The Sculthorpe Murder

by Karen Charlton

  At the other side of the bar, Rosie Kilby swept up the shattered glass, finally using her ruddy broom for its true purpose. She had extinguished most of the candles and lamps and he and Kilby – Bert – were sitting in half-darkness, sipping their drinks, toying with their glasses and casting sly glances across the table at each other. A strained silence had fallen between them. Slowly, Woods felt his anger ebb away as the brandy warmed his innards.

  Perhaps Rosie was right, and they needed to talk. Kilby wanted to talk. He knew this from yesterday morning by the canal but the landlord’s words and courage seemed to be failing him again.

  Woods sighed. It would be down to him to start the stilted conversation. But that’s what he did, wasn’t it? Even Lavender said it. Woods had twenty years of experience of interviewing embarrassed and awkward witnesses and they didn’t come more embarrassed and awkward than the man in the seat opposite. Begin with something easy, some common ground . . . he reminded himself. But no words came.

  Every now and then, Kilby raised his hand gingerly to the bruises on his face and his split lip. The dried blood beneath his nose didn’t look so vivid in the candlelit gloom but Woods was damned if he would feel guilty about that. Bert deserved a good thrashing after the misery he’d caused his family, and Woods was glad he’d given him one. Besides which, the Kilbys had got their revenge when Rosie had bashed him with that brush. His head still throbbed from the blow and only the liquor kept the pain in his ear at bay.

  He had no idea what demon had possessed him today and sent him flying back to Market Harborough like a hothead but he had no regrets. He’d vented his anger and was glad of it, even though part of him knew his gigantic, white-haired brother had made hardly any attempt to fight back. Rosie Kilby was right about that.

  ‘Look here,’ Woods said. ‘What do I call you? Are you Bert still – or is it Alby?’

  ‘It would be best if you called me Alby,’ the landlord said. ‘Everyone knows me as Alby Kilby now.’

  ‘You took Ma’s family name?’

  Kilby nodded. ‘I lived and worked with the Kilbys for years on the Coventry canal.’

  ‘Is that where you fled to when you left London? To Ma’s folks on the canal?’

  Kilby nodded again.

  ‘I’m known as Ned these days,’ Woods told him. ‘Neddy were just the pet name Ma used for me.’

  Kilby smiled sadly. ‘You don’t remember? I called you it too. You probably don’t remember . . .’

  Woods had a flashback to his dream, where he was drowning in the salty gravy of Mrs Tilley’s pie. Kilby’s voice rang in his ears again: ‘I’ll save you, Neddy!’ Yes, he remembered. He took another hasty drink. It was time to get to the bottom of this mystery once and for all.

  But how to get there? It was difficult with one’s own kin. For a moment he wished Lavender was here to ask the questions. He would know what to ask and where to start. But Lavender wasn’t here and the detective must never know the truth about Alby Kilby. No, Woods had to deal with this on his own.

  Common ground . . . he reminded himself. ‘Ma died two years ago,’ Woods said abruptly. ‘She were ill for a while but it were mercifully quick in the end. She never complained.’

  Kilby nodded sadly. ‘I know. I were there – at her funeral.’

  ‘You were?’ Woods didn’t remember any strangers at his mother’s funeral but then again, had he been looking? All he remembered was the misery of that day, the rain and the oppressive grey clouds. He had wanted to be anywhere in the world but in that damp, windy graveyard burying his mother. If a dark shadow had lurked beneath the dripping yew trees on that grim, miserable and wet day, would he have even noticed?

  ‘Aye, I’d heard she weren’t long for this world . . .’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The Kilbys. Word travels slow on the Thames and the canals but it allus reaches yer ears in the end. I came down to Lunnen on the coach – I thought I might have missed her passin’. I couldn’t make meself known to you, of course – I couldn’t risk that – but I watched you bury her. Said my own “goodbye”, like. I saw you with yer wife, Bertha.’

  ‘Betsy.’

  ‘Aye, that’s it, Betsy – and yer three nippers.’

  ‘We’ve had another child since then,’ Woods said. ‘Baby Tabitha.’

  ‘Four now, is it?’ Kilby raised his glass and the amber liquid glinted in the guttering candlelight. His bust lip curled. A gleam of pride shone out of his eyes. ‘Well done, little brother.’ He winked at Woods. ‘Here’s to Baby Tabitha – and yer missus.’

