Elementary Murder Page 24

  ‘I meant exactly and literally what I said. By relationship I mean the link, the relation between them. Do you have relations, Sergeant?’

  Again, Brennan scowled. ‘I do.’

  ‘A child, perhaps?’

  ‘A son, yes.’

  Now it began to dawn on him what Nathaniel Edgar meant. ‘You mean, Emily Mason is Weston’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Brennan sat back and took a moment to assimilate the information.

  Edgar went on, pausing occasionally in his narrative to take a breath and wait for the pain to subside.

  ‘Quite a few years ago now, at Christmas time it was, Richard and I went to the club. He wasn’t headmaster back then, of course. He was in a sulky sort of mood and I asked him what the matter was. He wouldn’t tell me. Not at the beginning of the night, at any rate. But as the night wore on, and the drinks became more and more frequent, he began to loosen. He said, “Do you know Emily Mason in Standard 2?” I said yes, of course. It isn’t a big school and we know most of them by name. “A very bright girl,” I replied, curious as to where this conversation was leading. And then he did something I’ve never seen him do before or since. He started to cry. That stage of drinking when a man is easy prey to maudlin thoughts and memories. And it was Christmas, too, don’t forget. I asked him what the matter was and he finally said, “She’s my daughter.” As simply as that. I was dumbstruck. I mean, he’s unmarried for one thing. For another we’d all known about her father, who apparently was a bad sort. She had not long been at George Street, I think, back then. Her father had died, and they’d moved from Manchester to Wigan. Fresh start. Then, not a year later, her mother died, too. Terrible time for the girl. Eventually she was looked after by her grandmother. Still is, by all accounts.’

  ‘But if she already had a father, how could Weston claim to be her father?’

  Edgar shrugged. The action caused him further pain, and he winced and closed his eyes. After a few moments, during which the pain apparently subsided, he opened his eyes again and said, in a weaker voice this time, ‘He denied what he’d said the next time we met. But he’d said it. And meant it. I didn’t pry. But he knew that I knew. And it has remained an unspoken secret, once shared, ever since. I suppose I should feel ashamed for using it as a weapon, but the simple truth is I am past all shame, Sergeant.’

  ‘Just one more question, Mr Edgar.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘What is your opinion of school inspectors?’

  Edgar gave him a curious look. ‘Why?’

  ‘Humour me.’

  ‘No opinion,’ he said. ‘A necessary evil, I suppose.’

  Before Brennan could ask his next question, Edgar let out an agonised groan and his face became contorted with pain.

  ‘Get … a … nurse!’

  Brennan moved quickly, guiltily aware that the past five minutes had exhausted the man. The morphine he’d been given was apparently wearing off, too. He returned with the nurse, who advised him curtly that it was time for him to leave. Brennan thanked the man for his cooperation, realising that the pain was becoming almost excruciating and he was now clutching at his bedsheets and gasping for air. There was nothing he could do. He walked down the ward towards the doors at the end. There, he glanced back and saw another nurse had joined the first and they were both tending to him as best they could. He felt dreadfully sorry for Nathaniel Edgar, who had once stood proudly before thirty or so children and, at one time at least, had seemed a powerful and awesome figure. He would never experience that feeling again.

  Once outside the infirmary, he gave Constable Hardy, who had been waiting there for hours, strict instructions to stay with Mr Edgar and under no circumstances allow anyone to visit him at visiting time.

  ‘What about family, Sergeant?’ asked Hardy, anxious to perform his duties to the letter now.

  ‘He has none that I know of. I repeat: no one gets to visit him. Do you understand, Constable?’

  Now that the orders couldn’t be misinterpreted, he said eagerly, ‘Not a soul, Sergeant.’

  As the constable re-entered the infirmary, almost running up the steps in his eagerness, Brennan saw Constable Jaggery turning into the driveway of the infirmary.

  ‘Glad I caught you, Sergeant,’ he said with a slight wheezing of breath.

