Elementary Murder Page 17

  As they left the hotel, Brennan filled his lungs with the cool evening air. Somehow he’d felt stifled in that sad room, and it felt good to be out on the street where a tram had stopped and people were disembarking.

  Jaggery, who saw the lines of concentration along his sergeant’s brow, said, ‘Witches, Sergeant? Bit of a let-down, eh?’

  Brennan slowly breathed out. ‘Well, we know more about the Reece girl now than we did before.’

  ‘What? That she saved an old bat from burnin’?’

  Brennan didn’t feel like correcting him.

  ‘You seem in a better mood!’

  The speaker, a clerk in a local bank, stood beside Nathaniel Edgar who was watching some of the members on the green through the clubhouse window. The Wigan and District Bowling Club lay on the outskirts of town. It was founded in 1852, and many of the older members recalled a time when the green was first built. Back then, they’d had to retire to a local public house, the Three Crowns Inn, until the members managed to secure a loan from the bank to build their own clubhouse. Now it was thriving, despite recent criticisms of the standard of the green and the possibility of a re-turf.

  None of which bothered Nathaniel Edgar, who saw the place more as a place of refuge, of companionship, rather than a venue for gentle exercise. He turned, held up his glass in acknowledgement of the greeting, and recited some lines in a slurred voice:

  ‘“Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing, The rain is over and gone!”’

  His friend took one look at the half-drained glass and smiled. ‘Shakespeare?’

  ‘Oh, dear me, no. I couldn’t see Shakespeare waxing lyrical at the foot of a bridge in Ullswater as Wordsworth did.’

  ‘So what’s brought on this change of mood? Last night you were in as black a mood as I’ve seen you. When I took you home you were mumbling about having lost something. Did you find it?’

  Nathaniel took a long draught and emptied his glass. ‘We all lose something, Patrick, my young friend. And then we have to go looking for something else.’

  ‘Why don’t we go out on the green? Get some fresh air. There’s enough light for fourteen ends.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He raised a finger and pointed to the fading light outside. ‘Just look at that sky. “Good things of day begin to droop and drowse.”’

  ‘Wordsworth again?’

  ‘No, dear boy. Shakespeare.’

  It had taken Alice Walsh a long time to be accepted. At first, with her alien accent and her more refined mode of dress, not to mention the fact that when she went to work the only substance to sully her hands was chalk dust, the women who worked on the pit brow had the distinct impression that she looked down on them, that she sometimes stood outside the colliery gates with leaflets and petitions of all sorts in her delicate hands only to expect gratitude from them and perhaps even a curtsy or two.

  But gradually, as she engaged them in conversation and suffered the ribald comments of the miners as they passed the small group of women at the gates, Alice Walsh was at least tolerated. One or two of them began to acknowledge her in the street when they passed her in town. Some of them even came along to the meetings of the Wigan branch of the Manchester National Society for Women’s Suffrage, where she and others would make every effort to elicit their support for the franchise and exhort them to spread the word at every colliery in the borough. She knew there was an appetite for protest in the women. It had only been seven years ago that twenty three of them had travelled to London to lobby the then Home Secretary against the threat of abolishing their right to work at the pits with the proposed new Mines Regulation Act. The government had even touched upon their practical mode of dress – black flannel trousers – as unsuitable, and Alice had been especially pleased when told the women had turned up in London wearing their working attire.

  One in the eye for the toffs.

  It was that steely and dignified resolve, to fight against Westminster tyranny, that she admired so much. If only her fellow members of the Wigan branch could harness that sense of defiance and righteousness in the cause of suffrage!

  Tonight’s meeting had gone well, and over twenty pit women had turned up to hear what the society was proposing. Once the last of them had left the hall, Alice spent a few minutes with the other members of the committee before saying goodnight.

  When she got outside, she headed towards the nearest tram stop. All thoughts of suffrage were now replaced by other considerations. She prided herself on the ability to do that, to immerse herself in one thing then section it off and turn to something else.

  Now, she thought of the other problem facing her. The other night, admittedly, she’d lost all track of time and completely forgot what she had promised. That wouldn’t happen again. It would be unpleasant, she knew, but sometimes when things had gone as far as they could go and there was no other way out, then you just had to take the bull by the horns, so to speak. She would do it tonight.

  Once she was settled in the tram, wrapping her coat around her to ward off the growing chill of the night, she allowed her mind to think forward, to what was to come. Not backwards, at what had been.

  Sometimes, no matter how hard she tried, it proved very difficult for Mrs Flanagan to block her ears and deaden the sounds of conversation. She knew the good reverend had been unsettled in his mind these past few days, and she also knew that the recent visit to a dying child had sorely troubled him. That he was essentially a good and decent man, she had no doubt, even though his choice of future wife – Jane Rodley – wouldn’t have been her choice for the sainted man. No, she had far too much to say for herself, for one thing. And that was a consequence of being a teacher and used to having instant obedience. But the other thing was the way she had recently been speaking to him, as if he were inferior. A man of faults.

