Elementary Murder

  ELEMENTARY MURDER

  A. J. WRIGHT

  For my younger brothers Billy and Stephen, who shared a great childhood with me in the ironically-named All Saints Grove. I should also like to dedicate this novel to all the friends I made at St Benedict’s RC Primary School, Hindley, and Blessed John Rigby Grammar School for Boys, Gathurst, Orrell.

  If only we had a time machine …

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BY A. J. WRIGHT

  COPYRIGHT

  George Street Elementary School, Wigan Extracts from school log book September 1894 [Completed by Mr R. D. Weston, Headmaster]

  Monday 10th September

  Billy Kelly, Standard 6, given three swipes of the cane for spitting at Albert Parkinson in class. Later given six swipes of the cane for swearing at Miss Ryan in the playground. Absented himself from the school buildings at 3:20 p.m.

  Tuesday 11th September

  Mrs Kelly demanded interview with me. Her son unable to carry out his duties at Cartwright’s Rolling Mill on account of his hand. Mrs Kelly was informed firstly that the boy’s inability to collect scraps of wrought iron from the floor of the foundry was a direct consequence of his inability to behave himself in class and in the playground. Secondly, that in any case it was against the law for her to send her son to work at Cartwright’s or anywhere else. There ensued a most unseemly scene in front of girls’ drawing class. Police informed.

  Wednesday 12th September

  Albert Parkinson absent – third Wednesday in a row.

  Friday 14th September

  Letter received from school inspector based in Blackburn. He will visit next week (the 21st) which is also the date of the interview for new assistant teacher to replace Miss Rodley. We must make a concerted effort to impress upon the inspector how far the school, and especially Standards 1 and 2, has come in terms of spelling and arithmetic. Last year’s report spoke of ‘lamentably weak performances’ in those areas. We must also be sure to let the inspector know of our high hopes for sewing: it is hoped the successful candidate next week will build on the excellent work Miss Rodley has done with the Standard 6 girls in this area.

  Monday 17th September

  Arthur Clayton, Standard 2, and Edna Clayton, Standard 4, not in school all day. Attending the funeral of their father who was killed in the pit last week. I observed Miss Mason’s spelling lesson with Standard 1; our pupil-teacher is making very good progress and will doubtless be an asset to the profession.

  Wednesday 19th September

  The four Macfarlane children sent home on account of infant sibling suffering from scarlatina.

  Thursday 20th September

  Lady Crawford paid a most unexpected visit this morning to see the work of the sewing classes. Her Ladyship was most complimentary and gave a short address to the staff, graciously praising their work with ‘such inferior material’ and paying tribute to the efficient leadership enjoyed by the school.

  Friday 21st September

  A most curious day. The school inspector, Mr Henry Tollet, spent almost the whole day in school, during which time he attended several lessons. He was most impressed by Standard 4 boys’ geography, and he commented favourably on Standard 5 girls’ penmanship which, he observed with humour, flowed far more fluently than their speech! He expressed surprise and delight at the work of our pupil-teacher, Miss Mason. There were points of dissatisfaction, especially the behaviour of some of the children, and his subsequent report will enumerate in more detail his concerns. However, it is sufficient to say that on balance his observations weighed more heavily towards the favourable.

  Unfortunately, the interview for a new teacher to replace Miss Rodley did not end satisfactorily. The applicant, a young lady named Miss Dorothea Gadsworth, had spoken well enough when with myself and some members of my staff, and in spite of an initial lack of firmness and distance when observed with Standard 6, she eventually acquitted herself quite well. Later, in the staffroom, she was overcome by a fainting spell, a circumstance made all the more awkward as it coincided with the entrance of Mr Tollet on one of his peregrinations around the school, accompanied by our school manager Reverend Charles Pearl and myself. Rev. Pearl and I were both in melancholy agreement that such sensibilities would be unsuitable for the hurly-burly of teaching at George Street and at her interview informed the young lady accordingly. She was most distressed.

  I have arranged for a short staff meeting Monday morning before school to discuss the inspector’s preliminary (verbal) findings before the official report is issued.

  Monday 24th September

  It is with the greatest regret that I must record the dreadful events of this morning. Upon unlocking the school buildings and prior to firing up the stoves, our caretaker, John Prendergast, made a terrible discovery. In Standard 5 classroom, he discovered the body of a young woman. I was shocked to discover that it was the body of Miss Dorothea Gadsworth, whom we had last seen on Friday and whom we were compelled to dismiss as a candidate for Miss Rodley’s position.

  The police were sent for and I took the decision to close the classroom. Standard 5 were placed with Standard 4 for the day. To a very great extent the pupils behaved with commendable gravity, with only a few exceptions who were dealt with as befitted the solemnity of the occasion. I spoke at length with the police detective who was most impressed by the way the school had comported itself on this most unfortunate of days. The aforementioned detective conducted several interviews with members of staff at the end of the school day and he complimented the manner in which the school had risen to the challenge of a very trying day.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘What the bloody ’ell’s up wi’ that lot?’

