by AJ Wright
Furthermore, the first policeman to arrive on the scene, Constable Davies, had shown sufficient presence of mind to ensure the surrounding area be kept clear of any interference. With his bullseye lamp, he had even spotted a few footprints embedded deep in the crusted and frozen snow that lay near the edge of the canal bank alongside the gunwale, footprints of varying sizes and impressions. He was quite pleased when Sergeant Brennan praised his foresight, although he spoilt it somewhat by adding, ‘We’ll make a policeman of you yet, lad.’
Before he did anything else, Brennan sent Constable Davies back into town, giving him the address of a monumental sculptor and instructions to bring him to the scene of the crime with all haste, making sure he brought with him a plentiful supply of plaster of Paris and all the necessary paraphernalia to make a cast of the footprints before the snow returned, thus wiping out any hope of an impression of the footwear. He gave orders to a second constable to find as many pieces of wood or metal he could to cover the footprints just in case the snow began to fall again.
Careful now to avoid the possibly incriminating footprints, he stepped gingerly across the ice, conscious of the cold, dark waters that lay beneath its surface. When he reached the body, he stooped and held a lamp close to the man’s head. The man had been bludgeoned to death from behind. A dark crust of blood had already formed around the base of the skull, and his eyes were open, as if death had been so instantaneous he didn’t even have time to close them. Brennan remembered something his grandmother – a superstitious old devil from the old country – had told him when he was around seven years old.
When ye die, Micky, sure it’s said that the last thing ye see on God’s good earth is stamped on your eyes forever. Like one o’ these photograph things. So you make sure ye’re beside a statue of one of the holy saints when ye breathe yer last. That’s a heavenly image to take with ye, now!
Wouldn’t it be a boon to detection if such an image were imprinted on a victim’s pupils!
The murder weapon – a heavy iron windlass, used for turning the canal lock gates – lay a few feet away, still glistening with blood. Jaggery stood above it, illuminating its sinister presence with the oil lamp he had found inside the boat’s cabin.
With a sigh, Brennan brought the lamp closer to the dead man’s face. He didn’t recognise him, guessing his age at anything from thirty to forty. He was quite small – around five foot five – and his clothes seemed smart: dark checked suit with a brown cravat and polished boots. He wondered what had brought him to such an ignominious end.
A few minutes later, Brennan stood inside the canal boat and looked around. The small cabin was bathed in shadows. Jaggery was holding his lamp aloft, moving it round in a slow arc to show the gloomy details of its interior.
The cabin was, he had to admit, a testament to man’s ingenuity in finding a place for everything. The stove took centre stage, but around it in a tiny curve was a low padded bench. Above the bench a narrow ledge ran the length of the makeshift cabin, a home for all manner of ornaments and illuminated prints depicting sturdy horses and an array of impossibly colourful boats. One framed print, smaller than the rest but taking pride of place in the centre of the others, showed a profile of the Duke of Bridgewater, with the legend ‘Father of the Canals’ etched along the bottom. Mugs, plates, and several items of cutlery lay on the tiny table stretching out from the stove.
‘There!’
Brennan held up a hand to stop Jaggery’s slow movement of the lamp. He pointed down to the small slender table. As the light from the lamp grew brighter, he could make out a thick splattering of blood that coated not only the surface of the table but also the small plates that rested there. He was surprised that none of the contents of the table had been disturbed. No struggle, then. The victim – and according to the bargee who found the body his name was Bragg – must have known his assailant, or been completely taken by surprise so that he had no chance to defend himself.
‘Seems a bit of a simple sort, don’t he?’ Jaggery said with a nod in the direction of the window.
Through its murky narrow pane, they could see two more constables standing on the canal bank, while between them Josiah Sweet, a heavy greatcoat wrapped around his shoulders, sat on the edge of the canal staring at the iced surface and its gruesome contents, its cracked and ridged fretwork turned a murky grey by the pale moon. He was swinging his legs, kicking his heels against the crumbling stonework of the bank, and his head was bowed low, swaying from time to time to the rhythm of an imagined melody.
