by AJ Wright
‘Done!’ came the reply. Bart led the horse up the narrow pathway, wincing as he saw it struggle to gain footholds on the steep slope of the path.
Once he saw the horse stand on the road’s surface above him, Moses stepped onto the mound of coal and leant backwards until he was lying on top of the coal a matter of inches from the slime-ridden under-roof of the bridge. Then he raised his legs and began to heave against the roof, straining with all his might and forcing his legs to push the barge forward.
He’d done it a hundred times and more, but he always seemed to miss a couple of footholds at least as his clogs slipped against the treacherous brickwork. Eventually, though, he saw the orange glow of the evening sky emerge from the darkness of the bridge and sat up blowing hard, wiping his brow before clambering down the coal heap and standing once more at the stern of the barge.
Bart was waiting for him on the towpath which now widened again to accommodate the horse. He gave the lad a cheery wave.
‘I’m spittin’ feathers!’ he shouted.
But his son stood stock-still, one hand on the horse’s harness and staring back at the dark tunnel of the bridge as Moses grabbed the tow-rope and hurled it out to him.
‘Wake up, young ’un!’ he shouted.
Bart raised his free hand and pointed back, to where the barge had just emerged.
Moses followed the direction of his son’s pointing finger. He gave a gasp.
A body was slowly drifting from the darkness of the tunnel, face down and arms stretched outwards, as if it had been trying desperately to reach the bank of the canal and had failed to do so.
CHAPTER FIVE
Len Parkinson worked as a dataller in the Douglas Bank Colliery, near Woodhouse Lane. He was paid a daily wage, unlike the contracted work of other men who laboured in the mines, and his job consisted of repairing roadways damaged by the coal tubs pushed along laden with coal. Occasionally he worked the night shift, and this morning, as he clambered out of the pit cage and shielded his eyes from the glare of the early morning sun, he looked forward as usual to the pint of porter his wife would have waiting for him, cooling in the shade of the alley wall where he lived in Frog Lane.
As he walked down from Woodhouse Lane, he saw a familiar figure making his way towards him. Under normal circumstances, he would greet him with a gruff wave and a guttural Owdo, but this morning felt anything but normal.
For one thing, Tommy Kelly started work at Cartwright’s Mill at seven-thirty, and it was now just after half-six. For another, Tommy lived in Diggle Street, and that was back towards Woodhouse Lane, the opposite direction from where the big bugger now approached. But the things that really roused Len Parkinson’s curiosity, not to mention his concern, were the menacing gait, the ferocious scowl, and the two ham-sized fists that were now clenched and ready for action.
‘What’s up, Tommy owd lad?’ he shouted as Kelly drew near.
Before he knew what was happening, he found himself rammed hard against the wall of a house with one rough hand gripping his throat and the other lifting him clean off the ground. With his coal-blackened face highlighting the whites of his eyes, he looked like a man who’d come face-to-face with a ghost. His snap tin rattled into the gutter.
‘Tommy! … I cawn’t … breathe.’
‘What’s ’e done wi’ my lad?’
Kelly’s voice sounded like the low, savage growl of a beast about to attack.
Parkinson swung his legs, trying to regain some footing to relieve the tremendous pressure on his throat. The grip merely tightened. He felt his head grow light, and his eyelids began to flicker.
Suddenly the pressure lifted and he dropped to the ground, doubling up and clutching at his bruised windpipe.
‘Ast’ gone soddin’ mad?’ he gasped when breath finally returned to his lungs.
‘Dost want some more?’
He looked up. The man’s huge frame was blocking the sun. He could see, further down the street, curtains move apart ever so slightly. A door opened, and someone emerged. Parkinson knew who it was.
‘Tommy, I’ve not got a clue what tha’re on about. What’s who done with thi lad?’
‘I got told thy Albert ’ad a do wi’ my Billy Friday night.’
‘Just young uns scrappin’.’
‘Well my young un never came ’ome.’
