Elementary Murder Read online

  ‘I left it yonder, in case.’

  ‘In case of what?’

  ‘In case it’s evidence.’

  A puzzled look flickered on the headmaster’s face.

  ‘But evidence of what?’

  Prendergast sighed. He could see that his words were falling on deaf ears. He reached out and placed his index finger against the edging of the book. ‘Arson, Mr Weston. This book ’as been singed round the edges. Looks like some swine tried to light it an’ didn’t have the sense to realise sheets o’ paper packed tight like that won’t catch. They won’t catch, Mr Weston. That’s what saved the school.’

  Weston’s expression had grown from puzzlement, to disbelief, and now horror. He stumbled over the coals and grabbed the offending book, dislodging it from where it was lodged and lifting it free. He stepped back, wiped the coal dust that blackened its surface and stared down at the front cover.

  ‘It’s someone’s copybook,’ he said, and flicked the book open at a random page. An elegantly pre-printed phrase ran along the top:

  Shallow brooks are noisy

  While beneath the legend a child’s untidy scrawl showed feeble attempts to copy the saying on line after line, all the way to the bottom. On each line the pupil had misspelt noisy as noisey, and on several occasions the word brooks had been written books.

  ‘Disgraceful!’ was Weston’s comment on both the penmanship and the spelling.

  ‘Who’s it belong to?’ Prendergast asked with a firm nod in the book’s direction.

  Weston returned to the front of the copybook and saw W. Kelly written across the top.

  At around the time the headmaster found his copybook, Billy Kelly was rubbing his eyes and touching the large bruise on his forehead. It was very painful, but the pain was muted by the awful smell of the place. He remembered being sick, and the number of times he’d done his business; he remembered shivering in the blackness, and he even remembered how he’d come to knock himself out. But he now felt a growing sense, not of fear – he’d felt enough of that these past few days – but of loneliness.

  When was the last time he spoke to anyone?

  He stood up and knew it was morning because he could hear, through the gap in the ceiling, the yells of children going to school, and the usual morning sounds that filled the streets: the shuttle of the trams as they swayed from side to side; the clatter of clogs and the loud, heavy coughing from older ones, men and women, who followed up their fits of coughing with a harsh gurgling rattle prior to spitting out huge globs of phlegm.

  And people talking – as if everything was normal.

  His hand, where the rat had bitten him, was throbbing even more today than yesterday, and he could feel now his flesh begin to prickle, just as it did last night before the shivering overcame him.

  It was no use. He could stay down here no longer, police or no police.

  What if he’d been forgotten about?

  What if the shivering and the headaches and the throbbing from the bite got worse and worse until he collapsed in a heap and died?

  What if the one who’d brought him here never came back? Been trampled to death by a horse gone mad. Would his body just rot away till there was nothing but his clothes?

  Would the rats eat him?

  ‘Sod that’, he said out loud. It was strange hearing his voice now. It sounded hoarse, weaker than normal.

  If he could get out of this cellar, then maybe he could go to the station – or follow the tracks to a place just outside the station where the train – any train – hadn’t picked up enough speed to make it impossible for him to jump it. Then he could go to the next town and get off the train and beg for a bit. People would be bound to give him money; they’d feel sorry for him. Especially now he’d got this bruise. And when he’d got enough money he could go far away, to London, or even Manchester. Didn’t need nobody’s help.

  And the best thing about that plan was the police from Wigan wouldn’t have a clue where the hell he’d got to.

  He was set, then. He needed no bugger, did he? He’d get out of this cellar and disappear. Just disappear.

  Weston waited until all the classes had settled down to their work. It was normally his favourite time of the school day, for the children were, by and large, alert and some of them even willing to learn. Their restlessness was still lying dormant, and in his mentoring sessions with Emily Mason he’d advised her to take full advantage of their relative docility by getting them working on set tasks that would necessitate a great deal of writing or thinking: dictation, or arithmetic. With Standard 1, he told her, there was no more exciting sound than the rattle of abacuses as the pupils worked their way through their sums, and he did indeed hear the reassuring smack-smack of abacus beads as he passed Standard 1’s classroom. Emily Mason, as well as the five-year-olds, was learning.