‘Simple or not, he has some questions that need answering,’ Brennan replied. ‘I want to know everything he can tell me about our friend here. Everything.’
It seemed an interminable length of time before Constable Davies returned with a surly-looking individual, tall and unusually thin, who carried what looked like a large canvas bag.
‘Jonathan Crombie, Sergeant,’ the young constable said by way of introduction, but the tone of his voice suggested the newcomer was a man with an axe to grind.
‘You’re the sculptor, then?’ Brennan asked, extending a hand and leaving it in mid-air, unshaken.
‘Monumental sculptor,’ came the reedy response. ‘Dealing in Sicilian marble and Scottish granite,’ he said with a flourish, then added, ‘not dead bodies. They’re normally all tucked up nice and warm in a coffin when I get to work.’
‘I’m not asking you to have anything to do with a dead body,’ Brennan snapped. His tone was surprisingly sharp, bordering on intolerant. ‘I’m simply asking you to make a few plaster casts.’
With a grunt, Mr Crombie held up his canvas bag. ‘Where?’
Brennan escorted him over to the stretch of land near the edge of the canal bank.
With Jaggery standing there holding the lamp – I felt more like a bloody street lamp than an officer of the law, he later moaned – the monumental sculptor adopted a businesslike air. ‘I need water,’ he said briskly, and Brennan gave orders to one of the constables standing beside Josiah Sweet.
Over the next few minutes, as he gathered together the materials he needed, Crombie provided a commentary on his work.
‘This is snow,’ he said, rather unnecessarily. ‘And though it’s frozen I need to act fast. As you can see, I’m pouring the plaster into the water container gradually. Two minutes stirring should do the trick. You’ll notice I’m adding salt. This will encourage a more rapid hardening. There. That should do it.’
Thus he moved from footprint to footprint, adding an initial pouring of plaster before inserting a length of twisted rope ‘to get the cast out,’ he explained, then filling the impression to the brim until each one had been treated. ‘Now we wait,’ he said, standing up and wiping his hands, glistening with wet plaster, on a thick cloth.
While he was thus engaged, Brennan moved back to the cabin and gave orders for the boat’s owner to be brought to him.
Josiah Sweet had begged not to be taken down to the police station. There was genuine terror in his eyes at the thought of being placed in a cell or an interview room. Buildings didn’t do for him, he explained pitifully, not when he’d spent most of his life in a canal boat measuring sixty foot long and fourteen foot wide. Why, whenever he set foot in a public house or a shop, he would look at all that empty space above his head, space stretching all the way to a ceiling. It didn’t make sense. And churches! They were the worst of all, they were. Who on earth needed all that openness? It was impossible to reach up and stroke the ceiling, even with the tallest ladder, and he loved to do that on the Wellington, just stretch out his arms and press them flat against the wooden curves of the cabin.
‘No need to take you down into town, as long as you answer my questions truthfully,’ Brennan stated firmly. He noted the relief on the boatman’s face. ‘You’ve known the victim how long?’
‘Months. He’s me friend.’
Brennan knew that some of that, at least, was a lie. Josiah Sweet was a simple enough fellow – five minutes in his com
pany would tell anyone that – but there was an innate deviousness in his eyes, a symptom both of mistrust and being mistrusted, that told him that whatever the nature of their relationship, it certainly wasn’t based on friendship.
‘Where is he from?’
Josiah frowned. ‘Manchester, I reckon. Talked about Manchester a lot any road. Said I should moor up there next year when they open the Ship Canal. Told me he’d make me rich.’
‘What was he doing on your boat?’
‘Told you. Visitin’.’
‘In this weather?’
‘Aye.’
‘And how long had he been staying with you on your boat?’
‘Didn’t say ’e ’ad.’ Josiah held one hand in the other tightly, as if it were a bird ready to spread its wings and fly away. ‘Didn’t say ’e ’adn’t, neither.’ A stern look from Brennan made him lower his eyes. ‘A week or so, that’s all.’