  The concerned citizen had paused on her way to the shops when she heard what she thought was a full-scale riot emanating from the schoolyard of George Street Elementary School.

  The old woman she was addressing lifted her shawl a little and glanced across the street, shaking her head.

  ‘Should be inside an’ learnin’ summat,’ she said. ‘Goin’ to the bloody dogs, that place. They let ’em run wild. I’m glad my young uns are out of it. Didn’t learn ’em owt anyroad.’

  ‘It’s makin’ the little buggers stay till they’re eleven,’ an older man added as he approached the two women. ‘When I was their age I were down t’bloody pit pushin’ tubs.’

  As if to emphasise his disgust at the recent raising of the school leaving age, he spat forcibly into the road before shuffling his way into town.

  The two women watched him go, then, with a sniff, returned their attention to the unholy racket from the schoolyard, where they could see several children violently shoving each other in what seemed to be a desperate attempt to climb up to the windows of the school building facing the street.

  The old woman chuckled.

  ‘At least when my lot went yonder they fought like buggery to leave the place. Them little sods look like they’re fi
ghtin’ to get back in!’

  ‘Eyup!’

  The first woman elbowed her companion and nodded towards the upper end of George Street, where two police constables, standing either side of a man in plain clothes, were marching purposefully along the pavement. All three had grim expressions on their faces.

  ‘Some bugger’s for it!’ she said. ‘Probably ’im.’

  She raised a gnarled finger and pointed at the sign outside the building, its lettering faded and the paint flaking where the wood was rotting:

  George Street Elementary School

  Mr Richard D. Weston, Headmaster

  She was slumped near the door, one arm stretched out as if she had been reaching for something, while her other arm lay loosely by her side. She was wearing a small hat that rested slightly askew on tight curls, and the small outdoor coat was still buttoned tightly at the front to highlight her trim waist. Nearby, there was a pool of congealed vomit, and stuck in the centre a single sheet of paper. Fighting back a wave of nausea, Detective Sergeant Michael Brennan stooped low and carefully plucked it from the rancid mess. Although the paper was damp, he could still make out the only thing written there: in spiderish letters the word FAILED.

  He stood up and turned to the man standing in the doorway. The caretaker, John Prendergast, had found the body early that morning, as he opened the building. He was around forty, with thick greying hair and a scar down his left cheek. He stood there now, staring at the woman’s body with a mixture of pity and revulsion on his face.

  ‘You say the door was locked?’ Brennan asked him.

  The man nodded and wiped his mouth. ‘Aye. It were. When I looked through the glass in the door an’ saw her lyin’ there I had to break the lock.’

  ‘You didn’t have a key?’

  He shook his head vigorously. ‘These classrooms are never locked. I keep the keys in the storeroom back yonder.’ He pointed towards the end of the corridor and a small door that lay half open. ‘I ran back there for the key but it weren’t where it should be.’

  ‘So you broke in?’

  ‘Aye. I didn’t know what else to do. She might’ve been alive still for all I knew. I thought she might be drunk.’

  Brennan looked around the room. ‘Was the door locked from the inside?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘How do you know? It could have been locked and just left like that, leaving the woman still inside.’

  As if by some sleight of hand, John Prendergast pulled something from his pocket. When he held it out towards him, Brennan could see it was a key.

  ‘That’s the key to this room, is it?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I thought you said you couldn’t find it?’

  ‘I never said that. It was found after I broke in. It were on t’floor over yonder. Reverend Pearl spotted it when he came in.’ He pointed to a space behind the door.

  ‘Are you saying the door was locked from inside?’

  ‘Aye. Key must’ve dropped out when I broke t’lock.’

  Brennan gave a long sigh. ‘What did you do after you found she was dead?’

  ‘I went for Mr Weston. He came along, with all the others followin’…’

  ‘Others?’

  ‘Aye. All the staff. And the vicar. They’d got in early for a meetin’, after the inspector’s visit last Friday. Seein’ what he’d had to say in his report, probably. Anyroad, when Mr Weston saw for himself, he asked the reverend to escort ’em all back and said I were to make the room secure. Though how I was supposed to do that wi’ yon lock hangin’ off … I just shoved a bench in front of the door. That’s when he must’ve sent for you lot.’

  Brennan thanked him. ‘I’ll need to speak with you later, Mr Prendergast. But that’ll be all for now.’

  When he’d gone, Constable Jaggery, who had been standing outside the classroom with the other constable to ward off any prying eyes, came in and gazed down at the body.

  ‘Why do they do it, Sergeant?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Suicide. She seems pretty enough.’

  ‘Let’s see if we can get some answers, then, shall we?’ With that, he told Jaggery to stand outside the main entrance, while Constable Hardy waited for the wagon to arrive for its melancholy cargo.

