by AJ Wright
‘Women like that have long memories, Sergeant. And Constable Jaggery tells me she had some outrageous notion that Arthur Morris was intending to blackmail her.’
They reached the dark, narrow corridor that was flanked on both sides by heavy wooden doors inlaid with small iron grilles.
‘And her husband was killed in the explosion five years ago. There were some in this town who had the audacity to blame poor Morris. I’m sure she was in the vanguard.’
‘So she waited five years before gaining her revenge?’
‘They are patient, insidious creatures, sometimes. Never be fooled by feminine submissiveness.’
‘But sir, I really think …’
‘Tell me, Sergeant, how many motives does one need to present a solid prosecution? The woman has motives coming out of her ears!’
Captain Bell stopped outside the furthest cell from the stairway. A constable was standing behind a small table, the newspaper he was reading before the sound of their approach carefully tucked beneath his chair.
‘If you will be so kind, Constable Davies.’
The constable took out a large bunch of keys and unlocked the cell door.
Captain Bell abjured seniority and allowed his sergeant to enter first. Bridie Haggerty was kneeling by the small aperture that lay high in the outer wall, through which a shaft of grey light filtered through from the pavement above, and was praying fervently with eyes tightly closed.
‘I’ll leave you to do your job, Sergeant.’
With this implied rebuke hanging in the cold, damp air of the cell, he closed the door quickly and left.
Brennan stood there for a full minute, unwilling to interrupt the poor woman at prayer. It was likely to be her sole comfort for a while yet, until he could at least give a display of carrying out the chief constable’s orders. Only then would he be able even to attempt to have her released. If necessary, he thought, he would swear on oath that the attack with a poker was nothing more than an accident caused mainly by his reckless and sudden movement in the small front room, and any testimony to the contrary given by the sole witness would be dismissed as – to echo Captain Bell himself – ‘bovine inexactitude’.
‘This wasn’t my doing,’ he said when she had finished with the sign of the cross.
Bridie said nothing but moved to the wooden slab that was firmly attached to the left-hand wall. She sat down slowly and gazed at the floor. A rat suddenly scurried out from beneath the makeshift bed and disappeared through a gap in the opposite wall. The only reaction from Bridie was a wry smile.
‘Don’t worry. You’ll be out soon enough.’
‘They didn’t even give me time to sort my wee Tommy out.’
‘I’ll send someone round to make sure …’
‘Don’t bother yerself. It’s what neighbours are for.’
Instead of taking up an interrogative stance opposite her and glowering down with stern authority, which would be his usual method, he sat beside her and leant forward. She shifted her position slightly, a physical sign of her displeasure.
‘Sometimes the chief constable can be a pain in the arse,’ he said in a low voice.
She turned and looked at him curiously.
‘I know you had nothing to do with Arthur Morris’s death, Bridie.’
She shrugged her shoulders, then looked away.
‘Just as I know you had nothing to do with the second murder.’
‘The man on the boat?’
‘Yes. But if you hadn’t been so cruelly dragged here, I would have been paying you another visit.’
‘Why?’
‘To ask you more about the time you worked for Arthur Morris.’
‘It was a lifetime ago. I was just a young colleen, green as Ireland.’
‘Something you told me struck me as interesting. You said Arthur Morris had a temper, and you’d seen him act violently towards his wife, Prudence.’
‘So?’
‘What happened that time you saw him?’
‘Sure I can’t remember. Not really.’
‘Anything you can think of.’
She sat there for a while, watching the rat which emerged from the wall opposite and scurried back beneath the wooden bed.
‘I’d been told to go to the nursery. Master Andrew had been ill and had been eating his food either in his room or in the nursery. I was taking a tray of food …’ she broke off and shook her head.
‘What is it?’
‘Jesus, Sergeant. To think that sickly wee thing would grow up to … Molly thinks she loves him. But Frank Latchford has the measure of the man, I reckon. At least he’s makin’ him pay to …’ she immediately looked down, as if she could have bitten her tongue.
Brennan recalled what Andrew Morris had told him. He scrutinised her for a while, then returned to his original line of questioning. ‘Please go on.’
‘There’s not much more. I was going past the master bedroom, an’ the door was open. I heard a short scream, y’know, like when you hurt yerself? An’ I saw the master grippin’ her arm, an’ his face was purple.’
‘Did he say anythin’?’
‘He said somethin’ but it was like a whisper through gritted teeth. I couldn’t stay any longer because Mister Ambrose – he’d been in the nursery lookin’ in on his nephew – came out to see where I was with the food an’ he gave me a right shallickin’ for lettin’ the food go cold, though I’d hardly been there more than a minute.’
‘You never saw a recurrence?’
‘What?’
‘Did you see him do it again? Assault his wife?’
‘No. But the way she just stood there reminded me of a dog used to the boot. D’ye know what I mean?’
Brennan, who had seen too many examples of husbands abusing their wives in the vilest of ways, nodded. It always struck him as odd that some of these women, victims of the cruellest brutality, would steadfastly refuse to give evidence, as if their spouse would by some miracle learn the error of his ways.
