by AJ Wright
‘Go on.’
‘And he was a businessman. He kept records. Not incriminating in any way, I don’t think Mr Bragg would ever have been that reckless.’
Cox appeared to breathe out a very slow sigh of relief.
‘But he did record names and dates, I suppose to remind him of who owed him what and why. They found your name there.’
‘Did they now?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cox waited for Brennan to continue, but the detective remained silent. He glanced over Brennan’s head at the photograph once more, then looked out of the window, where the glass was thick with frost. After what felt like an age, he said finally, ‘Perhaps the fellow did some work for me, I seem to recall a name something like that.’
‘Good. Now, sir, when I told you they found names and dates, I should have explained that the names and the dates became quite extensive.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, Mr Cox, that Bragg recorded, against your own name, the names of all the prostitutes and servant girls he had managed to procure for you over a course of years. Perhaps I misled you when I said he kept nothing incriminating. I was, of course, referring to nothing incriminating to Bragg himself. To others, he was less benign.’
Cox gave the study door a furtive glance. He could hear, from upstairs, the raucous screams of his children at play in the nursery.
‘I resent the implication!’
‘I implied nothing, Mr Cox. I came straight out with it. You have been using women for a number of years, some willing and paid, some unwilling and unpaid. It’s the latter that interest me, but in a rather different way from how they interested you.’
‘This is an outrage!’
Cox slammed his fist down on the table, creasing the letter he had been reading when Brennan walked in.
‘The Manchester police are even now putting together sworn statements from the young girls whose identities they can discover from the extensively documented records of Theodore Bragg.’
Cox slumped back in his chair. ‘Are you here to arrest me?’
Brennan waited a while before replying. ‘Not as yet, sir.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I need you to tell me all you can about your dealings with Mr Bragg. And the dealings of others.’
‘Others?’
‘And,’ Brennan went on without elaborating, ‘I am assured that if you cooperate fully, then there’s every likelihood that charges may be dropped. Or at least diluted to an unscandalous degree.’
The carrot worked.
Cox began to talk, which was a source of great relief to Brennan, whom the Manchester police had informed only that morning that the names of all the women ascribed to James Cox in Bragg’s notebook were written entirely in code – a code they found indecipherable and of no forensic use whatsoever.
Sometimes, he thought with a smile as he stepped into the freezing cold of the gloomy afternoon, the game of ‘Bragg’ involved a calculated amount of bluff.
‘Mam! Mam!’
Tommy Haggerty burst through the front door and ran into the kitchen. She wasn’t there. Quickly he darted back and hurtled upstairs, where he found her with a bundle of bedsheets in his and Molly’s room.
‘What in the name of all the saints is the matter, child?’ she said, her voice muffled by the sheets beneath her chin.
‘You’d best come quick.’
‘Come where, child?’
‘Outside, Mam.’
‘Why? It’s freezin’ cold.’
‘There’s a man says he wants to see you.’
Bridie frowned and moved into her own bedroom, the one she had shared with Seamus so long ago, and placed the sheets on the bed. Then she peered through the curtains at the carriage on the street below.
What was going on?
She told Tommy to wait upstairs, a futile instruction, for as soon as she set foot on the bottom stair she heard him clattering his clogs on the stairs behind her. She stood in the still-open doorway and looked out. Across the street she could see some of her neighbours already standing in their own doorways, looking across with folded arms and murmuring wild speculations to each other. Some of Tommy’s friends were climbing on the rear of the carriage, one of them almost reaching the top before the coachman leant back and gave him a sharp swipe with his whip.
The carriage door was flung open and a man Bridie dimly recognised sat there, one leg extended in the act of exiting. He wore a black armband and a thick black topcoat. His cravat was similarly hued, and his gloves and hatband completed the picture of mourning.
‘Mrs Haggerty?’ he said.
It came to her, then. This was a most illustrious visitor indeed – Ambrose Morris, Arthur Morris’s brother and the town’s MP. What could he possibly want with her? But then, almost before the question had shaped itself in her mind, she knew the answer.
‘May I come in?’ he said after formally introducing himself.
Other neighbours were now outside, the expressions on their faces ranging from simple curiosity to outright hostility. A lot of questions to be answered on a lot of doorsteps, she thought, before the street would be satisfied.
She stepped aside and let him enter. Tommy, standing now with a wary eye on the strange visitor, at first refused to go outside and play, but when the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny sixpence he decided that honour had been satisfied and he had shown enough filial concern for one day.
‘I presume you know why I’m here?’ Ambrose Morris said once the door had closed and he had been invited to sit down.
‘Would it have anythin’ to do with my daughter an’ your nephew, by any chance?’
‘Yes, it would.’
‘Go on.’
‘Two days ago I received a telegram from my sister-in-law informing me of Andrew’s plans to go to New York. With your daughter.’
‘About the same time I found out an’ all.’
‘And your feelings?’
‘Like yours, I expect.’
‘Good. His mother doesn’t want him to go any more than you want your daughter to go. So it seemed only sensible if we could decide upon a solution.’