  Woods had no choice but to join Kilby in the toast to his daughter and to Betsy. Anything less would have been bad luck. Their glasses clinked and they gulped down another mouthful of the fiery liquor.

  It was odd, really odd. His brother had been dead to him for years. Now this stranger claimed the right of a brother and an uncle, to (belatedly) toast the arrival of little Tabby and to congratulate him and Betsy on their fertility. He felt a flash of resentment but it subsided almost immediately.

  ‘We had three who survived,’ Kilby told him. ‘All lads, and all grown men now. I’d have liked a daughter.’

  Woods reached for the bottle and refilled their glasses before raising his own. ‘For your sons,’ he said. ‘And for Rosie.’ Their glasses clinked again and more liquor hit the back of Woods’ throat. Perhaps this was what other folks did when they met brothers whom they thought were dead. They got drunk.

  Kilby cleared his throat. He looked embarrassed. ‘About the broom and moy Rosie . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Woods sighed. ‘Betsy would have done the same.’

  Relief flooded across Kilby’s face. Murderer or not, the big man loved his wife.

  ‘I’d like to meet Betsy one day,’ Rosie called out from the other side of the tavern. ‘It sounds like me and her would be well met and well matched.’ She was wiping glasses behind the bar by now but her eyes never left the two men. Her broom now leant idly against the wall but Woods had no doubt she wouldn’t hesitate to pick it up and lash the two of them if they failed to . . . well, to what? To clear up the past? To talk? To find some sort of kinship?

  ‘So what happened on that day in the docks, Alby?’ he said. ‘I know some things but not all – and I saw some things too, but it’s muddled. Tell me in your own words what happened.’

  Kilby’s huge shoulders rose and fell with his sigh. ‘You were only a nipper. There are ten years between us. You were the only one of Ma’s babies to survive after me – and there were a lot who died.’

  Woods nodded.

  ‘I were fond of you, Ned,’ Kilby said awkwardly. ‘You were a good little lad – funny too.’ He paused, embarrassed. ‘You allus made us laugh with yer daft ways.’

  Woods felt affection emanating across the table towards him and memories flooded back of those years when they were a family. He remembered Kilby lifting him up onto his broad shoulders when his little feet were too tired to walk any more. Kilby carrying him everywhere on his shoulders, along the noisy, dirty docks, around the cramped and smoky streets of Rotherhithe and down to the mudflats beside the river, where he liked to play. Kilby taught him how to search for winkles in the rock pools and tease out the flesh from the shell with a pin. He taught him how to hunt for crabs and how to fish.

  Woods remembered trying to fight with Kilby when he was mad and his big brother laughing as he parried Woods’ tiny fists. He remembered Kilby sitting with his ma beside his bed when he was ill, with concern etched across his broad face. ‘Ye’ll be fine, Neddy, the pain will soon pass . . .’

  More than anything he remembered his brother’s great beaming smile.

  I worshipped the ground you walked on, he thought.

  ‘You were my big brother – ’ Woods said awkwardly and stopped. He didn’t want to give Kilby too much hope. It was too early to forgive – he still didn’t know what the devil had done.

  ‘’Twere difficult for us.’ Kilby spoke with more confidence
this time. ‘You were too young to know the half of it. Pa left Ma soon after you were born and I became the man of the house.’

  Woods nodded. ‘I don’t remember him at all.’

  ‘I were young when he left and it were hard on me,’ Kilby said. ‘I were unhappy and began to run with a bad crowd. I’d stay out late and cause trouble. I started thievin’ with a gang of young ’uns.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We started with small stuff, as boys do. A bit of snafflin’ here and there. We took things from shops and dived into the odd pocket or two for moveables.’ Kilby’s eyes darkened and he reached for the bottle again. The fine white hairs on the back of his huge hand gleamed in the candlelight. ‘Ay. Those were dark days. I caused Ma . . . I, I caused her pain.’ He threw back his head and downed his drink in one.

  Woods tensed at this confession. Get to the point, he thought. ‘Tell me about the gang you ran with.’

  Kilby put down his glass and glanced upwards to the ceiling as if trying to pull down a memory from the rafters of the tavern.

