Striking Murder

by AJ Wright

  ‘No, sir,’ Brennan replied hastily, underpinning his irony with alibi. ‘It’s just that Bridie Haggerty – she’s his mother – swears he was tucked up in bed alongside Molly herself.’

  Captain Bell frowned and sat back. ‘Mothers have been known to lie before.’

  ‘They have indeed.’

  Time to steer away from such nonsense, thought Brennan.

  ‘But there are some aspects of the case that interest me greatly. The note, for instance. I’ve been giving that note a lot of thought recently. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that …?’

  But before he could finish, the chief constable clapped his hands together and studied him closely. Brennan wondered if he were in receipt of another shaft of illumination.

  But then Captain Bell said, ‘What did you say the woman’s name was, Sergeant?’

  ‘Who? Bridie Haggerty?’

  ‘Yes. Now why is that name familiar? The first name I mean.’

  ‘She has no record, sir. Neither of them has. I checked.’

  An irritable shake of the head. ‘No, it isn’t that. I wonder …’ Then he leant forward, opened a drawer and took out a sheaf of writing paper. Then he prepared his pen and wrote a few sentences which he blotted before handing it to his sergeant.

  ‘What’s this, sir?’

  When he spoke, there was an air of triumph about the chief constable. ‘You indeed have my permission to return to the Morris residence, Sergeant. Please hand this note to Isaacs, the butler. It may turn out to be nothing, of course, but the name Bridie is a familiar one, made me think of someone by that name who worked there at one time. A maid of some sort, dishonourably discharged, as we would have described it in the army. Apparently she became the stuff of legend. I remember Arthur Morris regaling us one night with a parody of her dismissal. “Bridie’s Lament”, he called it. Very funny it was, too. See what Isaacs has to say about it, will you? If I’m right, then we have yet another motive for killing poor Arthur.’

  Brennan read the note and placed it in his pocket. It was only as he was leaving the station that he realised he hadn’t shared with his superior his musings about the letter found on Arthur Morris and the acrostic message it contained, or the idea the door knocker had given him.

  But the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that he was right.

  ‘Did you do as he asked?’

  Molly Haggerty looked around her nervously. There were several people in the Silver Grid on King Street, but they were mainly travellers who had just alighted from the LNWR station and were eager to cradle a hot cup of tea and allow the steam to remind them of warmer times, for outside the snow was once more falling thickly. None of them knew her.

  It was early afternoon, and she had told Mr Birch, the overlooker, that she thought she had a fever and didn’t feel very well at all. At the ominous word ‘fever’ he had ushered her out of the weaving room and warned her to stay away until she posed no danger to the others. The message the boy had brought her, from Andrew, had filled her with both relief that he was indeed safe, and fear – for she was desperate to learn of what took place at the colliery the previous night.

  Andrew looked at her and smiled, reaching out to clasp her hand. ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And you’re certain?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘He didn’t try to harm you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was so worried. And this morning, there’s been talk of another murder.’

  He creased his brow. ‘Who?’

  ‘Nobody knows. But there’s been a lot of rumours. They say whoever it was was found in the canal.’

  ‘You mean on top of it. The canal’s frozen solid.’

  He had tried to make his voice sound light, but somehow, in the subdued atmosphere of the Silver Grid, with the windows half covered by a curvature of freezing snow, it sounded false.

  Molly changed the subject. ‘When does he want the money?’

  He patted his inside pocket. ‘I’m to meet him later.’

  ‘Were you afraid of him?’

  He shook his head. ‘If it means we can carry on, I’d face Medusa herself.’

  ‘Who’s she?’ she asked with more than a hint of jealousy.

  ‘Oh, you needn’t worry about her.’

  He gazed at her for a while, no words passing between them, and then he said, ‘In a way, what Latchford has done has only worked to speed things up. I wanted to ask what you thought before I did anything.’

  ‘What is it?’