‘Oh?’ Suddenly, Bridie became wary. If this man were anything like his late brother, solutions only worked out if they favoured himself. She told him about her meeting with Arthur Morris in Mesnes Park. The next few minutes therefore came as something of a shock.
‘Ye don’t recognise me, do you, Mr Morris?’
He shook his head.
When she explained, he looked astounded. ‘Good Lord! I remember you coming down those stairs screaming as if it were yesterday! But I wouldn’t have recognised you now.’
Because the world is a wearying place, she reflected sadly.
‘Did Arthur – my brother – know? Who you were, I mean?’
‘After I told him, yes.’
‘I see. Still, it makes no difference, does it, to our situation?’
‘No, sir.’
‘The solution I propose is this. I will impress upon Andrew the vital necessity of his remaining here in Wigan, at least until this damnable coal strike is at an end. It would do the company no good whatsoever if he were to leave now. I think I can persuade him to delay things until then.’
‘What about my Molly?’
‘Your daughter is how old?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘A minor. In order for her to be able to marry, she would need to obtain your written permission. You could use that threat to cool her ardour, although it is in reality an empty threat if she swears on oath before the vicar general that you have consented, even if you haven’t. Still, she won’t know that, will she?’
‘Hold on. It’s true I don’t want her to go sailin’ off to America, but there’s a world o’ difference between that an’ plottin’ to keep ’em apart.’
Ambrose smiled. ‘I’m not doing that. Merely delaying things until later. When the world is a more settled place.
I also propose to offer you a small annuity that would help you bring up that impish son of yours, something I am willing to do whether you agree to what I ask or not.’
‘Why would you do that? Sure ’tis nothin’ but a bribe.’
Ambrose opened his hands in a gesture of honesty. ‘I know how badly you were affected when your husband lost his life in one of our collieries. It’s a belated payment of insurance, if you like, something you are perfectly entitled to. Bribery it most certainly isn’t.’
She glanced at the window, where Tommy was standing with a small group, doubtless showing them his booty. ‘And what then?’
‘If they both still feel the same way, then neither his mother nor myself will stand in his way. By that time, many things will have changed, believe me.’
Hopefully the men will be back to work and the town back on its feet, thought Bridie.
‘Have you spoken to your nephew, Mr Morris?’
‘I am about to do that, after I leave here. But I wanted to speak with you first. As a matter of courtesy.’
He wanted her to ask Molly to be patient. Once he had gone and the carriage, and the neighbours, had disappeared, she sat in the gathering gloom, hoping she would be doing the right thing. And wasn’t it only right that she receive some sort of remuneration for Seamus being taken away from her so cruelly?
But then she thought of Frank Latchford, and what she had told him over a fortnight ago. The guilt was always there, hidden sometimes by the events of the day, but it came rushing back, like now, with all the force of a raging toothache.
She should have listened and said nothing when he told her about the man who had been asking all those questions. She should never have told him about Arthur Morris and his threats. Nor should she have accepted his offer of help, an offer designed, she knew full well, to force her into acting as advocate for Frank when he next decided to pursue her Molly.
What had he done?
Had he lain in wait for the man who was threatening her and Molly? She cast her mind back to the moment she stood on the railway track with the speeding train a matter of seconds away, when she felt, with absolute and terrifying certainty, that Frank Latchford had carried out her unspoken wish and ridden her of Arthur Morris. But there, with the vibrations of the tracks beneath her feet, certainty had suddenly become doubt: Frank Latchford couldn’t have killed Arthur Morris – or he was a bloody fool if he had – because in doing so he would simply be removing an obstacle to the union of Molly and Andrew Morris.
He would, in effect, have cleared the way for the girl he still loved to marry another.
He wouldn’t have done that, surely?
CHAPTER TWENTY
Constable Jaggery sat atop the carriage alongside the cabbie, and rammed his fists deep in the pockets of his greatcoat. He had his helmet pulled close around his ears, and his thick muffler, strictly speaking not part of the official uniform, wrapped firmly around his throat, but there was only so much he could do to ward off the bitter cold.
The snow of the last weeks had now turned into a ferocious blizzard stinging wherever it made contact with his bare flesh. How the cabbie could see more than a yard in front was beyond him: the front bullseye lamps only highlighted the relentless force of the elements, and from time to time on the journey from the police station up to Wigan Lane – a slow and merciless incline that gave free vent to the fierce howling of the wind-borne blizzard – Jaggery could do nothing more than close his eyes and hope fervently the horses would see them safely to their destination. He also muttered curses that were thankfully swept away by the powerful blast, curses that brought down all manner of plague on Ding Dong Bloody Bell, who even now was seated inside the carriage with Sergeant Brennan and enjoying the relative warmth afforded by the thick blanket provided by the cabbie.
Inside, Bell leant back and stared at his detective sergeant.
He admired the way Brennan had argued the case; that was beyond doubt. The strength of his argument, a chain forged with iron links of logic, was undeniable and powerfully suggestive of guilt, but what he had uncovered had disgusted and horrified him in equal measure; a reaction, he knew, that was unfair, tantamount to blaming a doctor for his diagnosis of a malignant tumour. Furthermore, his absolute belief in the rightness of law, a belief reinforced beyond measure during his service for Queen and country, transcended any personal sense he might feel of loyalty or even sympathy. The guilty had to be punished. But first they had to be caught.