‘You say he’d asked you to make yourself scarce?’
‘What?’
‘He asked you to leave him alone for a while.’
‘Aye.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘Said he were expectin’ a guest.’ He almost spat out the word.
‘Name?’
Josiah gave a derisory snort.
‘But he wanted you off the boat at five o’clock?’
‘Aye.’
Although there was nothing to connect the murders of Morris and Bragg, the fact that this latest victim came from Manchester, and the one-eyed man they were looking for spoke with an accent ‘not from round here’ according to Latchford, gave Brennan a vague feeling that there was a link.
‘Did Mr Bragg ever bring a one-eyed man with him?’
Unexpectedly, Josiah began to giggle.
‘Something funny?’
‘What you said.’ Josiah saw the annoyed expression on the policeman’s face and immediately pursed his lips.
‘What did I say?’
‘Mr Bragg bringin’ a one-eyed man wi’ ’im. That’d be impossible.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cos it were ’im. Mr Bragg was the one-eyed man.’
Brennan sighed. ‘And I could’ve sworn he had two when I saw him a few minutes ago.’
‘Oh aye. He had two right enough. Only when he left ’ere ’e’d put a patch round his eye. Thought it bloody daft meself.’
Brennan thought about that for a second or two then resumed his questioning.
‘And you got back at ten?’
‘He’d said till closin’. Gave me some money for a few pints. I went to t’Star.’
‘Anybody see you in there?’
Josiah smiled at what he thought was a ridiculous question. ‘’Course they did. They all know Joss.’
‘Tell me what happened when you found the body.’
He sighed. ‘I thought Bragg’d gone out. ’E ’as habit o’ doin’ that. Lamp weren’t lit. Cabin were in darkness. So I walks in an’ reaches up for t’lamp only it’s not there where it should be. I reaches forward thinkin’ Bragg’d left it on t’table. Wouldn’t a bin t’first time. But it weren’t there, so I fumbled around for a bit till I found t’matches. I allus keep ’em in yon cupboard. Keeps ’em dry, see? Things get damp on boats. Any road, when I lit one, I could see he weren’t ’ere. Then I looks outside an’ sees ’im lied there on th’ice, arms an’ legs all sprawled to buggery. Even then I thought, evil bugger’s drunk. Dead drunk.’ He laughed out loud. ‘I were half right any road, eh, Sergeant?’
Brennan gave a weak smile of acknowledgement. ‘Go on.’
‘I went out, slitherin’ all over t’show, but I knew ’e was a goner before I reached ’im. So I ran back to t’pub an’ they sent someone down to you lot.’
‘When you got back to the boat – the first time – did you see anyone on your way back from the pub?’
‘No. Not a soul.’
‘Did Mr Bragg ever speak of why he was … staying with you?’
Another slow shake of the head. ‘Just said ’e ’ad a job on.’
Josiah then screwed up his face and slammed his eyes shut, and Brennan thought at first he was in great and sudden pain. But then he opened his eyes once more and said, almost shouting, ‘I remembered summat else!’
‘Go on.’
‘Aye! We were sat there in t’cabin an’ we’d ’ad a few drinks an’ ’e turns to me an’ says, “You know what, Joss, old pal?” An’ I says, “What?” An’ he says, “When sinners need to pay, it’s me they pay”.’
‘Sinners pay? What did he mean by that?’
Josiah shrugged. ‘But it’s what I remember,’ he said proudly. ‘An’ you asked for everythin’.’
‘Where are his belongings?’
Josiah pointed towards a small cupboard below the windows. ‘Didn’t ’ave much.’