  He lowered his voice even more, so that now he spoke with a whisper. ‘Giving him money is only delaying the inevitable. Soon, everyone will know about us.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And when they do, it’ll be impossible for you to stay in Scholes.’

  ‘What are you sayin’?’

  ‘I’m asking if you’ll let me paint your portrait.’

  She looked at him dumbly, and wondered briefly if Frank Latchford had after all struck him a blow on the head.

  He gave a short laugh. ‘I want to paint you sitting by the ice watching the skaters.’

  She too laughed at that. ‘Where? The canal?’

  ‘No. Central Park.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘New York.’

  Bridie looked at her daughter with astonishment, horror and, if she were honest, just a tiny sliver of envy.

  ‘He can’t be serious about this?’

  ‘He is, Mam.’

  Such a momentous topic would have been impossible for Molly to keep contained, and she sat on the threadbare carpet, resting her arms on her mother’s knees, the glimmer of an impossible future in the United States of America shining in her eyes. She saw the intricate artwork of ice on the windowpanes and, beyond the glass, sharp needles of snow caught in slanted waves before vanishing into the afternoon gloom.

  ‘He strikes me as a very impetuous sort o’ fellow.’

  ‘He’s an artist, Mam. They feel things differently.’

  ‘He’s also the son of Arthur Morris, child. He has responsibilities.’

  Molly’s voice rose a little, and Bridie realised that despite her grand age of nineteen, she was still a naïve and very trusting wee girl.

  ‘He says his uncle will run things.’

  ‘His uncle is the town’s MP. D’ye know how much work that involves?’

  ‘He could give it up.’

  ‘Aye, he could.’ She leant forward and stroked Molly’s dark, flowing hair. ‘Ye know, we almost lost you, when you were born.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘“Touch and go,” the doctor said. Well I touched you an’ I wouldn’t let go. I nursed you and held you and felt your tiny wee heartbeat. I even counted the beats, sayin’ to meself, if she gets to fifty beats, she’ll be fine. An’ then a hundred, an’ two hundred … You know how hard I prayed? Sure I never stopped. An’ if you pray for somethin’ long an’ hard enough, it’ll come true.’

  She gave a long, heavy sigh and glanced over at little Tommy, who was asleep in his dad’s armchair and still holding the wooden boat Seamus had carved out for him a long time ago. She frowned a little when she saw the right side of his face catch the meagre heat from the glowing coals in the grate. She wouldn’t disturb him. Not much chance of a burn rash with the flames having long since died down.

  ‘But America, child? Sure I’d never see you again.’

  ‘’Course you would.’

  Bridie shook her head and pointed to Tommy. ‘No, an’ ye’d never see that wee fella either.’

  But Molly was single-minded that night. ‘I wish you could meet him, Mam.’

  Bridie swallowed hard. Perhaps it was time to tell her after all. ‘Oh, I’ve met young Andrew Morris, child.’

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘About nineteen years ago.’

  She sat upright and gazed at her mother with a curious amusement in her eyes. ‘Mam?’

  ‘I used to work for the Morrises.’

&n
bsp; ‘Work?’

  ‘I was a maid. Only young, an’ fresh from the oul’ country.’

  ‘But you never said.’

  ‘No.’

  She lowered her voice and once more glanced across at Tommy, whose expression held all the serenity of sleep.

  ‘Only worked there a short while. And young master Andrew was a mere child. Three, four years old.’

  ‘You knew him then?’

  ‘Oh I didn’t have much dealings with him. He had a governess. Very grand, d’ye see?’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘He was a child, an’ all childer are special, now, aren’t they?’

  ‘I’d love to see inside that house. Where he grew up. Though there’s as much chance of that happenin’ as …’ her voice trailed off into the world of thwarted fantasy for a while. ‘It must’ve been good, workin’ in such a lovely place.’

  ‘No, child. It wasn’t good at all.’

  There was a gentle crunching sound as some of the ash-frosted coals shifted and dropped through the iron grate into the pan below.

  ‘Why not?’