  The first thing that surprised her this morning as she arrived at the vicarage was the fact that Miss Rodley was already inside. Mrs Flanagan had a deep sense of propriety, and while she had no doubts whatsoever about the nature of the woman’s visit – the vicar must have been appalled when he opened the door and saw her standing there as she must have appeared, in a swirl of mist – she nevertheless felt it was a breach of some code or other for her to pay such an early morning visit.

  And then, once Mrs Flanagan had accepted her presence with a sniff and gone immediately to the kitchen for the reverend’s breakfast, she had accidentally left the kitchen door ajar, thus rendering it possible to hear some of whatever was being said along the corridor. To close the door might bring attention to the fact that it was open in the first place. And in the second place … well, it was clear, once she moved into the corridor itself, that words of a heated nature were being exchanged.

  ‘… Sure it won’t come to that ….’

  ‘… Hardly slept for worry …’

  ‘… You must do what you have to do …’

  ‘… There will be no going back …’

  When the voices grew louder, and it appeared that the row was reaching its crescendo, the housekeeper crept back into the kitchen and made suitable noises with a saucepan.

  It was fortunate that she did, for a minute later she heard the living-room door swing open and petulant footsteps echo down the corridor. Nothing else was said – it would have been indecorous for the vicar to pursue his fiancée and continue their exchange in more public surroundings, as it were. Still, when Mrs Flanagan heard the front door slam shut, she waited for a few moments until she heard the living-room door close once more, gently this time, and then she stepped to the hallway where she glanced through the window that overlooked the path. There she just caught sight of Miss Rodley’s back before the thick morning fog consumed her.

  Poor children, she thought. They’d be in for it today.

  Damn this fog! Richard Weston thought as he waited for the tram into town. It always seemed to find its way onto his chest, and so he covered his face with his thick muffler in a vain attempt to keep its stale metallic
pungency at bay.

  He hadn’t slept well at all. It seemed that the fates were conspiring against him in all manner of ways: the dreadful events of Monday morning, which he thought he’d coped with in a most professional way considering how circumstances had worked against him; the almost scathing manner he had been spoken to by the obnoxious detective; the finding of Tollet’s body; Nathaniel Edgar’s stubborn and chronic leaning towards the bottle – not to mention that foul child’s attempt to burn his school down!

  And Emily Mason. What on earth was he to do about her?

  What ordinary mortal could bear such tribulations?

  Once on board, he sat downstairs in the bogie car at the rear and studiously avoided the company of the other passengers who chattered away in lively tones and whose conversation he invariably found to be trivial and mundane. When one nodded at him he nodded curtly back, and when another observed how chilly the morning was he merely added the single comment ‘Autumn’. They were familiar faces, of course, catching the same tram every morning and dispersing once they reached the reversing triangle in Market Place, off to fill their places behind shop counters and bank desks and market stalls. One or two recognised him, of course, but they kept their distance, a combination of respect and painful memories of their own schooldays when they’d endured the punishments meted out by people such as Weston.

  As the tram shunted to a halt at its terminus, he alighted, drew his muffler close around his face once more and made his way down Market Street towards George Street. The fog was still thick here, and as he walked down the slight incline he noticed fancifully how it seemed to swirl and wrap itself around his legs like phantom spirits urging him to stay where he was and give school a miss today.

  He smiled at the thought and muttered to himself, ‘If only I could!’

  Carriages rattled past, their lanterns appearing suddenly, lit and spectral in the morning gloom, before vanishing into the thick greyness, a disembodied whinny momentarily filling the rancid air. Someone brushed past him from behind, but there was no muttered apology as the figure moved quickly ahead of him before disappearing.

  At the bottom of Market Street he turned left into Frog Lane and sighed, wondering what fresh complications would be waiting for him once he stepped into the building.

  Perhaps, if I’m extraordinarily lucky, it will be a normal day.

  But in less than a minute, his day would turn out to be anything but normal.

  It was time, Brennan thought as he whisked up sufficient lather to shave, to go on the attack. Up until now, he’d been following the course of events rather like the local street cleaners scooping up horse manure well after the steaming deeds had been done. He scraped the razor against his day-old stubble, careful to avoid his thick moustache that he was quite proud of.

  He gazed at his eyes in the mirror and allowed his thoughts to ready themselves.

  Dorothea Gadsworth had recognised someone from the past, someone who had been involved in the tragic drowning of young Tilly Pollard. That involvement, of course, wasn’t a crime in itself, although if he had his way, leaving seven-year-olds to amuse themselves while the one in charge allowed carnal lust to replace such a responsibility should be regarded as neglect and punished with the unfortunately defunct cat o’nine tails.

  But the one she recognised, whether the girl Julia Reece or the boy David, would have a great deal to lose if the truth of that dereliction of duty came out.

  Enough motive to kill twice?

  He reached down and swirled the razor in the cold water, before once more returning to his daily task.

  How difficult would it be to find out about each of the ones present that day? The one she recognised had at one time lived in the Lake District. The girl Julia had lived in Hawkshead until her shame and the pressure of daily accusations had forced her and her family to flee the village. The boy David, with no surname to speak of, had once lived in Windermere, and he was no longer seen in Hawkshead after the child’s death. Had he too fled the area, or had he remained in Windermere, merely avoiding the ferry and the shame he too would face if he ever set foot there again?

