Elementary Murder

by AJ Wright

  No reason given for such a traitorous act. The letter was simply lying in wait for him on his desk that morning. She must have been in very early to put it there, he mused. But why resign now? She would be leaving once they could advertise and arrange for another interview. How long would that take? A few weeks? A month? Certainly by Christmas they would have a replacement. Why on earth leave him in the lurch when he needed her the most?

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Enter!’

  Miss Ryan came in, her face a picture of concern.

  ‘What is it, Miss Ryan? I’m rather busy at the moment.’

  ‘I think you should know that there is complete pandemonium in Standard 1.’

  ‘Why? Miss Mason should be doing sums with them. Abacus time.’

  ‘Miss Mason isn’t doing sums or reading or anything else for that matter.’

  ‘What is she doing then?’

  ‘Having a breakdown would be my guess.’

  Weston stood up. He was fast reaching the end of his tether.

  Within thirty seconds he was standing in the doorway of Standard 1. The youngest children in the school – a mere five years old – were wreaking havoc, chasing each other around the desks, hurling whatever missiles they could get their hands on, and whooping like savages while Emily Mason sat at the front of the classroom with her head in her hands and sobbing uncontrollably.

  ‘Sit down!’ Weston boomed. ‘Any child not in his or her place by the time I count to five will be caned so hard you won’t be able to pick your nose for a month!’

  The dreaded, resounding sound of the headmaster’s voice, reinforced by his glowering and menacing presence in the doorway, ensured that every child was back where he or she belonged well before he got to five. Emily Mason’s sobbing also died down, to be replaced by intermittent sniffling and the application of a handkerchief.

  ‘Now.’ He turned to Miss Ryan who was standing behind him with pursed lips and ice in her eyes. ‘Miss Ryan will set your work and will leave this door and her own door across the corridor wide open. You will complete the work to her satisfaction and you will make no sound whatsoever until I return.’ He glanced at Miss Ryan to ensure she understood the import of what he’d just said. Then he turned once more to the now silent class. ‘If you fail to complete the work set, or if you make any noise at all, then I will return and cane the lot of you. Every single snivelling one of you. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Weston,’ they all chimed in unison, some already with tears in their eyes at the prospect of punishment.

  ‘Miss Mason. My office.’

  The pupil-teacher for Standard 1 pushed herself to her feet slowly and held the handkerchief to her face. Then, once she had stepped from behind the teacher’s desk, she ran from the room and out into the corridor.

  When they arrived at St Catharine’s Church, Constable Jaggery’s first comment was a most irreligious Christ Almighty. The cabbie took the fare and, as his carriage trundled off towards Scholefield Lane and the centre of town, he could be heard chuckling to himself. The unlikely source of his amusement was plain for all to see: the area outside the church was filled with onlookers as a hearse was being emptied of its contents. The family mourners were garbed in black, the men with mourning suits and crape bands around their headwear, the women wearing black gowns, faces shielded with veils and hands covered with black gloves, all waiting respectfully and tearfully in line as the coffin was brought forth beneath the canopy of ostrich feathers that stretched above the hearse. There was the sound of weeping, gentle, subdued signs of grief as the pall-bearers took up their burden.

  ‘Somebody wi’ a bit o’ brass, eh, Sergeant?’ Constable Jaggery whispered as the two of them stood respectfully across the narrow street, Brennan with his hat removed and Jaggery clutching his helmet in his hands.

  ‘Not that it’ll do the poor soul much good,’ Brennan replied.

  ‘Aye. There is that.’

  Brennan glanced over to the entrance to the church, where Reverend Pearl was standing with a sombre expression on his face.

  ‘Suppose we’ll ’ave to wait till the poor bugger’s six feet under, eh, Sergeant?’ Jaggery nodded upwards, to the thickening clouds that were gathering overhead. ‘I just hope that lot blows over.’

  Brennan said nothing. The good reverend had spotted him, and a dark expression spread across his brow.