  ‘The leader were a lad called Yabsley. Nasty piece of work he were, a real slyboots. He had pockmarked skin, lanky black hair and eyes right close together, here.’ Kilby pointed with two fingers to the bridge of his swollen nose to emphasise his point.

  ‘He also had sommat to prove, did Yabsley. His elder brothers and his father were known as real rogues in Rotherhithe. Yabsley hankered after that fame. He had his eyes set on bigger prizes – and he got more vicious as he got older . . .’

  Woods nodded again. He’d seen it all too often before – gangs of young lads roaming the streets, out of work and bored. Stealing for food and stealing for fun until it became the only way of life they knew and the stakes rose along with their daring.

  ‘Anyway, we went to rob a smoker’s one night and the owner caught us as we helped ourselves to the tobacco from his shelves. Yabsley beat him bad. The smoker were a right mess, barely alive. I were unhappy about this but one of the other lads in the gang, Tesh, he were mad as hell. He yelled at Yabsley for his cruel ways. He walked out on us and said he’d finished with us. Yabsley threatened Tesh and said he couldn’t leave, that nobody walked out on him. But Tesh went anyway. Yabsley said he’d find Tesh and kill him.’

  Kilby took another sip of his brandy. ‘Two nights later we went to steal timber from a boat in the docks but the lighterman were there and he caught us again. Yabsley cracked him over the pate and pushed the body orf the wharf and into the Thames.’

  Woods winced.

  ‘I’d had enough,’ Kilby said. ‘I didn’t want to be part of it no more. I told Yabsley and walked away with his threats ringin’ in my ears. I were a soft turncoat and he would do for me if I turned conk on the rest of them.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘About a week later I had a message from Yabsley. He said I were to meet him down on the coal wharf . . .’

  The coal wharf. Woods felt the blood begin to pound in his ears. He was there again, a small boy shivering in the shadows of the towering stacks of shimmering black fuel. He smelt the stench of the river and the stagnant pools of water. He heard the roar of the blast furnace and the ominous groan of the swaying metal gantries overhead . . .

  ‘. . . Ma asked me not to go but I weren’t afraid of Yabsley. He were no match for me in a fight. That’s what I thought he wanted – to fight.’

  The pounding in Woods’ head got louder. ‘What happened?’

  Kilby shook his head. The blood had left his face and he looked old and strained. ‘Yabsley had culled me like a bird-wit. He weren’t there but poor Tesh were – he’d taken a bad blow to his costard.’

  Bloodied grey brains oozing out from the gash down the side of his head and slithering down the coal like a reptile . . .

  ‘He’d set me oop for a gull, Ned. They’d killed Tesh and set me oop to take the blame. They wanted me stretched out on the gallows at Tyburn. The wharfinger, coal merchant and other men suddenly appeared. They saw me leanin’ over Tesh and began to shout. I looked oop and . . . and I saw you watchin’ me. Horror all over yer little face . . .’

  ‘Run, Neddy! Run!’ Woods felt nauseous as he watched himself stumble and slither over the coal heaps trying to get back to the hole in the fence. Tears streamed from his young eyes. He fell over. His hands and knees oozed blood mingled with coal dust . . .

  Kilby had asked him a question. Woods shook himself and snapped back to reality. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I asked you why you were there that day, watchin’ me?’

  ‘I’d followed you from the house,’ Woods said simply, knowing with complete certainty this was true. ‘I’d just rounded the corner and saw you there – leanin’ over him. I just followed you.’

  Silence.

  ‘You allus were a daft little bugger.’ Kilby shook his head sadly and reached over to fill Woods’ glass again but Woods held up his hand to stop him. ‘No. My head’s poundin’ enough as it is. Some sneakin’ cur tried to kill me this afternoon in Middleton and your missus has just done her best to finish me off with her broom.’

  ‘Someone tried to kill you?’

  ‘Yes. It weren’t you, were it?’

  Kilby gave a laugh and shook his great head. ‘I’d never do that, Ned – no matter what you did to me. I wouldn’t ever hurt you.’

  ‘I’m beginnin’ to believe you.’

  ‘I realised who you were when you said Ma’s name on your first night in here,’ Kilby confessed. ‘A’ve tried to speak to you a few times about it all since but I couldn’t find the right words – and it didn’t help you were police.’