Gauging it safe to stand, Parkinson reached forward to pick up his snap tin before facing his assailant.
‘Look, all I know is they ’ad a bit of a do. Tha knows what them two’s like, Tommy. Allus ’avin’ a go. Our Albert said Billy ran off.’ When he saw the big man clench his huge fists once more, he added hastily, ‘But not cos ’e was scared or owt. Our Albert reckoned ’e was in hurry, like.’
Suddenly, Kelly felt something sharp pressing against his neck.
‘Touch ’im again, ye big bastard, an’ I’ll stab thee to buggery.’
Tommy turned round, very slowly, and the point of the carving knife followed him, almost breaking the flesh. The woman facing him, gripping the knife firmly, was taller than most, with brown hair strewn wildly around her pinched face, and green eyes that glared with anger at the sight of her husband reduced to a cowering wreck.
‘An’ good mornin’ to thee, Doreen, love.’
If he felt any fear he didn’t show it. Rather, the presence of the knife at his throat served to calm him, but it was a very cold calm indeed. He looked directly into her eyes.
‘I want a word wi’ your Albert.’
‘Oh aye?’ she said, maintaining her grip on the knife handle.
‘About our Billy.’
‘What about ’im?’
‘’E’s missin’. An’ your Albert might know summat.’
At that moment, a voice from across the street yelled out, ‘Mam? What’s up?’
Doreen Parkinson diverted her eyes for a second at the sudden sound of her son Albert’s voice, but it was time enough for Tommy to make a grab for the knife. She winced as the huge fist forced the knife from her fingers and then pushed her towards her husband. Now he had control, Tommy turned to Len Parkinson, and said, ‘We’d best go an’ speak to the lad, eh, Len? Find out what’s what.’
A few minutes later, the three of them were seated around the kitchen table, steaming mugs of tea in their hands, with Albert Parkinson standing with his back to the window, ashen-faced.
‘You sure that’s what our Billy said?’
‘I am. Said ’e’d done a bad thing an’ he didn’t want to be hanged for it.’
‘Hanged for what though?’ Tommy asked, the fire inside his belly now replaced by a slow, pervasive chill.
Albert shrugged. ‘That’s what I asked but ’e just said I was to keep me trap shut.’
Doreen Parkinson watched the steam rise from her mug. She’d always said the Kellys were a washout. Perhaps after this folk would listen.
Later, that Tuesday morning, although the sun was shining and birds were cooing on the rooftop of the town hall, which incorporated the police station, Detective Sergeant Brennan’s mood could hardly be characterised as summery. His first quest of the day was a meeting with his chief constable, Captain Bell, during which he was to request permission to travel beyond the borough boundaries to interview Mr Henry Tollet, the school inspector who lived in Blackburn. The request would be met, he knew, with at least two obstacles he needed to surmount: one would be the inconvenience of the chief constable sending a telegram of courtesy informing his counterpart in the Blackburn Borough Police Force that one of his detectives would be making inquiries in the town. The second objection would be merely a repetition of the previous day’s conversation, that to continue the investigation into Dorothea Gadsworth’s death would be a waste of his time, that it was obvious the poor wretch had taken her own life after the disappointment of failing to gain the teaching post.
Jaggery was waiting for Brennan on the station steps. He knew better than to engage him in any sort of social chat, going from the expression on his fac
e, so the two of them entered the station in silence. A giant of a man in rough working clothes was standing at the front desk, hands on hips, and glaring at the uniformed desk sergeant.
‘I told you,’ the sergeant was saying, ‘I’ve taken down all the details and we’ll see what we can do.’
‘Tha’ll not find my lad sat there on thi arse!’ was the man’s rejoinder.
‘I’ll mention it to my constables before they go on their beat, Mr Kelly. That’s what we do when a child goes missing.’
‘Well I reckon it’s that bloody school what’s made the little sod run off.’
‘You’ve already said, Mr Kelly.’ The desk sergeant gave Brennan a weary gaze. ‘But schools have to punish them if they don’t follow the rules. It’s like everything else. We need rules.’