  ‘I’ve tried an’ tried an’ tried but it’s no use. No use at all.’

  Emily Mason sat facing the headmaster, her tear-stained face making her look far younger than her fifteen years.

  ‘You need to take a deep breath,’ said Weston gently. Despite everything that had been laid at his door this last week, he retained a well of sympathy and support for this former pupil of the school. ‘You need to realise that we all go through such doubts. I certainly did when I was training.’

  But Emily shook her head. ‘It’s all too much. Too much.’

  Outside, he could see flecks of rain dotting the window. Even the elements are conspiring, he thought morosely.

  He sighed and lifted his leather-bound blotter. The resignation letter from Jane Rodley lay open, one end of the paper folded into a corner of the blotter.

  ‘You’ve worked too hard, Emily, to give up now.’

  ‘You’re half-right, anyroad. I’ve worked too hard. But it’s all gettin’ too much. I can’t cope any more, what with …’

  Once more the tears came, this time a whole flood of them. Weston stood up and came round to where she sat. He placed his arm across her shoulder, lowered his head to hers and pulled her towards him. He whispered, ‘I hate to see you cry, Emily.’

  She leant her head against his, sniffling all the while and reaching for her handkerchief once more. Then he kissed her, very gently, on the forehead.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Brennan didn’t like being kept waiting, especially when he needed to find a key witness urgently. He suspected that Reverend Pearl had spent more than the usual amount of time comforting the bereaved and listening with apparent enthusiasm and respect to the various anecdotes about the deceased – a manager in one of the larger banks in Wigan. But Brennan was nothing if not dogged, and he and Jaggery waited for over an hour, firstly at the rear of the church during the service and then on the periphery of the graveyard as the man was finally laid to rest. There, a number of umbrellas were now open as the rain began to fall, and beside him Constable Jaggery pulled his collars close to his cheeks with a muttered curse.

  When Brennan saw that the vicar was engaging all and sundry in conversation, he went over and almost physically drew him to one side.

  Reluctantly the man nodded and arranged for them to wait in his study while he ‘showed the family the respect they deserved’.

  It was another fifteen minutes before the door to the study swung open and Reverend Charles Pearl came in, wiping his damp face with a handkerchief.

  ‘I trust Mrs Flanagan has made you comfortable?’ he asked, moving to the window and gazing out, his hands clasped behind his back and, to Brennan’s mind, fidgeting nervously. ‘I always think rain most suitable for funerals, don’t you think so, Sergeant Brennan? As if the good Lord Himself is sharing in the grief. But I suppose one could equally make out the case for sunshine, too. The celestial glow of welcome from a smiling God, eh? Perhaps substance for a sermon. “God in His Elements.” What do you think?’

  ‘I think your housekeeper has been most informative, Vicar.’

  At that, Reverend Pearl turned round and cast a momentary glance at the closed door. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Oh, she tells us, for instance, that the person we are looking for has been here this morning.’

  ‘And who is that?’

  ‘The boy, Billy Kelly.’

  There was a moment’s hesitation, as if the man were considering bluff and denial. Then he said, ‘Indeed. He was here.’

  ‘You offered him sanctuary, I believe?’

  The v
icar laughed. ‘I see you’ve been speaking with the concerned parents?’

  ‘We have.’

  There was a pause, during which Reverend Pearl clasped and unclasped his hands, looked fleetingly out of the window, then with a heavy sigh of surrender sat down behind his desk and brought his hands together as if in prayer.

  ‘Why did you tell them you were prepared to give the boy sanctuary when you know full well it does not exist and hasn’t existed for centuries?’

  ‘You know the kind of people they are?’

  Brennan and Jaggery exchanged glances. ‘I do.’

  ‘Well then. We needed to get the child away from them.’

  ‘We?’

  He looked at Brennan levelly. ‘You know very well who I mean.’

  ‘Mrs Flanagan tells me that your fiancée left with the boy an hour after arriving.’

  Reverend Pearl shrugged.

  ‘Where has she taken him?’