  ‘I didn’t know who you were until today – when I got that bash on the head. Were you followin’ me through the town the other night when I left here?’

  ‘Yes. What made you become a lawman, Ned?’ Kilby’s face creased as if the thought pained him. ‘The Kilbys never told me about this.’

  Woods shrugged. ‘The horses, I think. I’m a patrol officer.’

  Kilby turned and glanced fondly at the mangy grey horsetail pinned to the wall beside the bar. ‘Well, brother, we’ve got somethin’ in common then.’

  ‘Yes,’ Woods smiled. ‘And there’s another thing – fishin’.’

  ‘You like fishin’?’ Kilby’s eyes lit up with delight.

  ‘I should do,’ he said. ‘You taught me how to fish, remember?’

  Kilby grinned but Woods’ smile faded. His mind nagged him again about Kilby’s predicament.

  ‘Where is Yabsley now?’

  ‘Dead, twenty years since. I heard about it from the Kilbys. Someone stabbed him through the heart and sent him to the bottom of the Thames.’

  ‘Then he got what he deserved,’ Woods growled. ‘And the other men in your gang? Those who knew the truth about what happened to Tesh. What happened to them?’

  Kilby frowned and fingered his glass as he tried to remember. ‘Wilton were hauled up in front of the beak and sent Bayside on a lag ship but I’ve never heard a word about the others.’

  ‘What about the wharfinger and the coal merchant who saw you with the stiff?’

  Kilby shrugged. ‘As far as I know, they’re still alive and well.’

  ‘So. You’re still wanted for murder in London. Anyone who could stand for you as a witness at your trial is either dead, transported or missin’ – but those who would speak against you are probably still alive.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

  There was a short silence before Kilby said, ‘Yes, I reckon that’s about the run of things.’ He was quite cheerful, considering his predicament.

  Woods shook his head and sat back in his chair. ‘You’d never get a fair trial now,’ he said.

  Rosie Kilby appeared at her husband’s side and placed a protective hand on his shoulder. ‘Alby has been more than honest with you, Ned,’ she said quietly. ‘So what you goin’ to do? Will you turn Alby in to the Runners?’

  They stared at him, waiting for his reaction, his decisi
on.

  He sighed heavily. He’d expected this question. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m goin’ to do, Rosie,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m goin’ to sleep. My old noddle is fair swimmin’ with all this. I think my way will be clearer in the mornin’.’ He scraped back his chair across the floor and stood up, more abruptly than he had intended. ‘Thank you for the brandy. I’ll bid you goodnight.’

  ‘Wait!’ Rosie grabbed hold of his arm. ‘There’s a warm room upstairs if you wants to stay the night. It has fresh sheets on the bed and I’ll do you a good breakfast in the mornin’. I knows you share yer brother’s great appetite.’

  ‘Moy Rosie cooks a damned hearty breakfast,’ Kilby said, smiling.

  Woods hesitated, as he always did at the prospect of good food. Things had just taken an interesting turn. Kilby might be unconcerned about his fate but his wife was fretting. She didn’t want Woods out of her sight in case he went to the magistrate to fetch an arrest warrant for Kilby. Woods had been an officer long enough to recognise a bribe of ham and eggs when he saw one. The desperate woman was tempting him with a warm bed and good food. Would Betsy fight so hard for him? He ruddy well hoped so.

  Sleep would have to wait. The decision had to be made now. Kilby’s fate spun on the edge of a sixpence and all three of them knew it was Woods’ hands that flipped the coin. Woods tried to think rationally about the situation.

  In the eyes of the law, he was probably already an accomplice to Kilby’s crime. Instead of turning Kilby into the authorities the moment he recognised him, he had raced back here like a hothead, bided his time until they were alone and then thrashed the bugger. If he wasn’t an accomplice at the moment, by the time he woke up in The Angel Inn tomorrow morning he definitely would be. Accepting the Kilbys’ hospitality would be seen as siding with his brother.

  Yet he believed Kilby’s version of events. On top of that, he had started to like and respect him. Kilby had led a decent life since he’d fled London. He’d brought up three sons, earned the adoration of his wife and the respect of the local boatmen. It wouldn’t have been easy for a fugitive from justice to turn his life around like this.