‘Did he ever treat you in such a way? Apart from the time he met you in the park and threatened you?’
‘I’ve always been taught to look after meself, Sergeant Brennan. An’ if he’d raised a finger against me he’d have got the same treatment as the swine Cox did.’ Her face darkened at the mention of James Cox. ‘But I’ll tell you summat. Back then, those two were as thick as thieves.’
‘Arthur Morris and James Cox?’
‘Aye. Money sticks wi’ money. It’s the way of the world, right enough.’
When he got to the door of the cell, he was surprised to see tears in her eyes. ‘What is it, Bridie? What’s troubling you?’
She was on the verge of saying something, but then whatever it was remained unspoken, and she lowered her head once more.
He left the prisoner with her melancholy reflections, and sought out the traitor in his camp.
He thought first about going in to see Captain Bell and tell him that the woman downstairs might justly claim to be the victim of wrongful arrest, but he decided he had better assemble his thoughts more rationally if he were to arrange for Bridie to be released. Besides, he had a score to settle with the bovine inadequate who would now be skulking in a corner of the canteen nursing a steaming hot mug of tea and a grievance.
Sure enough, Jaggery was in the canteen, but he was sitting erect, facing the doorway, and appearing for all the world to be looking forward to the tongue-lashing he must surely expect. Four or five others were watching a couple of the older constables playing snooker, lounging with their top buttons undone, talking in desultory fashion and, apart from giving Brennan a subservient nod, showed no other sense of the fusillade he was about to fire.
Is the fellow truly a fool? Brennan wondered as he saw the confident look on Jaggery’s face. He prepared to unleash his broadside.
But as he approached the table where he was sitting, it was Jaggery who spoke first.
‘Before you begin, Sergeant, I had no choice. Old Ding-Dong had
me in a corner.’
‘That’ll be nothing compared to what …’
‘But I’ve been doin’ a bit of detectin’ on me own, like.’
‘What?’
By way of an answer, he produced a notebook from his pocket as if it were a rabbit from a top hat. Brennan recognised it as the one he had found in Bragg’s valise on the boat.
‘Bragg’s notebook?’
‘The very same.’
‘There’s nothing in it but his name.’
‘Aye.’
‘And you’ve detected that, have you?’
Jaggery leant forward and invited him to sit down. With gritted teeth, Brennan did as his constable asked.
‘I have a confession, Sergeant.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘When we brought this stuff to the station last night, did you or did you not say that the contents of the valise could be burnt?’
‘I did. A shirt and a few bars of soap, a flannel and that.’
‘Aye, well, I have a little ’un at home likes drawin’.’
Brennan saw at once. ‘So you took the notebook instead of burning it?’
‘I did.’
‘And I presume you found something inside it that I’d missed? Some incriminating words scrawled in invisible ink?’
‘No, Sergeant.’
He was beginning to seethe once more.
‘But my lad’s learnin’ how to write. So he copies the name inside – Bragg – over and over again till he fills a couple of pages. An’ I’m showin’ him where he’s goin’ wrong, like.’
‘Well?’
‘But he’s a good copier, see? Missus reckons he’ll work with his head, not his hands, when he’s all growed up. Any road, it’s when he’s writin’ his letter r, with a little squiggle on the end like it’s curlin’ up, see?’ He opened the notebook and showed him the endless column of ‘Bragg’s in a childish scrawl. All of them with an upturn at the end of the r. Then Jaggery turned back to the original name on the inside cover and showed him the same characteristic. ‘I’d seen that somewhere before, Sergeant. And guess where it was?’
Brennan blinked at the name again. Then he stood up, quickly left the canteen and returned within a minute, holding in his hand the letter and envelope that were found on the body of Arthur Morris. He sat down and placed the notebook, the letter and the envelope all together in a line.
A. Morris …
Strike causes hell – O Lord end suffrin
Or die …
Bragg …
Why hadn’t he seen it on the boat? His only excuse would be the dim lighting, although even as the thought struck him he dismissed it. He should have checked it. But it was clear as day now. The letter r was identically formed in all three locations.
Which meant that the letter Morris received was written by Bragg.
‘Am I right, Sergeant?’
Brennan, all thoughts of bovine strangulation forgotten, looked up and uttered what sounded like a symphony to Constable Jaggery’s ears.
‘Good work, Constable. You’ve done well.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘You intend to do what?’
Prudence Morris stood at the foot of the garden looking across the valley towards the straggling maze of pit houses in the distance. They had looked so pretty with their white rooftops all in a row, thin straggles of smoke curling into the grey sky. The all-too-brief glimpse of blue had long since gone from the sky, and heavy snow clouds had drifted overhead, cumbersome and menacing in the stillness they brought.
She was wearing a thick black coat trimmed with fur, a mourning bonnet fastened with ribbon that partially concealed the string of black beads around her neck, delicately carved and made of Whitby Jet. Despite the snow which had begun to fall half an hour earlier, she had insisted on Andrew taking her around the outside of the house and along the meandering pathways that led ultimately to the rear garden and its domineering aspect. She had been inside interminably, she had argued when he demurred, and besides her rheumatism was showing signs of abating.