  ‘Somewhere safe.’

  ‘Where?’

  The vicar unclasped his hands and sat back in his chair. ‘Why is it so important that you speak with this child?’

  ‘That is my concern. Let’s just say he may have vital information.’

  He licked his lips. ‘I’m not at liberty to tell you what you wish to know.’

  Brennan saw the renewed determination in the vicar’s eyes. He stood up. ‘Well the first part of your statement is about to come true.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You have just forfeited your own liberty, Reverend Pearl. You’re coming with me and my constable here down to the station.’

  ‘What?’

  It was Jaggery who explained. ‘You’re under arrest, pal.’

  It began as a hazy drizzle that soon turned into a heavier downpour. The children always seemed to be much more badly behaved whenever they returned to school wet. Richard Weston stood before Standard 6 and waited until the fidgeting had completely ended. Sometimes, he felt a certain sympathy with the view being espoused in some circles that the provision of free school meals for the deserving poor, which embraced his entire school, should become universal and not left simply to the discretion and humanity of the local school boards. They would remain in school, for one thing, and their return to class would be organised and marshalled – and dry – after they had eaten sufficiently well to ensure their concentration would stretch through the afternoon.

  The Lord only knew what they had actually eaten this dinner time – if anything.

  ‘This morning you were taken into Standard 5 and taught by Mr Edgar,’ he said.

  There were no sounds in response to what they’d already experienced, but he could sense what they felt about the morning’s experience by looking at their eyes.

  ‘Miss Rodley was feeling unwell this morning and she will not be in this afternoon.’

  Again, he could see their feelings expressed through the lowering of their eyes and the beginnings of a communal groan which he quickly stifled. If he told them the truth, that the wretched woman had resigned forthwith, then there’d be no telling what their response would be – or the reaction from their parents. Miss Rodley was well liked by the community.

  ‘As a consequence, therefore, of this unfortunate situation, I have some good news.’

  They all looked up, some of them casting a glance at the closed door to the classroom, as if they expected Miss Rodley to sweep through the door like a magician’s assistant.

  ‘You will not be sitting on the floor in Standard 5, as you were this morning. You shall be sitting in your own seats this afternoon. And I shall be taking your lessons.’

  He hadn’t expected a round of applause, and they were far too young to appreciate the inconvenience to himself and his overseeing of the school as a whole, but he did expect some expression of approval – the occasional smile, perhaps, at this rarest of treats. But once more the eyes went down. He looked at the classroom window, and the rivulets of rain cascading down the glass.

  ‘Daisy Roper?’

  The girl, who was seated in the middle of the room, sat up straight and looked terrified. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Go to the cupboard and take out Arithmetic for Schools. Give them out one between two.’

  He saw their eyes again, dulled and disconsolate, as Daisy Roper carried out his commands. Within minutes, all heads were bowed and the only sounds that could be heard were the scratching of pens on paper and the drip-drip of rain against the window.

  Silently, he cursed Jane Rodley. As soon as school was over he would go to see her in her lodgings and demand an explanation. That was the least he deserved.

  ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, man?’

  Brennan saw the veins on Captain Bell’s neck bulge quite alarmingly. He had reported to him the events of the morning as a matter of courtesy, although the apoplectic reaction now developing was something he had feared would happen. The chief constable grabbed a pen and held it tightly in his right hand, as if it were his sergeant’s throat.

  ‘I had no choice, sir. The man was being obstructive.’

  ‘You have arrested a man of the cloth? A vicar? How do I explain that to the Watch Committee, eh?’ He leant forward across the desk where he was sitting and narrowed his eyes. ‘Who just happens to be of a different persuasion from yourself, does he not? If it were a Catholic priest now …’

  ‘It wouldn’t matter a jot if he were Protestant, Catholic or Orthodox Jew!’ Brennan snapped back. He bitterly resented the implication.