Prudence Morris sat at the dinner table and watched her son and brother-in-law with keen interest. She knew, of course, that Ambrose had been to see the Haggerty woman, but until now, Andrew was unaware of the visit. She wondered how the subject would be broached, and how her son would respond. Since Arthur’s death, he had been more and more enervated, but whether that were some kind of natural reaction to the bereavement or due to the romantic interest in his life, she couldn’t tell.
Ambrose’s strategy – that was what he called it – was to divide and conquer. Keep them apart for a short while and he would guarantee the two would not marry, and therefore the American dream would remain just that. He told her the Irishwoman was at least partially in agreement – she would persuade her daughter to wait until the strike had ended, which gave Ambrose time at least to work out his strategy in full.
One thing was sure – she could not lose her son. And Ambrose had promised.
But she was totally unprepared for what her brother-in-law was about to say.
‘You realise, of course, Andrew, that any suggestion of emigration must wait.’
‘Why? I have already made preliminary enquiries. It will be a place where I can breathe.’
‘Not from what I hear.’
‘You know what I mean. Here, my work as an artist is stifled by other considerations. The onerous duties of the coalfields, for one. I’m unsuited for that.’
‘I know. It is why I have an eye on a certain property in London that might solve a problem.’
‘Property?’
‘You’ve heard of Tite Street, in Chelsea? It’s near the Embankment and has a wealth of studio houses specially designed for artists. Whistler himself lives there.’
Andrew’s eyes widened.
‘It might be a sound investment, Andrew. Both as a property and a working environment.’
‘But why would you buy such a place?’
Ambrose shrugged. ‘It would keep you in the country, for one thing.’
‘And Molly?’
‘Once the strike is over, there would be ample opportunity for you to take her down there to see the place. Artists are more bohemian in their response to – shall we say – imbalanced liaisons?’
‘But I’d set my heart on America.’
‘Take a smaller step first, Andrew. London is far enough away from the tittle-tattle of this town, and Chelsea is a place where your art can breathe the fresh air of inspiration.’
Andrew smiled. ‘Poetically put, Uncle.’
‘And, once you are established – who knows? An exhibition at the Royal Academy?’
‘I think Molly would find London – unnerving.’
‘Nonsense! At least they’d have a stab at understanding her. In New York she’d be as lucid as a Cherokee squaw.’
Andrew flinched at this, and it was his mother who came to her brother-in-law’s rescue.
‘Ambrose was simply putting himself in the girl’s shoes. How alien would such an environment be to her? What he suggests would have the added bonus of accessibility. She would at least be able to see her mother, and I would be able to see my son.’
He looked from one to the other and a confused frown creased his forehead. ‘This is an unusual alliance.’
‘What do you mean?’ his mother asked.
‘The usual atmosphere between you two is frosty, isn’t it? Is this an alliance formed out of necessity? A treaty of convenience?’
A sharp exchange of glances occurred just then. The wind howled like a bans
hee all around the house, and the windowpanes rattled with the force of the elements creating a blizzarding frenzy outside.
Both Ambrose and Prudence opened their mouths to speak, but it was Ambrose whose voice was heard above the rising storm. ‘Andrew, there is something that you need to know.’
‘What is it?’
He looked at his mother’s face, but she had her head bowed very low, and it was difficult to make out the expression on her face. Was this the right time for her to speak of the mysterious other thing?
‘Strange. I have stood in the House and faced down the lions of the opposition when in government. In opposition I have stood strong against those members of my own party when conscience has taken me on a different course.’
Ambrose dabbed at his lips with a napkin and placed it gently beside his plate. He laughed bitterly. ‘Conscience. A wonderful thing, isn’t it?’
‘Uncle Ambrose?’
Andrew shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had no idea what was going on, and his glance towards his mother brought no explanation.
‘I’m sorry, Andrew. Where was I?’
‘You were praising your conscience,’ his sister-in-law said quietly.
‘Ah yes, so I was. I have done all those things, as I say, in the full glare of parliamentary scrutiny, of howling insults and fierce criticisms. But now, here, tonight, I find it very difficult to say what I have to say.’ He looked at Prudence Morris and took a deep breath. ‘You see, my boy, there’s something you need to know.’
Suddenly they heard a strange sound emanating from the hallway; someone was hammering at the front door with his fist, a loud and disturbing racket that, seconds later, was followed by the clanging of the Davy lamp knocker.
Whatever Ambrose Morris had to say to his nephew would have to wait. They had visitors.
‘Now, sir, to demonstrate.’
Sergeant Brennan, Captain Bell and Constable Jaggery were all standing on the steps before the front door of the Morris residence. Behind them, the cabbie had clambered quickly down from his seat, rubbed his gloved hands together with some violence before climbing gingerly into his carriage and closing the door, wrapping the blanket around his legs with a resentful grunt.
