Elementary Murder Page 22

  Edgar watched them go, an unpleasant grin spreading across his face. Then he turned to Alice and said, ‘Well? Have you reconsidered?’

  But before she could give an answer, they both felt a presence behind him. Prendergast, the caretaker, was standing there leaning against the railings.

  ‘He thinks a lot o’ that girl, don’t he, Mr Edgar?’

  Edgar swung round and smiled. ‘Oh, he thinks a great deal of her, John. It’s the kind of man he is.’

  With that, he took Alice Walsh by the arm and escorted her to the school gate. John Prendergast watched them go. She removed Edgar’s arm with some violence and slapped him across the face.

  ‘Just who do you think you are?’ the caretaker heard her say.

  He watched Edgar lean close to her and whisper something in her ear. She made to strike him once more, but he dodged the blow and walked quickly away.

  ‘Bloody teachers,’ Prendergast muttered as he walked back into the building.

  ‘Now then, Vicar, why don’t you give the answer to a simple question and then you may leave?’

  Reverend Pearl sat on the only chair in the cell – a rickety wooden contraption that had proved a most unreliable seat in the past, with prisoners tumbling from its base with painful regularity. Brennan knew that, in this interview at least, such an accident would be unthinkable.

  ‘If the simple question involves the boy’s whereabouts then I must decline to answer. There is a greater authority I must answer to.’

  Brennan pointed upwards. ‘Does He condone lying to the police?’

  The vicar smiled ruefully. ‘I wasn’t aiming that high. I was referring to my fiancée.’

  ‘Ah yes, the one who has absconded with the child. A crime in itself.’

  Reverend Pearl reached into his waistcoat pocket and brought out a silver watch.

  ‘You have an appointment, Vicar?’

  ‘No,’ he said quietly, replacing the watch. ‘But my fiancée has.’

  ‘Please explain.’

  He leant forward in his chair, occasioning a tremulous creak from the weakened legs. ‘I have sworn to say nothing. At least until …’

  ‘Until what?’

  ‘Until Jane has done what she has promised to do.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  The man smiled. ‘Her duty,’ he said, opening his palms. ‘Her God-given duty. She has taken him to a far better place. And he won’t be coming back. You can accept my solemn assurance on that.’

  Later that night, as Nathaniel Edgar made his way home, he pulled his coat collar close around his face. It had grown considerably colder since the early part of the evening, when he’d stepped through the double doors of the Bowling Club and begun the first of his many drinks. At first, he’d been sullen and uncommunicative, grunting monosyllabic responses to those who made any attempt to engage him in conversation. But gradually, as the night wore on, and as the whisky began its soothing magic, he joined in with the rest of them, the small group at the bar who had eschewed the bowling green – far too wet to play any sort of wood. The tales grew bawdier by the drink, and soon he was telling them of his time as a youth when he’d deflowered more than one delectable rose and no mistake. Some of what he told them caused general uproar and some claims of exaggeration:

  Nay, Nat, not even you would do summat like that!

  Didn’t know that sort o’ stuff was even possible!

  Ye rum bugger!

  It nevertheless ensured that the night went swimmingly, and that laughter – bawdy or otherwise – was the best medicine for the ills of the day.

  ‘An’ I’ll tell ye what,’ he said, swaying a little at the bar and grateful for its sturdiness. ‘Tomorrow mornin’ this bright chappie might well have a lie in. Who’s to kick me out of bed, eh? Answer me that!’

  ‘You’ll get caned, ye daft sod,’ one of the group’s more sober members pointed out.

  ‘Ah,’ Nathaniel replied with a knowing wink. ‘That bugger knows that I know. He’ll keep his cane hanging on its peg.’

  ‘An’ what dost know, Nat?’

  But Nathaniel merely touched his nose and gave another wink.