Brennan bent down and extracted a small valise that had seen better days. He took a quick glance inside – a shirt, a few toilet necessities and a notebook. He flipped open the pages, hoping to find a list of addresses, dates, names of contacts, all the literary paraphernalia one would expect to find in such a book – but, apart from the single word Bragg on the inside cover in elaborate script, there was nothing. Another dead end.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The first thing Andrew Morris did that morning was to make an appointment at the bank. The meeting the previous evening with Frank Latchford and his associate had taken a completely unexpected turn, and what he was being asked to do was nothing short of blackmail. Yet he had little choice but to agree, and so he made the journey into town ready to put things into motion.
It was lunchtime, and Brennan was on his way out of the station with a warming vision in mind of a beef and onion pie and a pint of best bitter, a quiet corner of the Crofter’s and half an hour’s uninterrupted solitude in which he would make an attempt to piece together several elements of the two murders.
But he only managed to reach the front desk when Captain Bell’s voice echoed down the corridor.
‘Sergeant Brennan? Perhaps you would be so kind …’
A minute later he was sitting opposite the chief constable, food and drink consigned to unsatiated memory.
‘Is there a connection between the two murders?’
‘The victim had a habit of wearing an eyepatch. I’m sure they’re linked.’
‘From Manchester, you say?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Captain Bell leant back in his chair and eyed Brennan for a good few seconds. Then he said, ‘When I was in India, the grey-headed crow was a pest, did you know that?’
‘I don’t think I did, sir.’
‘It got everywhere. Walls. Alleys. Temple courts. And prying into everything. No matter how many times it was shooed away the blighter always came back, never letting go until he found something of value, then he’d fly off and devour it.’
‘Really?’
Brennan tried not to sigh. The chief constable had a very heavy hand as far as symbolism was concerned.
‘But then there was the ubiquitous cow, slow and lazy but always giving the impression it was ruminating deeply about something. Which one are you, Sergeant? A prying crow – or a ruminating cow?’
‘I rather think a mixture of both, sir.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Well, at the risk of incurring your displeasure, I would like to speak to Andrew Morris again.’
‘Why?’
‘The one-eyed man was, we know, making enquiries about Andrew Morris’s relationship with young Molly Haggerty.’
The chief constable raised an eyebrow. ‘What did you say?’
‘A young woman from Scholes.’
‘A relationship?’
‘Exactly so, sir. I have spoken to them both. They admit it.’
‘Did his father know of this?’
‘He told me that somehow his father had found out about them.’
‘And she lives in Scholes, you say?’
‘Yes. With her mother
and brother.’
‘No father, eh?’
‘Killed down the mine, sir. The explosion five years ago. At the Morris pit.’
Captain Bell’s eyes opened wide. ‘Two motives for the price of one then.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Many of the miners and their families blamed poor Arthur for that accident. That’s motive number one, isn’t it? Then when Arthur mysteriously appeared in Scholes, this Haggerty girl had the perfect opportunity to end his opposition to the match, didn’t she?’
‘As did Andrew Morris.’
‘What?’
‘He and Molly had been … together on the Saturday night. He drove her by carriage back to Scholes late at night. It meant they were both in the area when the murder was done.’
‘You aren’t seriously suggesting young Andrew killed his own father because he opposed a blatantly obvious mismatch? Preposterous.’
Brennan shrugged.
‘So,’ Captain Bell leant forward and pressed a bony finger on the table, ‘where does all this leave us?’
‘We know that this Bragg fellow made sure the boat’s owner, Sweet, was out of the way from five o’clock. He’d obviously arranged to meet someone. I’d like to know who that someone was.’
The chief constable’s eyes lit up as an inspired thought hit him.
‘This Molly character has a brother, you say. Surely he has an equally strong motive? And he could have written that dastardly note that was found on the body.’
‘Well yes, sir, but …’
‘But me no buts, Sergeant! Never underestimate the force of a sibling’s anger, his sense of protection, his desire for revenge on the man who upsets his sister and thwarts her chance of happiness.’
‘All quite true, sir, but for one thing.’
‘What?’
‘The brother’s only ten years old. And the murder of Arthur Morris was long past his bedtime.’
The chief constable slammed his fist down once more. ‘Are you taking a rise out of me, Sergeant?’