Finally he had agreed, on the understanding she lean on him throughout and they walk at a most leisurely pace. The snow underfoot was treacherous, he had told her.
Now, as he stood beside her and saw her gazing forward, as if she dared not look him in the eye, he repeated what he had just told her.
‘I intend to marry and to pursue my work – my art – in America.’
‘Marry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Whom?’
He told her.
‘A mill girl? Is this the artistic temperament manifesting itself in lunacy?’
‘I had the wildest idea that you already knew.’
‘Knew about this? How?’
‘From Father.’
‘He knew?’
‘Yes. And tried to prevent it, in his own inimitable way.’
She appeared to consider this for a moment, then shook her head slowly. ‘No, Andrew. It was an intimacy he did not share with me.’
‘But when we spoke the other day, when Uncle Ambrose was here, you said something that made me think you knew.’
‘What was that?’
‘After you both brought up the subject of my responsibilities concerning the coalfields and the strike, you said something about “the other thing” you wished to speak to me about. I was afraid that meant you already knew.’
He watched her lips purse, and noticed, perhaps for the first time, tiny creases along her lips. Had the pain she had endured all these years formed those cracks?
‘No. That was something else altogether.’
‘Please, explain.’
She shook her head, expelled a small cloud of breath. ‘The time isn’t quite right. But don’t worry. The time will come.’
He frowned at the cryptic comment, but recognised the moment had passed.
Slowly she turned to face him, and he saw her eyes were moist with tears.
‘America?’ she whispered.
He took a deep breath. ‘You must understand we can’t stay here. She would hate being the constant object of scorn and hatred, even if she were to come and live here.’
The lips tightened once more. ‘That will never happen.’
‘I don’t want it to. That’s why I want us to go where we can be free.’
She gave a half-smile. ‘You sound like a refugee fleeing persecution.’
‘In a way that’s what we’d be.’
‘Nonsense! Fanciful nonsense. Besides, you have duties here.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll speak to Uncle Ambrose.’
‘Ha! That man won’t leave his precious Westminster. It would be easier extracting a tiger’s tooth.’
‘Then we could appoint an executive to take responsibility for the day-to-day running of the collieries.’
‘That’s what your dear father would have wanted, is it?’
Andrew was on the verge of responding but thought better of it.
She placed a gloved hand on his arm. ‘Promise me one thing.’
‘What is it?’
‘Do not act precipitously. Let me send a telegram to your uncle in London. See if he will return to speak with you. At least promise me that.’
He saw, in her glistening eyes, something beyond the usual façade of rectitude, the primness she invariably adopted whenever their discussions seemed to drift away from her high-principled moorings. It was that rarest of glimpses into her inner self – the woman beneath the mother.
Sometimes he felt like a man standing on the edge of the world, looking down and seeing nothing but darkness – a cold, Stygian gloom wherein all manner of vengefully malignant spectres swirled in their loathsome circles just waiting for him to take one more fatal step; while behind him a fireball was fast approaching, consuming all in its path, its ferocious heat far more ruinous than the most powerful blast furnace in existence.
James Cox walked down Market Street, leaving the insidious warmth of the club behind
him, the sickly chatter of fireside commentators who predicted not only a change in the weather but a freshening wind of common sense soon to sweep the land, rendering miners and owners close bosom friends shaking hands and sharing a convivial and conciliatory drink.
Optimistic poppycock! A scene only to be found in a Punch cartoon.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have rounded on them. After all, they were suffering too in their several ways: manufacturers of aerated water, of clothing and mantles, of general house furnishings, of cotton spinners and hatters, of paint and varnish, of corn, flour and provender, even of tobacco and cigar dealings, all of them feeling the cold pinch of penury.
Yet their infernal optimism, their self-deceiving assurances that salvation was just round the corner, like a tram stuck in the snow just waiting for the thaw, had irritated him beyond measure.
None of them faced the scale of bankruptcy he faced.
It was early evening. Thankfully, the clanging of the mill girls’ clogs he would normally hear at this time was muffled by the thick, unyielding snow. He ignored the groups of them giggling behind him, arms linked and rejoicing with an eldritch whoop every time one of them slid almost to the horizontal, only to be saved by the human chain.
Sometimes he envied them. They had to worry about nothing but the mill remaining open, and so far every cotton mill in Wigan had shown a stubborn resilience he found distasteful. They could go home to their stinking hovels and eat their gristle or pigs’ feet or whatever it was they consumed, and sit in their dingy little front rooms talking inanely about the latest gossip from the spinning room or the weaving shed or wherever they plied their dusty, shabby little trade.
But what did he have? His children, of course, and his wife. And his large, imposing house on the edge of Lord Crawford’s estate.
But if the contracts were broken …
He shook his head and turned round, glowering at the giggling witches behind him.
‘Why, Mr Cox! A pleasant surprise!’
Standing between him and the mill girls, who had stopped to gaze in awe at a shop window displaying some colourful fur capes priced at seven guineas, was Frank Latchford.
