn’t invited his visitors to sit, noticed Brennan’s interest. ‘My mam and dad,’ he said with a nod at the two photographs. ‘Both gone now.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Brennan said. Then, after a pause, ‘You like reading?’

  ‘Some things, yes.’

  He was staring at Brennan intently. From beyond the window, children’s screams could be heard as they played some sort of game.

  Brennan decided to go straight to the point. ‘You remember the one-eyed man Jem Muldoon talked about?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You didn’t actually tell me you’d met him, did you?’

  ‘You didn’t ask me. If I remember right, you were asking Jem all the questions.’

  ‘Well, Frank, I’m asking now.’

  Latchford smiled, transforming his usually humourless features into something quite engaging. Brennan wondered how often he used such a trick to win over a surly or hostile audience.

  ‘There’s really nothing to report, Sergeant, not in an incriminatory sense anyhow. The man you’re looking for came up to me after a meeting in the public hall. Said he’d enjoyed my speech and wondered if he could stand me a drink.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  Latchford frowned. ‘We’re the victims of a lockout, Sergeant. We get no pay. So if a one-eyed man offers to buy me a drink I don’t send him packing. If he’d had three eyes and a turnip growing out of his neck I’d still have taken him up on the offer.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We went to the Black Horse and he bought me several drinks.’

  ‘Because he was fired by your eloquence?’

  ‘I’m not a naïve man, Sergeant. If someone’s paying for my ale then he’s after summat. The knack is to get as many drinks out of him as you can before giving him what he’s after.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me. And I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Where was he from?’

  ‘No idea. Not Wigan, I can tell you that.’

  ‘What was he after?’

  At this point, Latchford stood up and walked to the window, where Constable Jaggery had been idly watching a group of children chasing each other down the street. Jaggery stood aside to allow him access to the scene, and the young miner gazed out for a while. Then he turned round and said, quite unexpectedly, ‘You have children, Sergeant?’

  Brennan blinked before responding. ‘A son.’

  ‘I bet you and your wife spoke for months, making such plans for him, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jaggery, from beside the window, gave his sergeant a perplexed shrug.

  ‘Until February this year I had such hopes, too.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Oh, life happened. The girl I was planning to marry, she decided it wasn’t a future she wanted. Not with me, anyway.’

  ‘I fail to see …’

  He raised a hand, a gesture that asked for patience. Clarification was on its way. ‘The girl had met someone else. She didn’t tell me that. She just said she couldn’t see us together any more and that I should concentrate on my work for the Federation. Noble of her. But I knew there was something else. Someone else. I took to following her. Strange what you do when … Any road, one day I saw her being picked up by a carriage. It’s not the sort of thing that happens to someone like Molly Haggerty. A mill girl. And I recognised the man who’d stopped for her.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Andrew Morris.’

  Brennan’s eyes opened wider. He assimilated the information but remained focused on what he had come for. ‘What has this to do with the one-eyed man?’

  ‘He said he’d heard me and Molly had been walking out. Began to ask me questions about her. Said he’d heard whispers about her and her new chap. Wanted to find out as much as he could about Molly. Her family. Her background.’

  ‘Why?’

  Latchford shrugged. ‘He didn’t say. But it’s fairly bloody obvious, isn’t it? Any road, I told him nowt much. But I’d
had a few drinks by this time and I may have given him more information than I should’ve done. But I was still full of …’

  He turned his gaze back to the children outside.

  Brennan thought. Now why would this stranger be asking questions about a young woman who worked in the mill? The only reason, of course, would be her liaison with young Andrew Morris. And what, then, was the connection with Arthur Morris, and his murder? Had Morris, as Latchford hinted, paid the one-eyed man to make such enquiries?

  ‘Met the bugger once more,’ Latchford went on. ‘But I was sober on that occasion and told him to sod off.’

  ‘Does your dislike of the son extend to the father?’

  Latchford smiled once more, but this time it was a controlled gesture, designed to conceal darker emotions than pleasure. He glanced to his right at the photographs behind the leaded glass and the volumes below.