  ‘How did things go at the school?’

  ‘Oh the vicar was there so he sort of took over.’

  ‘How was the headmaster?’

  ‘Usual self. Miserable as sin.’

  Brennan frowned. ‘You might have hit the nail on the head, Constable.’

  ‘Eh?’

  Brennan took out his watch. ‘Four-thirty. We’ll give ourselves a treat and take a hackney carriage.’

  ‘We packin’ in early, Sergeant?’ Jaggery asked with a rising note of optimism in his voice.

  ‘Perish the thought, lad. We’re going back to school.’

  ‘Bloody hellfire!’ said Jaggery under his breath.

  Once inside the school building they made their way along the corridor towards the headmaster’s office. The school was empty now, and when they reached Weston’s office Brennan knocked and waited, but there was no response from within. He frowned. After school, the man often held what he referred to as monitoring sessions with his pupil-teacher who was also his daughter, according to Nathaniel Edgar. He opened the door and found the room empty.

  ‘If you’re lookin’ for Mr Weston you’re lookin’ in t’wrong place.’

  The caretaker, Prendergast, was standing in the corridor with a mop and bucket in his hand. He placed them down and walked towards them.

  ‘Where can he be found then?’ Brennan asked, closing the door behind him.

  Prendergast shrugged. ‘Saw ’im leavin’ not ten minutes ago with Miss Mason. Place ’as been like a morgue this afternoon. Hear a pin drop.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Respect for Mr Edgar, I suppose. They was all upset. Apart from Miss Ryan. She saw it as a punishment from God cos Edgar ’as a drop now an’ agen.’

  ‘Does Mr Weston ever leave early?’

  ‘Never.’ Prendergast rammed his mop into the bucket and water splashed over the rim. ‘Never seen ’im so quiet. Like one o’ them funeral mutes. Did some shoutin’ earlier when Miss Walsh was in a state over what happened to Mr Edgar. Everyone was a bit cowed by ’is mood, apart from Miss Walsh. She give as good as she got. Bloody teachers.’

  With that pronouncement he proceeded to mop with a vigour that expressed his feelings far better than his words.

  ‘What do we do now, Sergeant?’

  Brennan sighed. ‘I’ve asked the chief constable to send word to Seaforth. They should have replied by now. I want you to return to the station and see what message is waiting for me there. I’ll be back in an hour.’

  ‘What do we do about ’is lordship? Weston?’

  ‘Nothing at the moment.’

  ‘But you said him an’ Edgar had argued. Might be a motive.’

  ‘Possible. But is it sufficient motive to attempt murder? Whoever tried to kill Edgar has already killed twice before. There’s something I’m missing and I can’t quite put my finger on it.’

  As they walked back along the corridor and out into the early evening gloom, Jaggery said, ‘So where are you headed, Sergeant?’

  ‘Here and there, Constable. Here and there.’

  Before Jaggery could get him to elaborate, he was already heading for the school gates.

  From the list of addresses Weston had given him, Brennan made his way to where Alice Walsh lived. Chatham Street lay just off Darlington Street East. Brennan noted with interest that the street was within walking distance of St Catharine’s Church in Lorne Street, and he wondered if Miss Walsh were the churchgoing type. Somehow he doubted it.

  She answered the door on his third knock and looked surprised to see him.

  ‘Sergeant Brennan?’

  ‘A few questions, Miss Walsh. I won’t take up
too much of your time.’

  She stood to one side and invited him in. The tiny hallway was neatly presented: a small polished stand bearing a bowl of flowers, an oval mahogany mirror, and hanging alongside, a framed cartoon depicting three evil-looking witches sitting around a bubbling cauldron with disembodied hands reaching up through the thick stew holding cards which read ‘Votes for Women’. Around the cauldron ran the words ‘New Woman’s Demands’.

