Striking Murder

by AJ Wright

  ‘The Morrises are a family bereaved, Sergeant. It is only right and proper that any such questioning should take place with dignity and compassion. The presence of an old family friend will help alleviate the anguish your interrogation will cause.’

  ‘Interrogation is hardly the …’

  ‘Besides, I have already made one call of condolence, as a family friend, and therefore a subsequent visit can be seen as rather more official.’

  ‘Indeed, sir, but …’

  ‘Do you know that Prudence Morris is a saintly woman, Sergeant?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, sir.’

  ‘A saintly woman. And it is the melancholy fate of sainthood to suffer.’

  ‘You mean the murder of her …’

  ‘I mean her rheumatic condition that renders even the smallest of movements excruciating. Any but the tenderest of interviews will cause her great distress. I shall be there to act as guardian angel, Sergeant.’

  He’s carrying a torch for the widow, thought Brennan wryly. And he’s wrapping it up in altruism.

  He stormed out of the office with a deep sense of grievance. As was the way on such occasions, he transferred much of his unhappiness to Constable Jaggery, whose second bite at a meat pie was forestalled by Sergeant Brennan’s order for him to stop gorging his overfed self and make enquiries with all possible haste at the various hotels and lodging houses in the town concerning a one-eyed guest.

  ‘But Sergeant, do you have any idea how many of them places there are?’

  ‘No!’ Brennan snapped back. ‘But you must be sure to count them and let me know.’

  Brennan made the journey with the chief constable in uncompanionable silence, preferring to make his point with muteness where voluble protest had had little effect. When they arrived at the Morris mansion, the cold wind blasted their exposed faces as they stepped from the relative comfort of the carriage. It was Captain Bell who broke the silence between them as he raised the heavy brass door knocker.

  ‘A fine specimen, Sergeant.’

  ‘What is, sir?’

  ‘This!’ He held the knocker aloft before letting it crash down. ‘A Davy lamp, eh? What finer symbol of Arthur Morris’s commitment to his colliers? A symbol of his absolute insistence on safety and the welfare of those who worked for him.’

  ‘It’s certainly heavy enough. And loud enough to wake the …’

  Fortunately his image was curtailed by the door swinging open, and the butler offering them a sombre and dignified welcome.

  Despite their squat, ungainly appearance, the five hundred beehive ovens possessed a strange sort of beauty for James Cox. They stood in a long row quite separate from the eight open-topped blast furnaces that formed the backbone of his iron and steel works, and they had come to represent a visual fusion of nature and the ingenuity of man. The hundreds of tons of coke they regularly produced were an essential factor in the production of iron, and provided the intense heat necessary for the furnaces.

  He was standing in the open doorway of the furnace manager’s office, despite the bitter wind that was blowing from the east, and turned his gaze from the ovens to the range of blast furnaces to his left. Each of them stood fifty-five feet high, mighty symbols of power in both senses of the word, symbols that made the pithead winding wheels look puny and insignificant. And yet he relied on the coal they produced, for without the coal there was no coke, and the thousand tons a day of fine slack they received from the Morris Collieries was fed into the coke ovens and the coke transferred to the furnaces. The quality of haematite, Spiegel and ferromanganese they produced brought a wealth of contracts throughout the country and, more lucratively, in America.

  But without coke the furnaces might as well have been igloos. And the contracts, especially the one with the Blackpool Tower Company, were fast becoming more like threatening letters than agreements of sale.

  Was it only three months ago that he was boasting to all at the Club who would listen that one of his furnaces had produced over nine hundred tons of Bessemer pig iron in a single week? That his yearly output was well over a hundred and twenty-five thousand tons of iron of all kinds? Of course the buggers were envious, that went without saying, but their envy was cocooned in admiration. But now, such figures seemed a distant dream, and against the iron-grey darkness of a wintry sky, the furnaces lay silent, an army of Goliaths brought low by the slings of stubbornness.