  ‘You know, my dad said the worst part of working down the mines was the absence of thought. Though he didn’t express it quite like that. But I know that’s what he meant. You work down there for ten, twelve hours at a stretch. And the biggest curse to a miner isn’t the coal dust – though that, as they say, is a bugger. No, it’s an imagination. If you have a capacity for vivid imagination, then the minutes become hours and the hours become days. Far better the chap who can swing a pick and hammer a drill with nowt on his mind but the tang of the next pint. It’s not a place for thinkers down there and yet the place is ideal for thinking. Hell’s irony, that.’

  Brennan looked at Jaggery, whose eyes had now glazed over with boredom.

  ‘So yes, Sergeant, I disliked the father almost as much as I disliked the son. But if you’re asking me if I killed Arthur Morris, the answer is no.’

  ‘Where were you Saturday night?’

  ‘I was here, alone, reading. You must read The Prophet’s Mantle, Sergeant. Written by two people, actually, despite the name “Fabian Bland”. That’s a giveaway anyway. You’ve heard of the Fabian Society?’

  Brennan nodded. ‘Socialists.’

  ‘Correct. Fabian Bland is Edith Nesbit and her husband. They helped create the Fabians. And the novel recounts the life of Peter Kropotkin.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘He was an anarchist, Sergeant Brennan. You’d find it interesting and disturbing in equal measure.’

  Brennan turned to go. ‘Just one more question, Frank. The girl who you were courting. Molly Haggerty. Where does she live?’

  ‘Scholefield Lane. Number 7. Give her my regards when you see her. And her mother, of course.’

  They got nothing more from him. Once they were outside, Jaggery watched the children pull faces at him and one or two of them used words they had heard their parents use whenever a uniform appeared.

  ‘Anarchy, Sergeant? Shouldn’t we arrest the bugger for reading such stuff?’

  ‘It’s a free country, Constable.’

  But Brennan’s thoughts were far from anarchy. If, as Latchford said, the one-eyed man wasn’t from Wigan, then it would be highly unlikely he would be staying anywhere other than a hotel or a lodging house. It was something he would have to look into.

  ‘What now, then?’ Jaggery asked, giving one of the boys who had run too close to him a swift clatter round his ear.

  ‘No point going to see the girl at this time, not if she’s working in the mill. No, I think it’s time for the Morrises, Constable. I can’t put off any longer what will doubtless be a most difficult set of interviews. Still, it has to be done. I have several questions I need answering. Then we need to speak with this young woman, Molly. It’s a strange liaison, is that. Mill girl and a wealthy young chap like that.’

  First, though, he had to report to Captain Bell.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The three of them sat there around the hearth, but said nothing while the maid built up the fire. She couldn’t help glancing round furtively, as if she was aware of being observed, and that made her job harder. She therefore took her time placing each lump of coal on the pile with great care, using the metal tongs with delicacy and precision. Finally, when she had finished and the flames had been subdued, waiting to rise again through the newly introduced coals, she withdrew, keeping her eyes cast down as befitted a domestic in a house of mourning.

  ‘You wished to see me?’ Andrew looked at his mother.

  She was gazing at the flames striving to break through. As usual, she sat with an erectness that betrayed the pain of her rheumatic condition. Often he could detect the faintly unpleasant aroma of the tincture of arnica she applied to alleviate her pain, and he knew that often, whenever she moved suddenly, a spasm of pain would jolt her alarmingly. Yet she bore all with stoicism, never once complaining. In the other armchair – his father’s favoured one – his uncle Ambrose sat with a stern expression on his face.

  He knew that the relationship between his mother and his uncle was a fragile, often distant one: the reason for such a coldness between them was lost in the mists of time, but Andrew had never known them to speak to each other with anything but cold courtesy. On one occasion he had heard his mother refer to him as ‘that pompous man’, a rare slip of the veil behind which she normally kept her feelings hidden. His father had mumbled something in retort about his brother being ‘infected with Londonitis’, but it had been said in a largely jocular tone, with fraternal grace, pride even – a contrast to the animosity that always seemed to swim just beneath the surface of his mother’s tranquillity, like a deadly shark.