‘Well I’ll bloody rule ’em if I go down there! I’m already late for me shift, else I’d go down yonder an’ see if they fancy canin’ my arse.’
Tommy Kelly slammed a large fist on the desk, rattling the inkstand and causing the papers to rise and flutter as if a sudden breeze had caught them. Then he turned and stormed through the door, giving both Brennan and Jaggery a murderous scowl and a valedictory, ‘Shithouses!’
Jaggery, never one to ignore an insult, took steps to accost the man, but Brennan grabbed his arm.
‘We’ve work to do,’ he said before approaching the desk sergeant. ‘What was all that about?’
The sergeant nodded at the door behind him. ‘Tommy Kelly. His lad’s gone missin’. Only it’s not the first time an’ it won’t be the last. Not exactly home sweet home, if you get me meanin’, Mick.’
Brennan gave a wry smile. Sometimes, when the feelings in a house reach boiling point, the children either take the blows or get out of the way. Every week in the police courts next door, cases of casual brutality against either the wife or the children – or both – made a predictable and mournful appearance.
The sergeant consulted what few notes he’d written down. ‘Reckons his teachers made his life a misery. I’d say it was t’other road round, but anyway. Meladdo yonder reckons his son’s buggered off on account of the punishments. Apparently the little sod’s had a few last week. Still, can’t be too difficult to find him. He’s got red hair for a start. Not many red-headed runaways knockin’ about!’
Brennan returned the man’s smile and glanced at Jaggery, who gave a non-committal shrug.
At that moment, he felt a hand clap him on the shoulder.
‘Sergeant Brennan. I was about to take my morning stroll around the town. Would you be so good as to accompany me?’
Captain Bell, resplendent in his uniform replete with helmet, stood there with an incongruously ingratiating smile across his face.
What the bloody hell is all this? Brennan thought before replying, ‘Of course, sir. A pleasure.’
Jaggery saluted his chief constable and headed for the station canteen.
It had been a difficult morning.
The previous day had been an exciting one for the children, there was no denying. They’d found out within minutes the reason for being forced to remain in their respective playgrounds, and they’d spent the rest of the day – once they were allowed back into the building – in an excitable and silly mood, making classroom control quite a task. Today, though – Tuesday – their mood had if anything intensified.
Several of the boys swore they’d seen a woman’s ghost passing their classroom, and every creak of the floorboards, every shifting and settling of coals in the classroom stove, every blast of wind against the windows was given a supernatural provenance. Some of the girls began snivelling, especially when Albert Parkinson told them the ghost was after fresh blood now and would be waiting in the girls’ playground to get it.
As a consequence, Richard Weston’s entire morning had been taken up with disciplinary measures of one kind or another as pupil after pupil was marched into his study and a whole catalogue of misdemeanours recited before the inevitable clearing of accounts.
Now, as the screams and yells from outside informed the casual passer-by, even if he or she were blind, that the children were let loose for playtime, the headmaster sat back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. He had yet another unpleasant task to perform, and this time pupils were not involved.
‘Of course you know what the problem is?’ he asked Nathaniel Edgar who sat facing him with a mug of steaming tea before him.
‘They’re overwrought?’
Weston laughed, a harsh, rueful sound. ‘Parents,’ he snapped. ‘They’re the problem. You can bet they pumped their little angels dry for any salacious detail they could salivate over. Then the fathers could repair to the nearest alehouse and contribute their own little ha’porth of garnered tittle-tattle to the intimate seminars that would have been held the length and breadth of the town. And instead of reading their little dears a bedtime story from the Arabian Nights, they’d have urged them to dig and dig for anything else for the whole of today to satisfy their ghoulishness.’
Edgar chuckled. ‘It’s called human nature, Richard. You can’t do anything to hold back the waves of curiosity.’
While not appreciating the veiled allusion to Canute, he accepted the truth of the observation.