  ‘You know that’s the latest phrase,’ she said, indicating the cartoon with an attempt at bitterness that didn’t quite ring true. ‘They call us the “New Woman”. I think I prefer that to other names we’ve been given. Especially the “Shrieking Sisterhood”. The picture reminds me of what we’re facing. The way we’re regarded. Interesting that it’s the contents of the cauldron that have our demands. As if they’re somehow poisonous.’

  Brennan could tell by the way she was talking that her words hid something deeper, more personal. Alice Walsh was upset and shielding it, very badly. And it had nothing to do with women’s suffrage.

  ‘Perhaps if we sit down?’ he said gently.

  ‘Of course. My manners.’

  She led the way into the living room, a small but compact area with room for two padded chairs, a small table set against the wall, and taking pride of place it seemed, a small ornament resting in the centre of the mantel, a beautifully styled butterfly encased in glass, its blue and yellow wings spread wide as it rested on a small tree branch, the artist capturing almost the moment of flight.

  As they both sat down, he saw that her eyes were red, and he wondered if she had been crying.

  ‘You know, of course, that Mr Edgar was attacked last night?’

  She held her hands on her lap and gave a nod.

  ‘I gather you were somewhat distraught by the news?’

  She looked him straight in the eye. The old defiance had returned, if only momentarily. ‘He’s a colleague. Isn’t it usual to respond in that way when someone you work with is attacked?’

  ‘Of course. But I’m told you had words with Mr Weston this afternoon.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  She glared at him and once more lowered her eyes. ‘I asked the headmaster if I could have leave to go and see Mr Edgar.’

  ‘What? During school time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But if Mr Edgar is only a colleague …?’

  She raised her head and looked at the ornament on her mantel. ‘You see that butterfly, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes. It’s beautiful.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘I think it’s horrible.’

  ‘Why?’

  She stood up and went over, touching the smooth glass surface and stroking her finger along its curved edge. He coughed uncomfortably.

  ‘It is beautiful, Sergeant Brennan. That’s true. But look at it closer. Look at its wings, all ready to take flight and flutter around a garden in the bright sunshine, free and unfettered. Unconfined.’

  He could see the symbol she was presenting but wondered what it had to do with Nathaniel Edgar, if anything.

  Then she said, ‘Are you bound by the same restrictions as a priest?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘In Confession, you can say what you like and the priest is bound to keep it to himself. Or share it with God – if that’s what you happen to believe.’

  He wondered why she was using an example from the Church in one breath then mocking it in the next. He said, ‘If you’re asking me if I can keep my mouth shut …?’

  She laughed at that. ‘Well? Can you?’

  ‘Within reason. I won’t reveal what you tell me as long as I don’t break the law or allow you to.’

  She gave a slow nod, as if accepting what he said. ‘Well then. I wanted to go to see Nathaniel Edgar because at one time we were lovers. Even when he was living with his wife.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You aren’t shocked?’

  ‘I see many things as a policeman, Miss Walsh. I might not agree with the morality of what you say, but it doesn’t shock me one bit.’

  ‘Sometimes I used to think of him as this butterfly. Trapped behind a glass case. Beautiful.’ She gave another laugh, this time a slightly more bitter one. ‘But he wouldn’t fly, even when I offered to set him free.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I asked him to come here and live with me.’

  Brennan tried not to show his shock. It was one thing conducting an immoral relationship with a man who was still married – that sort of thing was usually done under cover of darkness and subterfuge anyway – but to live together openly, while both teaching in a local elementary school? They would have become lepers. Unemployed lepers.

  She gave a sharp laugh, a curious sound, for it managed to convey her mockery of both Brennan and Edgar – one for his morality, the other for what she regarded as his cowardice.

  ‘You still have feelings for Nathaniel Edgar?’

  For the first time her confidence failed her. Instead of answering him directly, she simply asked, ‘How is he? Is it true he’ll never walk again?’

  Brennan remained silent for a few seconds, realising that it wasn’t his place to give her any information as to the man’s condition. Still, he could see by the flicker of her eyes that his silence had carried bad news.