  Today, though, he was concerned more about how he should proceed than the ambience of learning and diligence in his establishment. That wretched boy Kelly had left his copybook in the coal cellar, and it was obvious he – or someone else – had tried to light the scrawl-filled object with a view to burning the entire school down. Prendergast had found it, and it was therefore incumbent upon Weston to pursue the matter, even though a part of him would gladly consign the thing to oblivion. He’d had enough of police parading through his school as if they owned the place.

  To make matters worse, Nathaniel Edgar had sent a messenger round to school just before the start of morning lessons to say that he would unfortunately be late for his class today owing to his neighbour falling ill and requiring his assistance.

  Weston recognised it for the lie it was. He’d more than likely taken too much drink last night and was nursing a hangover. Still, it meant he’d had to arrange for Edgar’s Standard 5 to be crammed into Standard 4 with his deputy, Miss Ryan. It was fortunate that she was quite capable of controlling such a large group despite the initial clatter as chairs were carried from one room to another. He would need to speak with Nathaniel Edgar when he had the opportunity –and when the foolish man had sobered up.

  As he reached the classroom for Standard 6, he sighed, took a deep breath, and allowed all such thoughts to store themselves at the back of his mind. He swung the classroom door open and stood in the doorway. Gratifyingly, the whole class stood in silence at the sight of the headmaster in their presence, a tribute, he reflected, to the professionalism of Miss Jane Rodley, who stood at the front of the class with chalk in her hand and a set of grammatical exercises written in her usual exemplary copperplate hand. She would be sorely missed, despite her occasional lapse into mawkish sentimentality where the children were concerned.

  ‘Miss Rodley? A moment of your very valuable time?’ he said in a low, respectful voice that maintained the atmosphere of calm in the room.

  ‘Certainly, Headmaster,’ she said. She pointed to the list of ten sentences, each containing a grammatical error, and ordered the class to copy each one into their exercise books, making sure they put in the corrected version.

  Some of the pupils looked puzzled at this; some of them shrugged and bent over their books to begin their work, while others, the entire back row, for instance, watched craftily with pencils raised, waiting for the moment the door closed behind Miss Rodley.

  ‘Is William Kelly in there?’ Weston asked. The corridor was empty. Even so, he had lowered his voice.

  Jane Rodley shook her head. ‘He hasn’t been in since last week. Some of the children have told me he’s run away again. What’s he done now?’

  He held out the copybook for her to examine and said, ‘Perhaps this is the reason he did so.’

  For a moment, she looked flustered, her brow furrowed as she looked at the scorched edges of the book.

  ‘You realise I shall have to contact the police? Again?’

  From the tone of his voice, she got the impression that somehow this was her fault. He was, after all, in her class.

  ‘You’ve shown quite a soft spot for that mis
creant, haven’t you?’ Again, the undertone of rebuke.

  ‘I’ve shown a certain amount of sympathy for the child. His family background …’

  He took the book from her somewhat snappishly. ‘The influence of your fiancé, no doubt. This.’ He held up the evidence so that it was inches from her face. ‘This is the reward for such sentimentality, Miss Rodley. And now I shall have to do my duty once more.’

  He swirled round and stormed off down the corridor, leaving Jane Rodley with an expression of concern etched into her features.

  ‘It’s very good of you to come at such short notice, Sergeant Brennan.’

  ‘Not at all. I was about to pay the school another visit anyway.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, but as your messenger said the matter was most urgent, I put aside all my other duties and ran all the way.’

  The cynical look on Weston’s face was evidence enough that the man was far more appreciative of irony than Constable Jaggery.

  ‘Quite.’

  Before Weston could explain why he had sent for him, Brennan said quietly, ‘Why did you lie to the police, Mr Weston?’

  There was a silence. The headmaster suddenly went pale. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘When I asked you for Mr Tollet’s address.’