  Now, as he weaved his way along the street, he smiled at the recollection. He crossed over to the entrance to the park, his usual shortcut and a necessary one on a night like this. He found he needed to pass water, so he threaded his way through the iron gate and entered the park. He looked around. There was no one in sight, so as he made his way along the path, surrounded by bushes on either side, he unbuttoned his flies and took out his member. At first it was difficult – the cold made it a challenge – but he walked on and came alongside the small pond in the centre of the park. When he finally managed to pee, he said aloud, ‘Look, I’m passing water while passing water!’ and he giggled, thinking it a wonderful joke and one which he would share with his friends the next time he stood at the bar of the Bowling Club.

  But he would never again stand at the bar of the Bowling Club.

  The one who crept from the bushes behind him would see to that.

  Jane Rodley unlocked the door to her lodgings and carefully entered, closing the door quietly behind her, sliding the bar across. It was late now, and the last thing she wanted was to disturb her neighbours. The house she rented was in Upper Dicconson Street, to the north of Wigan town centre, within easy walking distance of school.

  She closed the curtains and gave a shiver. Although the rain had been intermittent throughout the day, tonight it had been replaced by a chill in the air, a precursor to worsening weather, she thought ruefully. She sat in her armchair and let her head fall back in an attitude of exhaustion. It was too late now to make the fire, but it was equally too cold to remain where she was. After a while, during which she could feel her eyes grow heavy, she forced herself from the armchair and moved to the gas mantle where she struck a match and lit the gas. The front room was bathed in a yellow glow that gradually grew stronger until it was casting sufficient light for her to see the sheet of paper on the floor behind the front door.

  She picked it up and read its contents.

  So Richard Weston had called round to see her, no doubt to try to persuade her to change her mind and tear up her resignation. She tore up his letter instead and placed the pieces in the empty grate. After what had happened today, it would be impossible for her ever to return to George Street again.

  She went into the kitchen at the rear to make herself a warming cup of tea. She watched as her hand shook, and the water slopped around the mug.

  Control yourself!

  As she glanced through the window that overlooked her small yard, she thought she saw some movement by the gate that led to the narrow alley beyond. But then she shook her head. The darkness playing tricks. After what she’d done today, and seen the expression on Billy Kelly’s face, it was hardly surprising that she should be jumping at imaginary shadows.

  It was as she returned to the armchair, clasping her mug of tea in both hands to ward off the chill and steady her nerves, that she heard the knock on the door. It alarmed her so much she spilt some of the hot liquid on her dress and yelped in pain. Then the knocking came again.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she asked with some trepidation. Her heart was beating fast, and her throat suddenly felt dry.

  ‘It’s me, Miss Rodley,’ came a familiar voice.

  She unbarred the door and pulled it open. The sight of Detective Sergeant Brennan standing in her doorway was enough to make her catch her breath.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Rodley. It’s bitterly cold out here. Mind if I step inside?’

  She stood to one side and gave him a look compounded of anger and puzzlement.

  Once they were seated at the kitchen table, Brennan told her quite simply that her fiancé was at that moment enjoying the hospitality of the Wigan Borough Police cells.

  ‘I wish to know what you have done with Billy Kelly, Miss Rodley,’ he added. ‘But let me first assure you that I have no intention of having the
boy prosecuted for attempting to burn the school down. For one thing, there’s no real evidence that any crime was committed, not in that cellar at any rate. A few sticks of wood and a singed copybook? It would be laughed out of court.’ He leant forward, anxious to impress upon her the importance of what he was about to say. ‘No, I have much bigger fish to fry. It’s my belief that Billy Kelly saw something that Friday night, something that might have appeared innocent until he would later hear about Dorothea Gadsworth’s body being found. Then he might have said something. So he was kept hidden in the cellar of a derelict house, until he managed to escape. It was his misfortune to be bitten by a rat, and it was his good fortune to be saved from a horrible death by a member of the Salvation Army. The lad has suffered a great deal over the last week.’

  He stood, and she gazed up at him, feeling the full force of his personality.