  When she next spoke, it was barely a whisper. ‘Who would do such a thing, Sergeant?’

  ‘An unstable mind, miss. I don’t suppose you have any idea of who could be responsible?’

  She shook her head. ‘There’s a maniac loose, isn’t there?’

  ‘Whoever it is, he or she seems to be growing more desperate. If there’s anything you can think of, anything at all that might indicate a motive? I’m positive all this dates back fifteen years, to a time when a small child was drowned because of a young girl’s negligence.’

  Alice gripped the glass case tightly. ‘And what on earth does that have to do with Nathaniel? What does it have to do with anyone? The past should remain buried, should it not? What possible good …’

  For a second he imagined she was about to hurl the butterfly at him, but then she relinquished her grip and her shoulders sagged.

  ‘I apologise, Sergeant. Whoever did this to Nathaniel should learn to live with the past and all its mistakes. That’s what life should be, isn’t it?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  He stood to go. As he reached the hallway he turned and saw that she still stood by the mantel, her hand once more caressing the glass that rested between her touch and the butterfly. She spoke softly, not meeting his gaze.

  ‘Nathaniel Edgar is a man, with all the weaknesses that sex carries. But he didn’t deserve a knife in the back, Sergeant. Whatever he has done. Or not done.’

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you could clear up a little niggle I’ve been having with myself.’

  ‘Is it contagious?’

  He smiled. ‘I doubt it. It’s just something you said when I first mentioned the child’s death to you back at school.’

  She gave a nervous swallow. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I used the phrase “small child” to describe Tilly Pollard. I’ve just used it again.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, back at school I gave no indication of the gender of the child, yet you assumed it was a girl. You said, “How did she die?”’

  She took a deep breath. ‘And you think that was an incriminatory slip of the tongue?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Well, perhaps Mr Weston mentioned it to me when he came to relieve me of my class. Then again, perhaps I simply made the right guess. Who knows?’

  ‘Who indeed, Miss Walsh.’

  He made no further response but left, closing the front door quietly behind him.

  He had another visit to make before he could finish for the day. One which required a delicate touch.

  CHAPTER
NINETEEN

  Brennan knocked on the front door where Emily Mason lived with her grandmother and waited. He knocked once more, and continued to wait. But no one came to the door. He stepped back and looked at the small terraced house, at the upstairs windows to see if young Emily was gazing down, too distraught to answer the door.

  ‘You might want to go round the back an’ stand at the kitchen window,’ came a voice from his left. A woman in her mid-thirties was standing in the doorway of the house next door. ‘She’ll not ’ear you wi’ knockin’. Deaf as a doorpost, is old Peggy.’

  That must be the grandmother’s name, thought Brennan. He thanked her and looked up and down the street for an alleyway to take him round the back. There was no sign of one, and the woman, still standing there with arms folded, understood his predicament.

  ‘It’s a long way round right enough,’ she said. ‘I’ve never met a fella what wasn’t lazy.’ Then, with a backward throw of her head, she said, ‘Come on then. You can get through ’ere, but don’t take all day cos tongues might start waggin’, me being widowed an’ all – at my age, too.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Brennan, slightly nervous at the twinkle in her eye.

  ‘I’m Mrs Houghton,’ she said. ‘But Brenda to them as knows me.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Houghton.’

  She sniffed and stood back to let him in before glancing up and down the street to check they hadn’t been observed. ‘Is it rent you’re after?’ she asked as she closed the door.

  ‘Not at all.’

  She nodded the direction he should go, through the living room and into the small kitchen at the rear.

  ‘I reckon you could do wi’ a strong cup o’ tea,’ she said, moving in front of him and quickly scooping up small articles of clothing that were hanging over the mantelpiece above a roaring fire.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Or summat a bit stronger. It’s nippy out yonder.’

  Brennan could feel the heat, and it wasn’t coming from the fire.

  ‘In a bit of a hurry, miss.’