  ‘I gave you his address.’

  ‘But you failed to mention that he was staying at the Royal Hotel.’

  ‘That wasn’t a lie. You asked for his address and I gave it to you.’

  ‘It was obstructing my investigation.’

  ‘I didn’t like your tone then, Sergeant, and I certainly don’t like it now!’

  Brennan could see the man’s lips tighten in anger. ‘Just a few more questions before we move onto the reason you called me in.’

  ‘More questions? I thought …’

  ‘I’d like to know where you were in the summer of 1879.’

  Weston sat back and looked nonplussed. ‘What on earth do you wish to know that for?’

  ‘Please just answer the question.’

  Weston coughed to clear his throat. ‘If you must know, my father was a solicitor. In that year, if I remember rightly, he was practising in Cambridge. Not far from Petty Cury, as a matter of fact. You know Cambridge, Sergeant?’

  ‘Never had the pleasure, sir. Does he still practise in Cambridge?’

  ‘My father died several years ago. My mother died last year.’

  ‘I see. I’m sorry.’ Brennan scribbled a few notes in his notebook and then said, ‘You ever been to Hawkshead, in the Lake District?’

  Weston shook his head.

  ‘It appears Dorothea Gadsworth recognised someone from her past.’

  ‘Well I can assure you it wasn’t I.’

  ‘A little girl, Tilly Pollard, drowned when Miss Gadsworth was seven. It sorely affected her.’

  ‘It would sorely affect anyone, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed it would.’ He paused, then said, ‘Well then. The reason for my current visit?’

  Weston took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Then he opened his table drawer and took out a curled book, which he slid towards Brennan. ‘It’s a boy’s copybook. As you can see, the outer edges have been singed.’

  Brennan read the name on the front cover. ‘Where was this found?’

  ‘In the coal cellar. Beneath a dwindling mound of coal. In my opinion, that is evidence of arson.’

  Brennan shook his head. ‘Not quite, Mr Weston.’

  The headmaster sucked his teeth. ‘What is it then? An attempt to smoke the damned thing?’

  He looked at Weston closely. The sharp response was reflected in the expression on the man’s face. He seemed to have the weight of the world on his shoulders. Perhaps the business of leading a school was harder than Brennan imagined.

  Brennan spoke calmly. ‘What I mean is, there was no arson, was there? So nobody can be accused of it.’

  ‘Attempted arson, then.’

  ‘A different matter.’ Brennan flicked through the pages of the book, noticed the untidy scrawl that littered each page. ‘Not one of your brightest scholars then?’

  ‘If you must know, the boy is a dratted nuisance. Always claiming victimhood. And that … mother of his.’

  ‘I’m no believer in coincidences, Mr Weston, but this is genuinely one of them.’

  Weston looked nonplussed.

  ‘You see, the other reason I was going to pay you another visit today was because of this very pupil. William Kelly. It seems he’s gone missing.’

  ‘So I hear. Miss Rodley tells me some of Standard 6 have been talking. Jungle drums, Sergeant.’

  ‘Well there’s one coincidence I am doubtful about.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The fact that William Kelly is last seen on the very night Miss Dorothea Gadsworth is murdered.’

  Again, the headmaster sucked his teeth.

  Brennan spoke patiently. ‘I’ve already been to speak with Mrs Kelly.’

  ‘A delightful experience, I’m sure.’

  He ignored the comment. ‘And she tells me that, while she has little time for the school as a whole, there’s one teacher who at least seems to show some interest in her son’s educational welfare.’

  At the slur on the school’s good name, Weston bridled. ‘My staff pride themselves on getting the best out of our pupils. Sometimes it’s like nibbling at a rotten apple, but …’

  ‘I’d like to see the teacher in question, Miss Rodley. If it’s convenient.’

  ‘Absolutely not. She is teaching Standard 6.’

  ‘Only a few minutes, I can assure you.’

  ‘Out of the question.’