‘It’s not enough having Her Majesty’s Inspector turn up and probe into our workings; now we’ll have the whole of the town keeping an eye on us, waving the finger of speculation. The wretched woman took her own life. How could that have been prevented?’
It was a rhetorical question, and Edgar responded by lifting the mug to his lips.
Suddenly the headmaster’s brow darkened, his tone sombre. ‘You know why I asked to see you, Nat?’
Edgar shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. He said nothing.
Then, just as Weston was about to continue, there was a timid knock on the door.
‘Enter!’ Weston shouted.
The pupil-teacher, Emily Mason, came in. When she saw Nathaniel Edgar sitting there, she flushed a deep scarlet. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Headmaster, I … I’ll come back later.’
A flicker of annoyance swept across Weston’s face, but it was immediately replaced by a professional smile. He stood up. ‘Nonsense, Miss Mason. The daily review of your teaching notes. I completely forgot, what with … At any rate, Mr Edgar here was just about to leave. We’ll discuss that matter further later,’ he said with another smile.
Nathaniel Edgar gave a nervous swallow but accepted the hint gracefully, bowing elaborately at the girl he used to teach before leaving the study, closing the door ever so gently as he did so.
He knew very well what the headmaster had been about to say.
For a while, the two of them didn’t speak. Rather, Captain Bell spent time acknowledging the greetings of shopkeepers and passers-by as they strolled along King Street towards Wallgate. The sun was shining, and Brennan thought of the contrast with the previous year, the hardships of the miners’ strike, the bitter cold of November, and the scowls that greeted each policeman, seen then as the extended arm of the colliery owners. A perception he, personally, found abhorrent.
He caught sight of a couple of beggars loitering outside the premises of William Daniel, Saddler and Harness Manufacturer, with hands thrust outwards whenever someone passed them by. Shrewd location for begging, thought Brennan, as Daniel’s carriage trade would be rather more prosperous than those frequenting the pawn shop further along. They took one look at the splendour of his companion’s uniform, its silver buttons gleaming in the morning sunshine, and made an instant decision to seek out newer, less menacing pastures. Captain Bell raised his baton and pointed it in their direction.
‘Vermin of the worst sort,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Remember those we caught last year? At the height – or should I say depths? – of the strike? Devils going round with handcarts begging loaves of bread from shopkeepers, only to turn the corner and set up a stall themselves, undercutting the very people who’d just show
n them Christian charity? An obscenity, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ve seen beggars, Sergeant. Genuine beggars in the narrow, stifling lanes of Benares, on the banks of the Ganges. Dreadful, sweltering place. “The City of Trampled Flowers”, they call it. And rubbing shoulders – quite literally, I might add – with the fakirs and the ascetics with faces and hair rubbed white with ashes, are the beggars. Blind, lame, stinking creatures, many of them ridden with leprosy. Those are beggars, Sergeant. Not that filth over yonder.’
Finally, as they headed right towards Market Place, the chief constable broke the silence.
‘I think you were right, Sergeant.’
Brennan blinked. Had he heard right?
‘About what, sir?’
Captain Bell watched a tram shuttle its way past them up the incline to Market Place. Several of the passengers gave him hostile looks.
‘This affair at George Street Elementary. You had doubts about the poor woman committing suicide.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well then. You must pursue the matter with your usual tenacity.’
‘Of course.’ He wondered what had brought about this change of heart.
He soon got his answer.
‘A report came in this morning. A body was fished out of the canal in Poolstock last night. It seems to have a connection, at least, with that school. And I am well aware that you are no great believer in coincidences.’
For some reason, Brennan thought of the giant of a man he’d seen haranguing the desk sergeant only a few minutes ago, demanding an immediate search for his missing son.
‘And what is the connection, sir?’ he asked.
Captain Bell heaved out his chest and watched the passengers emerging from the tram that had stopped ahead of them. ‘According to a heavily soaked visiting card discovered on his person, the body was that of a Mr Henry Tollet. I believe he was a school inspector who attended George Street Elementary last Friday.’