  In the normal run of things, Richard Weston regarded his study as his inner sanctum, a sacred place where he dispensed the necessary punishments, oversaw the work of both scholars and teachers, and drew up his weekly list of materials to be introduced to the children for their Object Lessons as advocated by Mr Currie and his worthy tome The Principles and Practice of Common-School Education. In such a venerated place, he ruled.

  Today, however, he sat in his study feeling rather unvenerated, and tried hard to keep his hands still. His face was pale, a consequence of standing over a body and, with his caretaker watching on, ascertaining that indeed the woman was dead and declaring this was a matter for the police.

  ‘Suicide is the most heinous of crimes, in my opinion. A selfish, wicked act.’

  ‘And you are convinced it was suicide?’ asked Brennan, sitting opposite him.

  ‘Well,’ he began with the same patient tone he would use with a backward child, ‘there’s the small matter of the note she left.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Brennan, placing a hand against his inside pocket, where the slip of paper lay folded inside his handkerchief.

  ‘Added to the fact that she locked herself in the room so she wouldn’t be disturbed.’

  ‘I see.’ Brennan thought for a few seconds then said, ‘Perhaps you could tell me who the woman is and how she came to be found in a classroom?’

  Mr Weston leant forward and picked up a pen, turning it around and examining the dry nib.

  ‘As to your second question, I have no answer, Sergeant. Mr Prendergast, our caretaker, assures me he locked the school on Friday night – only two doors, front and rear. How the woman got into the school is beyond me.’

  Beyond the closed door of the headmaster’s study, they could hear the shuffle of feet along the corridor where the woman’s body was being carried in the cheap wooden coffin to the wagon waiting outside. They must have opened the large double doors that formed the entrance to the main school buildings, for immediately from inside the headmaster’s study, they could hear the loud screams of nervous and excited children who would be gathering round the coffin eager to steal a glance and terrified of the consequences.

  ‘Get back you snivellin’ little sods!’

  Brennan smiled thinly. He could rely on Constable Jaggery, whom he had left on duty in the schoolyard, to maintain the safety, if not the dignity, of the melancholy transportation. He looked at the headmaster’s bowed head and gave an audibly provocative sigh.

  Finally the headmaster began to elaborate.

  ‘Her name is Miss Dorothea Gadsworth. She was here in school on Friday.’

  ‘Why?’

  Mr Weston took a deep breath, as if he were about to dive in a freezing stretch of river, and said, ‘She had been invited for interview. We are soon to have a vacancy, you see, as Miss Rodley is leaving us. She is engaged to Reverend Pearl, our school manager, and as such it would have been inadvisable for Miss Rodley to continue in her post.’

  ‘Now, tell me what happened on Friday.’

  With a frown, he looked up at Brennan and said, ‘From an inauspicious start, everything was going quite well, Sergeant. Until the poor woman fainted.’

  Dorothea Gadsworth stood at the front of the class – Standard 6 – and cleared her throat before speaking. Thirty-seven pupils – girls and boys – stood before her behind desks that had seen better days. Their faces were, for the most part, quite clean, although Dorothea could make out smears of dirt just below the hairline on many of the boys. Occasionally there was a chorus of sniffling, and she noticed several of them using their sleeves to wipe their noses. She had been told beforehand of the nature of this particular group – ‘prone to silliness’ had been the view express
ed by Miss Jane Rodley, the teacher whose position she hoped to take – and so she adopted the stern expression they had been encouraged to develop at training college.

  ‘Good morning, Standard 6.’

  There was a ragged chorus of ‘Good morning, miss’ mainly from the girls. The boys stole furtive glances at each other and some covered their mouths to hide their sniggering, unaware that such an action served only to highlight, not conceal, such rudeness.

  ‘Now you may sit. In SILENCE!’

  Although she had a slight, demure figure, her voice was loud and forceful. It had the desired effect, for now the whole class were sitting quietly behind their desks.

  ‘My name is Miss Gadsworth, and I am here to teach you arithmetic this morning.’

  There were the beginnings of a communal groan that were immediately stifled when the schoolroom door opened and the headmaster, Mr Weston, entered, followed by the school inspector, Mr Tollet. The children all rose and stared directly ahead, their faces now expressionless, a contrast with the rather apprehensive frown that had suddenly appeared on Miss Gadsworth’s forehead.

  ‘Sit!’

  Mr Weston’s voice was hard and splintery, rather like the long cane he carried under his arm.

  It took Miss Gadsworth a few seconds to re-compose herself, but she lifted her head in a superior manner (again following the guidelines set by her training) and leant forward on the teacher’s desk in what she imagined was an attitude of authority.

  ‘As you are no doubt aware, I am new to the school and would like to spend a minute getting to know you. I am told you are a very bright set of children.’

  There was a sharp cough from Mr Weston, who had by now moved to the back of the room, Mr Tollet beside him.