  ‘Won’t be settled in days, Mr Cox. You can put money on that.’

  Nat Walsh, furnace manager, was sitting behind his desk, trying to read the thoughts of the great man.

  ‘No, Nat.’ Cox remained where he was, with his back to the office, addressing his remarks to the furnaces.

  ‘How was the funeral?’

  The smile that began to form on the owner’s face, in acknowledgement of his manager’s less than subtle attempt to draw an optimistic link between his last two statements, was quickly transformed into a suitably sombre expression of melancholy.

  ‘Oh it was what he deserved, Nat. Only what he deserved.’

  They had been shown into the drawing room.

  Brennan silently acknowledged the outward signs of wealth: a large, upright piano, a polished Davenport desk, an elegantly scrolled gasolier overhanging a small table, and along the wall facing the door a series of landscapes, four in all, depicting the same scene transformed by seasonal variations: a small stream frozen in winter wound its way through bare, stark trees with a gently sloping hill, frosted with snow, in the distance. In the following paintings the scene came alive with the fresh colours of a burgeoning spring, growing into the green and blue elegance of a bright summer’s day that turned into the lowering light of a leaf-strewn evening, catching the rich browns and russets of autumn. Yet Brennan noticed it was only in the winter scene that a human figure could be seen, a young man sitting by the frozen stream, his hand pressed flat against the unyielding ice. Somehow the figure was vaguely familiar.

  Black crape hung around the frame of each painting, a reminder that even the enjoyment of art must of necessity be placed in mournful abeyance.

  Neither of them had been presumptuous enough to sit down. Captain Bell noticed his sergeant’s absorption in the landscapes.

  ‘You appreciate the delicacy of the brushwork, Sergeant?’

  Brennan shook his head. ‘I was thinking more about what the paintings convey. Or don’t convey.’

  ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Just idle musings, sir. If winter is the season we associate with death, why then is that scene the only one with any sign of human life in it?’

  His superior gave an elaborate and patronising sigh. ‘I see the appreciation of art has taken second place to your natural querulousness.’

  ‘Natural curiosity perhaps. It would be interesting to ask the artist what he meant by it.’

  ‘A philistine observation, Sergeant! That is the one thing that is never done. And I trust you will observe that dictum when you have the opportunity to speak with him.’

  ‘Who, sir?’

  ‘Why, the artist, of course. This is Andrew Morris’s work.’

  Brennan was genuinely surprised. He was no art critic, but there was a haunting, almost wretched quality about the winter landscape that invested the other three seasons with a wistful, rather than joyous, air. He scrutinised the solitary figure once more, and realised why he had seemed familiar.

  ‘Just remember, Sergeant – this is a bereaved house, not an art gallery.’

  At that the double doors to the drawing room opened and Ambrose Morris, preceded by his sister-in-law, entered the room.

  Mrs Morris moved with a deliberate slowness, and Brennan watched her take a seat by the marble fireplace, letting herself down slowly, as if every care was taken to avoid unnecessary pain. He noticed, too, that Ambrose Morris stood by without offering her the superficial assistance one would expect. Was there a distance between them?

  After the preliminary handshakes hastily fo
llowed by an apology for the intrusion, both policemen sat down facing their hosts.

  Mrs Morris’s face was barely discernible through the black veil that hung from a white widow’s cap. On her breast she bore a single stone of black jet, its surface dulled and smooth, blending discreetly with the silk dress fringed with crape.

  ‘It must be immensely distressing for you both,’ Captain Bell began with an expression of deep sympathy creasing his brow. ‘But my sergeant here has his melancholy duties to perform, and there are one or two questions he must ask. But if you wish to terminate the interview at any time you merely need to ask.’

  Not your common or garden prelude to police interrogation, thought Brennan wryly, recalling some of the more forthright interviews he’d seen the chief constable carry out back at the station. He kept his expression neutral as he began.