  It was Ambrose Morris who spoke. ‘Your mother wants to know of your plans.’

  ‘Plans?’ His heart beat fast. ‘About what?’

  His mother lifted her gaze heavily and cleared her throat. ‘The future. Now that your father has gone.’

  ‘In what particular sense?’

  Her voice was soft and low. ‘This ruinous dispute with the colliers, for one thing. Naturally, you will be expected to take charge of the coalfields now your father is …’ She glanced down at her clasped hands and took a deep breath before continuing. ‘Your uncle informs me that he is to return to London very soon. He wishes to know the line you will take.’

  Ambrose coughed. To Andrew, it looked as though he resented having his sister-in-law speak on his behalf. ‘What your mother says is true. I have assured many of our business acquaintances that there will be – shall we say – a change of direction as far as the Morris Collieries are concerned? The future course of this dispute is our responsibility now, Andrew.’

  ‘Isn’t this a bit … heartless?’

  ‘Heartless?’

  ‘My father – your brother – is very recently interred and you wish to discuss strategy?’

  Ambrose gave a deep sigh. ‘I have to return to Westminster. I need to know that you and I have the same design – to do all we can to bring this dispute to an end. It would help me greatly if I could make certain assurances to the right people that the wind is changing direction. The Morris name still holds immense sway throughout the industry.’ He stood up to face his nephew. ‘My brother’s death is but one of many this town has suffered. In my opinion, the suffering has gone on long enough. To wait for a suitable period of mourning and then make decisions would be unthinkable.’

  He knew his uncle was right, of course. Perhaps he had allowed his love for Molly to ignore such weighty considerations.

  ‘As the one who will be responsible for whatever happens in the family coalfields,’ his mother went on, ‘you will be called upon to take some action. Or not.’

  Ambrose took up the reins. ‘We both know how … persuasive your father could be. When the coal owners began this ruinous dispute, it was largely due to his influence that they dug in their collective heels. “Now is not the time for faint hearts,” he said. “Now is the time to show reason with strength”. He liked the idea of that phrase: “reason with strength”. Well, soon the owners are meeting once more, and from what I hear in Westminster, they are determined to give every appearance of flexibility and
conciliation while moving not a jot from their recently revised figure of fifteen per cent. Some are threatening to withdraw even that concession and go back to the original twenty-five per cent reduction. I have also heard a rumour, from a benign member on the government benches, that there are secret moves afoot to bring the dispute to an end. Mr Gladstone will not allow this cancer to fester much longer, Andrew.’ He looked his nephew straight in the eye, as if to underpin the gravity of his next words. ‘The owners need someone there who can provide the voice of common sense, the voice of pragmatism in the face of stubborn principle.’

  Andrew nodded. ‘I know. And I will. The dispute should never have happened. We should have learnt the lessons of 1888, but telling my father that was …’ he broke off, looked at the flames and the underglow of the coals. ‘It just seems a little … callous.’

  Ambrose leant forward in his armchair. ‘In a few more days I shall have to return to London. I will be here to offer you whatever advice and support you need.’

  ‘Thank you, Uncle Ambrose.’

  His mother rested her head back against the rim of the chair. ‘And, of course, there is the other thing.’

  ‘What other thing?’

  She gave a weak smile and looked across at her brother-in-law, as if she expected him to say something in return. But instead he pursed his lips and uttered nothing more than a surly grunt and a muttered comment about this being an inappropriate time for such things. Then he stood up, leaving the room without another word. Andrew looked at his mother for an explanation, but she had closed her eyes with a pained expression on her face.

  Now what was all that about? Andrew wondered.

  It took him ten minutes to regain control of his temper. He was, after all, a detective sergeant, and soon he hoped his work would be sufficiently recognised by elevating him to the hitherto non-existent status of detective inspector. It would indeed be an acknowledgement of the work carried out by the detective branch of the Wigan Borough Police, work that involved something rather more subtle than the application of a truncheon and a size ten boot. Yet how could he gain such recognition when the chief constable himself insisted on being present at his next series of interviews, like Banquo’s ghost? He had sprung his surprise as soon as Brennan had told him about the curious case of the one-eyed man.