  Bridie glanced once more at young Tommy, still sleeping. She took a deep sigh, and then told her daughter what had happened to her all those years ago.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was Constable Jaggery’s first visit to the Morris residence, and, despite the thickly falling snow that had forced the cabbie to stop half a mile before his destination, pointing to the steam from the horse and the deep snow ahead of them as evidence, he was impressed when he stood on the front steps and took in the size of the place.

  ‘Makes my little ’ouse favver a matchbox, Sergeant,’ he said.

  ‘The rewards of capital, Constable. Now, if you please, tell me what you notice about that door knocker.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Has the cold affected your ears?’

  He shrugged and gazed at the object for a while. ‘Looks like a pitman’s lamp.’

  ‘A Davy lamp. Well spotted. Anything else?’

  What had got into the man? Jaggery thought, blowing out a billowing cloud breath just to emphasise how cold it was out here. What the bloody hell did it matter what the door knocker looked like?

  ‘It’s brass.’

  ‘Good. Now lift it and knock on the door. It’s what it’s there for.’

  Jaggery did as he was told. He blinked as the heavy sound echoed throughout the house.

  ‘Makes a noise, doesn’t it, Constable?’

  ‘Bugger of a racket, Sergeant.’

  The butler Isaacs opened the door and gave a look of mild surprise when he saw Brennan.

  ‘Remember me, Isaacs?’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  ‘Good. This hulk of a fellow is Constable Jaggery. Is Master Andrew at home?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. He went out this morning and has yet to return.’

  ‘I see. Then I may as well speak with the lady of the house first.’

  He made to step in, but Isaacs pulled the door half shut.

  ‘I’ll see if madam is at home.’

  Jaggery, who had taken an instant dislike to the fellow, gave a raw laugh. ‘Call yourself a butler an’ you don’t know if the missus is in? Need to look at yourself, lad.’

  As a ploy to gain entry it failed miserably, for the door was immediately slammed shut in their faces.

  It was another five minutes before they gained admittance.

  As Isaacs was leading the way to the drawing room, Brennan, his teeth still chattering, tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Before we see the mistress, Isaacs.’

  The butler turned round with a quick glance at his shoulder to see if the policeman’s finger had left any residue. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I have a note for you, from Captain Bell himself.’

  Isaacs looked confused. He took the proffered note and, without looking at it, placed it carefully in his pocket. Duty before curiosity, Brennan reflected.

  ‘I will, of course, need to speak to you later about it.’

  ‘Of course, sir. This way, please.’

  Within minutes they were seated, not in the more comfortable armchairs that flanked the hearth, but on high-backed library chairs, whose leather upholstery was firm rather than welcoming. Prudence Morris was once more dressed from head-to-toe in mourning, although this time her face wasn’t hidden beneath her veil, which was folded back on her head. She sat in one of the armchairs facing them. A blazing fire roared lustily in the grate, its dancing flames reflected in the polished rosewood of the upright Steinway, its upper frame and ornate fretwork concealed beneath a black mourning drape.

  Once again, Brennan was struck by the expression of pain on her face – not the passive suffering of grief bravely borne, but almost a sense of chronic physical pain. He recalled the rheumatism the maid Grace – and her acolyte Captain Bell – told him of, and her proud independence in dealing with it herself. He imagined he could detect a faint whiff of the arnica she regularly applied, and felt sorry for the woman, coping as she did with not just the grief of loss but the misery of a constant pain.

  ‘Now, Sergeant, what is this all about?’ Her voice was thin, but there was control there, too.

  She’s strong, thought Brennan.

  ‘I need to ask a few more questions, ma’am. I really do apologise, but …’

  ‘Please. Continue.’

  ‘The night of the dinner party. You were in the dining room when the knocking was heard?’

  ‘As I told you before.’

  ‘So then you heard the knocking? It was done with some force, I gather.’

  ‘Indeed. It sounded like a madman.’

  ‘He used his fists, I gather.’