  ‘I can only echo Captain Bell’s words, and assure you of our determination to bring the perpetrator of this wickedness to justice. Where is your son, Mrs Morris?’

  He felt his superior bristle beside him, and realised at once the unfortunate inference that his words could cause.

  Ambrose Morris narrowed his eyes, as if he were trying to fathom out if there were any trace of irony or flippancy in the policeman’s question. ‘My nephew is not at home, Sergeant Brennan.’

  ‘I will need to speak with him.’

  ‘And we will let him know.’

  Brennan paused before continuing. He had the distinct impression that the Member of Parliament for Wigan was rather abrupt in his manner. Was this a trait of his personality? Or was he reluctant to engage in any productive conversation with the one whose duty it was to investigate the murder of his brother? If so, it was rather a curious way of showing devotion.

  He took out a notebook and pencil, and flipped it open at a fresh page. He could sense Mrs Morris’s eyes watching him keenly behind that dark veil. ‘I wish to make clear the sequence of events last Saturday night. When you were all dining here.’

  ‘Is this relevant?’ Ambrose asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Ambrose waited for him to elaborate, but Brennan just looked at him with equanimity. ‘Very well.’

  ‘When I spoke with Mister Andrew Morris, he told me there were six of you for dinner.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Can you tell me how your brother was that night?’

  ‘How he was?’

  ‘Did he seem quite himself?’

  Prudence Morris spoke up, her voice thin and clear through the veil. ‘My husband was as much himself as he could be, considering the damaging effect the strike was having on his health.’

  That’s a bloody rich one! Brennan thought, keeping the ironic observation to himself. Instead he looked at Captain Bell, who was gazing at the widow with a wealth of compassion on his face. ‘Your husband was ill?’

  She shook her head. ‘As strong as an ox. No, Sergeant, perhaps I should have used the phrase “state of mind”. Forgive me. But he was very agitated, despite his public utterances to the contrary. And poor James didn’t help.’

  ‘James Cox?’

  ‘He broke a cardinal rule of dinner, Sergeant. Business should be discussed over port and cigars, not over a haunch of mutton.’

  Ambrose gave a heavy sigh and took up the story. ‘James Cox is suffering, like many others in the town. The danger of losing a quite lucrative contract. It tends to sour the most savoury of dishes.’

  Here he gave his sister-in-law a peevish glance before continuing.

  ‘So he and Arthur had, shall we say, an exchange of views? The whole thing was blown over of course – I threw onto the table a few scandalous little titbits from Westminster. Guaranteed to monopolise any conversation when you discover the many and various peccadilloes of the high and the mighty. It’s amazing how people seem to find such tittle-tattle of interest. Any rancour was quickly forgotten.’

  Prudence Morris coughed primly.

  ‘And at what stage did your nephew leave the dinner table, Mr Morris?’

  ‘After the Cabinet pudding, and before the Stilton, if you want exactitude.’

  ‘Was there a reason he left before the meal was finished?’

  Prudence Morris lifted a hand gently. ‘Andrew had found the conversation not to his taste. He was not in total agreement with his father over the unpleasantness in the mines, and he had some sympathy for James and his position. I suppose he could not in truth take sides. So he made his excuses and left.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘“To clear his head”, I think was the phrase he used.’

  ‘Despite the bitter cold, the snow?’

  ‘He is a grown man, Sergeant,’ Ambrose stated with ill humour.

  ‘I understand, sir. So, and then there was someone at the front door?’

  ‘We had finished our dinner and I went upstairs to select some fine Cubans. A rather splendid box of cigars I had purchased in London. Lewis’s, in St James Street.’

  ‘Admirable specimens!’ Captain Bell interjected. ‘I can vouch for ’em myself.’

  Brennan ignored the inconsequentiality of the comment. ‘Not a place I’m familiar with, sir.’