  ‘What have you done with him, Miss Rodley?’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Constable Higginson was patrolling the park and cursing his luck that he should be on night duty, tonight of all nights. If it wasn’t raining it was blowing a gale and rendering the cape he wore useless. His wife of less than a year was tucked up in bed with that firm tempting body wrapped round itself rather than him. He could spit.

  He was about to hide himself behind a bush near the duck pond and light up a cigarette – there was no one around at this time of night, surely? – when he heard something a few yards away.

  What is it? A man groaning?

  If some fool were tomming a prossy under cover of bushes then he was about to get a bloody big shock and a shameful day in court under the charge of gross indecency. Following the direction of the sounds, he literally stumbled over a man curled up in agony and making a low moaning cry. Higginson bent low and leant over him, taking out a match and striking it to get a better look.

  What he saw shocked him.

  The man had been stabbed in his lower back, the blood already congealing and forming a thick and sticky mess. But it wasn’t that that revolted him. It was the sight of the man’s member protruding from his flies and lying limp across his thigh.

  ‘Don’t need no detective to find out what you’ve been up to, pal,’ said Higginson in a low whisper. ‘Looks like you got what was comin’ to ye. Dirty bastard.’

  ‘And where exactly is Elm Lodge?’

  Jane Rodley sighed. ‘It’s in Seaforth, Liverpool. It’s run by the Waifs and Strays’ Society, under the auspices of the Church of England. I was present last year at the dedication service conducted by the Bishop of Liverpool. His daughter performed the official opening.’ She held her hands steady, palms down, on the table. ‘I’ve been very concerned about young Billy Kelly, Sergeant, for a long time. The poor soul comes regularly to school underfed, bruised and wearing not much more than rags. You’ve met both of his parents. Hardly shining examples of virtue and parenthood, are they?’

  Brennan said nothing. He knew very well the sort of life young Kelly would be living.

  She went on. ‘At Elm Lodge they run lessons to teach the boys a trade. But that wasn’t what we have in mind for young Kelly. One of the ways in which the society offers practical help – help that changes lives, literally – is the existence of the emigration system.’

  ‘Emigration?’ It was a word close to Brennan’s heart, for his parents were both emigrants from Ireland, escaping abject poverty for a better life in Wigan.

  ‘Many of the children are found homes abroad – Canada, mostly – and there they are given a life and a set of opportunities they couldn’t even dream of here.’

  ‘So you’ve been planning this for a while?’

  She nodded. ‘We’d discussed it even before the events of last week. Billy’s life was being stunted and brutalised in that place they laughingly called home. When he went missing we feared the worst. Not that he might be the witness to a crime but the victim of one. It wouldn’t have surprised us if that harridan of a mother had done for him. It really wouldn’t.’

  Brennan frowned, trying to arrange things in his mind. ‘So, once you’d discovered he was in the infirmary, you and the good reverend persuaded his parents to remove him and place him in your hands on the pretext of sanctuary? You took him from his home. In effect, you stole him.’

  ‘That isn’t the word I would use, Sergeant, but yes. In a nutshell.’

  ‘And in so doing you removed a vital witness. One who could identify his jailer.’

  She looked up. ‘The boy is still very weak, Sergeant Brennan. I took him to Seaforth on the train and he slept most of the way. We were the object of much speculation and concern, I can tell you. One woman passenger in the carriage even whispered the word “typhus”. He spoke very little, and he seemed to grow even weaker as we neared our destination.’

  ‘Well he would, wouldn’t he? Removed prematurely from his hospital bed?’

  She looked down, her face growing warm and flushed. ‘As soon as we arrived on Seaforth Road the superintendent there sent for a doctor, who gave him a strong sedative and ordered that he be confined to bed.’

  She let her words drift into the cold air of the kitchen.

  Brennan spoke firmly. He needed to deal in facts, and certainties. ‘Did the boy say anything at all about the one who kept him in that cellar?’

  She shook her head. ‘He said only two words the entire time I was with him.’