  ‘Yes. A sign of an uncouth creature who cannot be bothered to use the conventional means.’

  ‘It is a heavy door knocker. A small child, for instance, would be unable to lift it.’

  ‘It isn’t meant for small children.’

  ‘No. Of course not. Tell me, after your husband left, what happened then?’

  ‘The events haven’t changed since I last told you.’ She gave an impatient sigh, but went on. ‘The Coxes left at the same time. The dinner party was quite ruined by the intrusion. My brother-in-law made some attempt to salvage the evening by offering to share some more of his Westminster tales, but I have little interest in the foibles of great men, Sergeant. So I retired for the night.’

  ‘And your brother-in-law?’

  ‘Fell asleep in the smoking room and had to be woken by Isaacs. Though whether the sleep was induced by tiredness or brandy is a moot point.’ She spoke sharply, her dislike of Ambrose Morris barely concealed.

  What has he done to displease her so? Brennan wondered once more, then cast the thought aside. Families bring their own tortures, he mused, recalling briefly the rows he had heard between his father and two brothers when they had declared their intention of taking a job down the pit. The months of gruff silences were followed by the relief he felt at Christmas when the three of them rolled in drunk and singing and declaring undying love for all the Brennans in the entire world.

  ‘Do you know of a man named Bragg, Mrs Morris?’

  She frowned at the name. ‘Bragg? Who is he?’

  ‘Just someone who may have been known to your late husband. Then again, he may not.’

  ‘And why would Arthur have any dealings with this man?’

  ‘I was hoping you would be able to tell me.’

  She gazed into the flames. ‘If it were business then I wouldn’t be consulted. I’m sorry. The name and the man mean nothing to me. Is there a reason they should?’

  Brennan hesitated. He shied away from the field of speculation. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘Well? Is there anything else?’

  Before he could answer, he heard the front door slam shut.

  ‘That will be my son. He is kept quite busy now that my husband … and I barely see him.’

  ‘This dispute has caused so much
pain,’ Brennan said.

  ‘Yes. Yes, it has. Now if you will excuse me, I shall tell Andrew you await his pleasure.’

  She stood up, not without difficulty, and walked stiffly to the door. Both men stood and Jaggery went to hold the door open. With a curt bow, the widow exited.

  They heard some quiet murmuring in the hallway, then the doors opened and Andrew Morris walked in, giving the two policemen a curt nod. His face was flushed with the cold and he moved quickly to the roaring fire, where he bent low and warmed his hands close to the flames.

  ‘My mother used to warn me against that,’ said Brennan.

  Andrew, still bent low, turned his head. ‘What?’

  ‘Warming my hands after being out in the snow. Said it causes chilblains. Something about the alternation of cold and heat.’

  ‘And my nurse told me the same condition is aroused by the wearing of sleeping socks. Conflicting advice, Sergeant Brennan.’

  ‘Quite, sir.’

  ‘Now, I take it there’s a purpose to the visit? Mother told me you were here to ask yet more questions.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Andrew stood up and, instead of sitting down, walked over to the Steinway and lifted the mourning drape before exposing the keys. Then he touched several in a slow, meandering collection of notes. ‘We only recently had the hammer heads renewed. And the dampers and leathers replaced. It’s almost angelic in its clarity now, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do you play the piano, Sergeant?’

  Brennan heard Jaggery cough. ‘Alas, no.’

  ‘You should learn. I find it almost as soothing as painting. Though nowhere near as productive. With the piano I merely emulate the work of others. With painting, I’m a god.’

  Again, Jaggery coughed. Brennan made a mental note to remind his constable that a cough was no indicator of subtlety.

  ‘I understand. But I must press on.’

  ‘Of course.’

  While Brennan spoke, Andrew played a series of notes, a melancholy counterpoint to the sombre words in the room.

  ‘Do you know of a man named Bragg?’

  Andrew seemed to hesitate before the next note. ‘Should I?’

  ‘I have no idea.’