  ‘No? Sorry. Well, then there was that awful knocking at the door. I was halfway down the stairs and nearly dropped the whole box, it was so loud. Angry, you might say. I saw something flutter into the postal basket. It was an envelope. Grace – that’s the maid, Sergeant – came running out of the kitchen and immediately opened the door – the knocking had been quite excessive and I was about to give the perpetrator a piece of my mind. But when she swung the door open, there was no one there. I thought I saw someone, rather a large figure, crouching low and diving behind the bushes, but that could have been a shadow cast by the open door. Not something I could swear to.’

  ‘A large figure, you say?’

  ‘I couldn’t swear to it, Sergeant. The maid swore she saw it too. Perhaps she could give a better description than I can.’

  ‘That could well be your mysterious Cyclops!’ said the chief constable with a meaningful frown at his sergeant.

  ‘Cyclops?’ Ambrose Morris looked perplexed.

  Before Brennan could prevent him, Captain Bell went on. ‘We have a highly suspicious suspect, Ambrose. Highly suspicious, and a person we are actively seeking as we speak. Many of my men are scouring the town looking for him.’

  ‘Cyclops?’ said Prudence Morris, unconsciously putting a hand on her neck.

  Captain Bell had the decency to flush a rather deep scarlet. ‘I do apologise, ma’am,’ he said with a bowing of the head towards the bereaved widow. ‘A flippancy that was thoughtless. I was merely referring to a suspect who, we are reliably informed, is bereft of binocular normality.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s one-eyed,’ Brennan explained.

  Ambrose Morris’s mouth gaped open. ‘Is this a joke?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Brennan, inwardly cursing his superior.

  With a caustic glance at Captain Bell, Ambrose continued with his narrative. ‘Whoever delivered it must have moved quickly. I immediately sent one of the servants out to scour the bushes. These days it could have been anyone with a grudge against my brother. But there was no one. It was most puzzling. By that time, Arthur and James had come running from the smoking room, and Prudence and Agnes Cox had rushed from the dining room.’

  ‘I will need to speak with your servants, Mrs Morris.’

  She declined her head slightly. ‘Of course. Isaacs, our butler, will assist you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Our cook is Mrs Venner. Then Jane, our kitchen maid. A couple of scullery maids fresh from the workhouse. It is a very small domestic arrangement, Sergeant, but we value privacy over ostentation.’

  Brennan thought about the funeral. Hardly private and unostentatious. Through the veil, he thought he saw her eyes narrow, as if she had suddenly experienced a sharp stab of pain, and her hands gripped the sides of
the armchair tightly.

  Ambrose, who had also noticed the spasm, coughed with impatience. ‘My sister-in-law is not well, as you can see.’

  Captain Bell made to stand up, but sat down again when Brennan spoke once more.

  ‘I do apologise once more, ma’am. Just a few more questions and then we’ll be gone.’

  ‘Please,’ she said in a low whisper. ‘Continue.’

  ‘Tell me about the letter that dropped into the postal basket.’

  Ambrose thought for a while. ‘Nothing to tell, really. It was white, it had Arthur’s name on the front with no address. He opened it quickly and read the contents – a single sheet of paper. Naturally, I asked him what it said and he replied that it was a reminder of a meeting he had completely forgotten about.’

  ‘Hardly surprising,’ Prudence Morris added. ‘Considering.’

  Brennan turned to Mrs Morris. ‘Did you see the letter, ma’am?’

  ‘No. Not the contents at any rate.’

  ‘The envelope, then? Were you able to make out who it was addressed to?’

  ‘I may be infirm, Sergeant, but I am capable of recognising my own husband’s name.’

  He nodded and addressed Ambrose Morris once more. ‘So what happened next?’

  ‘My brother made hasty preparations to leave, and James and Agnes Cox decided it was best they should leave also. An unsatisfactory end to the evening.’

  ‘An unsatisfactory end to Arthur’s life,’ Prudence added with bitterness and, thought Brennan, more than a slight hint of displeasure at her brother-in-law’s insensitive comment.