  Although he had questioned them all about their past, about where they were brought up, about their parents and where they had lived, he had done so more out of a desire to see how they reacted than any real prospect of the truth coming out. No one would admit to a connection if they were involved, and he had neither the time nor the resources to follow up on their backgrounds. Captain Bell would never sanction such a wide-reaching and probably futile investigation. Even as he’d considered that course of action and actually and momentarily grown excited about pursuing it, he realised with a sinking of the heart that whoever the guilty party was, he or she had spent years covering their tracks and creating a new life for themselves, a life that involved a change of identity and a total denial of the past.

  As he gave his reflection in the mirror a consolatory smile, he felt a sharp nick on his throat and watched the blood begin to slither out, turning the shaving lather pink.

  The hammer attack on Richard Weston had been helped and hindered by the fog.

  Although any assault would be all but invisible in this fog – it was impossible to see across the street, and even on the pavement this side of Frog Lane visibility stretched only a few yards - yet it was difficult to make out anyone’s features until they were up close, and then it might be too late, or the wrong person might get the hammer blow. Good job he was a creature of habit, and brushing past him on Market Street to make sure it was actually the headmaster had been a very clever idea.

  Still, you make the best of what you’re up against. And Weston needed to pay for what happened to the child, right enough.

  Weston got to within a yard of his assailant when suddenly he stopped and was seized by a coughing fit. He doubled up, the racking cough deadened by his muffler.

  It had to be now!

  From the swirling grey mass, a figure loomed towards him, its arm held high, something dull and metallic clutched in its right hand. Weston thought for a split second that this was some kind of prank, but the inhuman screech that accompanied the hellish vision, followed immediately by the crashing blow to his temple, brought the grim reality of the attack into his consciousness seconds before he lost it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  By nine o’clock that morning, it was evident that something was wrong. Richard Weston was invariably at his desk a good half hour before the rest of the staff came into school. He had never taken a day off through illness, and the talk in the staffroom had made optimistic references to the thickness of the fog and the distinct possibility that the trams had stopped running.

  ‘He’ll doubtless be sitting impatiently in a hackney carriage,’ said Nathaniel Edgar with languid indifference, taking little notice of the concerned expressions on the rest of them.

  Emily Mason, in particular, seemed most distressed. Weston was, after all, her mentor, and the prospect of him failing to attend school on any day would have filled her with consternation. This morning she had sat waiting patiently outside his office for him to arrive for their pre-school meeting where she showed him her plans for the day and he inspected the work the class did the previous day. This break from routine had upset her, and it was just one more example of how things were going badly for her.

  Jane Rodley was seated by the window gazing out. Florence Hardman, in charge of Standard 2, was attempting to engage her in conversation, but it was clear that Miss Rodley was in no mood for idle speculation. It was unusual, for she was normally a most amenable colleague. Not today, though.

  ‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about,’ declared Alice Walsh. ‘Just because our esteemed headmaster is always on time, it doesn’t mean that he is perfect. Sometimes,’ she added with a sly glance at Nathaniel, ‘we put these men on a pedestal and find we are surprised when they fall off it. It’s that magical moment when we see their feet are made of clay, and not marble.’

  He resp
onded by miming the lifting of a glass, but the look he gave her was one of pure venom.

  It was Miss Ryan, as the acknowledged deputy to the headmaster, who finally clapped her hands sharply and declared, ‘Well it’s obvious the headmaster has been delayed. We should therefore attend to our classes before they allow their baser instincts to surface.’

  ‘Like bubbles from a gaseous swamp, you mean?’ said Edgar, but as they all left the staffroom, nobody so much as smiled at his imagery or his cynicism. Alice Walsh, standing at the door, made a point of holding the door open until he had passed through. He gave a nod of appreciation at the irony of her gesture.

  For the rest of that morning, the atmosphere at George Street Elementary School was subdued. It was as though the staff, trying hard to keep things as normal, somehow transferred their concerns to the children, who were quick to detect any sort of change in mood from their teachers and were uncertain how to proceed – with tacit obedience or rebellious nonconformity. The result was confusion and a resignation, knowing well that any overstepping of the boundaries might this day produce overly enthusiastic responses from the teachers.

  When the bell monitor trotted along the school corridors signalling the end of morning school, there was a collective sigh of relief. Outside, as the children made their way home for their dinners, there was slightly more noise than usual. Some of them huddled in whispers as word got round that the headmaster had failed to turn up, and there were lurid speculations about the reasons for his absence.

  Although the staff weren’t huddled together in the staffroom and were making an effort to proceed as if this were just another school day, they too were prey to speculation. The difference between staffroom and playground, however, was one of invention: pupils created ever more colourful fates for their headmaster – many of them involving dismemberment – and shared them with giggles and gasps, whereas the teachers kept whatever images they had formed to themselves. Yet with two murders inextricably linked to the school, and the disappearance of the Kelly boy, it was hardly surprising that they fully expected to hear of another tragedy.