  ‘What were they?’ he asked with a sliver of hope in his voice.

  ‘He kept saying “bacon butty” … “bacon butty” … but when I bought him a sandwich at the railway station, he ate a few mouthfuls and was then sick.’ She paused then said, ‘You will now let my fiancé go? He has spiritual strength, Sergeant, not physical.’

  ‘I’ll consider it,’ he said, standing up. Inside he was seething and sorely tempted to let rip and blast her for the stupidity of what she’d done. If the boy failed to recover, he’d see to it that the good vicar and his fiancée would spend some time at Her Majesty’s pleasure. As for now, he would have to travel to Seaforth and hope against hope that the boy would somehow undergo a miraculous recovery and give him a name.

  He needed a bloody name.

  The following morning, he was forced to put his travel plans on hold when he received a report of a stabbing in Mesnes Park. When he saw the name of the victim, he felt the veins in his head pulsate violently.

  Nathaniel Edgar.

  Another victim linked this time directly to the school. The sound of angry footsteps clacking down the corridor, and the way his door swung open without the courtesy of a knock, told him that the chief constable shared his feelings of outrage.

  ‘Another one?’ was Captain Bell’s manner of greeting him. ‘Another one?’

  ‘Well, not quite, sir,’ said Brennan in his best straw-clutching voice.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Bell snapped, at least having the decency now to slam the door shut. ‘Are you saying the assault was a coincidence? That the perpetrator was a one-legged rag-and-bone man? Or maybe Jack the Ripper on tour?’

  ‘No, sir. What I meant was, well, according to this report, Mr Nathaniel Edgar is still alive.’

  ‘Oh hallelujah and rejoice!’

  ‘I’ll go immediately to the infirmary and see if he is well enough to be interviewed.’

  ‘This has to stop. Do you hear me, man? Whatever demons are swirling around that godforsaken hellhole in George Street must be caught forthwith. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I think things are heading in that direction.’

  Captain Bell gave him a long, hard look. ‘They had better be.’

  Brennan stood up to show his sense of urgency and single-mindedness. The chief constable opened the door and stood to one side, a gesture not so much of common courtesy but of impatience.

  ‘Oh, and by the way, Sergeant,’ he said as Brennan reached for his hat behind the door.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘You might also, in the course of your interview
, enquire as to why Mr Edgar had his manhood dangling from his trousers for all the world and his dog to see.’

  Richard Weston had no choice but to send a child to the vicarage at Lorne Street with an urgent message. In the first place, Reverend Pearl was the school manager, and as such he had to shoulder much of the burden arising from the situation the school now faced: with Nathaniel Edgar having failed once again to show up for his lessons this morning, the position was critical. In the second place, the good reverend would be able to furnish him with some sort of reason why his fiancée chose the previous day to resign with no notice given. And in the third place, it might well galvanise the man into some sort of action – perhaps sending word to Miss Rodley that things were at a desperate state here at George Street, and an appeal to her sense of duty and loyalty might well bring her back, at least on a temporary basis.

  And things were desperate.

  Nathaniel Edgar’s class – Standard 5 – were squeezed into Standard 4’s classroom, much to the outrage of Miss Ryan, who was heard to mutter, as they filed out of the staffroom that morning, that ‘this ship is sinking fast.’ And he himself was taking Jane Rodley’s Standard 6.

  As he walked down the corridor to the classroom, he had cause to thank the frosty-featured Miss Ryan, for she had given him the idea for the core of the lesson he would teach in the first hour: he would have them recite A Greyport Legend, one of his personal favourites, wherein a rotting hulk filled with children at play is parted from its moorings in thick fog and they disappear, often to be heard in fogs playing in ghostly ignorance on their phantom ship. He even felt buoyed by the irony of the poem, and when he passed Emily Mason’s classroom, its door not yet closed, she was surprised to hear him reciting a fragment from the poem:

  For the voices of children, still at play

  In a phantom hulk that drifts alway

  Through channels whose waters never fail.