  Brennan made to stand up. ‘Then if she can’t leave the classroom, there’ll be no objection to my going there.’

  Weston also stood up, his face scarlet now with anger. ‘You’ll do no such thing! What sort of pandemonium would erupt if a member of my staff were interviewed by the police in front of thirty-eight children? Can you imagine the damage that would cause? The pupils would spread the news like water through a burst dam.’

  Brennan, having goaded the headmaster towards his apocalyptic nightmare, sat down again. ‘Then I’m sure if you send her to me, you can take the opportunity to re-sharpen your teaching skills by sitting with Standard 6 for the next five minutes.’

  Thus outmanoeuvred, Weston stifled the response he’d been about to give and was about to leave the room when Brennan added, ‘Oh and I might as well kill two birds, so to speak.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I need to have just a minute of Miss Alice Walsh’s time when I’m done with Miss Rodley.’

  ‘This is outrageous! I’m running a school, not a doctor’s surgery!’

  ‘It would merely necessitate you swapping Standard 6 for – I believe – Standard 3? Once Miss Rodley returns, of course.’

  The smile he offered the headmaster did nothing to take the sting out of the venomous look he was given.

  A few minutes later, Jane Rodley sat opposite Brennan, who had now removed himself from the visitor’s chair and placed himself behind the headmaster’s desk. Once again he was captivated by the singular beauty of her features, despite the worried look that now showed itself.

  ‘I gather you know about William Kelly, Miss Rodley?’

  ‘It’s never William,’ she said with an attempt at a smile. ‘I remember the first morning this term when I read out the register. He made it quite clear he was to be referred to as Billy. But yes, I knew he’d gone missing. The others are full of wild tales about him.’

  ‘Such as?’

  She glanced down at her hands, as if she’d said something she shouldn’t. ‘Oh, the usual childish nonsense.’

  ‘Give me an example.’

  After a pause, she said, ‘He was apparently in a fight on Friday night with another of my pupils. Albert Parkinson. The two of them are, shall we say, rivals?’

  That tallied with what Mrs Kelly had told him. And B
illy’s expressed fear of being hanged for something. He glanced at the copybook still lying on the desk before him. Had the boy tried to burn the school down and was afraid he’d be hauled before the courts? Attempted arson wasn’t a hanging offence, and even if it were, Billy Kelly was ten. Brennan knew full well there was no minimum age for the gallows but he’d never heard of a ten-year-old child having his neck stretched. No, if the lad were afraid of being hanged, then it was entirely possible someone put that thought into his head.

  If so, why?

  The damaged copybook suggested he was in the school cellar at some time. Had he been there Friday night?

  ‘I heard about their confrontation,’ he said. ‘Mrs Kelly seems to be very worried. It has been several days now.’

  A trace of a sneer flashed across her face.

  ‘You’ve met the mother, Miss Rodley? She speaks highly of you.’

  ‘Such a pity I can’t reciprocate.’

  ‘She tells me you’re the only one to show any sort of interest in the lad.’

  ‘Including her,’ came the snappish reply. Then she seemed to realise what she’d said, and a professional veneer replaced the scorn. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant. I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know the full situation in that family. All I know is there’s an air of casual brutality. I’ve seen bruises …’

  ‘Had he spoken to you about likely hiding places?’

  She examined him curiously. ‘What a strange question.’

  ‘If the lad has run away from home it stands to reason he’s hiding somewhere. And if you’ve shown some interest in him …’

  She slowly shook her head. ‘I think you misunderstand. I’ve shown him some consideration, some understanding. I’ve even taken the time to sit beside him while he’s working to help him through his sums or his grammar work. But that’s as far as it goes, Sergeant. I wouldn’t dream of engaging with him on a personal nature. Why, he’s probably miles away from here. Gone off to seek his fortune.’

  ‘I see. Well, just a few more questions, Miss Rodley. Then you can go and rescue Mr Weston.’

  ‘I can assure you he’s perfectly capable of holding Standard 6 in the palm of his hand,’ she said with a smile.