  Captain Bell sat back, the expression on his face now one of instant regret. ‘I take that back, Sergeant.’ He paused. ‘But you understand my anger?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I do. It’s not every day we do such a thing. But this man knows where the boy Kelly is, and it’s my belief the boy knows something of great relevance to my investigation. We know he was at the school on the Friday night.’

  ‘Yes. Trying to burn the place down.’

  Brennan ignored the comment. ‘And we also know he was kept prisoner on St Thomas Street. I think the murderer did that, to keep him from telling what he saw.’

  ‘But why should the murderer do that? Why not kill the boy as well and have done with the matter?’

  ‘That’s the crux of the matter, sir. Whoever held him prisoner didn’t kill him because they couldn’t. He’s a child. The other two were adults. Necessary victims. The boy was an accidental witness. He might even now not be fully aware of what he saw. He might well have seen Dorothea Gadsworth in the classroom with the killer, but that might be all. Perhaps he didn’t see the poor woman actually die. Just saw her in the company of someone he knows.’

  ‘So why take him prisoner?’

  ‘Because once he found out the woman died on Friday night, he might open his mouth and say what – or who – he saw. The killer couldn’t take that chance.’

  Captain Bell steepled his fingers. ‘But he couldn’t be kept prisoner for ever.’

  ‘Whoever took him must have thought it worth the risk. Possibly filling the boy’s head with tales of escape, a new life somewhere. He’s ten, remember. You’ll believe anything at that age.’

  ‘And you tell me Reverend Pearl and the Rodley woman offered to take the child from his parents?’

  ‘The headmaster is determined to have the boy prosecuted. It was a simple task to persuade them. Especially as there doesn’t seem to be what we would consider the normal bond of love between parents and child. It’s a brutal environment.’

  ‘Why then does the vicar not tell you where the boy is?’

  ‘That is the reason I brought him in, sir. If he won’t talk at the vicarage, perhaps he might find the cells below more conducive to confession.’

  Captain Bell stood up and eyed him, not sure if he were being deliberately and irreligiously provoking. ‘You tread very carefully, Sergeant. Very carefully indeed. And I don’t want that lumbering bovine anywhere near him. Do you hear?’

  Brennan nodded. It wasn’t the first time the
chief constable had referred to Jaggery that way.

  As Weston was leaving school later that afternoon, he caught sight of Nathaniel Edgar who appeared deep in conversation with Alice Walsh at the school gates. She appeared a little flustered and was shaking her head slowly, as if she strongly disagreed with something he had just said. He sighed. After the emotional events of the morning, when it had taken him a long time to calm Emily Mason down and give her the encouragement she needed to return to the classroom and face the children she’d left in tears earlier, the very last thing he needed was for Edgar to upset another of his teachers.

  He approached the two of them affably enough. ‘At least the rain has stopped. I thought it was set for the night.’

  Alice turned to him coolly. ‘We were talking about Miss Rodley. Is she unwell?’

  Nathaniel Edgar added, ‘Most unlike Saint Jane, failing to show up for her lessons. It’s unprofessional. We both think that, don’t we, Alice?’

  Weston blanched, having his own words thrown back at him. The man was positively gloating over the misfortunes of the day. Thank God he’d kept her resignation letter to himself.

  ‘I am on my way to her lodgings now,’ he said primly, ‘to see how she is.’

  At that point, Emily Mason emerged from the building.

  With a nod in her direction, Edgar said, ‘No tuition tonight, Headmaster?’

  Weston turned and raised a hand in greeting.

  ‘Miss Mason is most concerned, Headmaster,’ Edgar went on with a smile. ‘She feels you have the makings of a martyr after today.’

  As she neared them, Emily was about to say something but held it back. Instead she turned to go.

  Weston said, ‘If you’re going to the tram, Miss Mason, perhaps I could walk with you?’

  She gave him a curious look and glanced at Nathaniel before looking away. ‘Very well,’ she said.

  ‘Goodnight, Miss Walsh. Nathaniel,’ said Weston, touching his hat. He and the pupil-teacher walked through the school gate and onto the pavement beyond.